RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  Reilly didn’t say it, but he believed the rush was either to put in surveillance devices, or at the risk of being discovered, to take them out.

  “You never know,” is all he said. He wondered if she was savvy enough to share the same thought.

  21

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  1999

  Nikolai Gorshkov curried favor with Boris Yelstin. It paid off when the president first reinstated Gorshkov’s authority as a spy making him a silovik again, a security official; a man with power—deadly power. As a senior officer in the Federal Security Service he compiled files on corrupt energy oligarchs who desperately tried to pay him off rather than face exposure. It only worked one way. To Gorshkov’s benefit. And in less than a year Gorshkov used the intelligence and finances to eliminate obstacles and craft his next move upward. Yeltsin brought his disciple into the Kremlin, making Gorshkov a deputy prime minister.

  Now, Gorshkov’s goals were personal and patriotic. Personally, he sought to multiply his holdings and strengthen his political hand, while his nationalistic desire was for Russia never to return to a period of paralysis. He vowed to restore Russia’s position in Europe and the world. He had no loyalty to any specific ideology or form of top-down governance, so long as he would eventually be at the top.

  Gorshkov worked hard from within to rebuild Russia, first by helping end the financial influence of the oligarchs. His tactics were well within his experience. Threats and murder. First consolidating control over the energy sector. Next other businesses. The banks, the media, and transportation.

  Inevitably, and through shrewd, never reported manipulating, Nikolai Gorshkov advanced again, this time to first deputy prime minister. After obediently serving two subsequent regimes, Gorshkov was elected president.

  As his first act he invited Russia’s few remaining private corporate titans to the Kremlin. He gave them 48 hours to divest 50 percent of their holdings to the government and to stay out of politics for life. Life was the operative word. Those who heeded his warning would be left to enjoy their riches. Those who didn’t? Gorshkov didn’t have to complete the thought. The businessmen and women had heard rumors about Gorshkov’s “problem solver” who was particularly adept at dispatching permanent punishment. They didn’t know his name, but he had all of theirs.

  The rumors were basically true. Gorshkov’s assassin worked around the globe. He was secretly funded by Gorshkov and with no limit to the number of false identities and poisons at his disposal. He was a chameleon and an assassin who had long eclipsed Carlos the Jackal, for years the world’s most notorious terrorist.

  Andre Miklos was a consummate professional: ever-devoted to Nikolai Gorshkov and always ready to complete a mission for his old comrade.

  “You never rest, Andre,” Gorshkov jokingly said when they met after his most recent assignment. Miklos had gassed a corrupt oil magnate—a fitting tribute, even according to Western headlines. “You need a vacation. How about the Amalfi Coast? Lose yourself in some hot, rich, frustrated married woman who’s looking to get fucked.”

  Miklos smiled. It was a very good idea. The timing worked. First a stop in Ukraine, then onto Italy. He spoke more than acceptable Italian, and he would use an Austrian ID.

  “I will.”

  “Good. And while you’re there you can take care of a problem.”

  Miklos smiled. “Oh?”

  “A journalist. Anna Petrovich. She’s been digging back into an old story for a Romanian newspaper and has an American book contract in place. We’ll deal with the paper second. But first, see to it that she makes other kinds of news.”

  He didn’t go into any further detail—he didn’t have to. Miklos was familiar with the newspaper and how critical it was of Gorshkov.

  “Anna,” Gorshkov said sweetly, “will be vacationing in Ravello.”

  “A lovely place.”

  “By the way,” Gorshkov chuckled, “she’s very attractive and holidaying away from her husband.” He handed Miklos a file. “There’s more in here about her personal predilections.”

  Andre Miklos grinned as he read the FSB report. Definitely pleasure before business, he thought.

  22

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  PRESENT DAY

  The second day of Reilly’s visit to Tehran began with a late morning tour of the new Economic Development Building in downtown Tehran. The ultramodern structure, designed with a Gehry flair, was a statement about Iran’s future. Samir Madani’s mission was to reinforce the point that the government was backing up its commitment to tourism with vision and money. Beyond the walk-through, there was no other propagandizing. However, Reilly got a reminder of the kind of country, and likely the nature of the business, he would be involved in if they came to terms.

  “I understand you met Ms. Babbitt last night.”

  Reilly raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh nothing so sinister, Mr. Reilly,” the government official said conversationally. “Actually we shared a delightful breakfast this morning. We talked about a variety of options, including a joint venture between Barclays and Kensington Royal, with a twenty-five-year managing contract. So, rest assured, you are in a new Iran.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps there will be an opportunity. I look forward to meeting with Ms. Babbitt again myself.”

  Adjourning to a conference room, Samir Madani brought in his development team. They had a colorful PowerPoint presentation, a backup deck, Excel spreadsheets, details on available land, and renderings based on KR designs in other major capitals.

  The underwriting was more than Reilly expected, but it didn’t guarantee anything. After all, this was the Middle East, where negotiations really began after contracts were signed. So he nodded and studied the financials without giving an indication of his position, even when pressed.

  Lunch was served in the conference room. The afternoon session commenced with Madani in full sales mode.

