By daybreak, the party was over. Gaiss rose from the bed, but not before kissing the lips of all that had pleased him for so many hours. He showered and shaved, and then returned to his bedroom to dress. By then the women were gone, but the musky scent lingered. It had been a great party. His brother had gone above and beyond throwing him a true blowout.
Gaiss donned his newest three-piece black pinstripe suit from Volpe, one of London’s hottest tailors. The white bespoke shirt fit his trim body, the same body that four hands had pawed over just a short time ago.
When he was ready to leave, three bodyguards met him at his front door. “Good morning, sir,” the head bodyguard said. “Walk as usual?”
“Yes,” Gaiss replied. “I need to stretch.” He didn’t explain, but his security team knew full well why.
They took his private elevator down twenty-one floors. Gaiss held back inside while his men checked the street. All clear. It was always all clear. There was never a problem. They believed no one would fuck with the Gaiss brothers in Riga. That’s why the guards, as trained as they were as former members of the Latvian Special Tasks Unit, didn’t see it coming.
They walked along Elizabetes Street in tight formation. The head guard, a 6’2” moose of a man, led the way, then the oil magnate, followed by the two other imposing men, each with a 4.5” barrel on their Heckler & Koch USP semiautomatic pistols holstered under their suit jackets.
Midway down the street in front of Vērmanītis, a popular bistro, a motorcyclist swerved, then skidded in a move that had been rehearsed in another part of the city for days. The biker fell off and rolled to a stop directly ahead of the ArtiCom Energy contingent.
The head bodyguard slowed his pace, reached backwards to protect his boss, and then went to the aid of the downed cyclist who was writhing in pain. It was a breach of protocol—and a mistake.
The other guards stayed close to Gaiss, pulling him from the scene. But invariably a crowd was quickly forming. This worried the bodyguards. They steered Gaiss away from the street and along the large Vērmanītis ground-to-ceiling windows. Another mistake.
Now they quickly walked single file with one of the bodyguards taking up the rear. He watched Gaiss, who was moving a few steps ahead of him. Then he saw nothing. He went through the window pane, but not of his own accord.
Gaiss grabbed the other guard’s jacket as the man turned and saw his colleague on the inside of Vērmanītis with a hole through his head.
Four thoughts instantly flooded the guard’s mind. No sound. Suppressed gunshot. Short range. A setup. He tried to reach for his H&K, but he had no sensation in his hand. He couldn’t move his arm either. He was suddenly aware of a warm wetness on his stomach. He looked down and saw the ground quickly coming up. A new thought. A last thought. How strange.
Andre Miklos had come upon his targets swiftly. His first shot sent one man through the restaurant window. His next bullet ripped open the second guard’s chest and severed his spinal cord. Quite by chance, on exit, the bullet still had the force to bring down the man directly behind him.
Mairis Gaiss gasped. Not just at the horror inflicted on the others, but at the realization that he had also been shot. The billionaire stood and stared into the eyes of the man who stepped over his bodyguard.
“Why?” he asked.
The man simply said, “Expediency.”
Gaiss didn’t understand—and he never would. A last bullet ended this short and final discussion of his life.
People rushed away from the pool of blood, giving the lead bodyguard a clear view of what had happened. He unholstered his H&K, tuned out the screaming, and scanned for a target. Nothing in front of him, nothing across the street. He pivoted. Nothing behind him. Even the injured biker was gone.
The accident had been a diversion. Had he not bent over to check the cyclist, he’d be dead as well. That fact was clear. But with his boss murdered on the street in broad daylight, he wondered how much his life would be worth when the surviving Gaiss brother found out.
Ninety minutes later police responded to a suicide call not more than a kilometer away. A nurse returning home from her shift at Riga
Maternity Hospital reported that she had found her husband dead. But this was not just anyone. Her husband had been a deputy in the Riga Municipal Police Department. A controversial, outspoken deputy who was fiercely pro-Latvia and even more vehemently anti-Russian.
Two hours later, Latvijas Radio 1, one of Riga’s news stations, which was already covering the murders on Elizabetes Street, received a tip that police were investigating a suicide of a yet unnamed police deputy who may have been involved in the attack. This tip led to anonymous leaks at other media outlets. By noon, reporters were speculating as to the identity of the deputy based on the public anti-Russian statements he’d made.
An hour later hundreds from Riga’s Russian community had amassed at the steps of the Riga Municipal Police Station at Lomonosova Street. By 1400 hours, the crowd had doubled, and it doubled again by 1500. Now some 1,200 angry protesters, many armed with Molotov cocktails, fueled by ongoing breaking news that linked the suicide weapon with the murders on the street, moved toward the police station.
Riot police took up positions. Television cameras were on the scene, not only broadcasting to Riga and the rest of Latvia, but feeding CNN International, which in turn went to TV sets in Russia.
Protesters taunted police. The recitation grew into a deafening roar that spurred some young men to throw rocks at the building. At first their aim was off. Then far better. Windows smashed. They overturned one police car, then another and another.
