RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  Lenczycki did get well out of the business. He returned to his favorite pastime growing up in Marblehead, Massachusetts. He bought a boat, sailed away, and became Skip Lenczycki.

  Now in his late sixties, he was permanently moored in Port Elizabeth, and according to the limited information Heath could gather from his website, he had a girlfriend who helped him book guest cruises.

  Heath opened the door to the cruise office. It was hardly an office, more of a small room with a desk, a phone, and a computer.

  A sun-loving blonde in a loose-fitting floral muumuu sitting behind the desk smiled at Heath. “Hello there. Looks like you’re ready to shed those duds.”

  Heath was dressed in tan slacks and a blue shirt. He carried a sports jacket on his arm.

  “I wish,” Heath said. He introduced himself. “I’m Bob.”

  “I’m Layla.”

  “Like the song?”

  She smiled. “Yep, my parents were Clapton fans.”

  “Great song. You wear the name well.”

  By this time a man with a grey beard that hid years of hard living had spun 180 in his computer chair. He quickly sized up the visitor.

  “I’ll take it, Layla.”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “You didn’t come here to rent my boat.”

  The comment was cold and not welcoming.

  “No I didn’t, Mr. Lenczycki.”

  “Boy, don’t you guys ever dress casually?”

  “Did you?”

  “I tried to blend in with the natives. Care to tell me who you are and why you tracked me down?”

  “I’m Bob Heath.” He produced his agency business card. “Can we talk elsewhere?”

  “Heath. Heath? A newbie?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Well, you’re getting there,” Lenczycki said. “Truth be told, I’m not interested.”

  Layla was pretending not to pay attention.

  “A few minutes. I need your help.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Please,” Heath said.

  Lenczycki looked at Layla. She shrugged.

  “Let’s take a walk,” the sailor said. “And for Christ’s sake, leave your jacket here and roll up your sleeves. At least try not to look like a goddamned stockbroker.”

  Heath had been briefed on Lenczycki. He was brash and bold, driven, and fiercely loyal. He also had a mildly sarcastic side that he often led with. The combination had made him one of the most liked agents at the Company. He was authentic then, and maybe more so now as a crusty sailor living the life in the Caribbean breeze.

  Heath started, “Mr. Lenczycki—”

  “No. Wrong. It’s Skip. Nothing more. Nothing less. You’re not at the fucking campus so chill a little. Take in the fresh air.”

  “I wish I could. But I’m not sure if time is on our side.”

  “Your side,” Lenczycki replied. “I’ve heard that too many times before, so you can cut the crap. I’m retired. I moved down here to get away from the rest of the world. The last war here was in 1783, and it ended sixteen years later. The British and the French had their time owning and exploiting the Grenadines. In 1979 it finally got its independence. Sort of. Saint Vincent and the Grenadines remain part of the crown with the British monarch, the mother hen. That’s the extent of my politics today. You’re welcome to the rest of the fucked-up world. I’m happy. So whatever you’re peddling, I’m not buying.”

  “I suppose you won’t know until I get to it.”

  “Man,” Lenczycki sighed, “I used to be like you. I took it all so seriously. And you know what? Things are worse now. But not to make this a total loss for you, I’ll treat you to a St. Vincent Sunset Golden Rum.” The ex-agent stopped to consider Heath, head to toe. “You look like you could use the Very Strong Rum. That’s what it’s called.” He laughed. “And for good reason.”

  After a ten-minute walk filled with only small talk, they ended up at Basil’s Beach Bar on Bay Street, a rustic joint that thrust out into the Caribbean.

  St. Vincent Very Strong Rum was everything Lenczycki promised. They also ordered a delicious West Indian curry chicken and potato roti wrap. Heath returned to his agenda midway through their second drink.

  “Skip, I need your help.”

  “Sure you do. The answer is no.”

  Heath lowered his voice. “Question for you. You automatically took the seat facing out.”

  “So?”