  “Mr. Reilly, I invite you to talk to anyone you’d like. You’ll find our people literate, well-informed, and technically savvy. We are a large market. The largest in the Middle East, in fact, with 80 million hungry for foreign trade and travel.”

  “Europe sees the potential,” he continued. “Yet the United States business community remains slow to recognize the positive. Sadly, you’ll pay the price for waiting from the sidelines. Our initiatives with EU nations grow every week.”

  The Iranian leaned closer. “May I speak from the heart, Mr. Reilly?”

  “Please.” Reilly couldn’t wait to see where this would go.

  “Millions of Iranians dream of America. They crave American consumer goods. Our own trade ministers quietly acknowledge that it’s the place Iranians most identify with.”

  “Remarkable,” Reilly said.

  “The US should view the Islamic Republic of Iran as a willing partner from which to launch business throughout the whole region. We are big, and we are safe, without terrorism.”

  “Ah, Mr. Madani, let’s stay on that topic,” Reilly replied. “Undoubtedly you’ve seen the news from Tokyo. Our hotel was attacked by as of yet unidentified terrorists.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I should have extended my sincere sympathy. An oversight with no excuse.”

  “Thank you,” Reilly responded, equally politely. “But to my point, we have a close working relationship with the Japanese government, Tokyo police, and their intelligence agencies. In turn, they share information with Interpol and the FBI.” Reilly intentionally avoided mentioning the CIA.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” said Samir Madani, addressing the others in the room. Reilly understood he was dismissing them. This interpretation was confirmed when everyone left with polite nods.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Reilly. Please continue,” he implored.

  “Thank you. It’s really this simple. For us to feel secure in your country, we would need prior assurance and preestablished crisis plans, with 24-7 contacts and the promise of complete and full cooperation at the highes
t level.”

  Samir Madani listened. It was much more than he thought he’d have to deal with or report on. “This may be beyond what other hotel franchises have required,” Madani pointed out.

  “With all due respect, sir, if Kensington Royal comes to Tehran in any capacity we will need assurances. We will accept an Iranian national as general manager, but security will be under KR control.”

  “We would have issues with foreign or private armed guards. I’m sure you can understand the problems that would pose for my government.”

  Reilly thought that for a man who couldn’t speak with authority on the subject, Samir Madani was doing just fine.

  “I do,” Reilly acknowledged. “If we construct a secure property and we have a completely open relationship, our in-house team can work with yours. I suspect, however, that such a relationship will be a challenge for your leadership and that could stymie your department’s best intentions.”

  The Iranian stood up and walked around the room once. He remained standing directly opposite Reilly.

  “No doubt your experience in Japan has shaped your opinion.”

  “Sir, this is fact. And yes, Tokyo, has made a difference for us. But it has done the same for others in Mumbai, Jakarta, Bamako, Sousse, and Burkina Faso. The list goes on. The news is not good for tourism. The news would be far worse if an attack occurs in Tehran and we end up being unable to work together.”

  Now it was Dan Reilly’s turn to stand.

  “As Tehran becomes more of an international destination,” he continued, “American properties, French and German properties, even your own hotels and resorts might become targets of foreign terrorists or homegrown cells. To put it bluntly, like it or not, we are in the anti-terrorism business now. You have to determine if your nation’s tourism industry realizes that as well.”

  “My friend,” Madani said, “let us bring the proposals to each of our respective superiors and keep our discussions open and friendly.”

  The Iranian straightened his jacket and walked around the table to Reilly with his hand extended.

  “Agreed,” Reilly said, shaking on it. “We will consider this our beginning.” Reilly, however, believed it was over. He had asked for too much.

  23

  KIEV, UKRAINE

  At the same time Reilly was conducting his meeting in Tehran, an elderly traveler was waiting patiently at the check-in line at a hotel in Kiev. He wore a velvet hat, wire-framed glasses, and a frumpy jacket, and didn’t appear to be in a rush. He was virtually invisible in the business hotel lobby; just another weary traveler who wanted to call it a night.

  The queue took ten minutes. The clerk at reception apologized to the man for the wait.

  “Not a problem,” he said in halting Ukrainian, handing over his German passport and credit card.

  “Just one night, Mr. Richter?” the clerk asked in German.

  “Ah yes, thank you,” Karl Richter replied. “Your German is appreciated. Yes, one night, perhaps two, if business requires.”

  “Certainly. Just let us know tomorrow before 13:00.”

  The rest of the process continued without additional conversation, which the German preferred. When he was given his electronic room key he replied, “Thank you,” in forced Ukrainian to be polite.

  The man would only be remembered as elderly and pleasant—never as a suspect. That man’s real name was Andre Miklos, and now he had work to do.

  In his room he removed his laptop, went through three levels of security, and reviewed the target report assembled by his operatives. He’d conduct his own survey in the morning when the hotel would be busiest with checkouts. But on first blush, the plan looked good from the placement of devices to the execution.

  The Klovska Classic Hotel in downtown Kiev was a strategic target in a larger strategic mission. Outwardly, the hotel retained its nineteenth century charm, but it had twenty-first century upgrades, a four-star standing, and enthusiastic ratings on Yelp. Visiting government delegations often chose the Klovska Classic for its convenience, services, and charm. Andre Miklos selected it because of a scheduled visiting delegation.

