RED Hotel

PROLOGUE

SHIBUYA, TOKYO, JAPAN

PRESENT DAY

The man held court in an abandoned warehouse. He paced the cement floor while gauging the resolve of his associates, all personally chosen for the job, all veterans of other assignments. He saw no fear, no hesitation.

One more review. A final assurance that they had everything down.

Satisfied, he released them. Alone, he removed the visuals he’d tacked to the wall: the maps, the photographs, and the timeline. Holding the last enlargement, a photo of a downtown hotel, he let his mind wander to the exquisite details investigators would soon find and bag there. They were the things that never made newspaper or TV news accounts, the minutia cut from the page in editing for space and time. Watches stopped at the same minute. Scattered strands of pearls. High-heeled shoes, none to be worn again. Cell phones fused into plastic and metal blobs. Melted glasses frames. Teddy bears separated forever from their young owners’ grasps. Grotesque, ashen shadows on the pavement that marked where the dead had fallen.

Then he pictured the brooms and shovels, the street cleaners and tractors that would eventually return the gruesome kill zone to respectability. Life would go on. But before that, to the man—the leader, the assassin—it would be his work of art.

WASHINGTON, DC

CAPITOL HILL

KENNEDY CAUCUS ROOM

FOURTEEN HOURS BEHIND TOKYO TIME

No, Senator. Dan Reilly had practiced his tone in front of his hotel bathroom mirror before testifying. He wanted to strike a confident tone, neither friendly nor combative. Strictly professional. But this was the eighth time he had answered no to Montana Senator Moakley Davidson in less than five minutes.

So far, Reilly’s appearance before the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on State, Foreign Operations, and Related Programs was going as well as could be expected. Ultimately, he didn’t want to create negative headlines for himself or the company. He had a message, and he wanted to deliver it with the right tone and leave quickly.

The Senate committee shared jurisdiction over appropriations with a subcommittee on the House side. An appropriation was exactly what Dan Reilly sought. He represented an American business with global interests—the Kensington Royal Hotel Corporation, with 1,100 owned or managed properties in 98 countries, and another 855 franchises.

Clearly, the Montana senator was trying to push Reilly’s buttons, hoping to provoke an outburst. But Davidson didn’t know Dan Reilly. He would have been well served to do some research on the witness.

TOKYO

The uniformed driver and two members of his team, all Japanese nationals, huddled in a garage near the new Harajuku Station in Tokyo. One man, also uniformed, would ride in the truck and serve as the driver’s backup. The other would drive a block ahead of the rental car, relaying any traffic issues. Their delivery was that important.

Three other team members had already completed their assignments and left the area.

The driver ended his phone call. He checked his watch. It was time.

WASHINGTON, DC

Though out of the army for seven years, Daniel Reilly maintained a regular exercise routine. He consistently weighed in at 183 and could still pass for someone in his early 30s. But Reilly was actually 42, six-foot tall, with wavy black hair and bright white teeth. Anyone watching him on C-SPAN would see a handsome and confident man who didn’t wear a wedding ring. Reilly was single again. Gratefully single.

Reilly, Senior Vice President of International for Kensington Royal, dressed for the cameras in a slim blue suit, a white shirt, and a conservative Countess Mara blue and gold tie. The tie especially popped and emphasized his commanding physical presence. Most of all, Reilly understood the rules of engagement perfectly: when to listen, and equally important, what to say and how to say it.

Corporate savvy came from an undergraduate degree at Boston University and a master’s degree in business at Harvard. He credited greater life experience to his two tours of duty in Afghanistan, where he earned his captain’s bars and learned to distinguish friends from adversaries. His tact and skill at negotiation came from a Foreign Service stint in the State Department after the army. Each served him well today.

Mr. Reilly, Senator Moakley Davidson continued, If you’re looking for a blank check courtesy of American taxpayers to—

Reilly interrupted with another no. This one more curt than his previous.

As the chairman ranted on without really getting to a direct question, Reilly took in the historic Capitol Hill environs. Corinthian pillars framed the hearing room, which looked virtually the same today as it did in 1910 when it was called the Harkness Caucus Room. Today it was the Kennedy Caucus Room, in honor of brothers John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Edward Kennedy.

