The message. Stay put a few days. Reilly heard it loud and clear. Descriptive, yet unspecific.
“Damn. I would have loved getting together with you, too,” Reilly replied. “When will you be back?” Reilly hoped to get more specific, but cryptic information.
“You know me. I never know. When business wraps. But you know the company.”
Company, not corporation, Reilly thought. KR was the corporation. The CIA was the Company. He wants me to look into things.
“Lots of decisions to make high up.”
How high up? Reilly wondered. The director? He’d pursue.
“Your boss?”
“If only. My boss’s boss. It’s going to get me an ulcer.”
Reilly ended the call with small talk and the promise to get together next time it was possible. In the meantime, he interpreted the call to mean that he was the closest thing the CIA had to Nikolai Gorshkov. And they wanted him even closer.
“Sir, the connection is good. President Gorshkov will be on the phone with his interpreter in a moment.”
Alexander Crowe thanked his assistant Dorothy and picked up the phone. His National Security Advisor, Secretary of State, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were also listening.
“Mr. President,” Crowe began once Gorshkov was on the line, “thank you for joining me on this call. I trust you are well.”
Crowe immediately realized it was a stupid remark.
“I am not well!” Gorshkov shouted after he heard the translation. “Russia has lost loyal, good, dedicated men. Fathers and husbands. Their only mistake was in accepting an invitation to meet with other freedom-loving men and women.”
“Mr. President, the police action on the apartment building in Kiev should be a step toward ending it. The alleged perpetrators are dead.”
“It ends nothing!”
The call never improved from there.
MOSCOW
Reilly called the front desk and extended his stay. He was about to leave the room when his cell phone rang. Marnie.
Damn, he thought. Should have called.
“Hi there,” she said. “Missed you last night.”
“Me too. Sorry.”
“Hey, like we said, business comes first. But you can earn some points back by sharing a ride to the airport. When’s your plane?”
Now he had to be careful.
“I have to stay for more talks”
“Well,” she softly replied, “I could too. Without the talking.”
Babbitt was certainly eager.
“I wish, but it’s gotten more complicated..”
“Well, you sure know how to disappoint.”
After promising to make up for it next time, Reilly ended the call. Then he caught a cab back to see Moscow Mayor Victor Markovich.
“Highly unlikely, Mr. Reilly,” the mayor stated after hearing Reilly’s request. “I have very little access to the minister of defense.”
“Very little or none, Mr. Mayor?”
“Well, some. But the steps they make us go through can take days. Besides, it’s highly usual.”
“The Kiev bombing was unusual, and I can’t reach some of my former associates,” Reilly asserted. “I’m worried, and since your people are on the ground, I thought that in the spirit of the understanding we established this morning, you could make a most personal appeal for me.”
Markovich blanched. “I will try.”
“I’m sure you’ll succeed given the circumstance,” Reilly countered.
“It must be today?”
“Today. I’m extremely concerned. And given our mutual interests in Moscow …” Reilly left the rest of the sentence hanging.
“The terms between us will not change?”
“Get me in to see the minister,” Reilly stated emphatically.
“Would you mind waiting in the outer chamber while I make a call?”
Reilly stood and smiled. “Not at all.”
Fifteen minutes later, Dan Reilly was on his way to the Kremlin to meet with Nikolai Gorshkov’s minister of defense.
Holy shit, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?
40
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
OFFICE OF THE DEFENSE MINISTER
Crimes that brought many oligarchs down extended into the Red Square. The fastest revolving chair in the Kremlin? The defense minister’s office. One minister was implicated in an embezzlement scheme to sell off outdated military buildings to the private sector below market value. Another lost his job because he skimmed the military housing budget. Still others were accused of misappropriating or outright stealing Kremlin and contractor funds. If appointees thought they could survive Gorshkov’s wrath, they needed only to look at his record.
Dan Reilly cleared metal detectors and waited in the lobby of the magnificent gold and white three-story Defense Ministry headquarters in Red Square to meet with the latest—and likely temporary—job holder. A uniformed guard at reception dialed the minister’s office in his Kremlin office. “Fifteen minutes,” he said in passable English.
Fifteen became thirty. Thirty stretched into an hour.
“I’m sorry to impose, but my meeting was set up by Mayor Markovich. Will you please check with Minister Lukin’s office again?”
“I will inform you when he is available,” the guard said dismissively.
Over the next half-hour Reilly simply stared at the guard, who avoided eye contact. At ninety minutes, even the officer grew impatient enough to make another call. Five minutes later, a military aide to the defense minister approached.
“Mr. Reilly, I’m Colonel Borodin. My apologies. It has been a busy time for us.”
The armed officer, in his mid-40s, was curt, but polite.
“Thank you, Colonel. I will be respectful of the minister’s time.”
“This way,” he said.
They walked by busts and portraits of Russian tsars, conquerors, and dictators and marble statues commemorating famous battles over the centuries. Impressive, historic, militaristic, patriotic, Reilly thought.
