RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  “Mr. Gorshkov,” one reporter asked, “looking forward, how would you sum up relations between Russia and NATO?”

  There was absolutely no reason for Gorshkov to evade the question. In 1999 NATO warplanes had bombed Belgrade. American troops stormed in, securing territory in Kosovo, and pushed back Yugoslavia’s military. At the time, Gorshkov saw the intervention as NATO’s first step toward the Balkans. Glavny protivnik, he thought, the main enemy. The West pushing its own politics and policies at Russia’s expense. NATO, with its Washington provocateurs, hadn’t even referred the issue to the United Nations. Relations. Here’s my answer about relations.

  “NATO was created at a time when there were two blocs confronting each other. But today? There is no Soviet Union, no Eastern Bloc, and no Warsaw Pact. So NATO exists to confront exactly whom?”

  Gorshkov bore down on the reporter, but had a message for Washington and the lame duck president. “We have eliminated bases in Vietnam and Cuba. We have called back our troops deployed in Eastern Europe, and withdrawn almost all large and heavy weapons from the European part of Russia. What are we left with? A NATO base in Romania, one in Bulgaria, an American missile defense area in Poland and the Czech Republic. We are the ones who are threatened. The West is at our front door with their military might.”

  Gorshkov went further in his harangue to explain how NATO had just extended membership invitations to Croatia and Albania, two countries even closer to Russia. How US President George W. Bush had wanted to add Ukraine and Georgia, but the proposal was defeated by German and French colleagues who feared it would further upset Russia. The actions underscored Gorshkov’s ever-increasing distrust of NATO and his belief that America was pursuing a self-fulfilling prophesy.

  “The appearance of a powerful military bloc along our borders could be taken as a direct threat to the security of Russia,” Gorshkov stated. “The claim that this process is not directed against Russia will not suffice. National security is not based on promises. And the statements made prior to the bloc’s previous waves of expansion simply confirm this.”

  Gorshkov’s comments buoyed his associate Andre Miklos, who stood well back and out of view of the cameras. And beyond Nikolai Gorshkov’s public comments, Miklos would make his own special skills heard. He had more unofficial assignments to execute.

  33

  WASHINGTON, DC

  PRESENT DAY

  “Russia?” Brenda Sheldon asked.

  “Yup, Russia,” Reilly said. “Schedule change. Tomorrow.” He explained on the phone.

  She did a preliminary check of flights as they chatted about the sessions. He casually dropped the name of the dignitary he would be meeting at the state reception.

  “Well then, let’s get you there on time. There’s a nonstop out of JFK on Aeroflot at 2:20 p.m. arriving 6:25 the next morning or an evening flight at 7:10 p.m. That’ll get you in a little after 11:00 the next morning.”

  “The later one,” he responded. “Book it up for Thursday. My visas still good?”

  “For another six months.”

  Sheldon kept an up-to-date grid that tracked the status of all his travel documents. It was critical to his international travel. She regularly renewed his 72-hour visa-free travel passes to countries like China and the 90-day visas for Japan, Singapore, Australia, and New Zealand. He had ten-year visas good for most countries friendly to the US. And for Russia, his invitation, signed and sealed by the Ministry of Internal Affairs, was in force.

  “Can’t imagine any problem considering who you’ll be meeting,” said Brenda with a laugh.

  The last thing Reilly wanted was personal scrutiny. But he wouldn’t be surprised if the FSB had a dossier on him, if only for his work with Kensington Royal, and possibly his service and State Department record. Nothing specific, but enough for them to keep an eye on him.

  “I can get you into the Ritz or would you prefer a European property?”

  Reilly considered the optics. He was going to move a deal along, so staying at another American hotel wouldn’t be right. Checking into a Russian hotel would be wrong from a security standpoint.