  “So you could see everyone who came through that door.” Heath nodded to the entrance. “Your eyes darted on our whole walk. You ushered me out of your office and away from Layla. You’re thinking that whatever I have to ask you might be sensitive enough for someone to discourage you from answering.”

  “That kind of discouragement can prove permanent,” Lenczycki said.

  “And a bomb in a hotel? What kind permanent damage could that cause?”

  “I stay away from hotels.”

  “Good for you. Other people don’t,” Heath remarked. “Families, kids, American diplomats.”

  Lenczycki eyes narrowed. “What’s your point, Heath?” he said sternly.

  “A simple one. I show you a few photographs, you tell me if they ring a bell.”

  “And if they do?”

  “You help me out with some memories that come to mind. I listen, pick up the bill, and go away never the worse for the wear.”

  Lenczycki slowly glanced around the room. He recognized some of the patrons, but not all.

  “Tell you what.” He stood. “Different order. Pick up the bill, and we’ll go to my boat. Then we’ll talk.”

  Going to the boat meant sailing, or rather puttering out to sea under power without the crew. Fortunately Lenczycki had an extra pair of sneakers that fit Heath.

  Twenty minutes off shore and beyond the reach of eyes, ears, or scopes, Lenczycki idled the 50hp Volvo diesel engine.

  “This is my baby,” he said. “Born in Germany, adopted by me nine years ago. $198,000. Expensive, but I don’t have to send it college,” he joked.

  He spoke of the boat with real affection, from the teak decks to the solid fiberglass hull with a reinforced Kevlar shield. “Bulletproof,” he added.

  “Never can trust those gunner fish,” Heath joked.

  The sailor continued to boast about his boat, gushing over the three cabins, the salon, the wraparound dinette, the C-shaped galley, and even the head.

  “Not sure it’s on my bucket list when I cash out,” Heath admitted.

  “No, the suit fits you too well. You’re more the consultant-type. Twelve years you said?”

  “Yup. Hope to be out in another thirteen.”

  “That was a long time ago for me and a different world. You can have it,” the former agent said.

  “But it was your world and I need to dig back into it.”

  “Give me the goddamned pictures,” Lenczycki exclaimed, exasperated.

  Heath pulled a set of photos from his pants pocket.

  “Here you go. Fifteen shots. A little crumpled,” he noted.

  Lenczycki quickly went through the first nine. “No.” For each. “Don’t know him. And can’t you guys use real cameras? These shots are terrible.”

  “They’re from an ATM and CCTV cameras.”

  “Hell, an iPhone would do you better.”

  “It would be easier if we knew who he was.”

  “I’m not going to be any help.” He started to hand back the photographs.

  “Keep going. There are only a few more,” Heath implored. “Please.”

  Lenczycki looked at the next photo. Another screen grab from a Kensington Diplomat closed-circuit camera. “No,” he said again, placing it on the bottom of the stack.

  He was ready with another no, but paused. The ex-operative stopped and studied the photograph. It was one of Dr. Veronica Severi’s age-regression outputs. The rendering depicted a younger man in plain clothes. It was enhanced and sharper since it wasn’t real. The man had thicker hair, high che
ekbones, and a thinner face. For this first picture Severi had given him a smile.

  “No,” he finally said.

  The next image was the same, but without the smile. He held this one out at arm’s length.

  “Wait a second.”

  Lenczycki went to his cabin and returned with reading glasses.

  “Better.”

  “Want to start over?”

  “Nah.” He studied the photograph again. “Maybe.” Lenczycki compared it to the shot with the smile. “The smile’s wrong.”

  He went to the next picture, the same face and body, but now photoshopped into a Soviet Army uniform. He discarded that. The last picture had him in a KGB uniform from thirty years ago: grey-brown, 4”x 2” lapels, four stars on shoulder board epaulettes, and a Russian star on each collar patch.

  Lenczycki looked at the image. He went back to the previous photograph.

  “Too many stars. You have him in a lieutenant colonel uniform. He was a lieutenant.”

