by J. B. Turner
J. B. Turner
HARD ROAD
For my late father
ONE
The call came from a man he knew only as Maddox.
Jon Reznick was sitting on his freezing deck as darkness fell over Maine, nursing a bottle of beer, staring out over the ocean. He let his cell phone ring a few times, knowing what lay ahead. The ringtone was incessant. It had been ten long weeks. He pulled his coat tight and watched his breath turn to vapor.
He sighed long and hard before he picked up the phone.
“We gotta delivery problem in Washington,” Maddox said.
Reznick said nothing.
Down below in the cove, the Atlantic breakers crashed onto the rocky headland with a deafening roar, sending salt water into the winter air. The silhouettes of the tall oaks and maples in the garden, shorn of their leaves, which his late father had planted when he was a boy, bent and creaked in the wind. Away in the distance, out on Penobscot Bay, Reznick could see the lights of the lobster boats as they headed back to Rockland with the day’s catch.
Maddox finally broke the silence. “They want to know if you can ensure the safe transfer of a consignment.”
“When?”
“You must leave tonight.”
Reznick said nothing.
“Is this inconvenient for you?”
“Kinda short notice.”
“Are you available?”
“Tell me, how’s the weather where you are?”
A long pause. “It’s wet.”
The word “wet” said it all. “Someone must want this delivery real bad.”
“Will you do it?”
Reznick said nothing.
“This has got to happen. This is an important customer.”
He let out a long sigh. “Tell them I’m in.”
“Smart move, Reznick. Pick up your tickets at the airport.”
“Where am I going?”
“You’ll see.”
The line went dead.
Just before midnight, Reznick’s plane landed at Dulles. He wore a black leather jacket, a grey T-shirt, and dark blue Levi jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. He slung his bag containing a shaving kit, fresh boxer shorts, two T-shirts, a clean pair of jeans and his running gear over his shoulder and headed over to the Avis lot. Then he picked up a black Chevy Camaro. In the trunk was an envelope with a fake credit card and two thousand dollars in cash alongside a three-night reservation receipt for the Omni Shoreham Hotel in northwest Washington.
Reznick knew the city well. He headed onto the airport toll road and drove due east on Route 66, over the Roosevelt Bridge and exited onto Constitution Avenue. The traffic was still heavy, despite the late hour. His mind flashed back to the time he first visited the city with his father. It was the fall of 1982 during the first of many trips to see the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. He remembered his father cursing the snarled-up traffic in his rental car. But most of all he remembered what his father wore. A dark suit, white shirt, Marine Corps tie and black shoes polished to a glassy shine. Without fail, his father always touched the names of the young men carved into the black granite wall the moment he arrived. Reznick would stand in silence, arms by his side, as his father fought back the tears.
The blaring siren of a fire truck in the distance snapped him out of his reverie as he drove over the historic Taft Bridge and past the two imposing concrete lions guarding either side. Eventually he took a left onto Calvert Street, the hotel up ahead.
He pulled up outside a traditional eight-story building and tipped the valet ten dollars.
Reznick walked through the grand, sprawling lobby. Marble floor, ornate columns and chandeliers. A young man on the desk took his details as he signed in under a false name, Ron Dixon.
“Three nights. Good to have you with us, Mr Dixon. Do you mind me asking if you’re in town for business or pleasure, sir?”
Reznick managed a smile. “A bit of both.”
“Excellent. Can we help you with any bags?”
“No, you’re OK, thanks.”
His fake credit card was swiped and he took the elevator to the sixth floor.
Reznick used the card to open his door and flicked on the lights. He hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside before he locked the room.
The room was too warm, but spacious. A huge TV was on one wall, a welcome message across the screen. The décor was the classic look, green floral patterned carpet and king-sized double bed with a couple of rosewood dressers. The drapes matched the carpets.
He peered out of the window over the upscale Woodley Park neighborhood; a good base, well away from downtown. He turned down the climate control switch to cool. He showered and wrapped himself in the white terry dressing gown. Then he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Maddox to call.