“I see you’re admiring our heritage,” the colonel volunteered. “The works have been recently returned for display. President Gorshkov takes great pride in embracing Russia’s history, especially in narod.”
“Narod?”
“Yes, the collective people of Russia, the bearers of our national culture.”
Their walk through the corridor ended at a door that opened to a wood-lined waiting room. A uniformed receptionist, probably in her early twenties, looked up, but did not speak. While the colonel addressed her, Reilly perused the space. Straight ahead was the tricolor Russian flag, with equal horizontal bands from top to bottom of white, blue, and red. On the walls were military citations, photographs of the minister with the president and other dignitaries, and war relics from ancient to contemporary battles.
The receptionist typed something before nodding to Borodin.
“Follow me,” the colonel said. He led Reilly to another door beyond and to the right of the receptionist. After two knocks and a pronounced “Da” from within, Borodin reached for the handle.
The colonel ushered Reilly into an expansive office appointed with more flags and war memorabilia. He crossed over a carpet woven with an illustration that commemorated the defense of Moscow during the Great Patriotic War—World War II by Western standards. At the far end of the room sat the austere, decorated Minister of Defense Colonel General Yakov Lukin, reading a file.
The newest minister of defense was an officious-looking and equally officious-sounding general of the Russian Federation, with a buzz cut and a cold stare.
“Mr. Reilly, apparently you have friends in high places,” Lukin said, barely looking at him.
Borodin remained to translate.
“World events move at such eclipsed rates that business must react quickly,” Reilly offered. He stood directly in front of Lukin’s desk. “I reach out to public and private contacts to compete and survive. But I also
work with governments.”
The general considered this worthy enough to grant him more time. He closed a file on his desk, which Reilly eyed, convinced it was a brief about him. Undoubtedly it included a report on his conversations with the president and the mayor. Lukin straightened his blue military tunic, embroidered with gold leaves on each collar. The shoulder boards were festooned with three gold stars indicating his high rank.
“Well then, tell me, what do you need? You must need something otherwise you wouldn’t have pulled such strings to see me. Sit,” Lukin said through Borodin.
Borodin pointed to a chair across from Lukin’s desk.
“Thank you, Mr. Minister. First of all, please accept my sincerest condolences for the loss of your countrymen in Kiev.”
He waited for the translation before continuing. The general simply nodded.
“I’m concerned about the lives of associates who may have also been in the Klovska Classic Hotel when it was attacked. The company I work for owned the hotel until a short time ago. While we have no interest in it today, we still have friends who work there, some we can’t reach.”
He waited for Borodin to relay what he said.
“That is a matter for the Ukrainians,” Lukin replied.
“The news reports your government is investigating.”
Lukin listened, but did not respond.
“Should you hear anything, I would certainly appreciate knowing.”
Again, no response.
“There is another matter,” Reilly said. He stopped to see how Lukin would react.
“Oh?”
“We have other properties we manage in the city. Accordingly, we are deeply concerned about possible future events.” Reilly paused for the general to weigh the meaning of his statement. He was certain this is what Heath wanted him to gauge.
“If the Russian Federation takes any retaliatory action, we want to be able to prepare and arrange for safe passage. I’m sure you can understand.”
Lukin leaned back in his chair. For the first time he studied Reilly while considering a response. He tapped the closed file and began slowly. “Mr. Reilly, citizens of the Russian Federation were killed by the explosion as were Ukraine nationals repressed under the current regime. This was an unforgiveable act of terrorism.”
“Yes, and again I extend my sympathy. But subsequent reports have stated that those responsible presumably died in the apartment building explosion.” Reilly had his doubts. He wondered whether the real perpetrators were actually safely back in Russia. He returned to his immediate question. “Does that mean there will be no reprisals?”
Lukin grimaced. “Mr. Reilly, you have had your meeting. I have fulfilled the mayor’s request. We have met. I must return to my work.”
“Sir, will you guarantee the safe passage out of Ukraine for my company’s personnel should hostilities ensue?” The Romanian singer came to mind again. “Or for that matter, safe passage out of any other nation the Russian Federation has interest in?” he added.
Colonel Borodin began the translation, but before he finished the defense minister responded in English, “Good day, Mr. Reilly.”
Reilly rose offering a simple, “Thank you, Mr. Minister. I do appreciate the time.”
The colonel led Reilly back down the hallway, past the paintings of Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Alexander, and surprisingly even Lenin and Stalin. This time the meaning of the art on display became abundantly clear. Gorshkov was restoring a sense of history—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Despots and dictators. Partisans, presidents, and premiers. All to rekindle the nationalistic spirit in the Russian people, in the narod.
Halfway down the busy hall, a group of men and women scurried about, some uniformed, some not. Some maneuvered around others, respectful of rank. Others stopped to chat, making passage tighter. Colonel Borodin loudly cleared his throat. Those in military uniforms saluted. Civilians nodded.