  He went to sleep that night wondering if the room he was in would still be there in a few days.

  24

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  HEATHROW AIRPORT

  “Half a bubble off plumb?” Reilly asked two days later from United Global First Lounge in Heathrow where he had phoned Alan Cannon.

  “Just a feeling,” Cannon replied. “Glad you got the gist.”

  To understand the phrase, Reilly relied on the construction. It referred to a leveling device used to exact a midway point perfectly aligned horizontally or vertically. Half a bubble indicated that something was a touch off, not quite right. Or for that matter, wrong.

  “About?”

  “I think the FBI is stonewalling. I’ve got the feeling that they found something and they’re not letting on.”

  “Explain,” Reilly requested. He was feeling uncomfortable considering he was also working an inside track with the CIA and they were likely talking with the FBI. Cross purposes, he wondered.

  “Crickets. Nothing. I can’t get my fucking calls returned from my old office.”

  “It’s just been a few days,” Reilly offered.

  “Yes, but no calls returned? To me? Feels like they got a match and they don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Give it a little more time. You don’t want to burn your bridges.”

  “I won’t. But the hairs on the back of my neck are prickly. Feels like this whole thing has been kicked up to a higher level.”

  Reilly consoled his KR colleague, but couldn’t explain why he might not be hearing from the FBI. For the first time, he felt like he was in the middle and … a liar.

  “Maybe I can suss some things out. Give me a few days,” Reilly proposed.

  After his call with Cannon, Reilly phoned Brenda Sheldon. She had some changes to his schedule. The Senate subcommittee had moved up his second appearance. They wanted him in four days.

  Damn, he thought.

  “Email me the latest stats, Brenda. Hopefully the Wi-Fi will be working on the plane and I can give this some more thought.” He wanted to hit the senators harder this time.

  25

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SENATE HEARING ROOM

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  “Mr. Reilly, let’s begin where we left off.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Reilly, detecting a more forthcoming tone from Senator Moakley Davidson.

  “Is everything okay after your Tokyo attack?”

  Okay? Reilly thought? How can it be okay? Dozens dead. Others who will suffer for the rest of their lives.

  “I beg your pardon, Senator?”

  “Are things returning to normal?” Davidson continued.

  “Am I still under oath? Is this part of the testimony? Are you seriously asking if everything is okay?”

  “Well, yes,” Moakley said, not realizing how foolish he sounded.

  “Then, Mr. Chairman, I’ll answer it this way. Things are not okay. We are living with a new normal. On average somewhere in the world a hotel is attacked every 14 days. On average, 7.54 people are killed in each attack, 6.96 are injured. That is the new normal. Kensington Royal felt it two weeks ago. So, no, everything is not okay, Senator Davidson.”

  The senator glared at Reilly and leaned into the microphone, but an aide had the good sense to pull him away and whisper something in his ear.

  “To most, these attacks may seem irrational,” Reilly continued. “A waste of human life. Death with no reason. But there’s always a reason, whether or not the perpetrators are making a political statement, creating fear, or instilling distrust. And there’s a reason, whether they’ve planned on an escape route or are hell-bent on dying in the process.”

  Davidson wanted to cut in, but he recognized it would appear impertinent, something he didn’t want to show on Fox News, let alone MSNBC.

&nb
sp; “Violent terrorist attacks test governments and security personnel. Examples? Look at the way al Qaeda changed the way we fly after 9/11. Now ISIS has changed where we’re willing to travel and if it’s even safe to conduct business in risky zones.”

  The chairman found a way in. “Mr. Reilly, I merely asked a question about the attack on your company’s property as a courtesy. You’re giving this committee a lecture.”

  “Not the committee, sir. You. With all due respect, I’m answering your question. It will never be normal there again. It will never be normal in any resort, café, theater, county office building, or government embassy. Not abroad or in the United States.

  “The new normal? After the ISIS attack that brought down the Russian charter plane resulting in 224 lives, Egypt hired a London consulting agency to review security procedures at Sharm El Sheikh International Airport. Couple that with the attack at a Red Sea resort where vacationing tourists were stabbed by two militants. Egypt’s tourism minister pledged millions for bomb-sniffing dogs, body scanners, and other counter measures.

  “No longer can people go somewhere and simply relax. While tourists are the visible target, terrorists actually seek to foment instability, to shake faith in a government’s ability to protect people, to bring down a sector of the economy that relies on outside dollars, and to create the vacuum for a new order to rush in.”

  “I understand your point, Mr. Reilly,” Davidson replied.

  Doubtful, Reilly thought.

  “Then tell me, could the attack in Tokyo have been prevented?” Davidson asked politely.

  Finally, a substantive question.

  “We could have stood a chance with better intelligence. More training for our people to distinguish anyone on a reconnaissance run from everyday guests. Access to intelligence databases at check-in. Admittedly, it’s a big step forward. But airlines, for instance, have such access, including real-time updates on threats. How can we, in a parallel business, possibly defend against the most dangerous terrorist groups in the world without assurances that intelligence will be made available to us as well?”