The walls didn’t have to talk, Reilly thought, considering the archived history. The records from the caucus room were dynamic and momentous, including Attorney Joseph Welch’s critical rebuttal to Senator Joseph McCarthy, Have you no sense of decency, sir? during the Army–McCarthy hearings and Senator Howard Baker repeatedly pressing the Watergate conspirators in his disarming Southern drawl, What did the president know and when did he know it?

Green felt covered the senators’ table just as it did during the hearings that brought Richard Nixon down. This was also the caucus room where Oliver North testified in the Iran-Contra hearings; testimony that resulted in charges and convictions.

Dan Reilly sensed the touchpoints with American history in this austere and almost humbling setting.

Mr. Reilly, let me tell you something …

Moakley Davidson was chair of the subcommittee and was damned if he wasn’t going to score something from what he considered a senseless session. He looked up from his notes, now certain he had a gotcha question that would earn airtime beyond the live streaming C-SPAN cameras.

You want the American people to provide a slush fund for your company. Well, sir, it’s not going to happen.

Dan Reilly heard the sound bite and the way Davidson phrased it. That’s all you have? he thought, although he didn’t say it.

No, sir, assuming that’s a question, he replied.

Davidson raised his voice and narrowed his eyes. No? You’re employed by a private corporation at a high executive level, yet you’ve come to this committee with the intention of having Congress open the people’s checkbook.

Another non-question.

With all due respect, Senator, I accepted an invitation to speak on behalf of American citizens who travel abroad—Americans who want to know that the United States government is willing to help protect its citizens on foreign soil.

Davidson seized the moment. The graying congressman, a rancher who had struck it rich when oil was discovered on his property, did not take well to being lectured. He bore down harder on the hotel executive.

Mr. Reilly, my constituents did not send me to Washington fourteen years ago as their representative in the House and now the Senate to spend money on American tourists traveling on their own dime to Europe, Asia, or wherever their fancy takes them. Not now, not ever.

Reilly responded in a measured voice. Senator Davidson, every day Americans travel the globe for pleasure, but so do our nation’s businessmen and women. They work hard to bring new revenue into the US, brokering commercial deals and spreading goodwill. But when the hotels they stay in are attacked by terrorists, attacked in many cases because they house American visitors, it must be seen as an attack against America. That, sir, is the only reason I agreed to appear before this committee. To help protect American citizens and their interests abroad.

That’s not how I see it, Mr. Reilly. Not at all.

Again, not a question. Reilly remained quiet, waiting for one. But the chairman shook his head.

I see that my initial round is up, and I must relinquish my time to the senator from Massachusetts. Rest assured, however, I am not finished with you.

Davidson leaned back in his seat and acceded to Massachusetts Democratic Senator Peggy McNamara.

Mr. Reilly, thank you for joining us today, the 58-year-old former judge politely stated.

You’re quite welcome, Senator.

Following up on the chairman’s line of questioning, which she really wasn’t, you recognize that the US cannot provide real protection for American citizens traveling abroad.

I do. That would be impossible.

Then what are you proposing?

A real question.

Terrorism is our new reality. Radical terrorism is responsible for virtually all of the attacks against hotels, most of which are owned or managed by American companies. We considered ourselves lucky in the 1970s when the Irish Republican Army phoned pre-attack warnings. Those days are over. Modern terrorists aren’t polite or politic. Their goal is to kill as many innocent people as possible. Unannounced and dramatically. Terrorism is no longer just a political threat. It’s a corporate business threat as well. For us to prepare for this, we have to be armed. Armed with information, Reilly affirmed. Armed with timely, credible intelligence.

At what cost, Mr. Reilly?

Well, information gathering and sharing has a price tag, but so does the failure to spend.

Moakley Davidson intentionally ignored Reilly’s testimony; he was texting and answering emails. Reilly noted the purposeful snub, so he focused on each of the other committee members.

Senator, members of the committee, there have been terrorist attacks against hotels virtually every year since 9/11. Thousands dead. Tourists and first responders. Children. Christians, Jews, and Muslims. The bombs have not discriminated.

Reilly punctuated his answer with a long silence. He took a sip of water from the glass on the table and breathed deeply. Nearly half of these terrorist attacks used VBIEDs—Vehicle Born Improvised Explosive Devices. Kensington Royal is examining ways to increase our security perimeters to help guard against such attacks. But that has not thwarted VBIEDs from getting up to barriers at hotels and restaurants or suicide bombers and gunmen checking in at the front desk or sitting down for one last meal. Allow me to show you what I mean.

