RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  “Then where’s the problem?” Heath asked.

  “Not where. Who. Gorshkov. He wants more. Actually, everything. A stable transit corridor through Latvia to the ports. New missile installations and the ambitious expansion of Oilvolgo, a massive Russian oil company that could swallow up the lion’s share of service stations in Latvia.

  “And underscoring those commercial benefits, there’s the political issue. The treatment of the Russian-speaking nationals in Latvia. The numbers are down from 500,000 to 200,000 since the end of the Soviet era, but 200,000 disenfranchised, nonvoting, second-class citizens gives Gorshkov some moral high ground in a human rights debate. And when more outspoken Russian-Latvian separatists are arrested—or worse murdered, which happened to one oil magnate very recently—and when Moscow views NATO acting with more bluster, Gorshkov gets ever closer to pulling the trigger with that poison bullet in the barrel.”

  “Acting in defense of a beleaguered population.”

  “Exactly. There are two other components that are critical,” Policano continued. “One, Russia’s Federal Security Services has been recruiting Baltic politicians, members of the business community, Latvia’s press, and expats to ascend from the inside. Considering where Gorshkov came from, it’s a brilliant strategy. Put sleepers in place and provide the wake up bell they can’t miss. Some are awake right now. We know that a number who are negotiators for Russian oil companies were, quote, unquote, ‘former agents’ who made little effort to hide past affiliations. They routinely ensure the success of big deals in ways that make their business problems and the people who caused them to go away. You don’t need a photograph to picture how. These blatant practices reached legendary heights when an ex-KGB officer was brought in as Russia’s ambassador to halt the sale of one Baltic oil company to a Western firm in favor of Oilvolgo ownership. As the Russian oil industry grew, profits were siphoned off to the Kremlin, which used the capital to advance its foreign policy ambitions.

  “Now, Russia is working on a pipeline that will connect the South China Sea to the Baltic Sea. Gorshkov wants to replace the oil from unstable producer countries such as Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, Nigeria, and Venezuela. He’s smartly creating a hedge against ever-increasing US energy domination. At the same time, EU policies are working to increase rather than decrease dependency on Russian oil.”

  “And the second component?”

  “Yes, the most important. The Kremlin houses its Baltic fleet at Kaliningrad, Russia. Besides being a nuclear base, it’s free of ice and perfect to launch from year-round. From there, Gorshkov can project power north toward Latvia, but also to Poland and Germany.

  “Shit,” Heath fumed. “And this all means?”

  “You’re asking what poker move Gorshkov will make?” Policano replied.

  “Yes,” Heath said fully engaged. “Fold, bluff, or double down?”

  “In my estimation, one not presently shared by the White House, Gorshkov will not fold. So take that off the table. He’s an expert bluffer, or better yet, liar. But that only delays what I consider the inevitable.”

  “He’ll double down,” Heath whispered.

  REILLY’S OFFICE

  Reilly began to conclude that the inevitable was a strike against Latvia. He reasoned that NATO and the United States might bark a little, but in the end, the West would look the other way.

  It all came to him. “Crimea two,” he whispered. “A second Ukraine.”

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  “Gorshkov’s reckless, but that reckless?” Heath asked.

  Policano thought for a moment. “Reckless? I wouldn’t say reckless. More brazen. An attitude fueled by the Russian people. They’re behind him. They might hate the embargo, the fact that their economy has been tanking, and that their local politics are corrupt. They might hate all of those things. But they love their leader. Like his predecessor, he’s provided discipline and order. He exudes confidence and has reestablished Russia’s geographic dominance. So far we’ve done nothing to dissuade them or discourage him. And disenfranchised populations in the Baltic provide Moscow a bully pulpit from which it can preach the gospel according to Nikolai Gorshkov.”

  REILLY’S OFFICE

  Now Reilly wondered why the Baltic states, and Latvia in particular, hadn’t asked for more NATO protection. Again, the answer was in the global assessments and talk on the street. It was unlikely that Western allies would have the stomach for a shooting war over the Baltic.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  “And another point not widely discussed,” Policano explained. “We have fewer US forces in Europe than there are policemen in New York.”

  “Christ Almighty!” Heath exclaimed.

  “So years after the Cold War when we thought we’d all be safe, Russia actually holds regional conventional superiority over NATO. From my perspective, Russia’s land, sea, and air capabilities would wreak havoc on NATO should we mount a defense of the Baltic states.”

  “But we’ve got ground forces all through the region.”

  “Yes,” Policano acknowledged. “And we’ve conducted multiple tabletop war simulations with analysts that envision a surprise Russian ground invasion of Latvia. All of the sims end with the elimination of NATO resistance at the gates of Riga within 36–60 hours from the start of the assault.”

  “Then we should up our presence,” Heath argued. “Move troops further east. Raise noise about Russian long-range bomber flyovers in Canadian airspace and submarines testing our own territorial integrity, and we should make more of the nuclear arms in Kaliningrad.”

  “Assuming that NATO has a week to consider that an invasion is imminent, we’d deploy up to twelve battalions to the Baltic states, including the 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team based in Vicenza, Italy. Also available are some eighteen NATO fighter and bomber squadrons.”

