by J. B. Turner
“Absolutely, sir. Pragmatism in diplomacy is indeed a virtue. I would say a necessity.”
“And I’m open to suggestions, within reason. The problem is, my friend, I don’t answer to the FBI. I answer to my father. And to the people of Ukraine. Our country requires representation by me and others who will fight and argue for our country and its people. We need influence at the highest levels of government. And that’s what I provide.”
“Sir, I don’t believe staying in New York is for the best.”
“With respect, I do.” Brutka sipped some more wine. “This is quite delicious.”
“Sir, what should I say to the people who approached me?”
“Just say that I’m giving it serious consideration. And leave it at that.”
The aide nodded. “Yes, that should work. It would be good to give them your decision.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, what’s the second thing? You said there were two points.”
“Reznick.”
Brutka felt himself tapping his foot instinctively. “What about him?”
“He’s back in town.”
Brutka stared at his aide and leaned closer. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. I thought his daughter was transferred to a wonderful hospital in lovely Maine. The last I heard he was in fucking Maine looking after his fucking daughter.”
“He’s back. That’s what I heard.”
“Mr. Reznick? The father?”
The aide nodded.
“Now why do you think he’s back in New York? He doesn’t work here, does he?”
“No.”
“And he has no business interests here?”
The aide shook his head.
“We need to find out where he is.”
“That can be arranged. Anything else?”
“This needs to end.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Figure out how Reznick can be taken out once and for all.”
Forty-Three
The Brooklyn Diner on West Fifty-Seventh Street was virtually empty. He settled into a quiet booth and ordered a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee. Lauren had flown down to New York with him. He had helped her get settled back into the apartment she shared with a fellow publishing intern. He wondered if she wasn’t trying to do too much too soon. But he was also relieved that she was taking her first positive steps on the road to recovery.
Lauren was still on medication for anxiety after the hit-and-run, but she was already planning to return to her internship at the publishing house.
Reznick knew he was fortunate. His daughter could have been taken from him. The induced coma that had been meant to relieve the swelling on her brain had taken its toll. She spoke slower, as if the connections in her brain were still not fully mended from the accident. She still suffered migraines. And he knew she was waking up in the night sweating, reliving the accident over and over again.
The scars were real. Mental as well as physical.
But stopping Brutka was about so much more than just his daughter. It was clear that Aleksander Brutka’s malign influence extended not only to the highest echelons of the American government but was facilitated by his spectacular wealth—he could buy anyone or anything he wanted. Callaghan’s death was no suicide. How convenient. It not only got rid of an investigative journalist who was closing in on Brutka, but it also sent a message to those who got too close to his world. Stay away or else you’ll end up the same way. Not too subtle. But effective.
Reznick knew how hit jobs like that worked. It would have just been a simple matter of subcontracting to an individual or more likely a security firm that employed mercenaries or assassins. Anyone could be neutralized if the price was right. He knew all about the Right Sector and some of the shadowy groups and people aligned with them. For some in Ukraine, the group only represented a patriotic strand of opinion. But for others—quite a few others—it was a vehicle for extreme nationalism.
It was perhaps not surprising that Callaghan had unearthed links to the fascist elements of Ukraine, none greater than Brutka’s grandfather, who’d been instrumental in massacres during the Second World War.
A Nazi collaborator. A murderer.
Reznick’s mind flashed back to the grainy black-and-white photo of Ilad Brutka. Ingrained in his mind were the frightened eyes of the naked woman, a rifle pressed to her head, Ilad Brutka parading about shortly before, no doubt, she was butchered.
What was also reprehensible was that the United States had allowed men and women like him to disappear, either through integrating them into America with false names and identities or letting them live out their lives in South America.
Reznick looked at his food and realized he was no longer hungry. Instead, he drank his coffee, then dialed Meyerstein’s cell phone number.
“Jon,” Meyerstein said, “nice to hear from you again. What’s the latest on Lauren? I’ve been thinking about her.”
Reznick gulped the rest of the coffee and signaled for a refill. “She’s OK. For now, anyway. So much so that she decided to head back to New York.”
“Already? Has she recovered so soon? That’s wonderful news.”
“She’s still a bit fragile, but she’s back in her apartment. It’s going to take time.”
“Give her my regards. So let me take a wild guess . . . I’m assuming you might be back in New York too.”
Reznick smiled. “Very astute observation.”
“I think we need to move on from this, Jon. Lauren is recovering. Let’s be thankful.”
“I am, trust me.”
“I’m worried, Jon.”
“Worried? Why?”
“I’m worried that what has happened has clouded your judgment.”
“This is about more than Lauren now.”
“Jon, you’re letting this get personal.”
“Martha, how long have we known each other?”
Meyerstein sighed.
“For years, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I just want to say that I’m very surprised and more than a little annoyed that the FBI has had me under surveillance.”
