RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  Zherdev loathed the current boss who oversaw the Operational Reconnaissance Directorate. He considered him an egomaniac, which on the surface often worked at the FSB. But it also led to mistakes, errors of omission, and ass covering.

  For his own job security, Zherdev had dug deep into Vasilev’s own life and career. In the process, he had amassed a most interesting file full of hookers’ names. They alone could compromise the deputy director. But the real dirt was Vasilev’s foreign bank accounts and his visitations to explicit sexual websites, including video chat rooms. Dangerous blackmail material in the hands of the CIA, if they found out.

  “I think you’ll want me to stay on this after you really read the dossier,” Zherdev said as he prepared to leave the deputy director’s office. “I’m just beginning to—”

  “You have other assignments?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do them.”

  Zherdev, even more frustrated than ever with his boss, didn’t move.

  “Is there a problem, Zherdev?”

  “No.”

  “Then back to work now!”

  LONDON

  The deal talks expanded and contracted depending upon whether or not Moscow and Tehran were bundled. Moscow was a management takeover, with yet unanswered questions about rehab costs. Tehran, a build from the ground up.

  Reilly had doubts about both for reasons he didn’t share in the meeting, though in discussions he remained positive and patient. Collins scowled and mostly looked annoyed. He played with his Montblanc signing pen, but it never touched any paper. They were a long way from agreeing to agree on an initial term sheet.

  The workday ended with Marnie Babbitt passing Reilly a handwritten note. He leaned back in his chair, suspecting it was personal.

  Dinner, Mr. Reilly?

  Reilly smiled and made a sign that he’d call. Cannon raised a curious eyebrow, but Reilly waved him off mouthing, “Nothing.”

  Outside, the KR team took stock.

  “Well?” Tiano asked.

  “The money’s there,” Chris Collins said, “but the number of years they’re proposing is way out of line. Plus they’re still stuck on bundling.”

  “Can’t do that,” Reilly said. “The deals will move at different speeds, if they move at all. We’ll be paying interest for longer while we wait to break ground on Tehran.”

  “We can separate, with an option to revisit in say eighteen months,” Tiano countered. “Dan, even you reported Iran is going to be big business.”

  “Yes and there will be lots of opportunities to acquire. I still say no to a build.”

  “What about Moscow?” Alan Cannon asked, recalling their conversation on the plane. “How are you feeling after today?”

  “Keep them talking, but my vote is bifurcate or push away from the table. But,” his manner lightened, “I may get a better understanding tonight.”

  “Oh?” Tiano questioned.

  “Marnie Babbitt slipped me a dinner invite,” Reilly said as professionally as he could.

  “Well, good for you,” said Tiano.

  “Very good for you,” Cannon agreed, suspecting there was more to their relationship.

  “Indian? Continental?” Marnie asked on the phone an hour later.

  “Hmmm,” Reilly said. “Thinking more Indian tonight.”

  “Good. Spicy,” she said. “How about Masala Zone?”

  “New to me.”

  “It’s wonderful. Street food to fine dining. One of London’s best. If you don’t believe me, check Zagat.”

  “I believe you, but it’s probably too late to get a reservation.”

  “Not if they want their refi to go through,” she laughed. “Connections.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I have plans for us later!”

  While Klenkov rested at his flat awaiting new orders, another FSB agent watched Reilly leave his hotel and get into a black cab from the queue. He waved to his associate driving another cab, joined him in the front seat, and followed Reilly from Park Street to his next destination, a restaurant across London in Covent Garden.

  MOSCOW

  Anatoly Zherdev ignored Vasilev’s orders. He worked on hacking into other secure computer sites behind his own closed, locked door. He quickly found footprints, footprints from when Daniel Patrick Reilly worked at the US State Department. Footprints leading to a nondescript functionary’s job. Footprints that disappeared for a time in Pakistan, Egypt, and Libya. Footprints that he left the State Department but had friends in American intelligence agencies.