Reilly signaled a technician to play a video. The members of the panel and observers in the hearing room turned to the nearest of four monitors. Reilly began narrating.

July, 2009, Jakarta, Indonesia …

TOKYO

The FedEx truck rolled out of the garage. The backup driver closed and locked the door, then hopped in. They slowly drove through Shibuya, one of the twenty-three city wards of Tokyo, passing the upscale department stores and boutique fashion shops that were still open, the bustling nightclubs with locals and visitors in the queue, and expensive restaurants where rich young couples spilled out onto the sidewalk.

As the delivery truck passed the Shibuya train station entrance, the driver checked his watch. On schedule.

They drove by the new Shibuya Hikarie shopping and office complex. A taxi pulled in front of them, nearly sideswiping the left front bumper. The backup man swore, but the driver remained cool.

The crowd on the street paid no attention to the white FedEx truck with its distinctive purple and red letters that formed an arrow between the E and X. Indeed it was one of the world’s most iconic logos, eclipsed in recent years only by Apple, Nike, and Coca-Cola. To the discerning eye, the arrow would appear slightly off, but from a distance it was good enough for tonight’s run.

WASHINGTON, DC

To most people it was a day like any other, Reilly said as the video played. Nothing out of the ordinary. You’ll see people mingling and a hotel guest casually walking through the lobby—likely a businessman on his way to his room expecting to rest after a long day of traveling.

The guest was seen walking from left to right across the screen. The footage switched from one camera angle to another. At thirty-six seconds into the real-time playback, the man reached the elevator bank.

Watch, Reilly said. At that instant, an explosion, without the benefit of sound, sent smoke and debris hurtling into the lobby. A suicide bomber in the restaurant detonated his bomb. The man you were watching died instantly. Died from just being there. He was not alone.

Reilly let the statement sink in and the footage unfold.

After a pause, he continued. Five minutes later, a second suicide bomber set off another bomb in an adjacent hotel. In all, sixty people were injured and nine died. Both properties were American luxury hotels. They were American, Senator. The JW Marriott and the Ritz-Carlton. The bombs were constructed in an independent flower shop in the Marriott. The two bombers, guests in the hotels, picked them up and walked into the Ritz restaurant and the Marriott conference room. It was as simple and as horrifying as that.

American deaths? Senator McNamara somberly asked.

Does it matter? Reilly replied.

The senator lowered her eyes.

Three Australians, two Dutch tourists, one New Zealander, and three Indonesians, including the two terrorists, Reilly explained.

So, no Americans, Davidson said, smugly reentering the conversation.

No Americans, but the bomb at the JW Marriott detonated during a meeting of AmCham Indonesia, a branch of the United States Chamber of Commerce in Jakarta. The president of the organization was hosting a breakfast meeting of prominent CEOs in Jakarta’s business community.

Reilly added one other comment for good measure—his gotcha. "The AmCham president is an American, Senator Davidson. Would you count that as an attempted assassination?"

Two other members of the subcommittee were making notes as he spoke.

One additional thing, Reilly said as the footage rolled. Jakarta police found a third bomb in room 1808 of the JW Marriott. It had been programmed to explode just prior to the restaurant bomb. You want to know the purpose?

Even Moakley Davidson was engaged.

To create panic. To drive more guests into the larger kill zone: the lobby. It’s right out of a terrorist manual. Fortunately that bomb did not go off.

Why this target, Mr. Reilly? Senator McNamara asked.

American hotels. American interests. Because Americans were there. We just got lucky, if you want to call it that.

TOYKO

The FedEx truck cautiously continued along Tokyo’s streets, sticking to the speed limit. Other vehicles steered around them. Police ignored them. Pedestrians waiting at crosswalks were too busy on their cell-phones to take any notice.

WASHINGTON, DC

I have more video, which I’ll send to each of your offices, Reilly said. But you don’t have to wait. It’s been on YouTube for years. Just Google it.

He motioned for an aide to bring up an easel and stand. It had ten stacked poster boards with grid lines indicating years, hotels, locations, tactics, casualties, and perpetrators.

In the interest of time, I won’t review everything. But we do have hard copies covering key points.

An assistant distributed bound PowerPoint decks bearing the KR logo.

Davidson tried to insinuate himself into the moment. If this is intended to—

Excuse me, Mr. Chairman, but the witness is mine right now, Senator McNamara proclaimed.

