RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

“An absolute must,” Reilly replied. “And we’ll send you detailed construction plans that Chicago has worked up to install permanent rising bollards and delta barriers. The bollards probably the less offensive option.”

  “That’s where we’re going to have problems. You can’t imagine the endless paperwork in such a historical city. Nothing moves fast here.”

  Reilly reconsidered what he’d said before about permits. “Then set a meeting with the mayor. Today. The video will make a convincing argument.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Neither is planning a bombing,” Reilly said angrily. “But we’re past that. It’s been accomplished most efficiently, Liam, with your help.”

  “Damn it, Reilly!”

  “Schorel. Tell you what. Set the meeting, we’ll both go.”

  Mayor Lina Janssens was as unpleasant as they get. Grey-haired, thin eyes, hair in a bun, tailored black suit. It all telegraphed a purposeful coldness, reinforced by her decision to remain seated behind her desk when Reilly approached. To Reilly, all the signs said she was going to be trouble. The greeting didn’t dissuade.

  “Mr. Reilly, Mr. Schorel. What’s so important that I had to alter my schedule?” she said in perfect English.

  Reilly took the lead. “Thank you, Madame Mayor. I’m—”

  “I’ve been told who you are. Get to the point, Mr. Reilly.”

  “This is an urgent matter.”

  “It better be,” she chided.

  “It is,” Reilly replied, equally sternly. “We have to fast-track structural changes to the exterior of the Kensington Diplomat.”

  “There’s a department that oversees this.” She curtly addressed the person she knew. “Liam, you’re familiar with the rules.”

  “Yes, Mayor Janssens.”

  “Then why are we meeting?”

  Schorel prepared to speak. Reilly held his hand up. “I’ll take this. Mayor, our hotel was surveilled by a terrorist. We’re going to add hydraulic pop-up barriers street-side. Mr. Schorel informed me we need the city’s approval. That’s why we’re here.”

  “As I said, we have a department. They have their procedures. That’s the way it’s done.”

  Reilly interrupted. “We don’t have time for paperwork, Madame Mayor. You don’t either. Brussels, of all places, grasps the danger. You must realize that given recent events. This threat is real. The subject has already pulled off a successful operation. We have connected him to the attack in Tokyo. He may be responsible for more bombings in other cities. And now that you know, Madame Mayor, you have the ability to help prevent another horrible attack in your city, at our hotel or other soft targets. But right now, my concern is the Kensington Diplomat.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Mr. Reilly. When the Brussels police tell me there’s a problem, then I’ll deal with it.”

  “And you’ll be too late, madame.”

  “Who is this mystery man who so worries you? We’re hunting ISIS cells and you come to me with one man?”

  “One man with a deadly team and a country behind him,” Reilly hissed. “Cut your red tape and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “If you’re trying to intimidate me, you’re falling far short.”

  Reilly removed his business card and a USB drive from his jacket pocket. He deposited both on her desk.

  “Put this drive in your computer. Call me after you watch the video on it. It’ll look very familiar to you. Bloody terrorist attacks tend to have an unmistakable sameness. Death.” He paused, but only for her to absorb everything he had said. “My cell number is on the card. I’ll be at the Diplomat a few more days.” He took a beat. “Overseeing the construction.”

  “Jesus, Reilly!” Cannon exclaimed when he heard what his colleague had done. The KR security director, now at the Diplomat, met Reilly at the Bistango bar off the lobby. “Trying to cause an international incident?”

  “Figured if I could bully my way through the Kremlin, what’s a Brussels mayor?”

  “Pick your poison,” Cannon added. “An injection from the tip of an umbrella or a bullet in the head down a dark European street.” Alan Cannon was only half joking. “There could be repercussions.”

  “Pile drivers bang away tomorrow. Bollards are on the way from Bonn. A row of eight ten-inch B3X’s will be up and functional in seventy-two hours. Fast. They deploy in one second. We can have multiple proximity switches,” Reilly explained.

  “And if the city shuts you down?”