  Government, travel, and an unremarkable title. “What were you really up to?” Zherdev asked the screen.

  Zherdev cross-checked the periods of time when Reilly disappeared against news coverage from the regions. He set up a spreadsheet of dates and locations. Pakistan lined up with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice’s June 2006 meeting with President Musharraf and Foreign Minister Kasuri; Egypt occurred at the same time presidents Obama and Hosni Mubarak conferred before Mubarak’s fall in June 2009; and Libya was just prior to Gaddafi going into hiding in fall 2011.

  Each time Reilly went off the grid. Each time overlapped with important global developments.

  “Got you!” Zherdev exclaimed.

  LONDON

  “Well, where do we begin?” Reilly asked Marnie Babbitt.

  They were seated at the far corner of the golden-lit restaurant with Reilly facing out—his choice, and not just to take in the warm atmosphere of Masala Zone, reputedly one of the hottest restaurants in all London. He was in surveillance mode.

  “Exactly where we left off,” Marnie Babbitt proposed without an ounce of business in her reply.

  She leaned across the table and kissed him. Not a casual kiss, but deep and personal. Exactly where they left off.

  Small talk took them to drinks. Marnie ordered for them.

  “The tasting menu,” she said with double meaning.

  As their Indian waiter brought the first course, pao bhaji, a spicy potato mash, and Goan crispy fried prawns, Reilly peered around him and saw a man enter, take in the entire restaurant with a thorough sweep, but wave off the hostess. Instead of going to a table, he sat at the bar. On first blush, it was not out of the ordinary. But there was more.

  Reilly’s impression was that the man was Eastern European. He judged him to be in his late twenties and extremely fit. Extremely. Tough, bald, and beyond health club fit. Also to Reilly’s thinking, he had scrutinized the surroundings a little too meticulously before settling in at the bar. And once there, he ignored people next to him and stared straight ahead.

  “What?” Marnie asked, concerned that her comment about the tasting menu hadn’t received the intended reaction.

  “Sorry,” he replied. He shifted his gaze back to Babbitt.

  “That’s better.”

  But it wasn’t. Through the smiling, the flirting, and delicious courses, he was completely aware that the man at the bar never touched his drink. More importantly, he could see Reilly’s reflection in the mirror just as Reilly could see his. He sat like that for the next hour.

  They finished four of their eight courses. Little work was discussed. Just enough to suggest that Barclays might ultimately separate the two deals with an option for a longer term relationship—enough to keep Kensington in the conference room. It might not be enough for Collins to uncap his fountain pen, but Reilly would have to let it play out in real time in order not to expose their relationship.

  After lamb roghan josh, a wonderful slow-cooked lamb curry, Marnie announced, “Let’s get the rest to go.”

  “Perfect,” Reilly agreed.

  Marnie asked for the bill and everything remaining to be put in takeout containers. They talked for another ten minutes, both eager to leave. The check and the food arrived, and while Marnie made good on her promise to pay, Reilly watched the man at the bar. He’d already slapped down cash so he could leave at any moment. Reilly suspected it would be shortly afte
r they stepped outside.

  The only real decision still to make was Marnie’s house or Reilly’s hotel. Reilly wasn’t completely sure they should even spend the night together. But despite his heightened awareness, he felt no immediate danger. Nonetheless, while Marnie was in the bathroom he texted Alan Cannon.

  “Company again,” he wrote.

  Cannon texted back, “Who?”

  Reilly sent a quick reply: “Def not friendlies.”

  Marnie returned to the table. “Ready?” she slowly asked with a long sigh that punctuated her intent.

  “Oh, yes.”

  For the sake of decorum, dealing with the morning after, they mutually decided on her row house in Notting Hill.

  “But I’ll have to wake up early,” he said.

  “That’s assuming you get any sleep at all.”

  They left the restaurant and hailed a cab.