Meyerstein was quiet.
“Did you authorize this?”
Meyerstein sighed again. “No, it wasn’t me.”
“Who was it?”
“Jon, you know I can’t divulge that.”
“I’ve busted my ass on investigations for you guys. And that’s the thanks I get? Is that where we are, Martha?”
“Jon, you’re not thinking straight. You’re not seeing the big picture.”
A waitress smiled and walked past. Reznick waited until she was out of earshot.
“Are you still there?” Meyerstein asked.
“I’m still here. Listen, I see the big picture all too clearly. And I don’t like what I see.”
“The State Department has to operate on a grand scale, taking the views and concerns of foreign countries, and our security interests in them, into account.”
“Which translates as, if we start throwing out Ukrainian undesirables, our relationship with Kiev, the President, and lucrative arms sales, technology sales, and future oil exploration could be jeopardized, yeah?”
“Jon, you have broken the law several times while in New York.”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve broken the law several times? What about the State Department’s pal, Aleksander Brutka? That fucker is out of control. He’s dangerous. And he’s going to get more people killed.”
“That’s enough, Jon.”
“Martha, you know what sort of person I am. You know how I operate. And yeah, occasionally I cross the line. But it’s only in the pursuit of the bad guys. You know that.”
“The law is the law.”
“Except when you’re a billionaire playboy diplomat with serious connections to the State Department.”
Meyerstein sighed. “Please back off, Jon. Just be thankful that Lauren is on the mend.”
“I am thankful. And I’m going to pray for her. But I can’t rest until that fucker is gone.”
“Jon, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You know as well as I do what this guy has done. Leaving Lauren in a coma was just part of a pattern. A long line of stuff. The guy is dangerous.”
“You need to move on.”
“I will. Eventually.”
Meyerstein went quiet as if contemplating what to say next.
“There’s one final thing I want to talk to you about. Actually, a couple of things. First, does the name Tom Callaghan mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Then you know that he’s dead. Shot himself, apparently.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“Do you? Do you know he was compiling a major investigation into not only Brutka but also the father and the grandfather?”
“What?”
“Martha, I don’t know if there’s not enough sharing between agencies, or if this particular thing is buttoned up tight by Callaghan’s paper, but he was not only going to blow Brutka out of the water but had evidence of the grandfather’s Nazi atrocities. Brutka’s grandfather. He showed me a picture of the grandfather from the war.”
“Jon, none of this is making sense.”
“He told me that he had been working with the Simon Wiesenthal Center on this.”
“These allegations . . . Who else knows about them?”
“I’m guessing only Callaghan, who’s now dead, his editor, the Simon Wiesenthal Center, and that’s probably it.”
Meyerstein was quiet again. “Are you positive this is the story Callaghan planned to publish?”
“I shared with him what had happened to Lauren, and he let me in on what he knew about the grandfather’s Nazi past.”
“The grandfather—did Callaghan give a name?”
“Ilad Brutka. According to Callaghan, he was smuggled into America by the OSS under the name Bud Smith. Ran a hotel in Vermont, I think he said, a couple of them.”
Meyerstein sighed long and hard. “In light of what you’ve just told me, I need to speak to a friend of mine at Justice. She’s in charge of Human Rights and Special Prosecutions.”
“Thank you. Finally.”
“Leave it to me. This we can’t let slide.”
“But let’s not forget this grandson. We need to stop this guy.”
“Jon, I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires since you started going after Brutka. There’s only so much I can do to protect you from the fallout.”
Reznick heard the veiled warning in Meyerstein’s words.
“I want you to be safe,” she said. “And I want you to get on with your life. Lauren too. But you need to back off now.”
“Martha, there’s only so long I can turn a blind eye. My daughter. And now Callaghan.”
Reznick ended the call. He wondered if perhaps he was being unfair to Meyerstein. She was only doing her job. A high-level, powerful intelligence job. And he was making her life hell. He pondered that as he ate a leisurely breakfast, washed down with two more black coffees and a couple of Dexedrine. She was a woman he very much admired and liked. Probably more than he would care to admit. He sometimes found himself thinking about her, especially when he was back home alone in Rockland with time on his hands. He imagined what she was doing at that moment in DC. He thought of the handful of times she had met him in his hometown. It was always about work. He didn’t mind. But he sensed they were growing closer together. He hadn’t wanted to get involved with anyone since his wife had died. Instead he had buried himself in work and booze. His work with the FBI, and with Meyerstein in particular, had given him a sense of purpose. He had begun to think about moving on. Extricating himself from the ghosts of his past. More than anything, Meyerstein was someone who conveyed integrity, honor, and a steely determination to tough out the bad days. She had given his life meaning again. He didn’t want to throw that away. Their friendship was strictly business, but it seemed as if she understood his motivations and actions, even if she didn’t always entirely agree with how he went about things.