  “Let’s go neutral. The Swissotel Krasnye Holmy. I liked what I saw when I had a meeting there a year ago. Find out who the GM is, just in case. No suite, but you can arrange an airport pickup. I don’t trust the cabs there. All in all, I want to keep a low profile.”

  “Some low profile. You’re meeting Nikolai Gorshkov for God’s sake.”

  “Well, yes. Basically I’m glad-handing.”

  Glad hand. He’d once looked up the term. It suggested a warm greeting prompted by ulterior motives. A gladhand connector, on the other hand, worked by interlocking two air hoses, providing a secure but easily detachable link.

  What kind of link would this trip bring? he wondered.

  “It’ll be interesting,” Reilly added.

  34

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  Reilly thought about the proper attire for the event. He settled on a conservative three-piece black suit, white shirt with French cuffs and gold cufflinks, a Movado black and gold watch, Gucci belt, solid black socks, and glossy black oxfords. All business, some class, but no oneupmanship. It would be appropriate for the reception and state photographs. Back at his office he had photographs on the walls of him with President Crowe, his predecessor Morgan Taylor, and the presidents of five other countries. He wasn’t sure if he’d display a photo of him with Gorshkov.

  At the hotel entrance the valet asked Reilly in English where he was going.

  “The Kremlin,” he said not raising an eyebrow.

  The valet gave his whistle four quick blasts and then a fifth. Rather than the first taxi in the queue coming forward, the fourth car in line pulled out. The valet told the driver where Dan was going, but he already seemed to know.

  None of this was wasted on Dan Reilly. He was being watched. All business? he wondered. No way.

  The taxi driver immediately engaged him in conversation. Reilly kept to basics. He was a hotel executive meeting with the minister of industry and trade, and perhaps others looking for possible business. He was excited about going to the Kremlin for the first time.

  The cabbie then began to probe a little further: “Will you buy or build? Will you own or will you franchise? So how did you get into this line of work anyway?”

  His English was too good, his questions too probing. Reilly deflected them all with friendly replies. “Too early to tell. Depends. I like travel.” Then he asked for the radio.

  Ten minutes later they were waived through the Kremlin gate all too quickly and drove directly to the Palace entrance in Cathedral Square. Reilly paid the driver and gave him only an adequate tip, certain he was drawing another salary from the FSB.

  Reilly stepped out and gave his name to the Kremlin guard. Though he assumed they had known it from the moment the cab cleared the gate.

  “Welcome, Mr. Reilly. It’s good to have you here,” the officer said. “Please follow the usher up the steps.”

  Steps was an understatement. These were not just any steps. This was the Red Staircase, the brick, limestone, and red-carpeted entry to the most elegant reception rooms in the palace.

  Reilly’s knowledge of political history from graduate school professor Colonel William Harrison served him well. This wasn’t the original staircase where Ivan the Terrible had killed the messenger with the bad news, where as a ten-year-old the future Peter the Great watched as Kremlin guards slashed his uncles to death during a failed coup, or where Napoleon Bonaparte was said to have watched the burning of Moscow.

  Stalin destroyed that staircase when he cut through the palace walls to construct a dining room for Soviet delegates. However, the newer staircase, re-created to original specifications for Moscow’s 850th anniversary celebration in 1997, was making its own history. The bright red carpet cushioned the last footsteps of the old guard, the Soviet leaders, and the heavy foot of the new regime. This was where Gorshkov stood to rev
iew the parade after his inauguration.

  Before he walked up, the usher announced him with dramatic flair in English and again in Russian. “Representing the Kensington Royal Hotel Corporation, from the United States, Mr. Daniel Reilly.”

  Another usher repeated it midway up the grand staircase. A third when he reached Georgievsky Hall, one of five elegant rooms named for orders of the Russian Empire. There, Reilly was greeted by a Kremlin representative. He was immediately offered a glass of champagne, which he gratefully accepted.

