“But what?”
“This photograph from his service in Afghanistan.”
The FSB director showed the president.
“And?”
“Reilly on the right. The man on the left was a compatriot. He now works for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“How did you acquire this?”
“A break-in to his ex-wife’s house.”
“Do you have any knowledge that Reilly and this agent remain friends?”
“We’re working on that.”
Gorshkov narrowed his eyes to slits, a sign not to be mistaken for anything but unflinching resolve.
“The clock is ticking. He worries me. If he worries me, he should worry you. I want a report every day, detailed and thorough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gorshkov stood. The meeting ended, but not the president’s apprehension.
LANGLEY
Heath’s inquiry returned a reply from the Moscow station chief.
Nothing specific beyond cited OSINT. Asks out to friends and Joe. Street talk—poss personality conflicts with his number one. No one in mourning.
The memorandum reinforced Heath’s initial suspicions. Vasilev was taken out quickly, probably because he’d more than pissed off someone important. Likely his boss, Federov. Considering it was FSB, this added to his concerns shaped by Reilly’s London encounters, the break-in at Reilly’s wife’s home, and the increased probing of the KR network. Although there was nothing specific from OSINT, Open Source Intelligence, the agency was still checking with the British, other friends, and “Joe”—the generic name for a deep cover agent.
Aside from Reilly’s work with the State Department, there was now no record of his CIA contacts remaining.
But …
But, the perfect rejoinder. But. As troubling as yet, unless, except, on the other hand, and nevertheless. Heath ran through them all. Each of the synonyms set off a spy’s senses. Each pointed back to Dan Reilly’s own instinct and the reason he wanted to speak with a Company shrink.
Heath called Chadwick Ellis.
“Doc, I haven’t followed up with you about Reilly. Can we talk?”
Ten minutes later the agency psychologist was in Heath’s office.
“What was Reilly fishing for?” Heath asked.
“A psychoanalysis. He was full of questions about Gorshkov,” Ellis offered.
“What kind?”
“The kind that can connect dots.”
“Connecting the dots creates a picture.”
“Yes,” Ellis continued. “In this case, it isn’t a face. Reilly was reaching for an understanding of Nikolai Gorshkov’s psyche, where his motivations lie, and ultimately what he is capable of doing.”
“Did he explain why?”
“No.”
“Jesus. What the hell?”
“He didn’t explain why,” Dr. Ellis interrupted. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t able to make a determination.”
Heath bore down. “Explain.”
“Whatever he suspects, it seemed imminent.”
56
CHICAGO, IL
KENSINGTON ROYAL HEADQUARTERS
THREE DAYS LATER
“As we expected, there’s pushback from regional directors,” Alan Cannon reported to Shaw in a meeting also attended by Dan Reilly. “Not all the managers on the priority list were eager to make all the changes.”
“You’re going to have to see them one by one,” Shaw stated. He looked at Cannon and Reilly. “Split the toughest ones up.”
“Will do,” Cannon agreed. “Part of the problem is that some GMs are resisting the idea of surprise audits. Others are nervous about the optics and how they might chase away business. Same for a couple of our domestic managers.”
“I’ll be happy to show them footage from Tokyo.” Reilly was frustrated and showing it.
“Actually,” Shaw replied, “that’s exactly what we should do. And not just the attack against our property. Think about how to add Egypt, Mali, and Tunisia. Run it for them. Sit with them. Let the images make the argument. Leave the video, and before you go, spell out that this initiative comes from me.”
This was the Edward Shaw Reilly admired: a thoughtful manager and a decisive leader.
“Okay then,” Shaw continued. “You two hit the international properties. I’ll deal with the US. And tell each and every one of them that if they disagree and want to kiss their pension goodbye to call me! That’s the only thing I’ll want to hear from anyone not in accord.”
“Yes, sir,” Reilly said.
Next they went to the financial impact and the locations that were making headway.
Following the meeting, Alan Cannon and Dan Reilly divvied up the destinations and laid out an aggressive travel schedule to cover the next three weeks. Before wrapping for the day and returning to Washington, Reilly went to the corporate media office.
“Len, what do you have archived from the Tokyo attack?”
Len Karp’s primary job was surfing the internet and the cable news channels for anything company related. He produced edit reels daily and forwarded them to the executive suites for planning and promotion.
“CNN, Fox, MSNBC, NHK,” the 44-year-old Karp said. “I’ve been archiving everything I could since the bombing.”
“Can I see what you have?”
“Sure. Pull up a seat.”
For the next thirty minutes Reilly sat with his mouth open and silent. He had seen the initial reports on TV and walked through the debris in Tokyo, but Karp had compiled additional footage. Graphic, powerful, sad. Truly sad. Much of it was social media postings.
It was like a minefield explosion at its worst. Body parts separated from bodies. Blood flowing into drains. A child’s burned stuffed animal clutched in an equally burned hand. A leg sticking out from under a pillar, the rest of the body still smoldering under a white cloth. Strewn pearls. Workers carrying covered stretchers to the parking lot where victims were lined up and tagged. Hardened first responders crying. Survivors staggering out the door, covered in ash. A family that had been swimming, lying dead two floors below where the pool had been.
