by J. B. Turner
“Because I speak English fluently. They will relate to me more, I guess. Most of the girls only speak Ukrainian or Russian.”
“Why haven’t you told me this before?” Acosta said.
“You didn’t ask,” the girl said.
Acosta sighed. “Give me some details about tonight.”
The girl said, “He says he will pick me up. And we will drive to check on the girls.”
“Where?”
“Long Island.”
“Why Long Island?”
“They’re arriving by boat.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea. Three or four miles offshore, they are transferred from a container ship to a boat. A yacht. And they are taken below. Then they are put on a dinghy about a mile out and taken to an isolated beach. Then they are put in the back of a truck and driven somewhere. Unless it’s all changed since I was smuggled in last year.”
Acosta said, “There is one way for you to end this for good.”
“How?” the girl said.
“You wear a wire.”
The girl shook her head. “I can’t do that. He’s a very smart man.”
Reznick said, “What about another way? What about if we track your cell phone?”
The girl went quiet for a few moments. “You need this to trap him, right?”
Reznick said, “This way we can monitor where you are. Record what is said. And then end this for you and all the girls.”
The girl nodded. “It will end?”
Reznick said, “It will end tonight. If you agree to this, it will end tonight.”
Forty-Nine
Reznick and Acosta accompanied Zuki out of her East Harlem apartment. She was taken for a full medical examination by an NYPD doctor. Her injuries were treated and catalogued, and she gave a full statement. She was then sent home in a cab, having agreed to help nail Brutka. Reznick was in awe of the girl’s resolve after all she had been through. But he couldn’t help wondering how this was all going to play out.
Reznick and Acosta headed back to an interview room at the Nineteenth Precinct to discuss if the operation would work. “My concern, Isabella, is, can she pull this off? Will she get cold feet?”
Acosta said, “She seems determined enough.”
“I don’t know. I’m wondering if she’s putting on a brave face for our benefit.”
Acosta nodded and scribbled some notes.
“I appreciate you letting me in on this.”
“I’ve OK’d it with my boss. Although it would be best if the Feds are on board.”
Reznick sighed. “Tell me about the resources you’re going to call on.”
“So, the NYPD is pulling together the best team we can for this. Surveillance experts. Vice Enforcement. And the whole operation will be run in tandem with our Intelligence unit.”
Reznick said, “This is high risk. Zuki does know that.”
Acosta said, “She knows this is high risk. But she’s got guts, that girl.”
“Let me speak to the Feds. If you guys can work alongside the FBI, draw on each other’s expertise, it will be better for everyone.”
Acosta smiled. “Let’s do it.”
Reznick called Meyerstein, and they spoke for a quarter of an hour. He explained the situation in detail. And in particular what was going to go down that night.
Meyerstein said, “Are we going to be doing this without the State Department’s knowledge?”
“Got to. Otherwise, the whole thing could be compromised.”
Meyerstein remained quiet for a few moments. “Do you want to stick with Acosta on this?”
“Why?”
“You’re not officially FBI. But if she’s happy for you to ride along, then I’m fine with that.”
Reznick covered the mouthpiece and asked Acosta if that was possible.
Acosta said, “No chance.”
Reznick relayed the information to Meyerstein.
“Jon,” she said, “if this goes down and we have covert audio and video showing Brutka in the act trafficking, then we have proof.”
Reznick looked across at Acosta. “How about if I get a motorcycle?”
“That can be arranged. Harley, unmarked, I would imagine.”
“Perfect. I could be connected to the operation. But still separate. Plausible deniability and all that.”
Acosta shrugged. “That would work. I have no problem with that. But you would be at greater risk.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Reznick said. “Martha, did you hear what I said? What do you say?”
“And this girl is convinced it’s happening tonight?”
“Correct.”
“Very well. But, Jon, if this goes south, you’re on your own.”
Fifty
Reznick picked up a black leather biker jacket from a nearby store and headed back to his hotel room. He freshened up and put on a fresh T-shirt, jeans, and battered Nike sneakers. He popped a couple of Dexedrine, washed down by a bottle of Coke from the minibar. He stood beside the window and stared out at the skyscrapers all around. A world away from his day-to-day life in recent years. But in a city he loved, all the same.
The city his late wife had called home. The city where they had married. The city that had endured despite 9/11. The city that never stood still. He was glad. It was a sign that America would endure. It wouldn’t stop the energy of this city. Nothing could.
In his darkest hours, after 9/11, when Reznick had retreated to Rockland to bury himself in a haze of booze, unable and unwilling to move on, he could never imagine returning to the city again. Not after what had happened to Elisabeth. The way she had died. But over time, over years, Reznick had finally made it back. Alone. He had wandered the streets of lower Manhattan. He had seen that the city was determined to build again. On the sacred spot where the towers had stood, there would emerge two enormous waterfalls and reflecting pools.
Hundreds of trees had been planted around the site.