  Georgievsky was used for state and diplomatic receptions. No wonder. The hall was more magnificent than any he’d ever seen. Reilly took a first cautious step forward on the highly polished floor that reflected light from hundreds of bulbs set in the elegant chandeliers that hung like grand necklaces. The room was awash with white and gold. Drapes covered two windows two floors high. Cushioned benches lined alcoves that jutted out from the hall. At the far end was a frieze of Saint George, the Roman soldier beloved by the Russian Orthodox Church.

  Reilly was surprised to see so many people at the reception. He’d been led to believe by Shaw that it was going to be a smaller event.

  “Where is everyone from?” Reilly asked an usher, not even thinking English would be a problem. It wasn’t.

  “Government ministers, the mayor, tourism officials, international bankers, local businessmen. We had been scheduled for a smaller reception room, but we moved here. Georgievsky Hall is the largest and most impressive.”

  He looked around. “Absolutely beautiful.” But Dan Reilly wasn’t talking about the hall now. He’d spotted a woman in an elegant black cocktail dress some twenty feet away.

  “Excuse me,” Reilly said.

  When he was halfway there the woman caught his eye and smiled. In turn, she excused herself and came over to greet Reilly warmly.

  “Mr. Reilly, I had no idea.”

  He kissed her left check, then her right.

  “Ms. Babbitt, delighted to see you. Apparently we move in similar circles.”

  The Barclays bank executive slipped her hand onto his arm. “Well then, let’s explore together.”

  They strolled through the hall, pointing out people they knew and wondering about those they didn’t. Reilly recognized representatives from other hotel chains and executives from the major credit cards, telcos, and three airline presidents. Babbitt pointed out the people she could identify from the banking community.

  “Quite the bash,” she quietly observed.

  “Perhaps a little bait and switch to create more competition?” he mused.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Tell me, what is your schedule?”

  It was a pointed question, bordering on the personal, as Babbitt so often tread.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be with the mayor of Moscow. He’s across the hall now.”

  “That’ll be fun,” she said.

  “Oh, a barrel of laughs.”

  She was familiar with the way Mayor Tyomkin conducted business. “He’s a tough negotiator.” Babbitt leaned into Reilly’s ear and whispered, “With his own Swiss bank accounts.”

  Reilly pulled back. “Really now?”

  “Hey, this isn’t my first Russian rodeo.”

  “I guess not, Ms. Babbitt.”

  “I think we can progress to first names, Dan,” she said.

  “Okay. Marnie it is.”

  The pair continued to talk as they sampled the Russian zakuski, or appetizers: herring under a fur coat, which was herring mixed with boiled potatoes, beets, carrots, and mayonnaise; red and black salmon caviar; salmon pâté; and shots of vegetable borscht.

  Occasionally they stopped for polite conversations with others they knew, but mostly they kept to themselves. A few times she gave a greeting in more than acceptable Russian.

  “I hoped we’d see one another again,” Babbitt said as they took a seat on one of the benches against the wall.

  “I’d hoped the same thing. Suppose I could have initiated.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reilly. I’m a little old fashioned. I was waiting.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been busy. Back and forth between DC and Chicago. A lot going on.”

  He dabbed her lip with a napkin. “Don’t think you want caviar lipstick when you meet the president.”

  “Ah, well, you’ve got a job for the evening. Keep me all aglow.”

  He felt that intimate just elevated to sensual. Her long gaze moved it one step further. Sexual. But the moment quickly came to an end.

  A brass band opposite them began a fanfare. Reilly and Marnie automatically straightened. Next came the opening notes of a classical piece that Reilly recognized. He whispered it to Babbitt. “‘The Patriotic Song.’ A Russian composition by Glinka.”

  Dan Reilly looked up and down Georgievsky Hall. To his right he saw another guest point to the near entrance off the Red Staircase. Two guards in ceremonial garb marched along the red carpet with huge, high steps, perfectly in sync. It was grand theater, with more to come. The guards passed their vantage point and soon stopped at two gold doors at the opposite end of the hall. The music reached a crescendo. The two guards turned to face one another and did a quarter turn to the huge gold doors. Each guard reached for a doorknob on either side. Still in absolute sync, they opened them as the music swelled.

