by J. B. Turner
Reznick felt as if his brain was going to explode. He seethed. He needed a plan. He needed to find a way out for all of them. He realized he was going to be killed. And quite possibly the girls too.
Brutka looked at the girls. “We all need rules,” he said as the bodyguard who killed Zuki began to translate. “You need to learn to obey. This is America.” He turned and looked at Zuki’s blood-spattered body. “She learned the hard way what we need to avoid.” He began to speak in Ukrainian, perhaps repeating his words to the girls.
Mohawk looked down on Reznick and grinned. “You next?”
Reznick just stared at him, and Mohawk turned away.
Reznick surreptitiously reached up his right trouser leg to the back of his calf, pulled out the second Beretta, and trained it on Mohawk. He shot him twice in the back. The guy slumped to the floor as the girls screamed again. But before the other two goons could act, Reznick did a double tap to their foreheads. The two thugs fell to their knees, then collapsed facedown, red splatter congealing on the floor.
Brutka put his arms up in the air and walked backward. He lunged at one of the girls and grabbed her, spun her around, and stood behind her, cowering, as he took a gun from his jacket and pressed it to her head. “What do you think, Mr. Reznick? You think this is going to end well for this fragrant beauty?”
Reznick slowly got to his feet, gun trained on Brutka. He wanted the pinhole camera to capture the rogue Ukrainian diplomat in all his terrible glory. The eyes of the girl he had his arm around were filling with tears. “It doesn’t have to go down like this, Brutka. This stops today. It’s over.”
“Who are you working for, Reznick? Whatever they’re paying you, I will quadruple it. Forget that. I will transfer ten million dollars to an account of your choice. Just as long as you get me out of here.”
Reznick said nothing, just focused on Brutka’s hand with the gun pointed at the girl’s head. “You must have me mixed up with some other guy. I don’t do deals.”
“Reznick, I know powerful people. My father can get an audience with anyone in the world. You need to look at the big picture.”
Reznick focused on Brutka’s trembling hand that was holding the gun.
Brutka smiled. “You’re crazy, Mr. Reznick. I didn’t mean to run over your daughter.”
“Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you take responsibility?”
“Let’s do this deal. You’ll never have to work again.”
“Let the girl go.”
“I do deals each and every day. I’ll ensure your daughter has a significant trust fund so she can pursue her studies. I will make sure you are richly rewarded, and we can all move on. What do you say, Mr. Reznick?”
Reznick fired two shots at Brutka’s wrist. He fell to the floor, screaming, as the gun dropped to the concrete. Blood seeped out of the diplomat’s wrist as he writhed and wailed in agony.
Reznick stepped forward and kicked the gun away as the girls fled from the space.
“What the hell?” Brutka shouted. “Have you lost your mind?”
Reznick pressed his shoe down hard onto the bleeding wound, gun trained on Brutka.
Brutka screwed up his face in pain and began to scream.
“How do you like that? That feel good?” Reznick pointed the gun at Brutka’s head. “You’re not above the law.”
“Please, let’s work this out man-to-man.”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Reznick caught sight of two SWAT guys.
One shouted, “Reznick, you can put it down! NYPD SWAT.”
Reznick shook his head. “I’m not standing down.”
“That is an order.”
Reznick kept his gun trained on Brutka as he seethed. “You wanna make a deal now?”
Brutka was shaking uncontrollably. “Please! Help me!”
A split second later, Meyerstein and Acosta burst in through a side door, guns locked and loaded, aimed at Brutka.
Meyerstein said, “Jon, we’ve got this.”
Reznick didn’t move.
“He’s not worth it, Jon,” Meyerstein said. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Acosta said, “Think about this, Jon. The rest of the girls are fine.”
Reznick pressed the gun to Brutka’s head. “Why did your bodyguard kill the girl?”
“It’s how we operate! We lay down the law!”
Reznick sneered. “The law! What do you know about the law?”