Sometimes he just stood and stared at the water. It was a place to contemplate. Invariably he contemplated his wife’s life. Their beautiful daughter. And her love. Unconditional love. Lauren talked about art, philosophy, and all sorts of stuff. Reznick just listened, content to hear her explain it to him.
Reznick wondered if he was trapped by the past. Beholden to the tragedy that had occurred that day. In many ways it was inevitable. But he was thinking about moving forward. He hadn’t dated since Elisabeth had died. It hadn’t felt right. But years had gone by, and Reznick was only now beginning to wonder if he needed someone else in his life. He had his daughter. Thank God she had pulled through the accident. But he needed someone to be there for him. To talk to. To have a drink with. He missed that. In its place he had retreated into a world of the familiar. A bar. A drink. Friends of his late father. They talked about politics. The bullshit going on in America. But he needed more than that.
He knew he was closed off. He wasn’t by nature the most gregarious person in the world. Quite the opposite.
Reznick’s cell phone vibrated on the desk beside the TV. The caller ID showed it was his daughter.
“Hey, Dad,” she said.
“Hey, Lauren. How are you? How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling good. I had a nap this morning, and I’m feeling refreshed.”
“Good stuff.”
“Dad, you were talking about getting to know each other better. At the diner, remember?”
“Sure, honey.”
“And I was wondering if you’d like to come to my apartment tonight. Tracy won’t be back until eleven tonight, and I’ll cook you dinner. How does that sound?”
Reznick grimaced. He hated letting his daughter down. “Tonight?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be great. I’m feeling so much better and stronger, and how cool would that be? I’ll get the food—I know you like steak—and you can bring the wine.”
Reznick groaned. “I can’t. Not tonight, honey. I’m sorry.”
Reznick wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “It’s a beautiful thought. It’s just . . .”
“You got some business to attend to?” Lauren’s voice faltered for a moment.
“That’s right. It’s unavoidable.”
“Are you going after the guy who did this to me?”
Reznick sighed. “I don’t want to talk about that, honey. I just want you to know that if it’s alright with you, we can do dinner tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“That’s fine, Dad.”
“I’m really looking forward to that, if your friend’s OK with that.”
“She’s fine, trust me. She’s always out at night.”
“Know what we can talk about tomorrow?”
“What?”
“I want to hear more about your marksmanship. Your Krav Maga skills. And all that.”
“I can shoot, Dad. I’d be useful to you tonight.”
“I know you would. But this isn’t your fight, Lauren.”
“But it is, can’t you see?”
“Sometimes things get messy. This has the scope to be messy, trust me.”
“I just want to help. I don’t want to sit around twiddling my thumbs while you’re out there battling in my corner.”
Reznick sighed. “Sadly, it’s about more than just you, Lauren. There are quite a lot of young women affected by this guy.”
“I’d like you to change your mind.”
“Not this time, honey. How about I take you to a shooting range, see what you’ve got? And then, perhaps, we can talk some more.”
“Promise?”
“I swear.” Reznick checked his watch. It was nearly five o’clock. He had to move. “I love you, Lauren.”
“Love you too, Dad. Be careful.”
Fifty-One
Three blocks away from the Ukrainian girl’s apartment, Acosta was getting antsy in an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. She checked her watch. Where was Brutka?
NYPD surveillance vans and cars were set up within a one-hundred-yard radius of the apartment. In addition, three unmarked FBI cars were spread out across the neighborhood. It was going to go down tonight. But still there was radio silence.
The minutes dragged as Acosta contemplated the operation. She watched a Latino street hustler wearing a baseball cap and low-slung pants skulk down the street, peering in vehicle windows. He was smoking a joint. But that would have to wait for another day.
She felt the adrenaline rushing through her body. The intel from Reznick had jarred everyone. It was possible that if they had some luck Brutka could be snared once and for all. But they were going to need a good slice of luck for that to happen, and to avoid Reznick or any police officers getting injured in the process.
She knew from years of experience at the NYPD that good intelligence gathering was crucial. She couldn’t help but wonder if the information supplied by the damaged Ukrainian girl about the shipment of young women being brought into Long Island was correct. Only Zuki knew what she had been told by Brutka. Maybe she had picked it up wrong. It was possible that it was misinformation. Was that a realistic scenario? Could Brutka have deliberately supplied false information to determine if the girl could be trusted?
Acosta sighed as the doubts plagued her mind.
The radio buzzed into life, snapping her back to the present. “Stand by. Vehicle has arrived,” a male voice said. “Verified ownership of target. Black Bentley SUV. Got a visual on someone.”
Acosta said, “Copy that. Is the visual the target?”
“Negative. Bodyguard has entered the building.”
Acosta said, “Shit! Where’s the target?”
“Can’t tell. His cell phone GPS is showing he’s in Midtown.”
Acosta shook her head. “Copy that.” She realized that Brutka, if he was in the car, was using a new cell phone again. Probably as a precaution. But with the amount of surveillance on his tail, Acosta was confident they wouldn’t lose him.
The radio again crackled into life. “The girl is leaving the apartment.”
“Copy.”