  “The news will have her for breakfast. I’ll provide the hollandaise sauce.”

  Cannon slapped Reilly on the back. “So what can I do?”

  “Meetings. Introduce yourself to Belgium’s intelligence forces.”

  “Coordinate the uncoordinated?” Cannon asked.

  It was no secret that Belgium’s security agencies were separated by language—French and Flemish—districts, and operational authority. They lacked the resources of other countries, and yet Brussels was the capital of the EU and the home of NATO. They were underfunded and even outmanned by the number of suspected terrorists living in the country, and they didn’t have a unified army.

  “Bring them into the tent,” Reilly answered. “Gently. Put it in terms of a ‘tip’ that we received. Not Schorel’s blunder. And emphasize that we’re still investigating. Nothing to launch publicly.”

  “There is another option,” Alan Cannon stated.

  Reilly anticipated Cannon would raise the point. “Shut down the hotel.”

  “Correct. Take the target out of play.”

  “No,” Reilly argued.

  “It would legally shield us,” Cannon affirmed. “The company. The stock.”

  “Yes, it would. But then the target checks in somewhere else. At least we know what’s coming.”

  “Are you so sure?” Cannon questioned. “Standard ops are to surveil multiple potential targets, then select the softest. Elevating the Diplomat to Red could possibly take it out of play. Closing it down for a critical period will guarantee it.”

  Reilly exhaled deeply. “This is the target, Alan. I’m certain.”

  “You don’t know that. And I think Shaw would back a closing.”

  “I disagree. It would hit the bottom line hard. Hell, you know how many bomb threats we get every day at different locations?”

  “Crazies. Not credible. This is different,” Cannon replied.

  “Right. And I say we don’t close down the hotel, we defend against the event.”

  “It’ll make the problem go away.”

  “For us. But I believe this isn’t an indiscriminate terrorist attack. It’s strategic, Alan. Smug is targeting a specific guest or group for a specific reason. They check out of here, they’ll end up somewhere else. And wherever they go, the fight will go to them. At least I believe they’re coming and we have the best chance of stopping it.”

  Cannon shrugged. “We’re at least obligated to run it by Shaw.” He corrected himself. “I’m obligated.”

  “Alan, it could be weeks or months.”

  “Could be and sure, we’d lose a lot of revenue, but knowing what we know …”

  Reilly couldn’t win an argument with a feeling alone. “Okay, two things. We’ll go to Shaw and present the argument. But before that, talk to the GMs of other hotels here. Find out if anyone has taken special or at least undue observable interest in their properties. Smug went to extra pains to analyze the vulnerabilities of the Diplomat. If he’d been seriously interested in another hotel, maybe someone would have spotted him.”

  Cannon didn’t instantly reply.

  “Alan?” Reilly asked.

  “Just thinking about what I’d say and whether they’d cooperate. I could say too little or too much.”

  “It’ll be pretty obvious what we’re doing street-side at the Diplomat,” Reilly explained. “Tell them Kensington Royal is taking a proactive stance after Tokyo. We’re training our staffs to be vigilant. ‘If they see something, say something.’ Hell, share th
e basics of our tiered alert status. The more this becomes industry-wide, the safer the industry will be. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Cannon said. “But we still go back to Chicago and give Shaw the choice. Deal?”

  Reilly shook his colleague’s hand. “Deal.”

  Minutes later, Reilly was back in Schorel’s office.

  “Anything new?” Reilly asked.

  “Going through the bookings again. Who’s coming for what,” the general manager offered.

  “And?”

  “I really can’t say I understand what I’m looking for.”

  “Then try this. Any groups from Romania, Ukraine, or the Baltic states.”

  “Why there?”

  “History.”

  65

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  IXELLES DISTRICT

  The next morning the man who looked like a college professor knocked on Miklos’ door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Petoir.” Of course that wasn’t his real name.

  Miklos unlocked the deadbolt. “Is anything wrong?” Petoir was hours early for the next briefing.

  He entered and went to the window, moving the curtain slightly aside. He peered up and down the street and stepped back.