Acosta went over to where Zuki lay. “Oh my God, no.”
Reznick said, “Why did you kill her!” He pressed his gun to Brutka’s head. “Why did you kill her, you fuck?”
Brutka closed his eyes, as if expecting a bullet in the head.
“Tell me!” Reznick ordered.
“I wanted to teach her a lesson. She needed to learn obedience.”
“Obedience? Is that what it’s all about?”
“Please . . . I’m begging you.”
Reznick stared down at Brutka. “You killed an innocent girl in cold blood. I have a good mind to blast you to hell myself.”
Meyerstein said, “We’ve got him, Jon. We’ve got it all. It’s recorded. We have the footage. And the audio.”
Brutka had tears in his eyes. “I can explain.”
Reznick said, “You weren’t on official business, were you, Brutka? This is not official business.”
“Of course it’s not.” Brutka was breathing hard.
Meyerstein looked at Brutka. “Your diplomatic immunity is gone now. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Brutka shook his head. “I want my lawyer. I want to see Lionel Morton.”
Meyerstein looked at Reznick. “Nothing can save him. Not even his father. We got him, Jon. You need to stand down.”
Reznick pressed the gun tight to Brutka’s sweating forehead. “Welcome to America, you fuck.”
Fifty-Nine
The minutes that followed went by in a surreal blur for Meyerstein. The diplomat was screaming in pain as he was handcuffed, still bleeding heavily from his wrist. Meyerstein watched impassively. The SWAT team hustled him into a waiting ambulance. Then the traumatized Ukrainian girls were taken outside to waiting ambulances, wrapped in blankets, given warm tea from a thermos, and taken to a hospital for a checkup, before being interviewed by the NYPD. Reznick was being treated by a paramedic for his head wound.
Meyerstein stared at the body of the dead Ukrainian girl, Zuki, blood still congealing around her head on the warehouse floor. She walked over to Detective Acosta, who was standing in the corner by herself. “I believe you knew this girl quite well.”
“Not well enough, unfortunately.”
Meyerstein handed Acosta her business card. “Don’t hesitate to contact me in the future.”
Acosta stared at the dead girl. “Poor little thing. I tried to get her out of that apartment. But she was too scared to move.”
“She was brave enough to help us nail that bastard.”
Acosta said, “True.” She smiled sadly as Reznick approached her. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“I appreciate what you did on this, Jon. It was crazy how you went about it. You crossed the line. But you got him.”
“I’m just glad he won’t be terrorizing any more girls in New York. Or anywhere else.”
Acosta sighed. “There’s always lowlifes like him out there, Jon. But we’ll keep going after them. Trust me on that.”
“I would expect nothing less, Isabella. Been a pleasure.”
Acosta blushed. “It was nice to meet you, Jon. I wish you had known my brother. You would’ve liked him.”
“I know I would.”
“Next time you’re in New York, look me up. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“You got it.”
Meyerstein felt an unusual pang of jealousy. It was not that she envied Acosta, though she was clearly beautiful. But the detective’s flirtatious response to Reznick’s presence d
idn’t sit right with her. Especially in the immediate aftermath of the cold-blooded murder of Zuki. Her cell phone rang, and she sighed. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“Sure,” Acosta said.
Meyerstein went outside to the courtyard to take the call. “Assistant Director Meyerstein,” she said, eyes closed.
“Martha, quick heads-up.” The voice belonged to Alisa Fonseca, head of Human Rights and Special Prosecutions at the Justice Department. “We’ve got the paperwork in place.”
“For what?”
“Ilad Brutka, Aleksander Brutka’s grandfather, also known as Bud Smith. We’ve had three experts confirm through medical records and photo identification this is our guy.”
“So when are you getting him?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I know you’re in New York. So am I. I had to stop off to pick up a Justice Department lawyer who we want to be there.”
“Where are you?”
“LaGuardia. We’re leaving in thirty minutes. We’re just getting refueled.”