A line of twenty-five heavily protected police officers advanced using truncheons to disperse rioters. They were followed by another line of police with Mace and billy clubs.
For a few minutes there was a clear standoff. That changed when the sound of a gun cut through the chanting. No one knew who fired or where it came from, but a young woman who had been drawn to the excitement dropped.
“They’re shooting!” yelled a man near her. Screams replaced the chants and Molotov cocktails replaced the rocks.
Andre Miklos, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and hoodie, drifted back, tucking away a Glock—the same model and type used by the Riga Municipal Police.
By nightfall, Russian television, print, radio, internet, and unaffiliated bloggers ran with the story. They relied on attributable and anonymous sources, live interviews, Riga’s hourly municipal police press conferences, and directives that originated in the Kremlin. Directives with biting specificity. Directives that had to be followed to the word.
Beyond the political rhetoric, the explosive adjectives, and the active verbs, one phrase carried the most meaning. It was widely reported in Izvestia, Rossiya 1, First Channel, and NTV, and thereafter was reinforced, echoed, and heralded around the world.
Co-opting the French expression of unity, it simply and effectively translated to “I Am Russia. We Are Russia.”
International journalists picked up Russia’s broadcasts and the impact. The Kremlin viewed an attack on its business interests, its business partners, and ethnic Russians as an attack on Russia itself.
59
ROMANIA
FOUR DAYS LATER
DECEMBER, 1989
“Gentlemen, are we in accord?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Whit Ellsworth.
The ranking Romanian officer, Major Constin Tomescu, responded for his team. “Yes, Colonel.”
The operational plan, developed by the US Army Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC) was intended as a highly visible exercise. Highly visible to the Russians, that is. Romanian Land Forces would participate, but this was an American-directed mission with some light fingerprints from NATO command. Rumor had it the mission came straight from the White House.
“Observers will be assessing critical response time, capability of your troops, and your ability to react in the moment to tactical changes. Operation Pressure Point-South is an expensive war game. Mak
e sure you play to win.”
“Sir, a question?”
“Yes, Major.”
“Russia will be watching in real time.”
“Undoubtedly. What’s your question?”
“Given what’s going on, the protests in Latvia, is this the US’s way of drawing a ‘do not cross’ line? Considering the lack of any military response in Ukraine …”
“Major Tomescu, may I remind you, Ukraine is not in NATO. Moreover, I’m not a politician. I follow my orders. My orders are to prosecute Pressure Point-South to the best of my ability. When we’re through, we’ll toast our success with a glass of tuică and solve all the world’s problems. Until then, Major, get your forces ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
The conversation didn’t relieve the Romanian officer’s underlying concerns. Was NATO drawing a line in the sand? Would NATO actually be willing to commit in Romania to repel a Russian attack?
Dawn the next morning found fifteen transports flying over a training area near Babadag, Romania. Two hundred paratroopers dropped to join the fifteen hundred ground troops already there. The mission: to retake an airfield captured by a “fictional enemy.”
A Russian spy satellite watched from its orbit. But live video on CNN International told the Kremlin what was going on at ground level.
Meanwhile in Moscow, Nikolai Gorshkov watched the coverage in his living room. “More of a good thing,” the president said to himself. “More of a good thing.”
PART THREE
THREAT CONDITION RED
60
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
THE KENSINGTON DIPLOMAT
ONE MONTH LATER
Liam Schorel strived to make the Kensington Diplomat the foremost hotel in Brussels for international dignitaries and world travelers. Thanks to both the visible historic architecture and the unseen state-ofthe-art infrastructure upgrades, Schorel had succeeded. Moreover, as a rising star in the company, he was proud of his achievement, securing industry awards for KR and cover articles in major travel magazines.
Now he hoped to impress the corporate executive who had just arrived.
“Dan! Wonderful to see you again.” He gave Reilly a warm handshake.
“Thank you, Liam.”
“You picked the perfect week. We’re at maximum capacity. Lots going on.”
“Congratulations.”
“Height of the season and it’ll be busy through the end of the year.”
Schorel led Reilly into his well-appointed office where they could talk. Reilly sat in the center of a brown leather couch that perfectly matched architectural touches from floor to ceiling—all in keeping with Victor Horta’s original art nouveau design.
“Anything to drink? Water, wine, coffee?”
“Maybe wine in a bit, but for now I could use a coffee Americano.”
Schorel stepped out to give the order to his assistant. Reilly took the time to gaze around the manager’s office. French woven rug on the floor, period garden tapestry, framed awards for the building, some dating back to the heralded opening, others from recent honors, and photographs of Schorel with notable guests. On his desk, commemorative Lalique glassware, more photos, a bottle of wine with a note attached, and an eighteen-inch computer screen.
“It’ll be just a few minutes,” Schorel said upon returning. “In the meantime, I’ve read your proposal and—”
Reilly interrupted. “Actually, Liam, it’s not a proposal. It’s an action plan.”
“Of course, but I thought we could talk about the need to put the Kensington Diplomat through all the pain of all this … planning.”