He recognized some of the young staff, who only seconds before their deaths had been on promising executive tracks with the company. Security officers who would be easier to identify because of their name tags. Kitchen workers burned beyond recognition.
“That’s enough.” Reilly had to stop.
“It’s awful,” Karp offered. “Tokyo, but it could be anywhere today.”
“That’s why I came by, Len.”
“You want to show it around?”
“Yes, to some of our GMs who don’t recognize the risks.”
“Whatever you need.”
“A four-to-five-minute edited reel. Raw, no additional announcer track. Real sound and maybe powerful music underneath.”
“I’ve got just the piece. Tomaso Albinoni’s ‘Adagio in G minor.’ It’ll help me organize the shots and build to the music.”
Reilly didn’t know the composition offhand, but he trusted Karp’s instincts.
“And at the end, add a graphic,” Reilly added. “White letters over black with the location and date of the attack and the names of the victims. After that, the names and dates of other hotels that have been attacked. I’ll email you the information.”
“And the ultimate impact?”
“Scare the living bejesus out of anyone who watches it.”
The urgent and important boxes on the Eisenhower Method suddenly had a new priority: bringing the Kensington Royal general managers into line.
Reilly conferred with Alan Cannon on the assignments. Cannon chose the Asian, Middle Eastern, North African, Eastern European, and Scandinavian destinations. Eleven in all. Manila, Singapore, Istanbul, Dubai, Cairo, Athens, Belgrade, Budapest, Zurich, Prague, and Copenhagen.
Reilly had twelve hotel cities to visit, from South America to Europe. Bogotá, Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Cancún, San Juan, then
Paris, Brussels, London, Vienna, Rome, Lisbon, and Amsterdam.
“Bring enough underwear,” Reilly joked
“You’ve got that right,” said Cannon. “I figure we can do it in twenty days if the weather cooperates.”
“Might want to give it twenty-five. Some of the GMs may take more than one conversation. I’d rather we help them find the reason to sign on. I think most will.”
“Not so sure about Athens because of the money crunch. We may need to look at fine-tuning the management there,” the security chief noted. Fine-tuning was KR-speak for firing.
“The video will help. Len Karp will have a cut for us to screen by nine tomorrow.”
“Any rethinking on which properties go Orange and which go Red?” Reilly asked.
“No change based on today’s State Department alerts and the other outside daily briefings we’re subscribing to now.”
“I’m afraid from here to eternity we’ll be living in a day-to-day world,” Reilly sighed. “We have to be able to respond immediately. It’ll take the financial incentives from Chris. Money will ease the pain and speed up the process.”
But Reilly and Cannon both understood it would take more than money. The real underlying hurtles were grounded in religious practices, local politics, and, to insure success, even potential payoffs.
After discussing these challenges Reilly revised his travel estimate. “Let’s plan on thirty days.”
Three days later, both men shook hands at O’Hare and took off in different directions—Cannon to Asia, eventually working his way to Europe, and Reilly to South America, with his last stop in Brussels.
Reilly’s first meeting was in Bogotá, Colombia, a city and country that had improved its security profile in recent years. However, US State Department advisories still warned tourists to be aware of “the existence of criminal organizations that operate independently and may cooperate with insurgent or paramilitary organizations in the narcotics trade and other illicit activities such as prostitution and extortion.”
This was nothing new to Reilly. He’d learned an important lesson in dealing with local drug lords who still used kidnapping when necessary. The cartels took a dim view of a hotel executive firing an employee for trafficking in drugs or prostitution. But they understood booting an employee for not working hard, not meeting the hourly requirements, or providing bad service. All would be justifiable causes for dismissal.
Reilly understood these unique cultural and social rules and followed them. That’s why he convinced KR to allow for more local hires in global hot spots.
One of those important local hires, the Bogotá general manager, Jorge Suarez, agreed to the upgrades to Orange without debate.
There were no active threats to Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Cancún beyond local crime and the fair warnings for tourists not to venture off the beaten path. Reilly designated those hotels Blue, the lowest level.
San Juan, Puerto Rico, was another issue. Reilly was told the Kensington Royal island resort had been hit by cyberattacks, a disturbing report that he relayed to Spike Boyce in Chicago. That was enough for Reilly to move it up a notch to threat level Yellow.
Alan Cannon’s initial meetings were much harder. While Manila was safe, not so for travel to other parts of the Philippines. The State Department advised, “Separatist and terrorist groups continue to conduct bombings, kidnappings, and attacks against civilians.”
The team elevated Singapore to Yellow status because the US military gateway to Southeast Asia was based there.
Further along, Cannon upped the status of Istanbul to Red due to Syrian and ISIS threats as well as its own internal political turmoil. Cairo, a danger zone since the fall of Hosni Mubarak in 2011, also rose to the highest alert and protective category.
Cannon moved on to Dubai and Copenhagen—both Yellow. The remainder of his meetings required much more convincing.