He gave a brusque, inaudible reply and waved her on.

Please continue, Mr. Reilly, she stated. The floor is yours.

Thank you. Reilly stood next to the easel and began. March 27, 2002. The Park Hotel in Netanya, Israel. A suicide bomber detonated an explosive device in the hotel’s dining room. May 8, same year. A Pakistani bus outside the Sheraton in Karachi exploded. October 7, 2004, the Hilton in Taba, Egypt. A suicide bomber drove a car into the lobby. The bomb exploded and 33 people were killed, another 150 injured.

Reilly ran through fourteen other bombings covering Indonesia, Kenya, Iraq, Egypt, Thailand, Pakistan, Jordan, Nigeria, Afghanistan, and Thailand. Many bore the names of American hoteliers.

They don’t necessarily always make the front page. If they do, it’s only for a day or two, and with few details. But for us, they are front of mind for a long, long time, Reilly added.

Moakley Davidson paged through the handout. Reilly was convinced he wasn’t reading a word of it. Montana was a world away from all of the locales mentioned. He wondered if it would take a direct hit in Billings to make a difference.

TOKYO

The driver stuck to the speed limit, braked for people crossing the street, and came to full stops at the lights. He passed a Shinwa Bank branch, a cluster of seedy love hotels not listed by Michelin, and then rows of pubs, karaoke clubs, and restaurants that came alive after dark. He made a final turn onto Dogenzaka. Five blocks from the destination, he dropped off his backup driver, who would have served as a translator if stopped. He checked his watch again. 10:58 p.m. 2258 hours. Two minutes before his special delivery.

WASHINGTON, DC

Davidson noted McNamara’s time was up. The chairman turned to the Alabama senator, Bill Cole, who would pick up Moakley Davidson’s line of questioning.

Thank you, Mr. Chairman. The 58-year-old senator, serving his first term, got right to his first question. Mr. Reilly, can you walk us through why you think hotels are so vulnerable?

Reilly viewed it as a completely naïve question.

I will, Senator Cole. While we’re in the hospitality business, we are equally in the anti-terrorism business. Hotels are ideal targets. They have fixed locations, limited security perimeters, and most of all they’re full of potential victims in an environment that’s meant to be friendly and welcoming. Increasingly, we are in the crosshairs of terrorists’ sights. We present soft targets, and to my point, timely intelligence can put us in a better position to detect and deflect.

Cole was prepared to rebut his testimony. He shuffled through some paperwork until he produced a document. He held it up for Reilly to see.

Mr. Reilly, do you recognize this?

Reilly nodded. Based on the logo, from this distance, it appears to be a State Department document. I’d like to examine it, however.

Cole gave it to a staffer who walked it over to Reilly.

And?

It is an official State Department travel advisory.

So you are familiar with this, Cole stated.

Perhaps not this exact one, but yes, these types of advisories.

Will you read the highlighted portion, Mr. Reilly?

Reilly scanned the advisory.

I’m sorry. Aloud, if you will, the Alabama senator insisted.

Reilly cleared his throat and read the copy.

In recent years, terrorists have targeted police stations and officers. Currently, travel by US government personnel to central areas is restricted to mission-essential travel that is approved in advance by the embassy security office. Whether at work, pursuing daily activities, or traveling, Americans are advised to be aware of their personal safety and security at all times. Extremists may target both official and private establishments, including bars, nightclubs, shopping areas, restaurants, places of worship, and hotels.

And hotels, Cole repeated.

Yes, Senator.

The advisory, issued by the State Department, was for Indonesia. Would you say it is representative of travel warnings issued for other nations?

Yes, sir, it is representative, Reilly responded.

And you have access to advisories of this nature? Cole asked.

Yes, I do. Our corporate VP of Global Safety and Security routinely disseminates them, but they are also online.

The freshman senator removed his glasses and glared at Reilly. Then what else can you possibly need?

TOKYO

Takayuki Nikaido was already an hour into his dreaded overnight shift. This was his fourth week of all-nighters; his fourth week away from his family. The 63-year-old hotel security officer was not happy with the schedule, but with only a few more years until retirement, he quietly and obediently accepted the shift assignments.

Nikaido scanned four computer screens stacked in two rows. They displayed constantly changing closed-circuit TV images captured by 420 cameras in virtually every corner and corridor of the opulent Kensington Royal Hotel in the heart of Tokyo. They cycled every two seconds except when a camera caught movement in its field of view.