  “We have a problem.”

  Miklos studied his man. He was visibly nervously and worried that he had been followed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I drove by the target this morning. They’re installing hydraulic barriers outside. I saw dogs, too.”

  Miklos sat across from his operative and nodded thoughtfully.

  “You’re not worried?” the man asked.

  “I plan.”

  “Getting a device inside is going to be nearly impossible. The security measures …”

  “Will not be a problem.”

  “But?”

  “It’s already there.” Miklos explained.

  Andre Miklos had been an A student in theatrical makeup and disguises at the Soviet Andropov Institute, the KGB’s highly secretive spy school.

  So who shall it be today? He was partial to innocuous, sometimes gender-bending characters, both old and young. On the other hand, he could hide in plain sight and pose as a credentialed member of the Brussels police, a French NATO lieutenant, or a Belgium officer.

  Brussels offered Miklos so many choices. The federal police answered to no fewer than six governments. The nation’s constabulary was comprised of 196 individual police forces and brigades, working under the mayors of the disparate municipalities. In Brussels alone, roughly fifty police agencies covered the territory. The weaknesses were widely published in Russia’s Sputnik news and reported around the world.

  Hiding in plain sight. Nowhere better than Brussels.

  66

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  THE KENSINGTON DIPLOMAT

  For the fifth time Schorel reviewed all the locations where he took the man he presumed to be an architect. “I met him here in the lobby,” he told Reilly. “We walked around the public spaces.”

  “Let’s do the walk again,” Reilly insisted. He was feeling increasingly frustrated with his GM. “Everywhere.”

  They walked around the lobby. Schorel retraced the steps through the lobby, outside, back inside to the kitchen, down into the basement, and finally the executive offices.

  Reilly pictured what a terrorist would look for. Structural weaknesses. The power plant. The fuel intake. Entrances and exits. Traffic flow. Using Tokyo and Kiev as recent case histories, the Kensington Diplomat was an easy target. An easier target, in fact.

  They ended where they’d begun. The lobby.

  “Anywhere else, Liam?”

  “That’s it.” He stopped. “Oh, and we stopped in the florist shop. I’m sure Madame Ketz would love to say hello to you.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They crossed the lobby to the old florist’s small shop. Entering, they were engulfed by penetrating scents from the beautiful flowers; the very things that surrounded Madame Ketz’s life.

  “Madame Ketz, so nice to see you again,” Reilly warmly offered. “You look wonderful.”

  “Oh, Mr. Reilly, it is my pleasure.” She remembered him from previous visits. “I hope you’ve been well.”

  Reilly noticed she had aged, but still exuded a timeless cultured civility and a compelling spirit that lived for making others happier.

  “Definitely,” he said. “And you?”

  “All the better, seeing you.”

  As they chatted, Reilly surveyed the shop. Nothing out of the ordinary. Small bouquets in colorful glass vases on a counter display; a selection of cards, ribbons, and wrapping paper behind the cash register; and further back in the deep refrigerator, a variety of fresh flowers and a large plant in a deep metal pot. Nothing out of the ordinary. Of course when it was time to leave, Madame Ketz pinned a fresh yellow rose on his lapel.

  “That’s it,” Schorel said back in the lobby.

  Reilly corrected him. “The restaurant.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Bistango had two entrances. One near the florist, the other on the street.

  The restaurant’s actual footprint was carved out of older retail space. Its modern design had echoes of architect Victor Horta’s work: art nouveau-inspired ironwork, downlit by golden spiral sconces, backed by glass and dramatic walls painted in a flat black. Modern copper wire statuary divided the dining areas and the bar where Reilly and Cannon got a drink. It all allowed for an open, airy environment. A floor-to-ceiling black wine rack stood at the far end of the restaurant, accentuating the restaurant’s height. Bright red fabric chairs popped, giving the restaurant even more dynamic flair.

  Reilly walked the length of Bistango, focusing on the public and semiprivate dining areas, the kitchen, and the bathrooms. He took a mental picture of the area, a lesson he’d learned in the army. Like everything in the hotel, he could now draw it accurately if he had to.