  Leonid Klenkov left without concern for his overpayment. His car and driver were waiting for him down the street.

  The London-based Russian spy had a no go order. But Klenkov hung close to his target as Reilly drove across town to where Klenkov concluded the American would enjoy a good fuck.

  Klenkov’s driver took the first watch while Klenkov remained in the car. The operative stood across the street from the woman’s two-story home. He watched as the lights went on in the first floor and, a few minutes later, off again. Then lights went on and off on the second floor, which he surmised contained the woman’s bedroom.

  He saw the flickering of candlelight and two silhouettes pass before the window. Two minutes later the form of a man, possibly naked, stood at the bedroom window. He closed the shades almost completely.

  The spotter watched the man at the window linger. Shit, he thought, crouching behind a parked car, hoping he hadn’t been seen. After a minute, certain all was fine, he texted Klenkov in English, “Lights off.”

  Marnie enticed Reilly from under the sheets. “Come to bed now.”

  Reilly pulled the curtain tight. He had seen a shadow move at ground level across the street.

  Nothing or something?

  Before stepping away he opened it again, just enough to peer through the slit. He had seen someone, and there was an illumination from a cell phone.

  Klenkov read his text. It was not the one he was really waiting for. He wanted word from Moscow.

  49

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  Zherdev worked through the night. Thanks to the access he created through the Puerto Rico gaming site, he had found his way deep into Kensington Royal’s mainframe. He learned that the American corporation was exploring a management takeover of a famous Moscow hotel. Zherdev concluded that was the business that brought Reilly to the attention of the FSB. Vasilev could have saved him time and effort with that detail. Financial terms were not available, but he discovered that Kensington Royal was currently having meetings in London regarding the deal. While he couldn’t get into Reilly’s own email, which frustrated him, he did discover that his subject was part of the London delegation.

  All of this was worthy of sharing upward, but Zherdev decided not to hand it over to Vasilev. Screw you, he thought.

  LONDON

  Klenkov had taken the watch thirty minutes earlier since he was eager to bring this job to a conclusion.

  Sleep wasn’t important when he was on alert. Besides, adrenaline pumped him up as he worked out details: how to pop the lock, defeat security measures, and eliminate Reilly, whoever he was. If necessary, which would be likely, kill the woman, too. Plant evidence that made it look like a deadly lover’s quarrel. Leave. There might be other details to deal with depending upon the moment. But it was well within his skill set.

  However, the Russian was also trained not to act on impulse. He couldn’t move yet. So he returned to the shadows and considered how good he’d feel when it was all over.

  Soon, he hoped.

  Reilly’s cell phone wake-up musical tune sounded precisely at 0300, only 45 minutes after they had finally collapsed into a deep sleep.

  He quietly slipped out of bed, showered, opened the BBC app on his phone, and toweled down. The radio presenter was in the middle of a report. Reilly quickly gathered trouble.

  Moscow was railing against Warsaw for treatment of pro-Russian separatists who had mounted a rally against the government. Fifty-five protesters had been arrested overnight. Two had been severely beaten by locals. One was shot dead. Police were investigating who had fired the shot. The Kremlin blamed locals. Polish officials countered that Russia had provoked the incident.

  A slight rustling behind him took Reilly out of the broadcast. A cautious footstep? He tuned his ear. The floor creaked.

  He casually reached down for something on the bathroom vanity that could serve as a weapon. Reilly touched a small bottle. Marnie’s perfume. Alcohol.

  Using his body to shield his maneuver, he unscrewed the bottle top with his thumb and index finger.

  Another creak along the wood floor boards. Closer.

  To anyone approaching, Reilly hadn’t telegraphed any awareness. But with the sound of another step closer, Reilly stepped left toward the bathtub, leaned, pivoted around, and swung his arm wide to the right, ready to splash the stinging liquid in an assailant’s eyes.

  “Whoa, be careful there,” Marnie said, thinking Reilly was just slipping on the wet floor.