The next morning, Reznick ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee from room service, before he got changed into his jogging gear – navy T-shirt and sweatpants with well-worn Nike sneakers. He headed over to Rock Creek Park under a flawless December sky, for his daily run. When he arrived at the water-powered Peirce Mill near the entrance, he did some stretching and warm-up moves although the temperature was in the low 60s. A handful of joggers were already pounding the trails.
He switched on his iPod, blocking out the outside world, helping him focus on the task in hand. The thunderous riffs and beats of a Led Zeppelin song got his blood flowing. He checked his watch, 8.48am precisely. He headed north towards the Western Ridge Trail, the smell of dead leaves and pine trees in the mid-December air.
After about a mile, he passed a young Hispanic woman sitting on the curb of a parking lot near Broad Branch Road. She grimaced as she rubbed her knee.
Reznick ran on by. No need to engage in unnecessary conversation with a stranger. Being anonymous was best. He knew the rules. The list was endless. Do not wear loud clothes, talk too much, appear distracted or lost; in fact anything that meant you were no longer blending in. The appearance was crucial. Greys, navy tracksuits and business suits were good. Black shoes, also. But you had to fit into the surrounding environment.
The way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, your accent, dialect, they all gave off signals. The moment a concierge thought your luggage looked too flashy or too beaten-up; it all painted a picture. If you’re in a top-end hotel, wear top end clothes and carry smart cases.
The small things matter. Be attentive. Logos are easy to remember. Better without them. The trick was to be anonymous. But don’t try too hard. Don’t shun eye contact. That in itself will attract attention. What has he got to hide?
The senses had to work overtime. And tactics had to be changed, depending on the circumstances. Move to another hotel, change into new clothes, ditch a car and get a different model.
He headed along Beach Drive as he ran through the park. Heart rate steady. Deeper and deeper through a verdant urban sanctuary in America’s capital city.
Slowly the endorphins kicked in as the sun flickered through the branches of the leafless oaks and maples. The sweat ran down his back and stuck to his grey marl T-shirt.
On and on he ran.
Up a hill and down a ravine, and back on the trail along Beach Drive, passing a small stone police substation in the center of the park, two officers leaning against a cruiser, drinking coffee. He gave a polite nod and they nodded back.
Heart pumping harder as his head became clearer. This was his routine ahead of every job and it passed the time. Kept him focused.
Along the northern section of the park, he passed Rolling Meadow Bridge and doubled back along a trail by the public golf course. On past the amphitheater and across Bluff Bridge to where he’d started.
He checked his pulse. Only slightly raised.
Ten minutes later, Reznick did some cool down stretching exercises against a park bench, when his cell phone in his waistband vibrated. He switched off his iPod and saw the familiar caller display.
“How you feeling today?” It was Maddox.
“I’m fine.”
“So, any questions?”
Reznick wiped some sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “You got a name?”
A beat. “All I know is that he’s an American. OK?”
“On home soil? How come?”
A long pause. “Look, they wanted to keep it in-house. That’s all I can say. This is a sensitive one.”
“Tell me, where is the subject now?”
“Walking the national mall with his son.”
“What kind of monitoring?”
“Electronic. Far safer.”
Reznick stayed quiet, knowing he was right.
“How about we speak later today?”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But stay close to your hotel.”
Reznick shielded his eyes against the sun. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why stay close to the hotel?”
Maddox sighed. “Look, I’ve not had any confirmation, but I’ve heard from someone higher up the chain that we might have to move very quickly on this particular delivery.”
“Timescale?”
“Sooner rather than later. Bear that in mind.”
The rest of the day dragged as Reznick waited for Maddox to call.
It could be a matter of hours. He dialed 12 and ordered a late brunch of scrambled eggs, black coffee, buttered toast and more freshly squeezed orange juice. After a warm shower, he channel hopped between CNN, Fox News and the Weather Channel. Bombings across Kabul and Helmand Province as the Taliban launched a coordinated series of attacks to destabilize the Afghan government and instill fear in the population. He could see the way the wind was blowing there and it was all bad.