Reilly found the same issues in Western Europe. The general managers appreciated the company’s concerns, but didn’t want to give into what they considered hysteria.
Both Cannon and Reilly presented a powerful rebuttal on video. It took Cannon five extra days to get through Zurich, Athens, and Belgrade. Reilly was ahead of him, finding more corporate cooperation.
Cannon still had to contend with reluctant teams in the former Eastern Bloc capitals of Prague, Bucharest, and Budapest, cities where it was utterly important to adopt changes. Local management didn’t immediately buy in. Cannon explained that the program was nonnegotiable and would actually provide defensive measures which, up until now, had not existed.
The general managers in Prague and Bucharest agreed. Tired of the back and forth with the head of the Budapest property, Cannon finally explained he had twenty-four hours to either get on the train or find himself under it. Twelve hours later, he agreed.
Meanwhile, only Brussels and London remained on Reilly’s list. He hoped Brussels would go quickly so he could get to London to see Marnie.
57
WASHINGTON, DC
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president read the PDB, the president’s daily briefing, prepared by the national security advisor. The top secret document was a synthesis of CIA, NSA, FBI, and Defense Intelligence reports and analysis. It was the president’s primary source of raw intel and it usually ranged from not so bad, to really bad, to worse. Though there might not be any hard data on where or when, the what would stir up bile in any president’s stomach. It did just that for President Alexander Crowe.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said aloud to Pierce Kimball, his national security advisor.
“Yes,” Kimball replied, breathing in hard.
“But they’re not even countries!” the president exclaimed.
He was referring to overnight statements from the unrecognized president of the nonexistent country of South Ossetia, arguably a disputed region in northern Georgia, and the similarly separatist leader of the nonexistent state of Transnistria, a fraction of Moldova. Both men were calling for their regions to “become part of Russia.” Their pleas had been covered in Moscow’s Gorshkov-controlled press. But there was more. Pro-Russian separatists had taken to the streets in Kiev and Bucharest.
“What they really want is to be absorbed by Russia,” Kimball stated.
“Meaning an invasion.”
“Yes, sir,” the national security advisor agreed.
“Gorshkov can’t,” the president argued.
“Can. But I don’t know if he will.”
“And Nagorno-Karabakh?” Crowe tapped the report. “Where the hell is that?”
“Azerbaijan, Mr. President. “East of Armenia, south of Georgia. Asia on the Caspian Sea.”
“Right, right. Please, get them to include maps next time,” the president said. “What’s the real stake there?”
“NK is part of Moscow’s poker hand in the oil trade. It always comes down to oil. The separatists are poker chips that Gorshkov plays well. He backs Armenia while selling weapons to Azerbaijan and stirring up Russian nationalism.”
“All of this goes on, but most of the press in the US still just focuses on Ukraine. And even then, very little.”
“It’s too confusing for the public and Congress,” the president replied, “and barely understandable to me.”
“Mr. President, that’s precisely what Gorshkov is counting on. He has you focusing on the pretty girl in the magic act to miss what the magician is doing. It’s a diversion.”
“And the real trick?” Crowe asked.
“Possibly Romania. Russia could move against Romania. That’s the prize.”
“Are you certain?”
This was the question military strategists and national security advisors hated to answer. Political calculation, deniability, and obfuscation could mean the difference between the beach and the high tower, invisibility or a post-White House career as a cable news contributor.
Pierce gave himself rhetorical wiggle room. He would write his response in a diary rig
ht after the meeting.
“I can only advise based on the latest intelligence community reports. Moscow appears to be doubling down on separatists loyal to Russia. The most vocal are the Romanian, but there are others. And in each case, a provocation could push them over.”
“What about NATO?”
“Not watching the store either.”
“And our principal source to back up the assumption?”
Another question to field correctly.
“Multiple sources. Inside and out. Some hints from the Tokyo hotel attack as well. Enough to trigger alarms. The Joint Chiefs are recommending we mobilize NATO forces to Romania.”
“Shit,” the president said.
“But Gorshkov will see that as an escalation,” Pierce said for his own version of the record.
“He damn well should!” an energized president declared. “I want the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs in for a meeting. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“The agenda, sir?”
“To show Gorshkov we still have some balls in this country.”
58
RIGA, LATVIA
TWO DAYS LATER
Mairis Gaiss celebrated his 50th birthday in high style. Champagne, caviar, and hookers. All premium. The celebration lasted all night in his penthouse three blocks from his ArtiCom Energy International corporate headquarters on Elizabetes Street in Riga, the capital of Latvia.
ArtiCom Energy was a leading oil and gas exporter with rigs in the Baltic Sea and expansive explorations in the ever-melting Artic from which the company took its name. ArtiCom Energy enjoyed favorable business dealings with Russia’s Gazpron through a deal completely facilitated by the Kremlin. This gave the Gaiss brothers sway in Riga’s government to get their way and promote Moscow’s interests, which included representation for the ethnic Russians in Latvia. The only thing left to irony for the fossil fuel family was that their name meant “air,” the polar opposite of their business.
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