He began to consider why he was taking such a reckless path. His daughter was beginning the process of healing physically and was hopefully going to make a full recovery in time. But here he was, back in New York.
Did he see himself as his daughter’s protector? Maybe he did. Was that a bad thing? The fact was, no one could protect their loved ones from getting hurt. Either emotionally or physically. Lauren needed to live her life. Maybe he needed to think about moving on, as Meyerstein had said. She had a point. But something about Brutka, his manner, and his violence against women had left a mark on Reznick. It was something about justice. About being held accountable. Was that what was driving him? Then again, maybe it was just raw revenge. The chance to bring this guy down. Maybe only then, when Brutka was off the streets, would Reznick be able to sleep soundly.
Reznick’s senses began to switch on as the Dexedrine kicked in. He felt more alert. Sped up. He looked out of the diner window as the cars, trucks, and people zoomed by. The never-ending buzz and energy of the city. A workman stopped for a drink of water, wiping the sweat from his brow as the sun beat down.
The diner wasn’t far from the crosswalk where Lauren had nearly been killed. He imagined a world without his beautiful daughter. His life wouldn’t be worth living if she were gone.
He wondered whether he should take her out for the day. Maybe get her mind off things. But what if she was being watched by the Ukrainians? What if they had a security team in place, monitoring his movements? What if they found out where Lauren lived?
He felt his mood darken as he played out the scenarios in his head. He needed to let his daughter live her life, without him hovering over her. Life was hard. It wasn’t fair. But the push and pull of life was one thing. It was quite another to let his daughter became embroiled in his shadowy world. Or to leave her to face the danger Brutka posed alone.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time his world had encroached on Lauren’s. She had been kidnapped as a reprisal years earlier when he had tried to shield a government scientist from an assassination attempt by a foreign government. That operation was how he had gotten to know Meyerstein and begun working for the Feds. It seemed so long ago.
The more he reflected on it, the more he felt like he and Meyerstein were becoming less trusting of one another. The thought bothered him. He sometimes wished she’d cut him some slack. But she never did.
A tapping sounded at the diner window. Reznick turned around and saw his daughter, face flushed from the heat, laughing as she pointed at him. Lauren ambled into the diner, smiling broadly.
Reznick stood up and hugged her. “What’s this? I thought you were getting ready to go back to your internship.”
“That can wait.”
Reznick’s mind went into overdrive. “I don’t understand . . . Was it a coincidence you seeing me here?”
Lauren grinned as she sat down. She leaned in close. “I was able to track your location. Find My iPhone. Crazy, huh?”
Reznick took a few moments to digest the information. “Honey, I’m thrilled to see you, of course, but shouldn’t you be resting up?”
Lauren shrugged. “You said you wanted to spend more time with me. So . . . here I am.”
“Well, that’s really sweet of you.”
“I thought you were going to head back to Maine.”
Reznick grimaced, trying to think up a story. “I was . . . and then I thought, Why not just spend a few more days in New York? I knew a guy that used to be in Delta, he lives downtown. Thought I might look him up again.”
“Dad, I’m not stupid.”
“It’s true.”
Lauren rolled her eyes as she ordered a skinny latte. “Gimme a break, Dad. I know what you’re like. I have an idea what kind of work you do.”
Reznick s
howed his hands. “You got me. Busted.”
Lauren smiled. “Dad, don’t treat me like a kid.”
“Alright. So why am I in New York?”
Lauren whispered, “You know who ran me down and left me in a coma. And I think you want to do something about it. I know about your military background.”
“That was a while ago, honey.”
“Dad, come on, who are you trying to kid? . . . When I was kidnapped by those Haitians a few years back, you said that it was retaliation for you trying to protect a scientist. And I remember you mentioned that you occasionally work for the FBI.”
The waitress returned with the skinny latte. “There you go, honey,” she said.
Lauren smiled. “Thank you.”
Reznick waited until the waitress was serving another table before he spoke softly. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you. I’m concerned that you’re not giving yourself time for recuperation and rest. That’s part of the healing process.”
“I’ve gotten the all clear from the doctors. I’m fine, apart from the odd headache. But I’m wondering, are you?”
“Am I what?”
Lauren took a sip of her coffee. “Are you fine? I’m not buying that you’re just here in New York to hang around, maybe see an ex-military friend of yours from way back.”
Reznick exhaled loudly and sighed. “Lauren, you’re killing me. I just wanted to spend a few more days in New York.”
“So do you want to go for a drink later?”
“Sure, that’d be nice.”
“OK, let’s go. Just me and you.”
Reznick grimaced. “It’s just that . . . I’ve got a couple of things to deal with, business things.”
“Business? Are you meeting up with someone?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
Lauren glanced out the window at the passing traffic. “You don’t seem too happy to see me.”
“Of course I am. It’s just that . . . I’m a bit distracted.”