Movements covered on camera included what happened in the halls throughout the twenty-one-story luxury hotel: guests arriving and leaving, couples kissing, kids running, hotel staff going to and from rooms. Other cameras caught, but did not record, empty elevators. Stairways were also covered as well as lobbies, escalators, restaurants, kitchens, storage rooms, doors leading to bathrooms, and subterranean service areas such as the electrical power plant for the hotel and the roof. Exterior cameras, the few there were, focused on the front and back of the opulent hotel.

Videos and still frames were archived for just thirty days on a hard drive in the security office. Another computer hosted a duplicate record, but there was no cloud backup.

Nikaido shared the security office with two younger officers who were playing a game to pass the time. Daichi Eto and Fumio Imamura watched couples on the hotel cameras. They called their game Hooker, Girlfriend, or Wife. Ten points for hookers, five for girlfriends, two for wives. Eto and Imamura would make a guess as the couples walked through the lobby. Sometimes it would be instantly apparent. Other times, less so, and more fun.

Wives were usually easy to spot, particularly if they were Japanese guests. If older, they generally walked behind their husbands. If younger and less traditional, they walked side-by-side. Girlfriends walked arm-in-arm, looking up and around, talking endlessly. Hookers also walked close to their escorts, but neither spoke nor looked anywhere but straight ahead. Often the security officers playing the game recognized the hired women. At other times, their purposeful mannerisms gave them away. And when it came to hookers, the action often started in the elevator or even in the stairwell. Eto was particularly good at guessing how long an escort would stay with their companion. It went anywhere from thirty minutes to the whole night, depending upon the client’s appetite and budget.

Actually, most of the camera images pulsed too quickly to be reliably screened for true security purposes. They were intended as a record for examination against insurance claims after a theft or to settle a hotel/guest dispute. So the team principally made routine log notations, spoke with roving security personnel, occasionally answered a medical call, and played Hooker, Girlfriend, or Wife. Nikaido didn’t take part in the game, but he allowed his junior officers their fun. It helped pass the time. Meanwhile, he did keep an eye on the monitors. Reception was checking in a flight crew from American Airlines. Late night conventioneers from the US joined friends at the lobby bar, and an older man and a younger woman entered.

He heard Eto’s guess. Hooker! He was right.

Nikaido laughed at the repartee and casually focused on the street-facing cameras at the main entrance. They flared with the headlights of passing cars and one larger vehicle, a FedEx truck that was coming to a stop.

WASHINGTON, DC

Senator Cole, we need deeper intelligence, Reilly proclaimed. We need a greater level of cooperation from America’s investigatory agencies, a pipeline to specific information that will help us deny terrorists access. Public warnings are helpful, but we need to know what’s not publicly published.

Will the senator from Alabama yield, Chairman Davidson interrupted.

Of course, Cole agreed.

Mister Reilly … He drew out the last name for emphasis. What about our oil interests abroad? Corporations of all stripes? Do you recommend that we open our intelligence files to every business and protect every square inch the way we do our embassies and outposts? The senator smiled as he considered his next thought. As if we’ve done a good job at that!

Sir, I’m sorry, you’re asking exactly what? Reilly said, reframing the interrogative.

You heard me. But I’ll put it more simply. Do you believe the CIA should be making its files available to your company and every business? Because if you do—

Mr. Chairman, Reilly interjected, fixing his eyes on Davidson with no intention of giving any ground to the arrogant senator, "an attack on an American hotel in Mali or Jakarta impacts confidence in Paris and New York. When it comes to targets, there’s no us and them.

It can happen anywhere—from the world’s capitals to America’s smallest cities and towns. While hotel chains can and must take steps to protect their clientele, we do not run a global intelligence service. The United States does.

TOKYO

At this time of night? Nikaido thought. Odd.

He typed a command on his computer that brought the front portico camera full screen. The FedEx truck slowed down, swung into the valet parking area, and came to a full stop short of the entrance. Its headlights were on high beam and remained that way. The brilliance flared the camera lenses trained on the area and blinded anyone approaching the truck.

Nikaido tapped the officer to his right. Daichi, look at this.

What?

The truck.

Damn driver has his brights on, the younger man said. Hard to see. FedEx?

Yes, and he can’t make a delivery in front, or at this hour, Nikaido added. He needs to go to the service entrance. Call down there and get him out.

