Klenkov stumbled and looked down. Utterly confused, he watched his blood gush out. The Russian tried to raise his gun arm, but it didn’t listen to his command.
Reilly read Klenkov’s shock, ran over the broken glass and drove his head into the Russian’s stomach.
The force sent the killer backwards.
Reilly went after him again. This time he led with his right shoulder, knocking the Russian further back, more off balance until …
For a second, Leonid Klenkov felt a chill on the back of his neck from the light breeze that flowed through the open construction site. Then he was weightless, feeling the rush of air all around him as he tumbled off the side of the building, down seven floors.
Reilly peered over the edge. The dead Russian resembled a broken marionette with arms and legs splayed across the cement foundation.
Dan Reilly inhaled deeply to get his heart rate down and clear his head. Twenty seconds was enough. He had cleanup. He recovered the man’s pistol and scoured the crime scene for any other clues to what had occurred.
Construction site CCTV cameras below, if working, would have a record. He decided to turn that problem over to Donald Klugo and his private security company. If necessary Klugo could reach out to Langley through Carl Erwin, the former CIA director on the Kensington team. There was also his friend Bob Heath.
On his way out, Reilly patted the wooden box that had saved his life. Definitely a bullet stopper, he said to himself. He read the stenciling that fortunately had not been facing outward: Marazzi: World Leader in Ceramic and Porcelain Tiles.
He put the Ramset back in the kit and left with it. Looking back at the building from the ground he let out a much needed laugh. Ramset had a well-deserved nickname. Bang gun.
50
LONDON, ENGLAND
Reilly called the mercenary and explained what had happened.
Klugo took the information down and told Reilly that what he couldn’t take care of, others would. The others were not identified. Klugo said he’d also check with his global contacts for intel on the hit team sent after him. All signs pointed to Russia, but Iran wasn’t out of the question either.
“Just watch your back,” the private contractor said. “Oh, and this will cost you more. Considerably,” he added laughing.
After agreeing to terms, Reilly ended the call, wrote a note to legal advising the department of the new terms, and showered and changed before joining his team downstairs for a breakfast strategy session.
Cannon intercepted him in the lobby. “How’d it go last night?” he asked.
“Killer,” Reilly stated dispassionately.
If Cannon thought Reilly was joking about his sexual exploits, his manner said otherwise. He pulled Dan away from the others.
“What happened?”
“The guy following us out of the airport—”
“Yes?”
“Gone.”
“Good.”
“I mean gone, gone. Car crash in Notting Hill. It’ll be on the news.”
“Jesus Christ, Dan. What …?”
“And another, less delicately.”
“Oh my God! And you’re—”
“Fine. All things considered. Talked to Klugo this morning about the clean-up.”
The Kensington security chief did not need a definition of clean-up. He put his arm around Reilly and whispered in his ear.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Cannon asked.
“Apparently condition Red.”
Reilly and Cannon caught up with the rest of the Kensington negotiating team in the restaurant. Over breakfast, Collins reported on an email he’d received from Brymmer, the junior executive from Barclays.
“They want to come away with an initial deal memo today,” he said. “Tomorrow at the latest. Brymmer indicated another hotel group has—”
“He’s dumber than I thought,” Reilly said. “We take our time. This is too big for Barclays to rush or blow up. It’s a freshman tactic. Ignore him.”
Tiano agreed. “We’re the biggest. They want us.”
With that, they ordered breakfast and Reilly only excused himself once to splash cold water on his face.
Ninety minutes later they were back in the Barclays conference room. Babbitt greeted Reilly with a firm handshake.
“Dan, good morning. Thanks again for dinner last night.”
“Thank you. It was your check.”
“By all means. Good to get to know one another,” she replied.
Keeping it professional, he mused. “Likewise.”
This was to be Tiano and Chris Collins’ day. A day to drill down more. Reilly took the back seat as planned. He had leverage, patience, and what Marnie leaked to him on his side.
Not surprisingly, Barclays’ first proposal presented by Todd Brymmer didn’t go anywhere. The rates on the term sheet he passed out were high with key points tipped to the bank’s full benefit. Most importantly, the Kensington team said the two deals—Tehran and Moscow—had to be separated.
Brymmer argued his position for nearly two hours until a hand signal from Charles Perry ended his efforts.
“I believe we can move on now, Todd,” the senior president stated for the room. “You concur Marnie?”
“I do,” she replied, stifling a smile.
“Good. I’d like to hear a serious offer,” Collins stated with an undisguised sarcastic tone.
Perry smiled. “Todd, slide me your top sheet.”
The executive took pencil to paper, crossed out rates, and replaced numbers. He passed it to Marnie. She scanned and approved it, then handed it to Brymmer. Without comment he ran the math on his laptop and wrote computations on the page.
Perry examined the revised top sheet back, initialed it in the lower right corner, and handed it to Lou Tiano
“I think we’re ready to have you look at our first offer,” he said laughing.