“Liam, perhaps I’m at fault for not explaining this better in my email. Given the risks in Brussels, we want to be able to protect our guests without hesitation. That means the building needs to be threat ready.”
“Of course, of course,” Schorel said. “But surely you have to realize the difficulty of pulling new permits and getting approvals from the city, let alone the impact the,” he paused to find the right word, “adjustments will have on our guests.”
Reilly stood. “Liam, I want to show you something.”
The general manager agreed, not certain he had made a convincing argument to his direct boss.
Reilly removed a thumb drive with a KR logo from his interior jacket pocket.
“What’s this?” Schorel asked with enthusiasm.
“A video. Watch it.”
Schorel offered to turn the monitor around.
“Not necessary. Just put it in. It’s under four minutes. Make sure the sound is up. Up good.”
Schorel inserted the USB drive into the computer and clicked a file with a date that didn’t immediately register. Twenty seconds into Lenny Karp’s edited video, it did. The day of the attack on the Tokyo property.
Reilly watched Schorel. His upbeat, jovial, all-fine-with-the-world manner dissolved away. His mouth gaped in horror. The impact of the images was inescapable.
Schorel’s assistant came in with coffee, but Reilly waved her away, whispering, “Not now.”
The final shot was of the corpse of a little boy clutching his burned teddy bear. It faded to black, but the music continued. Liam Schorel couldn’t turn away. He read a series of facts in bold white letters. The number of deaths. The number of injuries. The types of injuries. The names of the dead. This was followed by the names and dates of other hotels attacked within the past two years.
The final chord rang out, but Schorel continued to stare at the blank screen. Reilly had seen the same reaction in many other screenings around the world.
“I’m sorry,” Schorel said. He started another sentence but it didn’t form.
“Liam, every day hundreds of people come to your hotel. Fathers and mothers, couples, executives, politicians, officials, tourists, students far from home. They’re not thinking about anyone intent on killing them. But now you must.
“They check in believing the room will be clean, the mini-bar will be full, the pay-per-view channel is working, and there will be chocolates on their pillows when they come back after a night on the town. These are the visible services we provide that are traditional to our business. But today, we have another job: to protect our guests and our employees,” Reilly intoned.
“The faces in the video are the faces of people you see every day. Only they’re gone. In this world, Liam, in this day and age, in this new reality, you share the responsibility to keep them safe. Brussels has been targeted. Only blocks away. Tragically. How could you possibly feel immune?”
In a matter of minutes, Liam Schorel had become a changed man.
“You have my word, Dan. I will make this work for you.”
“Not for me, Liam. For the people we are responsible for.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “But there are still many practical considerations.”
“Go on,” Reilly encouraged.
“First of all, it’s not easy dealing with city codes. It takes time.”
“Time may not be on our side. We have no way of knowing who may strike next or where. But we are a soft target, the softest. So let’s deal with the problems one at a time.”
Reilly retrieved his briefcase and handed the general manager a single-page checklist. Next, they moved to a small round table in the office. Their conversations took them through the coffee, and an hour later, a fruit, cheese, and charcuterie plate.
Schorel was honest with the problems he faced, while Reilly proposed solutions. Some would come from political pressure applied by the US State Department officials in Brussels, others through donations to historical cultural funds. “And,” Reilly said, “you’ll have a fair share of wining and dining to cut through the red tape.”
The comment prompted Schorel to return to his desk.
“Should have thought of this when the charcuterie came out.” He raised the bottle of wine. “I’ve been saving this for the right occasion. I think I need it now.”
Reilly leaned back in his chair, quite rea
dy for a drink. The last ninety minutes had been productive. They’d covered the checklist and were poised to review basic CAD drawings of exterior prevention measures the consultant committee had developed.
Schorel popped the cork and poured two glasses. “Quite a bottle. A gift from a guest. A fine, fine wine.” He examined the label. “2014 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac.”
Reilly held it up to the light from the period chandelier. “A beautiful deep red.”
Schorel swirled his glass and sipped. “I get warm blackberries and chocolate covered cherries. Maybe a hint of violets.”
Reilly followed. “Well, you have a more finely-tuned palate than I have.”
Schorel raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to successfully working together.”
Reilly spun it differently. “Here’s to beating the clock.”
They relaxed and talked about the wine. Reilly was impressed with Schorel’s knowledge. He explained that this particular Bordeaux had real flamboyance and depth. “A real treat and a special present from a grateful guest. A most grateful one. This bottle is more than the equivalent of a night’s stay here.”
“Pretty impressive.”
“Funny thing is I wrote a really nice thank-you letter, but it was returned. Got it back a few days ago. Nicest man, though. A Hungarian architect. He loved the Diplomat. You know me. I’ll talk about it all night long. I ended up giving him a tour of the whole hotel. Top to bottom.”
Reilly stiffened. The aside that the letter had been returned hit him hard. The inside tour even more. “Liam, did he take pictures?”
“Certainly did. Everywhere. He really appreciated the work that—”
“Exactly what did you show him?”
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