  “Good.” Heath felt he had cracked the code.

  “Not good enough. Russia would counter with twenty-two battalions including four or more tank divisions, ready firepower from its Western Military District, and twenty-seven air squadrons to our eighteen. Russia would have air superiority.

  “Our consultants at RAND and other agencies estimated that the NATO M1 Abrams tanks and thirty M2 Bradley fighting vehicles in Grafenwöhr, Germany, would take ten days to deploy. Too late. Our ground troops would be overrun and unable to retreat. The dirty little secret is that geography favors Russia in all the scenarios. And if we act in accord with Article 5, we do so at the peril of plunging ourselves into a nuclear war. What was it that astrophysicist Carl Sagan said?”

  “I don’t know,” Heath replied.

  “‘Imagine a room awash in gasoline, and there are two implacable enemies in that room. One of them has 9,000 matches. The other has 7,000 matches.’ Insightful because no matter who strikes the match, it’s the end of the world. The lesson is that while Russia can’t challenge us globally, it can do so locally.”

  “So we fold?” Heath’s question hung in the air.

  Policano waited a moment to reply. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “That’s a decision for the White House. And of course, that comes down to who’s in the White House. At this moment, the Joint Chiefs would support engagement. Between us, I don’t think this president would.”

  “So you believe that NATO has no way of successfully repelling a conventional invasion of Latvia by Russia short of nuclear war, which in itself is not an option?” Bob Heath solemnly asked.

  “Successfully, no way.”

  REILLY’S OFFICE

  Dan Reilly closed his eyes imaging the onslaught. Troops crossing the border by the thousands, parachuting from transports. Submarines blockading the ports. Then the decision point. To fight Russia or not?

  Not, he concluded.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  “Inevitable?” Heath dared.

  REILLY’S OFFICE

  More than probable, Reilly thought.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  “And from there?” Heath ev
en feared asking the question.

  “The successful reannexation of Latvia would undermine the Baltic people’s faith in the EU and NATO,” Policano predicted. “The pro-Russian factions linked to Moscow, largely identified as the Harmony Party, are already gaining seats in the local, regional, and national elections, even with so many pro-Russians unable to vote.”

  “How?”

  “Thanks to already nationalized Russians who can vote. All they need to do is scream for help.”

  “From Gorshkov.”

  “Yes. Or he acts on his own. Russia crosses the border on whatever pretext it chooses and sweeps in to liberate the country. It wouldn’t be a return to Communism, but we’d see a new economic association of nations that begins with an invasion and ends with Russian domination.”

  Heath repeated his question. “You see this as inevitable?”

  “Yes, and imminent.”

  REILLY’S OFFICE

  Dan Reilly had experienced war as a serviceman in Afghanistan and during his term with the State Department. He was also in the line of fire as a Kensington Royal executive; in Egypt at the end of Hosni Mubarak’s regime and in Libya for Muammar Gaddafi’s last days.

  Now he foresaw the fall of a Western ally and feared that he was inextricably linked to it. He needed more than knowledge. He needed a weapon. And he needed his colleague Alan Cannon back in Brussels.

  78

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  The late evening knock on her door surprised Madame Ketz. It was late for a visitor and the foyer doorbell hadn’t rung. Must be another tenant.

  “Coming. Coming. Who is it?”

  No one responded.

  She looked through a peephole in her heavily bolted door and saw Frederik standing a few feet back. He held up a canvas market bag with French bread and a bottle of wine sticking out.

  “Oh dear, it’s much too late,” she said, loud enough for him to hear.

  He knocked again and smiled.

  “Oh please, Madame Ketz. I was in the neighborhood and thought—”

  “All right. But give me a moment to put myself together.”

  A moment turned into five minutes. But, true to her word, Ketz, who had been in a bathrobe, returned dressed and made-up nicely. She unlocked the door and welcomed Frederik in, only half scolding him.

  “Do you have any idea of the hour?”

  Of course he did. Nearly 10:00 p.m.

  “I simply wanted to show my gratitude and apologize for the way I acted the other day.”

  “Well then, I accept. And not to be impolite myself, it really is too late for me to be seen entertaining a gentlemen.” The queen of the Kensington Diplomat wasn’t just referring to the hour. She joked, “Neighbors will talk.”

  He began removing items from the tote.

  “Allow me one drink with you, Madame Ketz. Then I’ll say goodbye.”

  Goodbye, not goodnight? The word struck her as wrong.

  She studied the young man. He hummed a tune and cheerily laid out the contents.

  “Here, I’ll do that.”

  She plated the cheese, bread, pâté and knife while Frederik leisurely walked around her flat. He ran his hand along the floral wallpaper just above the wainscoting. He examined his fingers. Not a speck of dust. He admired the handmade quilt spread across an elegant 1920s canapé, and resting in the corner, a sunflower embroidered pillow, soft from years of use.

