RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  “If this were but one example of harassment, we could excuse it as simply an ill-begotten test. Unacceptable on every level, but a test. But NATO’s practices are no test. And Latvia’s government has banned several Russian state-run television channels, further depriving ethnic Russians of free and unfettered access to information.

  “Those are merely a few of many foreboding signs. There are more. Latvia has spent more than 150 million euros on 125 combat vehicles. It’s their largest procurement contract ever. The largest ever!” he repeated. “And with their NATO henchmen, they venture ever closer to our homeland. Time and again they fly their planes to test our defenses and our resolve. This is another test they will fail.”

  The president had barely revved up when he launched into a litany of other offenses.

  “NATO troops, including a contingent of six hundred Americans, are rotating through Baltic nations, Poland, Romania, and Ukraine. Recently NATO leaders in Brussels approved rapid deployment forces that could be in Eastern Europe within hours. In preparation, a freight train of American armored vehicles was tracked leaving Dalbe Station in Latvia, heading toward our Western border.

  “We have seen other trains transporting at least thirty-eight vehicles including semitrailers loaded with tanks, personnel carriers, petrol tankers, Humvees, and medical vehicles. Weaponry, ammunition, hi-tech equipment, and medical support? Medical support? Who carries medical support unless they believe there will be the need to treat wounded? I’ll tell you who. NATO. The nations of the European Union and the United States of America scheme with their allies to push, prod, and pressure the Russian Federation and loyal ethnic Russians who live beyond the sphere of the Kremlin’s protection in countries that share our border.

  “These actions are in violation of the 1997 Russia–NATO agreement which expressly forbids NATO nations from having troops permanently stationed in the Baltic states. Let me be perfectly clear. America and its allies may call this an exercise. It is not. I will call it what it is. Subterfuge. Deceit. Lies. Moving troops from one country to another is a NATO shell game. We people of the Russian Federation will not be taken as fools. We know what you are doing, and it is unacceptable. You conduct live-fire exercises in earshot of Russia nationals. You build permanent barracks where tents had stood. You play chicken with our Russian aircrafts.

  “What would the American president do if one thousand Russian troops equipped with seven hundred military vehicles, armed assault helicopters, fully loaded tanks, and missile defense arrays parked twenty-five kilometers from New York?”

  Next, an unspecific, rhetorical admonition.

  “Today, anti-Russian gangsters, supported and directed by the West and its NATO henchmen, have launched attacks against Russian nationals conducting business in Kiev, in Riga, and in Bucharest. They have also campaigned against and attacked pro-Russian nationals exerting the right to speak and protest. All of this will have far-reaching and unfortunate consequences. That’s a promise.

  “A warning to the United States. You are threatening ethnic Russians. You are threatening the Russian Federation. And you are threatening me! In doing so, you and your Western alliance are venturing perilously close to war.

  “Take heed. I know your intent. Now know mine. By my word, we will defend ethnic Russians wherever they live. By my word and promise, we will protect Russian ethnic minorities who are discriminated against. By my word, promise, and deed, we will repel any threat to our borders.”

  Gorshkov continued his tirade for another twenty minutes. He finished abruptly, pivoted 180 degrees on the balls of his feet in a perfectly executed and deliberately commanding military about-face, and paraded away. The camera followed him for all the time it took for his long walk back down the Great Hall.

  80

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  The observer across the street tracked Reilly’s return to the hotel through the telephoto lens on his Nikon.

  He watched him pull a single suitcase and stop to talk to the doorman and the lone security officer posted at the entrance. Reilly appeared to check the enhanced security measures and the new warning signs at the barriers. The hotel executive took a moment for another conversation with the officer, who pointed inside where couches and chairs had been moved further from the glass.

  The observer figured time was growing short. Reilly was back.

  Security had also improved enough for Schorel to be alerted that Reilly was on-site. The general manager greeted him at the front desk with his key cards.

  A handshake and a hug later, Schorel asked if Reilly wanted to wait to talk until KR security chief Alan Cannon arrived.

  “No. He’ll be in late. But we can begin.”

  “Certainly,” Schorel said pleasantly.

  “You’ve got everything?”

  “Yes.”

  The IT department had a second computer up and running in the general manager’s office. Boyce’s hyper-focused search produced upcoming bookings from the Baltic nations, Latvia in particular.

  “Here’s one,” Schorel said. “Out of Riga.” The general manager’s initial excitement evaporated when he saw that it was a school group. The same thing happened when he found another that was only booked as a stopover on the way to a South African game reserve.

  Reilly met similar dead ends. A culinary tour, a senior citizens club, a doctor’s group from Liberia that had been mislabeled as Latvian, and a tourist group of twenty-six from St. Petersburg. Then he found sixteen rooms blocked all week and labeled with a VIP code. No names were attached, but the number looked familiar. VIP495.

  “Who does this belong to?” Reilly asked.

  “Oh, it’s my code. We get members of the diplomatic corps all the time. 495 stand for—”

  “Russia’s telephone code,” Reilly interrupted.

  “Yes. Right. I code American diplomats similarly. 011. Easy to remember.”

  “So who are they?” Reilly looked at the spreadsheet again.