“She is wearing dark glasses. Bodyguard is holding her wrist tight. She is now in the rear left seat. Repeat, rear left seat. Bodyguard up-front. And they’re pulling away. I think we’re on. Repeat, they’re pulling away from the address.”
Acosta said, “Copy that. Let’s do this.”
“The girl’s cell phone has been activated. We’ve got a fix on her location.”
“Copy that.” Acosta spotted the car in the distance. “Not too close. Headed north on FDR.”
The driver said, “Where they headed?”
“We expect they will take a turn onto the Triborough Bridge.”
And sure enough a Fed surveillance vehicle confirmed that the Bentley was headed over the bridge.
But instead of heading down through Brooklyn, out through Queens, and toward Long Island on the expressway, the Bentley drove north into Port Morris and then the Bronx. She knew the area better than anyone. It never seemed to change.
Acosta sighed. “Shit. What’s going on? What is this?”
The driver shook his head as they headed north on the Bruckner.
Acosta realized the original plan given to Zuki had either been scrapped or revised somewhat. It wasn’t a great start. “OK, this could be pointing to a rendezvous in the Bronx. But let’s just focus on the target and his vehicle. Let’s see where it leads us.”
Fifty-Two
Brutka shielded his eyes from the shards of sunlight reflected off the industrial buildings as they drove through the bleak Bronx landscape. He was sitting in the back seat of the Bentley; the girl, smelling nice, sitting beside him was quiet. The way he liked it. He turned and looked at her. “I like your shades,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Drugstore.”
Brutka smiled. “Very cool. I’m glad you can help me out tonight.”
The girl nodded, hands clasped.
“I’m sorry about last night. I think I got a bit carried away. Are you OK now?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Brutka reached over and took off her sunglasses. The girl flinched. The swelling and purple bruising around her eyes was pronounced. “I need to work harder on my anger management, I know that,” he said.
The girl gave a forced smile. “I forgive you.”
Brutka stroked her hair again and kissed her on the lips. “It’ll get better. I promise.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small box. “This is a small token of my love for you.”
The girl looked at it. “What’s this, honey?”
“Open it. It’s for you.”
The girl carefully opened the paper. Inside was a Tiffany’s box wrapped in a crisp white ribbon.
“Open it.”
The girl untied the ribbon and opened the box. A smile crossed her face as she lifted up the diamond-encrusted bracelet. “This is beautiful. For me?”
Brutka smiled and stroked her head. “A special gift for a special girl. I try so hard to be a good person. But I find it difficult.”
The girl looked unsure whether to touch it. “I can’t believe this . . . It’s too much, honey.”
“Nonsense. We all deserve special treats. Especially my special girl.”
“This is . . . so unexpected. This must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Better part of twenty big ones.”
The girl whistled, then burst out laughing. “For me? Are you sure?”
“Put it on.”
“Now?”
Brutka nodded as he stroked the girl’s swollen cheek. “You’re so beautiful. And understanding. I like that combination.”
The girl wrapped the bracelet around her slender wrist and clipped it into place. Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry I upset you last night.”
“It was my fault. But anyway, the bracelet . . . You lik
e it?”
“Yes, honey. I love it. It’s sparkling, like your eyes.”
Brutka kissed her and wiped away her tears. “You say the nicest things. I love you. You’re a very special girl.”
The girl’s gaze dropped.
“Put your sunglasses on,” he snapped.
The girl did as she was told. “Where are we going? I don’t know this area.”
“It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you stand beside me, smile, converse with any girls who are nervous. To reassure them. That a new life awaits. And if they are very good in the first few months, I can secure them a ten-year visa. And an apartment. But only after they have proven themselves to me. Do you know what I mean?”
The girl gave a tired smile. “Yes, honey.”
Fifty-Three
Reznick was discreetly tailing the Bentley on a Harley chopper, headed north through the Bronx, a hundred yards or so behind the diplomat’s car. His 9mm Beretta was holstered inside his leather jacket. The NYPD had attached a metallic stars-and-stripes badge with a pinhole camera to his lapel. But Reznick also had a gun taped to his left calf and a knife taped to the other leg. He always liked to be prepared.
As he sped through the postindustrial wastelands of the Bronx, Reznick’s earpiece buzzed to life.
“Jon, you got a visual?” The voice of Meyerstein.
“Affirmative, I see him. I’m three cars back.”
“Copy that. We’re tracking from the phone. So we have the GPS and the real-time conversation being recorded. But do not, repeat, do not get too close.”
“So we’re 100 percent sure this is the target vehicle?”
“Copy that. We got a visual. She’s in the rear left seat. The target is sitting beside her. And we can be sure he’s absolutely not conducting official diplomatic business.”
“Copy that. What about the consignment of girls?”
“Latest electronic surveillance we have is that the boat dropped the girls off at Hunts Point, close to the fish market. That’s all we have.”
“And that’s where the target is headed?”
“We don’t know for sure. The signal dropped in the last few minutes.”
Reznick saw the Bentley head off the expressway. “OK, he’s taken a right. A right onto . . .”