  He continued to tour the flat, living room, kitchen, and dining area all in one. He adjusted a few crooked picture frames. By the looks of them, they were family photos through the years. A few of Ketz, most capturing happy moments as a wife and mother. On the bureau, more photographs with Ketz and a girl Frederik presumed to be her daughter. The oldest appeared to be when Ketz was in her mid-sixties and the young woman around twenty-five, some twenty or twenty-five years earlier.

  “Your daughter?” he asked.

  “Yes, Adele,” she answered quietly.

  There were loving letters and postcards from Adele, a photograph of her in front of a house. On the back, a handwritten date, location, and the words, “La douceur du foyer.” Home sweet home.

  “A beautiful cottage. Her home?”

  “Yes.”

  Frederik continued to hum as he took in other mementos. He examined a baby’s handprint in clay, various miniature busts of classical composers given to children for piano recitals, and an open box of letters and post cards. All the things he’d expect to see in an old lady’s home.

  “Well, I think we’re ready. But you must be gone in a few minutes.”

  “I promise I will, Madame Ketz.” It was not a warm reply.

  She studied his eyes as she would a patron at her shop. She recognized a heartless look that she’d seen years before as a child. In the eyes of Nazis who marched through Belgium. She’d seen it again and again when Soviet officials stayed at the hotel. It was the look of …

  Frederik uncorked the bottle.

  “Certain to put you to sleep.”

  An even colder comment.

  Madame Ketz put the plate and knife down on the coffee table and instinctively backed away.

  “I alarmed you.”

  Ketz took another step away. She was now aware that he was wearing thin leather gloves. It also occurred to her that he had gotten into her building without ringing the bell.

  “Frederik,” she said nervously, “I shouldn’t have invited you in. I’m very tired.”

  She took a wide berth around him toward the door. But he grabbed her wrist.

  “Madame Ketz. One glass.” His grip tightened as he dragged her to the table. “You must.”

  “Frederik, please! No!”

  “Sit!”

  “No, no!”

  He forced the old woman into a chair. Holding her shoulders down, he felt thin bones that he could easily crack. But that wouldn’t be the way. With his free gloved hand he poured the wine.

  “A sip.” Frederik smiled coldly. The smile of the Russian thugs, she thought. The cruelty of the Nazis.

  Ketz tried to squirm free. She spied her kitchen knife on the platter. Almost within reach. If only …

  “You won’t let me drink alone,” she said, hoping to give herself time to think.

  “Oh, I can’t. I have my work—”

  “Here, madame.” He handed Ketz the glass.

  “A toast in your honor,” Frederik said. “To a full life well-lived.”

  She brought the wine to her lips and stopped.

  “But you must,” he said.

  Frederik then forced Ketz to swallow.

  It was a good wine, she oddly thought. Perhaps too much tannin to her taste, but—

  “There,” he added. “Wasn’t that good?”

  She sat transfixed, expecting to quickly die. Frederik assumed the same. He loosened his grip slightly. In that instant, mustering strength and courage, Madame Ketz threw the wine glass in his face. He instinctively released her to wipe his eyes, then stepped on the shattered glass. Again an automatic response. He looked down. That gave her a moment to lunge for the knife.

  It was a futile attempt. An old woman against an assassin. Feet for her to cover. Inches for him. He seized Ketz, slammed her back into the chair, and slapped her hard across the face.

  “Enough!”

  Impatient and furious, he reached for the embroidered pillow and pressed it hard over her mouth and nose.

  Through the struggling, Frederik thought he heard the muffled cries of “Adele, Adele.” An old woman calling out to her daughter in France. Then, nothing.

  79

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  Gorshkov had his speech on a teleprompter. But if the operator suddenly suffered a heart attack and died, the president wouldn’t have missed a beat. This was his own handcrafted speech, precise, pointed, and political. It had three intended audiences with unmistakable messages for each.

  He would whip up Russians with patriotic platitudes. Latvians would be reminded that the
y lived in a dangerous, bifurcated nation split between pro and anti-Moscow loyalties. And finally, NATO would hear a warning. He didn’t care about the United States. He was certain his remarks would largely go unreported.

  The speech was broadcast live from the Great Hall in the Kremlin. This gave the president his dramatic long walk to the camera. The longer the walk, the more the urgency to his pronouncement. This time he’d take nearly ninety seconds after the news anchor’s introduction.

  Finally at the podium, he spoke.

  “My friends. My compatriots. My fellow Russians, I come to you tonight with a heavy heart.”

  He didn’t smile. Smiling was for pretenders and politicians. Gorshkov cast himself as a leader or an emperor. His philosophy: Let those who follow smile.

  “Our borders continue to be tested by NATO forces. Our sovereignty is threatened by imperialists that seek to limit us. Our character is meant to submit to the will of nations. Our economy is seen as theirs to exploit. Our will is what they would like to break. This, we will not … I will not allow.”

  He gave I more emphasis than we.

  “Just days ago, NATO command ran exercises with live ammunition a mere 300 meters from the Russian border in the Latgale region of Latvia, frightening our brothers and sisters, loyal ethnic Russians living under the yoke of tyranny as a belittled second class, devoid of basic freedoms. They’re representative of hundreds of thousands of other embittered Russian cousins who have turned to us for help.