“Why now?” Crowe asked.
“We’re building on expanding intel that the Russians have a serious, ongoing, long-standing operation. In its purest form, they’re making it look like they’re being targeted by anti-Russian nations in Eastern Europe, when in fact, they could be behind the attacks. These attacks have been designed to give them the justification to sweep in and protect their interests, those loyal to Moscow, and their homeland. We have growing concern that it’s a sham.”
“What kind of attacks?”
“Bombs and assassinations. We’re looking into the Tokyo and Kiev hotel bombings, assassinations in Moscow, Kiev, and Riga. All possibly related.”
“I haven’t seen anything that would link these into a war-worthy response from Moscow.”
“No, Mr. President. You haven’t, but it’s making news in Russia. Gorshkov’s hitting it hard and it’s the underpinning of Gorshkov’s last speech.”
“Tell me more about this double agent.”
“Not a double agent. An individual. A corporate executive we trust. I’d prefer not to get into more detail. Let’s just say he’s very busy these days with both jobs.”
“So if he’s right … if the agency is right, how much time do we have?” the president asked solemnly. “A year? A month? A week?”
“Mr. President, we really don’t know.”
“Well, until you know, we have nothing to work with.”
82
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
The four-man nighttime maintenance crew, three regulars and one substitute, wrapped up their overnight cleaning shift at the hotel by mopping the Bistango floor. As they packed up, the substitute backed into one of the tree sculptures.
“Shit!” he exclaimed as it toppled over.
The impact smashed the piece.
“Jesus Christ. You have any idea how expensive that is?” the crew chief shouted.
“It’s just a fucking fake tree,” the replacement complained
“Probably more than your yearly salary. Clean that up and when you’re finished, find another job!”
The man already had another job. He worked for Andre Miklos.
Reilly awoke uncharacteristically late at 9:00 a.m. But he awoke refreshed for the first time in days. He checked his phone for emails and texts. Alan Cannon sent him an address. Chris Collins forwarded corporate missives. Nothing terribly urgent. And Brenda Sheldon just wished him a safe day. There were also three new texts from Marnie.
He hadn’t called her in days. He realized he had to get over his apprehensions. Too paranoid. And for no valid reason, he thought. He’d call her tonight, maybe make new plans.
That was all. It looked to be a quiet day.
Frederik opened the flower shop for the morning deliveries that would soon be cleared through security. He stepped on a piece of paper that had been slid under the door. It was a handwritten note on hotel stationery: “Problem. Large potted plant needed in Bistango to replace broken statue.”
It had no signature, but Frederik knew the author. It was a problem for which he had the actual solution.
Across the street, the observer pushed aside the curtain of his window. Another day. A rainy day. On a side table: coffee, an almond croissant, binoculars, a notepad, and two other items of his trade—a concealable Glock and an impossible to hide AK47 equipped with a rifle scope and a silencer.
Reilly opened his curtains to greet the day, a gloomy grey Brussels morning with a light drizzle.
Three floors below, a morning passersby carried umbrellas. Bicycles, mopeds, and motorcycles wove around cars, taxis, and trucks. Across the street, the day was beginning as well for residents of the apartments above the first level businesses.
A rainy Tuesday. Just the kind of day Reilly could use to catch up.
Frederik rolled the potted tree on a hand trolley. He could have asked for help, but this was a job he’d do on his own. Getting it through the door between the Kensington Royal lobby and Bistango presented a real problem, however. The tree stood too high to easily pass through the entrance. He had to tilt the dolly down to a 70 degree angle, which caused some of the dirt to spill.
“Looks like you need some help,” came a voice.
Damn. One of the hired security. “I’ll be fine,” Frederik replied.
Frederik wouldn’t have been concerned if it had been one of the regular hotel staff, but the mercenary was far more savvy—and observant.
“Sure?” Klugo’s man asked.
Frederik glanced back. He’d dumped even more dirt on the marble floors since being interrupted. That’s when he noticed a loose wire sticking out of the dirt around the base of the tree. He quickly sidestepped and positioned his body to block the guard’s view.
“Truly, I’m fine. And I’ll sweep up after,” he replied calmly, adding a friendly thank-you.
The security officer left. Frederik waited a moment, then nonchalantly knelt to work on the wire. Once finished to his satisfaction, he pushed the pot through the doorway and rolled it toward the back of Bistango’s main room.
By mid-morning Reilly was hungry, but before leaving the hotel, he did what was now part of his normal routine. He scanned the surroundings. Through the front door he saw the single bomb-sniffing dog and handler. Two more teams had been ordered, but it would take another day before they would be on guard. Inside, everything appeared normal. People checking out, families getting ready to tour the city. Nothing suspicious.
Reilly walked past the florist shop. It was open, but empty. He peered inside. The cooler door was ajar and some potting soil was on the floor.
Messy, he thought. Surely Madame Ketz wouldn’t stand for this.
Reilly closed the cooler door himself. Worth mentioning to Schorel? He went to the front desk.
“Sorry, Mr. Reilly,” explained the young receptionist. “Mr. Schorel is in a regular morning staff meeting. May I help you?”