“I want to be there. We’re thirty minutes away.”
“Not a problem.”
Meyerstein ended the call and walked over to Reznick. “We’re going to LaGuardia.”
Sixty
It was just after midnight, and Reznick was wired on Dexedrine and adrenaline as the Cessna touched down at Lebanon Municipal Airport in New Hampshire. The night air was steamy and sultry. The events in the Bronx were still running through his head like an out-of-control freight train. He accompanied Meyerstein in one of two SUVs, which drove them across the state line to Norwich, Vermont.
Meyerstein turned to Reznick. “How’s your head?”
“Tylenol taking the edge off.”
Meyerstein gave him a rueful smile. “You really need to think about cutting back on those other pills.”
“Gimme a break.”
Meyerstein looked ahead as they drove down a quiet road outside Norwich until they came to a dimly lit colonial, a US flag flying near the front door. She got out and walked across to the first car as Reznick followed close behind.
Fonseca, from the Justice Department, spoke into her cell phone for a few moments. “This is it. We’ve got the green light to arrest this guy.”
The lawyer checked over the paperwork in the back of the SUV as two Justice Department special agents introduced themselves to Meyerstein and Reznick.
Reznick thought it all looked very unscripted. Not thinking about any potential dangers, hidden or otherwise. As if a ninetysomething frail old man posed no problems. “So how are you gonna work this?” he asked Fonseca. “Just stroll right up?”
“We’ve got this covered, thanks for asking.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How have you got this covered? I’m talking preparations.”
Fonseca shrugged. “One of my guys will take the rear door just in case. I will arrest Brutka with my other colleague from the Justice Department.”
“And that’s the plan?” Reznick said.
Meyerstein intervened. “What intel do we have on this guy and his house?”
“Nothing. We’re assuming he will be in bed. And we will wake him up.”
Reznick said, “You’re assuming?”
“There is no indication he’s a threat,” Fonseca said.
Reznick shook his head. “Apart from the crimes committed during the Second World War, you mean.”
Fonseca looked around the area for a few moments before fixing her gaze on Reznick. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Mr. Reznick. We’re all on the same side, after all.”
Reznick didn’t think there had been even a minimum level of planning. And it worried him. “So you got the arrest warrant? All the legal stuff.”
Fonseca showed it to him. “Here it is. You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Reznick.”
“You can never ask enough questions,” he said. “Never.”
Meyerstein held up her hand to silence Reznick. “Jon and I will accompany you into the house if that’s OK, just in case there are any problems.”
Fonseca seemed stung but acquiesced. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
Reznick was surprised they were going in without a basic SWAT team. He didn’t care if the guy was in his nineties. It was better to do it right. It would have been better to arrest him on the street when he left the house the next morning. He pulled out his 9mm Beretta from his waistband and flicked off the safety. If nothing else, he was ready.
He pushed the negative thoughts about the lack of planning aside and followed Meyerstein to the front door. One of the Justice agents indicated he was going to go around the rear of the building, gun in hand.
Fonseca knocked hard on the front door. She waited for a few moments. The only sound was the whirring of cicadas carried on the warm New England breeze. But no answer at the door. She tried again. And again.
Meyerstein said, “Try the handle.”
Fonseca turned the handle and slowly pushed open the door as the moonlight bathed the dark corridor. She flicked on a light switch. But nothing. “Damn. Mr. Brutka?” she called. “Justice Department special agents.” She turned to Meyerstein. “I’ll take the first floor. You guys want to take the second and third?”
Meyerstein nodded. “Got it.”
Reznick brushed past Meyerstein. “I think I hear something.”
Meyerstein stopped and listened. “Is that music?”
Reznick nodded and headed up the creaking stairs. He scoured the rooms on the second floor. He tried a light switch. Nothing. The sound of music grew louder. Military music. Marching music. He beckoned Meyerstein. “Someone’s up there.”
Meyerstein nodded.