  Heath sat up straight. “You recognize him.”

  “Yes, from East Germany. First saw him through binoculars, then closer. Yes, I know him. KGB. He did dirty work for his supervisor. Bad shit. Unnecessary stuff at the end. Beatings. Killed some. The last I saw him was in Potsdam. I was an undercover, quote, unquote, ‘observer’ with the Bundesnachrichtendienst, West Germany’s counterpart to the East’s Stasi. The Wall had just fallen and we were tracking the last remnants of the old guard. The problem? The Stasi was still flexing its muscles and the KGB had no love for them. Had we been caught, we would have undoubtedly become two more stars on the CIA lobby memorial wall. Two of the last in East Germany. Dead and honored anonymously.”

  Heath was grateful for the background but one thing was missing from the account.

  “A name?”

  “Miklos. Andre Miklos.” He spelled it. “If he’s still at it, he’s probably better at the job.”

  “He is,” Heath acknowledged. “He’s moved way beyond killing just some. Try mass murder. Bombings. Hotels.”

  Lenczycki appeared puzzled. Then he suddenly dropped the expression.

  “You didn’t ask who his supervisor was back in the day,” he noted.

  Heath had missed that follow-up. “Who?”

  “The man whose uniform you likely lifted from his KGB photograph. A former lieutenant colonel, now president. Nikolai Gorshkov.”

  Heath exhaled. Given where Reilly had spotted him and his subsequent suspicions, it now made absolute sense.

  “I’m in no rush to get back to port,” Lenczycki said. “If you’re not, what do you say we hang here and talk about what those bastards are up to?”

  “On the clock?”

  “Consider it a freebie for old times’ sake. Old times going back to Potsdam, 1989.”

  LONDON

  Reilly had been divorced for a little more than eighteen months. During that time he’d hardly dated. Now, at a critical period, he was becoming involved with someone he knew nothing about. But the attraction was strong and more than just sexual.

  He stroked Marnie’s hair as she nestled up to him. She was beautiful and exciting. Emotionally available and considerate. They understood each other’s work, but turned work off as they turned one another on. But now with his eyes wide open he saw what he had to do. Focus on my job. Then a greater realization. Not job—but jobs!

  Reilly got out of bed and opened his tablet. He had new email: Brenda’s updates on calls and meetings, a matter of fact request from his ex who wanted him to cover the cost of iron bars she had installed on her first-floor windows, and a late night note from Schorel that included an attachment. He clicked on the file. It listed all the relevant upcoming NATO and EU events and the people who were booked at the hotel for each of them.

  This was just part of the puzzle. Spike Boyce’s research would hopefully fill in the rest. In another three hours, he’d make the call.

  “Well,” Spike Boyce began on the phone, “this was one helluva assignment. Something like 35,000 names to cross reference. Do you have any idea what you put me and my guys through? Christ Almighty.”

  “I owe you.”

  “You sure do. You can start by telling some of your old State Department buddies not to put me on any watch list because of the websites I visited for you.”

  “Oh?” Reilly asked.

  “American citizens are relatively easy to check. We do that as a normal course of action when the president or a foreign dignitary stays with us. Sometimes the Secret Service makes the request. Other times it’s Cannon’s call. International travelers are another thing entirely. I’ve learned how to tap into certain identity records and—”

  “You mean you’ve hacked into—”

  “I’ve got my ways, Mr. Reilly.” The next thing Boyce said was fairly revealing. “You’ve got yours.”

  Reilly wondered if Boyce had actually stumbled upon something about him. “Point well taken.”

  “But not everything is so mysterious,” Boyce added. “Interpol’s databases in Lyon, France, for example. We routinely work with them. Some, like the Global Terrorism Database, are open-source research tools. Others require more finessing. Relationships count.” Boyce didn’t need to complete the thought.

  “So what do I need to worry about?” Reilly asked.

  “I’ll email you the file when we’re off the phone. The good news, no individuals on any no-fly lists. No known terrorists. Not a one.”