“No. I’ll catch up with him later.”
“What are you doing?” Claire d’Isle demanded of the florist. He was placing the tree precisely where the statuary had stood and was now repacking the dirt in the pot.
“I’m sorry. I had a note to bring this in.” This response immediately gave him power over the restaurant’s general manager.
“No one told me,” she said. “From who?”
“The hotel. The overnight crew broke one of your tall statues. This will cover the area temporarily. Madame Ketz always had a tree on hand in case.”
The general manager frowned.
Frederik anticipated her concern. “This was all worked out with the owner.”
“I’ve never heard of such an arrangement.”
“Oh yes. Madame Ketz was quite specific. A long-standing practice.”
Claire d’Isle considered phoning the owner, who was vacationing in Cannes. Then thought, Why bother.
“Just clean up properly. This room must be spotless.” She looked at the tree, which clearly didn’t belong. “And turn the damn thing around so the fuller branches face out. Don’t you know anything?”
Frederik smiled. Actually he had a learned a little about the florist trade.
“Of course, Mademoiselle. To your liking.”
After she turned on her heel and walked away Frederik repositioned the pot and rechecked the wire, which was now tightly woven around the base of the tree.
From his perch opposite the hotel, the observer focused on Reilly leaving. He didn’t appear to be in any rush. The man panned his binoculars back to the hotel entrance. A few minutes later he saw the florist leave. He followed him as he crossed the street and settled under an umbrella at an outside bistro table.
Reilly walked to Au Pays des Merveilles, or ADPM to the locals. The restaurant was known for the best bagels in Belgium. He took a window seat and ordered the house combination: cheddar, scrambled eggs, water-cress, and grilled onions on a multigrain bagel. He had selected ADPM on Avenue Jean Volders because it was close to the next stop he needed to mak
e, a cigar shop on Rue du Fort. That was the address Alan Cannon had texted based on the request he made in DC. With the proper introduction, which he had, he could pick up a Kel-Tec P-3AT pistol.
There was only one problem when he got there. The store, a front for illegal gun sales, was closed for another two hours.
Damn, he thought. Another day.
Reilly bought a small umbrella from a street vender for the walk back. He picked up his pace, eager to talk with Schorel and avoid the rain. He arrived just as the hotel was feeling the checkout crunch and as the lunch crowd was beginning to file into Bistango.
Reilly worked his way to the front desk, maneuvering around groups and their luggage. He glanced one more time at the florist shop. It was closed. A note hung on the door. He went to read it. “Picking up supplies. Back after lunch.”
Innocuous, he thought.
The man who had been going by the name Frederik definitely wasn’t on a supply run. His supplies and equipment were already in place. Now he occupied a bistro table diagonally across the street. He casually sipped a latte while holding his cell phone.
In the lobby, sitting on a high-backed chair facing in was a gentleman traveling on a British passport. He appeared to be reading the London Guardian. Except he wasn’t. Nor was he British. He was a Russian. An FSB agent. A close friend of his president. And Andre Miklos was happy it was raining. It meant there’d be more people in the hotel.
83
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
BISTANGO RESTAURANT
KENSINGTON ROYAL
“Welcome to Bistango,” Claire d’Isle enthusiastically said, greeting a party of eight. “It’s a pleasure to have you joining us today, Herr Müller.”
The Bistango general manager oversaw the reservation, made by Horst Müller’s Zurich Deutsche Bank office. The request was specific, from lunch in the private dining room to the necessary allowances for the security detail that accompanied the banker’s important client.
Müller looked past d’Isle to examine the restaurant layout. “Thank you. Everything is as planned?”
“Yes, to your specifications.”
Müller was direct, officious, and humorless. His manner matched his attire. Grey hair, grey glasses, grey suit, grey shirt, grey belt, and black shoes. He appeared to be 55 or 60. Claire d’Isle checked for a wedding ring. Not surprisingly, he had none.
“Good. Show me to the room. My party will be here shortly.” He checked his watch. It was 11:55 a.m. “In five minutes.”
“Very good. You’ll have a dedicated team. Our maître d’ will supervise your service and clear the room when you need privacy.”
“Good. Service shall begin precisely eight minutes after we are seated.”
“Of course, and I assure you everything will be impeccable.”
KENSINGTON ROYAL HOTEL LOBBY
“Is he in?” Reilly asked the general manager’s assistant.
“Yes, I’ll—”
Before she finished, Reilly was at Schorel’s door.
“Liam, how are things going?”
“Fine, fine.” Schorel was eager to see Reilly leave for good, but he couldn’t say so. Instead he politely stood. “Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
The general manager decided to test the waters. “So? How are we looking?”
“I don’t really know.”
There was an awkward silence.
Reilly made it easy for him to understand. “Which I don’t like.”
“Oh?”
“Liam, let’s go over procedures again.”
The general manager flipped a page on the yellow pad on his desk and uncapped his sleek Montblanc fountain pen. Reilly explained his newest, still unresolved concerns: reservations at Bistango.