  Twenty feet beyond them, a man exuding ultimate confidence, walked precisely on the center of the long carpet toward Georgievsky Hall. Applause began closest to the doors, then spread to the opposite end. The man stood out from the white wall behind him and hit every step precisely in time with the music.

  It was the most regal, presidential, or dictatorial entrance Dan Reilly had ever witnessed, rehearsed and timed to perfection.

  Ten steps inside the man stopped and raised his hands, welcoming everyone. Then he lowered them, palms down, a signal for his guests to stop applauding. Reilly and Marnie Babbitt hadn’t realized that they’d also been caught up in the moment, clapping enthusiastically. Such was the power and charisma of Nikolai Gorshkov.

  The president of the Russian Federation walked to a microphone that had suddenly appeared in the center of the room. He gave a two-minute welcome in Russian that was partially understood by his gestures.

  Reilly glanced at Marnie. She was nodding and laughed with the Russian guests at a poor joke that Gorshkov made in Russian before switching to English.

  “I am pleased to see so many members of the international business community here tonight. Together with your vision, your help, and our partnerships, Moscow will become the greatest global hub for conferences and a true and open travel destination. My poor English prevents me from saying more to my guests, but I look forward to meeting everyone before the evening has ended. Welcome and thank you.”

  As everyone applauded again, Marnie leaned into Reilly’s ear. “He scares me.”

  But it wasn’t fright that Reilly felt, it was a sense of unease. Like the moment he stepped onto Afghan soil for the first time.

  He watched Nikolai Gorshkov welcome a few members of his retinue and then be led to a chair for photo opportunities. Just then, a man tapped him on his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Reilly.”

  Reilly pivoted. “Yes?”

  An usher with an earpiece and a wire fed down his jacket addressed him. Reilly came to an immediate assumption. Russia’s version of the US Secret Service. The man had been standing behind Reilly and Babbitt awaiting instructions.

  “The president would be honored to meet you,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  The man spoke with a military preciseness. It was not an offer or request. It had the tone of an order.

  “Certainly. May Ms. Babbitt join us?”

  “Of course, President Gorshkov would enjoy meeting …” there was a pause and a nod—he’d gotten Marnie’s name in his ear, “… the representative from Barclays.”

  Marnie remained by his side and, for the second time that night, slipped her hand around Reilly’s arm. This time s
he squeezed.

  “This way,” the officer instructed.

  “How long was he standing near us?” she whispered.

  “Later,” Reilly said, patting her still clinging hand.

  As they walked across the room, people Reilly had thought were guests opened a clear path. Now on closer review he saw that they all had earpieces. They were all connected. The new Russia, he thought. Not so new.

  Four other people were waiting for their photo op with Gorshkov. They were quick with little conversation beyond a polite hello.

  Now it was Reilly’s turn. His handler walked him forward while another agent held Babbitt back.

  The president had a chair, but he stood well to the side. From a psychological point of view, a photograph of anyone standing over him was not good.

  Reilly expected the same speedy chat and snap—a glad hand memorialized with a framed photo sent to his office a month later. Instead, Nikolai Gorshkov reached out with both hands to greet Reilly. Dan automatically extended his.

  “Mr. Reilly,” Gorshkov said. “I have looked forward to meeting you.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. President.” Reilly was caught off guard.

  “Please, first, a photograph.”

  The two men stood side by side. Gorshkov joked, “And another one for your wall.” They smiled. The photographer took five quick pictures. “Now that that’s over with …” The president turned and faced Reilly, away from the camera, and continued, “A few moments with you. I will try my best English.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You’re doing fine.”

  “We want very much your business. I have seen interviews you’ve given in Forbes. Insightful. You know your business.”