Reznick bounded up the stairs two at a time. He was on the third-floor landing. He pushed open a door straight ahead, gun pointed. Nothing. Then a second room, adjacent to the first. It was a neatly made-up bedroom.
Was the music coming from the third room, at the end of the hallway?
Reznick indicated for Meyerstein to keep out of the line of sight. He had his back pressed to the wall as he approached the door. The music was rousing. Patriotic songs.
He turned the handle and pushed open the door.
The room was in darkness, pale moonlight coming through the net curtains.
Reznick realized the hall forked off down another narrower corridor for a few yards. Heart beating fast, he peered around the corner. Stairs to an attic. He signaled Meyerstein toward him. She crouched down, gun drawn. The music played on. Drawing up the rear were Fonseca and the Justice Department crew. He whispered, “Let me have a look.”
Meyerstein nodded, as did Fonseca.
Reznick approached the wooden stairs, floorboards creaking with every step. He hoped the music would mask the noise. He wondered if the guy was waiting for them. He grimaced and climbed the stairs. He peeked his head up and looked into the attic. Cloaked in darkness was a skeletal figure sitting in a chair, gun pressed to his head.
The man said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Reznick edged into the attic, gun trained on the figure, as the music played. “FBI! Put down the gun!”
The man didn’t move.
Meyerstein entered the attic, gun pointed at the silhouetted figure. “Put down the gun!”
Reznick took a step closer.
The man said, “Stop right there.”
Reznick froze, gun still trained on the guy. His eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness. The man was wearing a military uniform.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” the man said.
Meyerstein said, “Are you Ilad Brutka?”
The man said, “That’s very perceptive. Who are you?”
“FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein. Put down the goddamn gun! We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Meyerstein . . . What an interesting name.”
Reznick took a step closer. “Put the gun down!”
“Meyerstein,” Brut
ka rasped. “Is that a Jewish name?”
Meyerstein didn’t flinch. “Sir, you need to put the gun down!”
The music was playing, and Brutka smiled. “You are Jewish, aren’t you? I take a keen interest in these things.”
Reznick focused on Brutka’s hand holding the gun. He knew the Justice Department wanted to take him alive. But his gut instincts were screaming at him that the guy was a danger to them all as well as to himself.
“Sir . . . put down the gun!” Meyerstein said.
“I knew the Jews. They were all Bolsheviks. No one understands what we were facing. You would never understand. How could you? And you dare to come for me? An old man. I wear the uniform of the Fourteenth Waffen Grenadier Division of the SS with pride. The First Galician we were known as. What do you know about me? You know nothing.”
“Final warning, Brutka!” Meyerstein said as the marching music blared.
“I am not afraid of you. I am afraid of no one.”
Meyerstein kept her gun trained on him.
“I thought I could live out my days. But somehow you’ve come for me. And for it to be a Jew, well . . . How ironic. Do you think you will be able to take me alive? I am not afraid of death.”
Suddenly, Brutka edged the gun away from his temple.
“Drop the gun!” Reznick shouted.
Brutka directed the gun toward Meyerstein, his finger on the trigger.
Reznick fired off a double tap to Brutka’s head. Muzzle flash lit up the room as gunshots rang out. Blood and brains exploded from the old man’s forehead. A deafening silence followed. The smell of cordite. But all he could think of in that split second was the grainy black-and-white photograph of that poor naked Jewish woman being paraded through the streets by Brutka and his fellow Nazis.
Today was a belated payback, nearly eighty years later, for that woman. Cold vengeance.
Reznick stared at the old man. The music continued playing. Then the gun dropped from Brutka’s bony hand.
The old bastard was dead.
Sixty-One
The first tinges of pale morning light began to bathe the interior of the attic through a skylight. Forensics and local cops mingled with Fonseca, her team, and Meyerstein. Reznick had given statements to Fonseca and the cops. The flash and the clicking sound of a camera cut through the investigative chatter.