“Thank you,” the Kensington chief operating officer replied. “I’m glad to see everyone’s come to work.”
They did just that for the next six hours. Over coffee. Over lunch. Over more coffee and snacks. Over dinner. The negotiation ended with handshakes and initials. Collins got to use his pen, but the document was not a final agreement with full signatures. After two days, it was their official starting point. Tehran was out for now. Moscow was in with appropriate caveats, mostly lodged by Reilly.
For Reilly and Marnie the night didn’t end at dinner. This time they went to Reilly’s hotel room. They made love and they talked.
“How about this?” Reilly asked.
“Only if I can return the favor,” she cooed, negotiating in bed. Five minutes later she did. They continued to playfully parlay sex like a business deal. More this for that.
An hour later they ordered room service but hungered much more for each other.
“You realize, if we keep this up we’re going to have to recuse ourselves.” Marnie emphasized the point by reaching down. “But you’d be very hard to give up.”
Reilly was too lost in his feelings to reply.
They returned to the discussion early in the morning. Marnie was right. If they actively participated in any negotiations, they’d have to put their relationship on standby, and even then risk creating animosity over deal points. Conversely, if they admitted they were seeing one another, who would believe they weren’t trading secrets over pillow talk?
Privately, Reilly felt that Moscow was fraught with political problems and Iran had its own set of geopolitical issues. So instead of discussing it more, he moved under the covers and gave Marnie Babbitt reasons to lose her mind.
Suddenly he stopped.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“Nothing. Just catching my breath.”
But there was something else. A thought. Tehran and Moscow. Was it odd she had been at both locations, seemingly waiting for him?
51
WASHINGTON, DC
Two days later back in DC Reilly ha
d a busy day ahead with Kensington Royal duties and attention to the greater geopolitical world.
First, his paying job. He called Brenda.
“I need a holiday calendar.”
“The main ones are already on Outlook and your phone,” she offered.
“Deeper. Can you include the Muslim and Jewish holidays and anything that’s celebrated in a number of specific countries?” He rattled off a list.
“Sure. How soon?”
“Today. Copy Alan and Chris on the calendar and send it to each of the members of the crisis committee.”
“With any comment?”
“No.”
Reilly reminded himself of one of his favorite beliefs. Some people who follow politics and world news get the New York Times and don’t read it. Others read it but don’t get it.
“They’ll get it,” he added.
Cannon would view the dates as operational goals in critical cities. Furthermore, he’d work with his contacts to get relevant intelligence and develop new relationships with national intelligence agencies as he had proposed in the meetings.
“I’m on it. Glad to have you back. Oh, your ex called today. She needs to talk.”
“About?”
“Don’t know. It was on voice mail, but she sounded stressed.”
“Okay. I’ll call.” But he didn’t right away. Reilly turned his attention to contacting Bob Heath and meeting him at a safe location. Safe meant unobserved, off the beaten path, and a normal part of his routine. He was concerned about the uptick in hacking and felt he couldn’t see Heath in the open. So he needed a place with multiple access points, one that he could come through, while Heath used another. A restaurant? A museum? The Capitol? Each offered possibilities, but then there was the question of where to talk.
Instead of a building he settled on the Metro. He would get on the Red Line at Farragut North heading to Bethesda. Heath would board at Union Station, taking the same train after Reilly texted him the number. If followed, he would not make contact. If clear, they’d both get off at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and stop for presumed health examinations. Once cleared inside, they’d speak in a prearranged room.
It was well beyond what might be necessary, but certain things were beginning to nag him. Reilly was thinking more like an intelligence officer.
Now for an even more immediate problem—how to surreptitiously contact Heath? He didn’t consider any of his phones all that secure, so he decided to stop at the Office Depot on Connecticut Avenue and picked up a pay as you go phone and a prepaid credit card.
Heath wouldn’t know the number, but the text would contain enough touch points for his friend to recognize the source.
While walking, Reilly dialed Marnie on his regular cell. He reached her in her office. She sounded thrilled that he had called. They talked about their schedules and their work. He heard her close her office door. Then they talked about rendezvousing.
As busy as he was, she was equally busy. And as much as he wanted to see her, she sounded like she wanted to see him more. Reilly felt a connection, but he also felt probed.
Marnie began suggesting places to getaway. “Southern France, Bermuda, St. Lucia.” She stopped when she got a text. “Hold for a second.”
Reilly heard her gasp.
“What?”
“I’ll call you back.”
LONDON
Minutes later Marnie Babbitt turned on CNN International in her London office. A Paris correspondent was in the middle of a report. The wide shot of the scene showed officers laying out plastic barricades and police tape. Sirens wailed in the background. The woman reporter had to speak loudly over the noise.
“According to a spokesperson with Barclays Bank as many as thirty people have taken control of the branch on Boulevard Raspail. There are hostages. Bank officials and customers. What’s not known—and is why the police are cautious and moved us a block away—is whether the perpetrators intend to do any harm or if they’re just there for the cameras. What we do know is that they’ve chained themselves to one another and are hunkered down with their hostages.”