  She saw the perfume in his hand.

  “And watch it. That’s my Jo Malone. I try to make that bottle last.”

  Reilly looked at his hand.

  “Grabbed it when I started to …”

  “Well, put it back, mister. It’s far too feminine for you.”

  Reilly laughed. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

  He returned the expensive bottle to the vanity and screwed the top back on with the same dexterity he had used to remove it.

  Marnie lowered her hands and found him.

  “Ooo,” he said as he lifted her hands up. “Sorry, but I really have to go.”

  “You’re no fun,” Marnie replied.

  “That’s not what you said last night … or was it just a little while ago?”

  Reilly took a deep breath and raised her hands to his lips. He kissed them both. “To be continued.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” Marnie added, reaching down one more time. “That’s a promise.”

  “Accepted.”

  Marnie sighed deeply as she saw the news on Reilly’s phone.

  “Oy, what now?” she asked.

  “Poland. Riots. One dead.”

  “Seems like every day there’s something else,” Marnie said. She reached for her toothbrush.

  “Every day,” Reilly replied. But to him it wasn’t just something else. This story played into a pattern.

  “What do these people want?” Marnie asked as she brushed her teeth.

  “It depends. Which people?”

  Reilly pressed play on a news video on his phone. The anchor was introducing a live phone call from an on-scene London Times reporter, who actually got to Marnie’s question.

  “What set off the conflict?” the anchor asked.

  “For the past few years,” the reporter answered, “Poland has been an outspoken critic of Russia’s aggression in neighboring Ukraine. It’s one of Europe’s most hawkish countries, willing to be consistently tougher than other EU members. Yet at the time, a Polish political party has emerged which seeks a friendly partnership with Nikolai Gorshkov and rejects the position that Russia has taken an aggressive posture in the region. The party, Zmiana, which translates as change, supports Kremlin policies, has strong anti-American positions, and speaks for the pro-Russian constituency in Poland and Romania. In particular, it’s a separatist movement which would realign Warsaw and Bucharest with Moscow rather than NATO.”

  Marnie finished brushing and wrapped her arms around Reilly from behind. He felt her warmth. Together they continued to listen.

  “Then the attack on the separatists could b
e an attempt by the government to limit the party or instill fear in its members?” the anchor proposed.

  “Too early to speculate, but the emergence and growth of Zmiana demonstrates once again the lesson of history that European borders are drawn more in pencil than ink.”

  Dan Reilly sighed. “That may be the most prophetic comment of all.”

  Marnie was tired of listening. She silenced his phone and checked the time on the display.

  “Well, I’ve got my own idea about things.”

  Her fingers went back to work. “Let’s go to the meeting with a better outlook.”

  “I really have to go,” he weakly offered.

  “No,” she whispered. “Just the opposite.”

  MOSCOW

  Zherdev barely slept an hour on a couch in an office. Not his office. Vasilev’s. Months earlier he’d cloned his boss’s ID card. After today, he’d be surprised if Vasilev himself would be using the office much.

  The FSB hacker awoke at 4:30 a.m., took advantage of Vasilev’s bathroom, and returned to his computer station. Two hours later he had everything in presentable form. Presentable for Nicolai Federov, Director of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.

  Zherdev stood outside Federov’s door, waiting for the intelligence chief to arrive.

  Federov was as prompt as he was deadly. Forty years of spying for the FSB and its predecessor, the KGB, and his unwavering loyalty to Nikolai Gorshkov gave the 74-year-old Federov power worthy of the old Cold War years.

  Zherdev had earned Federov’s respect when he produced compromising intelligence on a British prime minister, an American real estate mogul running for a high political office, and the wife of a former French president. In each case, FSB operatives let the principals know what Russia had, how they’d use it, and most of all, what they wanted in exchange. Classic blackmail and sheer thuggery, old-school KGB style.

  Anatoly Zherdev waiting outside Federov’s office meant that he had something special.