  “We don’t always get the precise names. Mostly mid-level people. They’re often in and out for meetings or checking out who’s doing what at NATO conferences. They drink us dry in the restaurant.”

  “Can you get names?”

  “Some, not all.”

  Sixteen rooms, Reilly thought. Enough to count.

  After three hours on the computer, Reilly was ready for his room, a quick shower, and a shave. Refreshed, he changed into a light summer sports jacket, blue slacks, and a light blue pullover shirt. Back in the lobby he surveyed the surroundings again.

  He admired the architectural touches, the detail, and the style. Maybe, he thought, maybe we should close down. Remove the option. But he was certain that would only delay the inevitable.

  The one thing he did know, security definitely was more visible. Staff had walkie-talkies. Some recognized him and nodded. Those who didn’t, heard through their earpieces that a bigwig was on the floor.

  One message was getting through, “If you see something, say something.”

  Reilly slowly scanned the whole expanse, noting the line of potted plants, which created artful space between the windows and the seating area. While the plants themselves wouldn’t contain any explosion, the barrier kept people away from the windows.

  He also checked the windows to see how the new blast inhibiting Zetix looked from the inside looking out. He could see the difference, but he wasn’t sure the typical guest would. The British installer had done a good job.

  Most importantly, outside the bollard tops were painted red, the best signal to potential terrorists that the hotel was a harder target. However, bombs placed inside still presented the greatest threat.

  To that point, Reilly was surprised only one bomb-sniffing dog and handler walked the property. He’d change that. In addition to the dog at the front of the house there should be another inside, and a third at the loading dock off the back alley.

  Reilly looked across the lobby. He saw another vulnerable spot. Bistango had its own stree
t entrance. And once anyone was inside the restaurant, they could walk right into the hotel. The problem was compounded by the fact that no dog and officer covered the exterior restaurant door.

  Reilly walked through the lobby toward Bistango, but automatically turned to make a detour into the florist shop to say hello to Madame Ketz.

  The bell on the door rang. Ketz’s assistant was busy arranging flowers at a work table.

  “Pardon,” Reilly said in French. “Où est Madame Ketz?”

  Frederik stepped forward. Recognizing the questioner, he answered in English.

  “Ah, Madame has taken some deserved time off to see her daughter in …” he paused, “I believe she said Bruges. May I help you?”

  “Thank you, no. Wonderful to hear. Do you expect her back soon?”

  “Perhaps in two weeks. It’s her holiday.”

  “Well then, I’ll probably miss her. Give her my best when she returns.”

  “Of course, Mr. Reilly,” Frederik politely responded.

  Reilly did a quick double take, somewhat surprised that the assistant knew his name.

  “Thank you. And you are?”

  “Frederik. Madame Ketz’s assistant.” Realizing his faux pas he added, “Madame always insisted I learn names.”

  Reilly laughed. “That’s her for certain.”

  He scanned the florist shop, noticing the large tree crowded into the cooler.

  Frederik followed his eyes. “Ah, your boutonniere. Allow me.”

  “That’s okay. I’m fine. Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Reilly left the florist shop and turned left toward the restaurant. He passed through the arch that separated the hotel from Bistango. A short line of patrons preceded him. Once they were seated the maître d’ offered, “May I help you?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, yes. I’d love to have dinner in a while, but first a little walk around.” Reilly produced a business card and his business was instantly understood.

  “Ah, yes. Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Reilly.”

  Reilly walked through the restaurant, into the kitchen, and finally the restrooms. Bistango had an open floor plan except for the private dining room at the back of the house, adjacent to the kitchen.

  Finished with his cursory inspection, he returned to the host, who led him to a table. He ordered an old-fashioned with bourbon and studied the people in the room. As he nursed his drink he made up biographies for the patrons. It was a time-honored intelligence practice, but also the tool of writers, artists, and actors. What’s your story? he rhetorically and silently asked the people he observed.

  There was a young American couple on vacation, likely from New York. American because of the shopping bags she had and the classic Brooklyn T-shirt he wore. An easy giveaway.

  In the corner were two well-dressed French lawyers being treated to lunch by an older man, possibly a Brussels art dealer. This might even be the meal to seal a deal for their law office art collection, Reilly surmised.

  Across the restaurant at a window, a single businesswoman, perhaps in advertising, was waiting for her companion, who was late. Would it be a man or a woman? Reilly thought a girlfriend and they’d trade office war stories.

  A waiter interrupted his exercise. Reilly quickly considered the menu and chose the beef carpaccio with truffles and aged Parmesan cheese to start, and snails with garlic butter as his main course.

  He returned to his survey and watched as the advertising woman was indeed met by a girlfriend, the lawyers were in fact looking at art on the dealer’s iPad, and the Brooklyn accent was impossible to miss when the New York couple walked by his table.