“We’ve seen demands they posted on the internet in French and English,” the CNN anchor noted from the studio. A cell phone video appeared on a split screen between the anchor and the reporter.
“Correct. Those videos were shot inside the bank. They’re calling for Barclays to divest itself of shares in NATO-supported arms manufacturers. They claim these companies make missiles and drones that are currently deployed in Poland and threaten the Russian Federation, Belarus, and pro-Russian forces in Crimea. Barclays has not issued a statement beyond the initial confirmation, but we’re very early into this situation. The group also linked the US to their complaints, citing a Russian poll that the United States now tops the list of countries Russians view as most hostile.”
As the reporter continued, the video switched to B-roll of the area. “With more satellite news trucks arriving, the protesters are definitely in control of the message and the moment. Though there have been no threats of violence, the Police Nationale and the Gendarmerie Nationale, the French armed forces, have secured the area, evacuated business and residential buildings, and stationed emergency vehicles, fire trucks, and ambulances nearby. We’ve also seen GIGN teams, Paris’ SWAT, take up positions. It’s a developing situation here, unlikely to end anytime soon.”
WASHINGTON, DC
Right after he hung up with Babbitt, Reilly checked his phone for news alerts. There were two. The Washington Post and the New York Times. He suddenly understood why Marnie had ended the call so abruptly. Reilly reversed direction and returned to his office, running most of the way.
Back inside and before he could say anything, Brenda told him that Alan Cannon was on hold.
“I’ll take him. And turn on the news!”
Cannon had more details. “This is probably going to impact Barclays’ investment decisions. I recommend you back channel with your … friend.” Cannon’s pause and intonation on friend indicated he definitely knew they had a relationship.
“That obvious?” Reilly asked.
“Well, to me, buddy.”
“We were talking when the news broke.”
“Call back. Find out what they’re thinking. No reason to suggest they’ll pull out. But deals are going to slow down.”
“Agreed.” However, thinking beyond the business deals, Reilly saw a scenario that was far more troubling.
Then his cell rang with a very familiar number.
“Pam,” he said, shyly greeting his ex-wife.
“Didn’t Brenda tell you I needed you right away?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on. What’s the matter?”
Reilly expected to be chastised about alimony or trouble with the car.
“The house was broken into last night.”
“Oh God, were you there?”
“No.”
Reilly took a deep breath. “Good. Good. Anything taken? Did you call the police?”
“I don’t know,” she shot back. “And yes, I called the goddamned police.”
“Okay, Pam. Easy. Insurance?”
“If you’ve paid.”
“Yes, I’ve paid. I meant did you call the insurance?”
“Not yet. You might want to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They didn’t touch my jewelry, at least not that I’ve seen yet. But they sure tore through some of your boxes in the basement.”
He tightened his grip on the phone. “What boxes, Pam?”
“Your stuff. I don’t know. Some of your old army memorabilia.”
“Christ! I’ll be right over!”
VIRGINIA
Reilly still found it odd to knock on the door of his own Virginia house, or what used to be his house. Now it was Pam’s.
Pam Reilly was a statuesque blonde who had taken Dan’s breath away when they met at a party ten years earlier. In the eighteen months since
their split, she’d taken a good deal of their savings. Reilly still cared about Pam and hadn’t made their settlement a negotiation. It was more of an apology for things not working out.
Pam opened the door and allowed him an inconsequential hug.
“I’m sorry, Pam. Really.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you around. I haven’t put things away yet.”
Drawers had been pulled out. Closets torn apart. But as Pam had said, her valuables hadn’t been touched. After taking stock and looking around, the only thing of real concern was one particular cardboard box strewn across the basement floor.
He bent down and began to sort through the items.
“What’s missing?” Pam asked.
“Not sure yet.”
Reilly went through a mental inventory.
“It’s seems like it’s all here,” he said.
But that really wasn’t the problem, he reasoned. If he was the target, there was no need to steal anything. On one hand, they could have snapped photographs of specific items contained in the box. On the other hand, the break-in served as a visible threat.
“So things are okay?” she asked hopefully. “Maybe they just got spooked and took off.”
“Right. Sure,” he said dismissively.
“Then we’re okay, Dan?”
“No. We’re not okay. I’ll call the alarm company and have them install cameras and motion detectors.”
WASHINGTON, DC
Reilly phoned Marnie on his way to Office Depot.
“What’s the latest?” he asked after explaining that he’d caught the news, too.
“Right now, quiet. Surprisingly quiet. Hostage negotiators are talking with the protestors. So far no movement. They’ve got what I think they want. Press. Hell, there’s a report that three women super glued themselves to the vault. Others are chained. They’re tweeting, calling themselves activists, not protestors or terrorists. They’ve even got a name. NOT-O Nations, a play on NATO Nations.”
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