Too late, Eto said. The driver’s getting out.

WASHINGTON, DC

We’re not the CIA or Homeland Security, Mr. Reilly, Moakley Davidson chided.

I know you’re not, Reilly shot back. But this committee represents the interests of Americans and their safety is in your best interest, just as it is in ours. We have to find ways to work together.

TOKYO

The FedEx driver turned his back to the hotel entrance, ignoring the valet’s shouts. Rather than taking out a package for delivery, he continued to walk away.

Takayuki Nikaido grew more concerned when the driver failed to stop and even crossed the street. In just a few steps he would be out of camera range.

This isn’t right, Nikaido declared, his heart racing. This isn’t right, he repeated.

Nikaido quickly stood. He grabbed his only weapon, a baton, and tore out of the security station, through the lobby, and toward the portico.

Eto followed a few steps behind while radioing a warning. Imamura, confused, didn’t know what to do. He watched his colleagues run off, briefly taking his attention away from the monitors. Distracted, he missed seeing two men hurriedly leave through the hotel’s rear entrance.

WASHINGTON, DC

Hotels invest a great deal of money to install protective techniques. But we are not in the intelligence business, Reilly testified. Our computers aren’t tied into the nation’s security databases. We are response driven. As I’ve said, general information is no longer enough. Mr. Chairman, members of the committee, planning for emergencies requires communication, collaboration, and control. Don’t you think it’s time?

TOKYO

Takayuki Nikaido covered the distance from the front door to the truck in just eight seconds. His eyes darted between the truck and the driver, who was already well across the street. Nikaido looked inside the truck. No keys. No way to push it out of the way.

Clear the area! he screamed. Now!

WASHINGTON, DC

Terrorism is a tool of religious fundamentalists, lone wolves, individuals determined to make a statement, and nations intent on nation-building, Dan Reilly said. Left wing, right wing. Separatists, environmentalists, fundamentalists, nationalists. It’s a political tool. He lowered his voice. A deadly political tool.

TOKYO

The driver, now more than a block away, faced the hotel. He watched a security officer frantically bark orders. None that would make a difference. He actually wished he could be closer to gaze into his eyes and to see that special moment between life and death. It always fascinated him. One moment alive. Existing. The next, nothing and nothingness. But what of the in-between. The space between the two. The instant. The nanosecond. Is there a recognition? A feeling? What could it possibly be? As an assassin, it had long been an area of personal research.

WASHINGTON, DC

Reilly leaned toward the microphone to continue, but commotion outside the hearing room drew his attention. The disturbance quickly evolved into shouting, and a sergeant at arms was dispatched to the hall.

Everyone turned in their seats as a man rushed in. He bumped into the security detail, but powered past.

I’ve got to get through. Spotting Reilly, he called out to him. Then he saw the cameras.

Reilly recognized the intruder, who was a young executive on his staff.

Reilly stood. It’s okay. He’s with me.

The officer released him.

Excuse me a moment, Mr. Chairman. If you’ll please.

Davidson was annoyed, yet no more than he projected during his questioning. Mr. Reilly, this better be important.

I’m sorry, sir. Just a moment.

The executive, now fully aware the TV cameras were following him, nervously stepped forward.

Quickly! Moakley Davidson demanded.

The gallery buzzed with curiosity as the man slid next to Reilly, cupped his hand over the microphone and whispered into his boss’s ear.

Davidson cleared his voice; another audible display of his displeasure.

Reilly stuck a finger in the air indicating he needed a moment. He nodded twice as his aide briefed him. The conversation concluded with Reilly letting out a long breath.

I’m sorry, he stated, focusing again on the arrogant chairman. We’ve just gotten terrible news.

Simultaneously, three committee members felt cell phones vibrate in their jacket pockets. Even Moakley Davidson’s phone pulsated. He fumbled trying to retrieve a text.

Reilly raised his voice. You’ll have to excuse me. Our hotel in Tokyo, the Envoy Diplomat, has been bombed.

Without asking permission, Daniel J. Reilly gathered his papers and abruptly left.

More cell phones vibrated and rang at different pitches throughout the gallery. For the first time during the day, Senator Moakley Davidson was utterly speechless.

TOKYO

There was nothing left of the FedEx truck—1,500 pounds of explosives had decimated the area and anyone within 50 feet. The portico had collapsed. Shrapnel shot through the lobby at more than 400 feet per second, decapitating people in the bar, ripping through bodies all the way to the elevators. But it was only the beginning.