  Reilly looked beyond the near patrons to get a better picture of the entire restaurant. Bistango was bright and exciting, in sharp contrast with the hotel decor. He focused on the modern art on the walls that the art dealer had noticed and a new sculpture that could have been influenced by the work of famed Belgium artist Pol Bury. Surreal spiral works and spheres and triangles on pedestals set off quadrants within Bistango. They were distinctive and modern, and added to the open ambiance without blocking any lines of sight. Some reflected the room back into itself, others caught, bent, and filtered the light. Perfect designs, perfectly placed, he thought. Even the back private dining room, visible through a glass wall, still had an air of privacy with magnificent cement tree sculptures adorned with bronze leaves that rose five feet and gave the restaurant the feel of the outside coming in. Relaxing, was the word that came to mind.

  Reilly did relax through his early dinner. He watched people come and go. Tourists, locals, families, and if his assessments were correct, representative of multiple foreign services. Then a troubling thought occurred to him. Something he’d overlooked. Something terribly important.

  He signaled for the check, settled up, and returned to the general manager’s office.

  “Yes, the restaurant’s a completely separate operation,” Schorel explained. “I’m not sure they’ll want to cooperate.”

  “We won’t know until we ask, will we?” Reilly insisted.

  “Right. I’ll set a meeting for tomorrow.”

  “Now,” Reilly insisted.

  “It’s their busy time.”

  He still doesn’t get it. Reilly reasoned. Schorel wasn’t an obstructionist. He was a nice enough man, dedicated, but he just couldn’t recognize the importance, and the danger. A better manager would have.

  The restaurateur was off the property, but Claire d’Isle, his general manager, was in the office beyond the kitchen reviewing reservations.

  Speaking in French, Schorel introduced Reilly, who presented his business card.

  “Thank you,” the 28-year-old beauty said, immediately switching to English. “How may I help?”

  “The hotel is increasing visible security measures,” Reilly replied.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “More an ongoing concern. We’re examining and evaluating everything.”

  Reilly didn’t want to create undue worry, but he needed the young woman to recognize the gravity of the situation.

  “We’ll be posting a bomb-sniffing dog at your entrance,” he added.

  This was even news to Schorel. He stifled his surprise. Claire d’Isle couldn’t.

  “But this could kill our business!”

  “Mademoiselle, rest assured, that’s the last thing I want to do.”

  81

  WASHINGTON, DC

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “Will someone please translate for me? And I don’t mean Russian to English. I have that. Tell me what Gorshkov’s really saying.”

  President Alexander Crowe was dead serious. He tossed the question out to his top foreign intelligence team in the Oval Office. National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball, Central Intelligence Director Gerald Watts, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Jeffrey Jones. Predictably, none of America’s news channels had reported deeply on Gorshkov’s speech, but it still made the lead in the PDB, the president’s daily brief, prepared by the national security advisor.

  This was NSA Pierce Kimball’s cue.

  “He’s a revanchist.”

  “A re-what?” Crowe asked.

  “Revanchist. French.”

  “I said speak English!”

  “From revenge,” Kimball explained. “Someone who believes that great gain comes from a war. It’s an appeal to ethnic nationalism both within and outside a nation’s borders. A justification to gain support through patriotism and to regain land once held. It goes back to the period following the Franco-Prussian War when Prussian nationalists wanted to reclaim the lost Alsace-Lorraine territory and avenge the French defeat.”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” General Jones bellowed.

  “Crimea,” CIA Director Watts replied. “Georgia. Damned straight he would.”

  “Remember the threat. The Kremlin claims it could take any neighboring capital in under a week,” Kimball added. “But, on t
he surface, his speech doesn’t have anything new. Sure it was loaded with bellicose threats, but no specific deadlines, no specific warnings—‘if you do this, we’ll do that,’ no ultimatum. What he didn’t say and what we know, is that he’s the one testing the borders. Testing them with his warplanes over the Baltic borders. Royal Air Force jets have scrambled to turn back Russian fighters that speed across Europe to the English Channel. Hell, this year alone 250 Russian planes have been intercepted by NATO aircraft. And as you well know, Gorshkov’s subs are probing our own borders. Want some perspective, Mr. President?”

  “I have the feeling I’m going to hear it.”

  “It’s the highest number of interceptions since the end of the Cold War. We’re responding to his Western Military District’s buildup, which he’s been increasing every year for the past four years. Of course, he doesn’t explain that on TV. Nor does he admit that they’ve deployed more than 1,500 pieces of new and upgraded military hardware since last winter. Equipment and manpower, which by agreement can stay put while we have to move our troops from country to country.”

  General Jones picked up the argument. “Gorshkov has ordered 4,000 military drills in the last 12 months compared to our 275. And yet he lies to his own people.”

  “Back to my question.”

  “I’ll take it,” CIA Director Gerald Watts said. “We believe he’s either looking for us to provoke him or he’s actively working on creating a provocation himself.”

  “To … ?”

  “To storm in.” He paused.

  “Where?” the president asked.

  “Actually, we have our suspicions,” Director Watts said. “Gorshkov speaks about it, too. Latvia, for one.”

  “I’ve heard this before, for years,” the president complained.

  “Only now we rate the threat higher, Mr. President,” the CIA chief added.

  Gerald Watts went into an explanation. “No names, sir, but I have an asset who doubles as an international businessman. He concurs. Our man has growing worries that, quite frankly, we didn’t value highly until recently. Now, we’re considering it credible.”