OUTSIDE THE KENSINGTON ROYAL
Frederik checked his watch. He had a perfect view of Bistango and could see people coming and going from both the restaurant entrance and the Kensington Royal front door.
He was already on a refill and had left cash for his waiter so he could just slip away when signaled. The only thing that worried him was the weather. The off-and-on rain. It might delay things, and quite frankly he hated sitting outside.
THE HOTEL LOBBY
Miklos also looked at his watch. In ten minutes he would walk from the hotel lobby, through Bistango, and, if the time was right, he’d nod to his man sitting across the street.
SCHOREL’S OFFICE
“What can you do to coordinate with Bistango?”
“Not a lot. They’re a separate entity. We rent to them.”
“Not good enough,” Reilly said, all the while thinking of the lesson of the Battle of Leesburg. “They rent from you. You’re in charge.”
“I’ll have to check the contract and see what’s possible.”
Reilly felt that was a dodge. What was possible was not acceptable. He pushed the point and made it a requirement. Then he went on to other security issues. “I noticed we’re not always checking for room keys as people enter elevators.”
“Well, sometimes when staff go on a break—”
“It only takes one, Liam.”
BISTANGO RESTAURANT
A sleek black BMW stretch limo pulled up to the restaurant. A second vehicle, a town car, parked directly behind it. Before anyone got out of the limousine, three large bodyguards piled out of the town car. The first, a walking refrigerator of a man, went into the restaurant. The two other guards stood at attention beside the limo and surveyed the street. After a minute, the first man emerged from Bistango. He approached the limo. The back window rolled down only long enough for a short conversation. Then the same man spoke to his two associates. They took up strategic positions: one at the door, another midway along the sidewalk. Only then did the lead guard open the door.
Out stepped a man immaculately dressed in a navy blue three-piece suit manufactured by the same London tailor who used to make his brother’s suits. Unlike his dead brother, Sandis Gaiss wore a Kevlar vest under his shirt.
THE LOBBY
Miklos’ phone vibrated with an incoming text. He casually lowered the newspaper to his lap and checked the phone. A one-word message from Frederik displayed in French: Arrivée.
PSKOV OBLAST, RUSSIA
Three thousand combat-ready paratroopers from the Russian 76th Air Assault Division were amassed at Ostrov, a Russian Navy base, home to the 444th Center for Combat Employment. They were supported by another seven thousand ground troops from Russia’s 6th and 20th Guard Armies along with their tanks and missile brigades, and the 1st Air Defense Forces Command from Severomorsk. They flew MiG-29 and Su-25/Su-25SM fighters, and Tu-22M3/MR bombers, which were all battle-ready.
Moscow wanted Riga to be secured within thirty-six hours. General Pavel Makarov, Commander of the Western District, awaited the order.
BRUSSELS
SCHOREL’S OFFICE
“Okay. I’m certain we can fine-tune Bistango,” Schorel told Reilly. “I’ll meet with the management over the next—”
“Immediately,” Reilly affirmed. “Too vulnerable.”
“Okay.”
At best, it was a dismissive okay.
“Look Liam, I’m sorry, but as long as a credible threat exists, and trust me, it still exists, this hotel will stand at Red. That includes all the businesses associated with it.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Reilly said. He stood, walked to the door, but stopped before leaving.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Actually a question.”
“Yes?”
“Madame Ketz’s shop?”
Schorel shook his head. “What about it?”
“It’s closed. Seemed unusual.”
“Lunchtime I suppose.”
“And earlier?” Reilly asked. “It was open, but empty.”
“Probably on a delivery.”
“Really?”
Schorel hesitated. “Maybe Frederik hasn’t been the best of hires.”
“
Especially with Madame Ketz away visiting her daughter.”
The general manager shot him a confused look. “Her daughter?”
“Yes. She took a holiday to visit her in Bruges.”
“Who told you this?” Schorel asked.
Reilly read real concern on his face.
“Frederik,” he replied. “The other day. You hadn’t heard?”
“Daniel,” Liam Schorel said very slowly. “Madame Ketz’s daughter was hit by a car in Paris. She’s been dead for six years.”
84
Miklos closed and folded his newspaper. Slowly. Nonchalantly. Just as anyone ready to move on would. He stood, straightened his jacket, and took in a full breath. Again, slowly. Nothing he did for the next few minutes could seem out of the ordinary or draw attention.
He tucked the day’s London Guardian under his arm, dropped his head to avoid direct contact with the hotel’s CCTV cameras, and walked through the lobby, but not to the front door. He strolled toward Bistango.
One last look.
The assassin entered the restaurant. He stopped at the hotel-side reception desk. The maître d’ was busy leading a young couple to a table. Good, he thought. No explanations. Miklos studied the surroundings and the patrons: romantic couples holding hands, executives conducting business, families with their children. All fifteen mid-house tables filled. Likewise the ten along the street-side window and the private dining room in the rear of the restaurant where a meeting was taking place. Not just a meeting. The meeting.
He brushed past the two remaining statues and a single large potted tree that provided a barrier between the public and private dining areas. Three beefy men stood guard outside that room.
RED Hotel Page 44