Sixty seconds later, as people rushed out, three other bombs detonated. Fireballs shot up through the elevator banks. Debris poured through the hallways. The eighth floor swimming pool collapsed, flooding the floors below with 97,500 gallons of water. Eighty-one people died in the first few minutes. The fate of another 125 would not be known for hours.

Emergency vehicles screamed toward ground zero. Rubberneckers seeing an opportunity to shoot viral video ran to the smoldering scene. But most people, fearing another bomb, pushed and shoved their way toward safety. In all the tumult, no one took any notice of a tall European man strolling by quite casually. Not the first responders or the police. Not the gawkers or the survivors. No one focused on the man with a blue shirt tucked under his arm and a very satisfied smile on his face.

PART ONE

FLASH POINT

1

POTSDAM, THE GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC

DECEMBER 1989

Fool! Nikolai Gorshkov slammed the telephone headset down with such brute force it cracked in two and sent plastic shards upward, grazing his face. A fucking functionary! the 37-year old, thin, blond KGB lieutenant colonel shouted. Can’t be bothered. You have your orders, he said, so carry them out!

His aide, a younger lieutenant, was busy fulfilling those orders. But he nodded in complete agreement. Andre Miklos knew well enough not to interrupt his superior when he was on a rant. He motioned to other KGB agents who were in earshot not to say anything either.

Popov. Stanislav Popov, Gorshkov whispered the name he had just scribbled on a sheet of paper. Never forget that name, Andre. Never.

Yes, sir! said Miklos.

The senior officer—a spy whose cover was as a translator—now crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the wood-burning stove with the other secret documents the members of the Potsdam KGB office were destroying.

Stanislav Popov. Stanislav Popov. Miklos mouthed the words as he fed more files into the stove.

He’ll pay, Andre. Stanislav Popov will pay, Gorshkov said under his breath. He’ll pay dearly for abandoning us.

The smell of scorched papers made the men cough as they worked on the top floor of the block-wide, three-story KGB headquarters in Potsdam, which was known as KGB Town. Together they were destroying four years’ worth of work; a comprehensive operation titled Luch.

The documents chronicled East Germans they’d tricked, coerced, and recruited—journalists, professors, scientists, and technicians who had plausible reason to travel abroad and steal Western technology and NATO secrets. There were boxes filled with personal files, surveillance reports, arrest orders, interrogation transcripts, and records of Westerners entrapped by the KGB, all destined for the burn. Those were the most important secrets to destroy. Going up in smoke, a cruel picture of human rights violations by Moscow, by the KGB, and by the men covering their tracks.

Luch was a daring KGB operation designed to secure badly needed Western know-how and intellectual property, executed out of the Potsdam office. Even the senior officer had to admit the Soviet Bloc was depressingly behind the US and Europe. There was no more visible evidence than the fact that agents and politicians preferred to work on the West’s Commodore PCs rather than their own inferior, Russian-built computers.

Now, each page they tossed into the stove represented painstaking work and the infrastructure that had supported it, all to benefit Russia, to rescue Russia. And now Russia was not there for them.

Disorganization! Idiots! the senior officer murmured. All of our time wasted.

He blamed Mikhail Gorbachev’s directives. He blamed the decades of incompetence.

The lieutenant colonel went for another document box, this one near the window. Before lifting it, he split the dusty louvered shades to peer outside. Anti-Russian and anti-German Democratic Republic crowds milled about, more today than the day before, and getting angrier by the hour. Students in particular had been feeling more empowered over the past two months—but they were not alone. Protesters who wanted the Soviets out included the elderly who had suffered since the end of World War II and women whose husbands and sons had been rounded up by the GDR’s dreaded Ministry of State security, the Stasi, never to be seen again.

The end had been coming for two months, since November 9. That’s when an East German government spokesman bungled an announcement. He misstated that the frontiers were to be opened immediately. Hearing the news, thousands of East Berliners rushed the heavily armed border crossings demanding to be let through. Throngs overwhelmed the beleaguered guards who waited for orders to come down. Shoot or don’t shoot? Those orders never came. By morning, the Berlin Wall, the very symbol of Soviet tyranny, had been breached and with it, Communist domination over East Berlin and throughout East Germany crumbled.