  Belgium Malinois were well-suited dog breeds for police work, and they made great bomb-sniffing dogs—among the best in the world. They were more reliable than any devices yet developed for detecting and differentiating scents.

  Those in service were rigorously trained and retested weekly to maintain a successful discovery rate. They worked best in thirty-to forty-five-minute shifts with success averages at 75 percent, and up to 90 percent when trained by the US Secret Service. But never 100 percent.

  When a dog detected a scent it had been trained to identify, it would circle the object or area and assume an “alert” posture. However, poor training could lead to lower success percentages. Nervous or impatient handlers could completely throw a dog off. Telegraphing a gesture, an emotion, or a glance would travel right down the leash and lower success rates to 75 or 60 percent, or worse. As a result, dogs could completely miss a threat.

  Natural diversions could also get in the way. If a dog was stressed or excited, it might overreact. Humidity level and air movement could also have a negative effect. If it were too hot, a dog’s nose would dry up, while cold could kill scents.

  Cold in the middle of summer. That was exactly what Andre Miklos was counting on.

  67

  LONDON

  With Cannon on site in Brussels, Reilly decided to jump over to London to meet with his managers at the two London KR hotels. He’d make sure they were in line and be ready to move the properties up to a higher threat status if needed. It would also give him at least a night to put himself in Marnie’s hands.

  PORT ELIZABETH, GRENADINES

  Heath took the ferry across the channel from Kingston to Port Elizabeth. The town was on the island of Bequia. From the port, everything was a short walk; the restaurants and pubs, the B and Bs and the galleries.

  Port Elizabeth’s population by the last count was 10,234. One of the residents was the owner of a small boat charter with a single 40’ 3”-cabin Bavaria sailboat. Typically it sailed around the Grenadines to St. Lucia, Barbados, and Grenada. The owner was
one of a crew of six.

  Joe Lenczycki checked his email regularly. That’s how customers usually contacted him. He also did background and credit checks of everyone. That was his training. He was ex-CIA, out of the trade for nineteen years.

  For a few years, he’d belonged to CIRA, the Central Intelligence Retirees Association. But eventually Lenczycki dropped out. He cashed in his retirement, said goodbye to his friends, and quietly unplugged until he needed the internet for his business. That’s how the agency found him.

  Bob Heath sauntered up to a dockside office in front of a boat slip. Over the front door was a hand-painted but stylistic sign that read “Skip’s Carib Cruises.” Simple. No frills, Heath thought. Straight and to the point. Like everything he had read in his file.

  Lenczycki’s file covered twenty-seven years with the agency—from a recruit out of George Washington University with a poli-sci degree, to the CIA’s rigorous training course in rural Virginia dubbed “The Farm,” to his still classified field assignments

  Joe Lenczycki was a standout, a personal discovery of CIA Director Richard M. Helms. He earned even more praise through the ’70s and ’80s from successive agency heads William E. Colby, George H. W. Bush, William Casey, and William Hedgcock Webster. Casey posted him to Russia, and Webster later assigned him to Germany in advance of President Reagan’s visit. He was there when the Wall fell. For his last nine years, he supposedly sat at his Langley desk. Supposedly. Rumor had it that times he disappeared coincided with some significant breaking news:

  Crisis in Mindanao, Philippines, 1990

  Ten-Day War in Yugoslavia/Slovenia, 1991

  Georgian Civil War, 1992

  NATO’s Operation Deliberate Force in the Bosnian War, 1995

  Sierra Leone Civil War, 1996

  Afghanistan, 1997

  Joe Lenczycki was the real deal. As far as Heath could tell, his life was full of didn’ts. He didn’t turn down tough assignments. He didn’t talk about them with colleagues while he worked for the Company. He didn’t spill the beans in a book after he left. He also didn’t marry, he didn’t take anyone up on the lucrative consulting offers at retirement, and he didn’t tell anyone he moved away.