At the same time, a man dressed in a grey sports jacket, blue shirt, and jeans exited a room a few steps ahead. He walked toward them. The crowd made for narrow passage. He traded quick eye contact with Borodin and sized up Reilly in the manner that comes with field experience. Reilly did the same.
Because of the congestion they came close to one another. The man felt Reilly’s gaze linger. He turned away, cut inside and around two officers, and was gone.
Reilly stopped and peered back.
“Something the matter?” Colonel Borodin asked.
“No.” Reilly hesitated as he watched the man disappear. “Nothing. Just thinking of that word you mentioned. What was it again? Narod?”
Minutes later, Andre Miklos burst into the defense minister’s office.
“Did you just meet with someone?” Miklos demanded.
Lukin stammered, “The American?”
“Yes, the American! Who is he?”
Throughout the highest Kremlin circles, rumors abounded over Miklos’ reputation and curried favor with the president. He was Gorshkov’s protégé and confidant, his fixer and enforcer, the president’s personal spy and assassin. No one really knew everything, but a direct question from Miklos required an unflinching answer, no matter the rank.
“He’s a corporate hotel executive.”
Hotel triggered an immediate visceral reaction for Miklos and a follow-up. “Who does he work for?” he questioned.
Lukin opened the file and read from a brief. “Kensington Royal.”
The minister saw Miklos visibly stiffen, which put him on guard, suddenly aware he had made a mistake taking the meeting.
“Is there a problem?”
“There is a problem. Now tell me everything you talked about. Everything. And give me that file!”
Miklos’ next stop was at Mayor Markovich’s office. He flashed his FSB identification as he brushed past the mayor’s assistant.
“Who the hell are you?” Markovich shouted.
“Your worst enemy if I don’t get straight answers.”
Markovich hesitated, which prompted a tirade from Miklos.
“Let me put it this way. My interests are the interests of the Russian Federation, the security of the republic, and the determining factor as to whether or not you make it home alive tonight. Tell me everything about your conversations, conversations plural, with the American Daniel Reilly. Verbatim. Do we have an understanding?”
THE KREMLIN
“Yes, yes. I met the American at a reception last night,” Gorshkov explained to Miklos several minutes later. “A large trade group. He was representing his company’s interests in managing the Moscow Excelsior Hotel. Why?”
“Did you know he met with Lukin an hour ago?” Miklos asked.
Gorshkov, who had been sitting, now also stood. “What?”
“I saw him in the hall. He stared long and hard at me, as if he thought I looked familiar.”
Andre Miklos was one of only a few privileged people allowed to pose a direct question to the president. He used that privilege now. “What was his business when you talked?”
“The hotel. I assured him that there would be no obstacles to the deal. He should have gotten the same message from Markovich.”
“Who passed him on to Lukin?”
“What an idiot. What could he possibly want from Lukin?”
Gorshkov reached for the phone. Miklos interrupted him.
“I’ll save you the trouble. I went right to Lukin. Reilly insisted on an introduction to Lukin from Markovich. He claimed he was concerned for his company’s Eastern European corporate friends in Kiev. Up until a few years ago they had managed the Klovska Classic.”
The president pondered the point.
“There’s more,” Miklos added. “I learned this from Markovich’s secretary, not Markovich. Reilly met with him twice.”
“What!”
“Once on the Moscow hotel, the second time about meeting Lukin—specifically Lukin.”
“And Markovich was vague about that?”
“V
ague? He didn’t even tell me,” Miklos replied. “He used Markovich, and the fucking mayor had no reason to help him unless Reilly was holding something over him.”
Gorshkov’s eyes flared, then slowly relaxed. “All of this could simply mean he’s effectively representing the interests of his corporation after the bombing,” the president said.
The assassin thought about lighting a cigarette, but Gorshkov hated smoking.
“Perhaps, but now what worries me was his stare. It felt like he recognized me.”
“How?”
“Tokyo. It’s the same company. Kensington Royal. And as chief executive of an international hotel chain he must have relationships with the American intelligence agencies. Somehow he could have connected me. I don’t know how—yet.”
Gorshkov fixed his eyes on Andre Miklos. “Find out.”
41
LANGLEY, VA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Two days later Reilly was back in the states leaning over a computer screen at CIA headquarters. “Go blond,” he told Veronica Severi.
She moved the curser over the man’s hair, selected a lighter color from the palette, and clicked.
“A bit lighter and shorter.” The facial recognition expert made the changes. “Okay, now give me blue eyes. Piercing blue.”
Reilly studied the reconstructed picture. “Put him in a blazer. Light grey.”
That directive took a little more time while she searched for the right clip art.
Reilly continued with more tweaks.
“How’s it look?” Severi asked.
Reilly examined the image on the computer. He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s close, but not dead on. Give him a few day’s growth. A little salt and peppery.”
Five minutes later she stopped and turned to Reilly. He sat shaking his head.
“What? What’s wrong?” she asked.
Reilly whispered, “Nothing.”
RED Hotel Page 22