Now it was Potsdam’s turn to feel the change sweeping across Germany. The KGB mandate to the staff in the massive Potsdam office: Destroy everything.

Across the street from the KGB outpost was one of Potsdam’s main Stasi headquarters. The KGB case officer relied on Stasi contacts to obtain personal favors, including a very basic one—a telephone in his flat to run operatives outside of typical work hours and also cultivate and manipulate political relationships. The telephone provided that access. But he now feared that Stasi records on his calls could expose him. The smoke coming from the Stasi building chimneys gave him little consolation. So much to cover up, he thought. And no help from Moscow.

Even though Potsdam was the GDR’s ninth-largest city, Moscow viewed it as an important post because it housed a KGB prison used to interrogate and execute Western spies and Soviet soldiers arrested for desertion, mutiny, and anti-Soviet activity. Shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the lieutenant colonel asked for assistance and protection from the Kremlin, but none came. Then he demanded it from the military, and finally from his venerated KGB superiors. Destroy everything was the only response. And so, abandoned, they continued to follow their orders.

Gorshkov closed the shade, but not before a rock came hurtling through the window. It barely missed him. His neck veins tightened, his cheeks turned bloodred, and his eyes flared with hatred. But the hatred wasn’t directed at the German protester. It was reserved for Stanislav Popov, the last in a long line of bureaucrats to deny his request. The hatred extended as a proxy for all of the Popovs in the chain of command.

Sir! Miklos shouted.

I’m all right.

He felt the winter cold that flowed through the window and now stoked the fire. But burning hotter was the flame inside the KGB agent. He told his aide, Stanislav Popov and everyone like him will pay, Andre. With their power, their money, and their lives.

It was a proclamation born from betrayal. It might take years, even decades, but KGB agent Nikolai Gorshkov vowed to collect on the political debts.

2

WASHINGTON, DC

PRESENT DAY

Once Reilly left the Senate hearing room, he phoned Alan Cannon, a friend, confidant, and, more importantly, the Kensington Royal Vice President of Global Safety and Security.

What do we have? Reilly asked.

Mostly what CNN’s been reporting. Sketchy, but the uploaded cell phone video looks really bad.

Reilly double-timed down the marble staircase through the Russell Senate Office Building, out onto Constitution Avenue, and into a waiting town car.

Any word from our people? he asked Cannon.

No. Cannon paused and lowered his voice. We’re trying everyone. Circuits are busy.

Damn it, Reilly said. Hold for a sec, Brenda’s calling in from Chicago.

Hi, he said to his assistant, Brenda Sheldon.

See my text? she began. There’s been—

I know. Haven’t read anything yet, but I’m on with Cannon, getting up to speed. I’ll need—

Flights. Our travel agent is already working on it. I’ll send you the options.

Hitting the office here first, but see what’s available to Chicago this afternoon.

Reilly ended the call with Sheldon and returned to Alan Cannon.

Okay, from the top, Reilly instructed as the car made its way toward the KR Washington offices on K Street.

Whole front is blown out, Cannon reported. Truck bomb. Other detonations inside. Still burning. Damage extends well into the lobby. Same in the back of the house. I’m watching a live helicopter feed on CNN. Can’t tell much more. Fire trucks have arrived, but you know the procedure. Another bomb could be set to explode to knock out the first responders. An anchor is trying his best to describe the footage, but they need a translator for the Japanese coverage. But there’s no question. It’s ours.

Any contact with the GM or security? Reilly asked.

Just their voice mail. Nobody’s picking up, Cannon replied.

What about Matsuhito at the KR Suites across town?

Good idea.

Have him go over and keep him on the phone the whole time. In the meantime, I’ll call Chicago and get our crisis team together. Should be back at the office in ten.

Reilly’s call to Kensington Royal headquarters triggered the assembly of the crisis team. It included senior management, heads of legal, public relations, and HR, and alerts to all the regional executives. This was practiced procedure that now seemed lacking in an actual attack.

The ten minutes back to the office Reilly estimated turned into twenty-five. DC traffic was snarled by a presidential motorcade. He phoned Brenda Sheldon.

I’ve cleared everything on your calendar and confirmed you out of Reagan on a 2:20 p.m., she said. PR is dodging calls from the news. They want to send crews over to your office in DC or here.

Absolutely not.

That’s what June said, too, but you might see cameras here anyway.

June Wilson, Kensington Royal’s public relations veep, would manage them.