  This did not surprise Reilly. “And the bad news?”

  “In exact numbers, the 7,554 people we need to research further. Of those, when we filter for the country parameters you gave me, we drop down to 845 subjects during the target dates. Further filtering out tour groups, we’re at 465. Those are the ones we should both examine.”

  Reilly used the next ninety minutes to look over the file Boyce sent. He went back and forth between the names and highlighted those he personally questioned.

  People were coming to Brussels for meetings with the governing boards of NATO and the EU. Some included conferences at the hotel, which he rated five on a scale of one to five. Off-site meetings that could include scheduled sessions at Kensington Diplomat were fours. And finally, uncategorized, possibly random bookings. They were threes or twos. He gave ones and zeros to those that just seemed too random. Then he rethought that decision.

  In light of Kiev, Reilly went with another possibility. He searched for other Romanian individuals and groups. Then an epiphany. What about earlier attacks in or out of hotel sites? The kind that could be viewed as a part of something rather than the something itself.

  From this came other questions. Who died? What did the international press report?

  Most of Reilly’s Google news searches were a waste of time. Except one. The assassination of a Russian government minister, blamed on pro-Russian Polish separatists.

  Random or common factor?

  Dan Reilly searched further using as key words: pro-Russian separatists and anything anti-Gorshkov.

  With each find he drilled down further, finding a good deal of noise about disenfranchised Russians and threats to Russian-speaking citizens in former Soviet Bloc nations. What was most interesting? The consistent use of what he viewed as a coordinated message. The same phrases in the same order attributed to different people. Talking points that had been approved and widely circulated:

  NATO pushes further east

  NATO threatens Russia’s border

  Belarus threatened by NATO troops

  Freedom-loving Russian loyalists singled out in Moldova

  Increased NATO-inspired attacks against pro-Russians supporters in Lithuania

  Moscow fears for Russian expats’ lives in Latvia

  Assassination of Latvian oil magnate Mairis Gaiss linked to anti-Russian plot

  News or propaganda? The quotes were attributed to different people, but they were consistent in tone and content.

  Reilly added another parameter to his search. Ukraine. The quote
s were eerily similar:

  NATO prepares to push further east to Ukraine

  Russian loyalists singled out by Kiev police

  Increased NATO-inspired attacks against pro-Russian supporters in Ukraine

  Moscow fears for Russian expats’ lives in border nations

  Pravda, Izvestia, Russian State Television. Even Western press reports. The quotes were strikingly similar. The rhetoric was most fervent when it came to reporting violations of Russian nationals’ rights. In each case, the equal sign equated to NATO expansionism.

  Reilly sat back in his chair to contemplate the finds. For the first time, he looked at the issue from the inside out, from an internal Russian point of view rather than external.

  Jesus, he thought. Like business. Like managing a hotel crisis in Mazatlán or anywhere else. His own rule. Understand the culture.

  Then it came to him. He felt his heartbeat quicken. His fists tightened. He sucked in a deep breath and held it.

  The answer was in the press reports. Strategic, spaced out over time, laying a foundation. It seemed obvious. The Russian people were being prepared for another Crimea. It was coming, and either Brussels was going to be the catalyst or a significant part of the plan.

  Reilly reviewed the bookings again, this time with a new filter.

  68

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  The meeting was neither on the president’s official calendar nor any of the attendees’. Admittance was limited to four fiercely loyal generals. Loyalty was demanded without question.

  Under Nikolai Gorshkov, top lifetime military service ended one of three ways: honored retirement, swift firing, or unexpected heart failure.

  Constant changes at the top of the military command represented the unmistakable sign that Gorshkov was serious about bringing the Russian military into the modern era. The overhaul not so coincidentally occurred around the time the president announced a new military doctrine that specifically focused on NATO expansion, Russia’s main external threat. It established a joint missile defense pact between Russian and allied nations, specifically aimed at developing a missile shield around Poland.