Early evening, he ordered a club sandwich and a Coke from room service. Afterwards, he went for a walk, keeping within six blocks of the hotel. He returned to his room, lay down on his bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
When he awoke, he checked the time. It was 8.09pm. And still Maddox hadn’t called. Had there been a delay? Perhaps a last minute change of plan?
The thought of delays depressed him. He was asked to do a job; he wanted to get it over with. Then move on. He couldn’t abide the long-drawn-out ones.
Feeling groggy, Reznick headed down to reception, bought a pair of swimming shorts and swam forty lengths of the empty pool, leaving his phone on his towel, on top of a lounger.
He headed back to his room and changed into a fresh T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. He paced the room, stopping occasionally to do push-ups and sit-ups, trying to keep sharp, not knowing when the call would come or if it would come at any moment.
Eventually, he slumped in the room’s easy chair and watched an old black and white Jimmy Cagney film with the sound down.
His cell phone vibrated in the top pocket of his T-shirt.
“You’re on the move.” The voice of Maddox.
“Where?”
“Go to the Park America garage, 3000 K Street Northwest, and leave your car on Level 2.”
Reznick made a mental note.
“Proceed to Level 5 where you’ll find a black BMW convertible. Your keys can electronically open it. Proceed to the St Regis Hotel, and book in under the name, Lionel Fairchild. New ID and documents are in the passenger’s jockey box, and a tan Louis Vuitton travelling bag with overnight essentials is in the trunk.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“The usual kit. Laptop, delivery equipment; it’s all there.”
Reznick said nothing.
“After you check-in, head straight to your room, which has already been allocated, and await final instructions.”
Reznick did exactly as he was told.
First, he checked out of the Omni taking time to thank them for such a pleasant stay but sorry he had to cut short his visit for family reasons. He picked up his car from the valet and drove to the nearby parking garage as instructed. He left the vehicle on Level 2 and climbed the stairs. A rather smart BMW with tinted windows was parked at the far end of Level 5. He popped open the trunk, the monogrammed designer men’s travel bag was inside. He picked it up, got into the car and clicked the fob to centrally lock the doors before he unzipped the bag.
Inside was a metallic thirteen-inch MacBook Pro laptop, a specially modified cell phone, a 9mm Beretta handgun and sufficient ammo to kill a small town, an electronic anti-jamming device, a military issue stun gun, a powerful muscle relaxant drug in a syringe disguised as a ballpoint pen and five thousand dollars in cash.
Reznick zipped up the bag and slid it under the passenger seat. Then he drove straight to the deluxe hotel in downtown Washington to await final instructions.
TWO
The St Regis Hotel on 16th Street was known as one of Washington’s smartest hotels, two blocks north of the White House, its impressive limestone façade only hinting at the grandeur inside.
Reznick pulled up shortly after 10pm and handed the keys over to the Hispanic valet, careful to pick up the Louis Vuitton bag.
A concierge opened a door as he strode into the lobby. It was like some Italian renaissance dream. Chandeliers hanging from coffered ceilings, gold gilt-edged paintings, oriental rugs on the marble floor and antique and dark wood furniture.
Reznick handed over his fake driver’s license and credit card to a young woman behind the desk. “Good evening,” she said.
“Nice to have you at the St Regis, sir.” She brought up his details on the computer. “Is this your first time with us?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we hope you enjoy your stay.” She handed over a swipe card as a smiling uniformed bellman approached. “This is Andy, the butler for your floor. You need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Reznick smiled and was escorted to the sixth floor by Andy, tipping him twenty dollars. “I’ll get it from here.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Absolutely.”
The butler gave a polite nod and headed back to the elevator. Reznick waited until the guy was out of sight before he carefully swiped the card. Inside, the deluxe room was decidedly upscale. A king-sized bed, large flat screen TV, dark wood antique-style writing desk, chair and sofa, gold-framed octagonal mirror, Bose radio, iPod sound dock, mini-bar stuffed with Krug and Rolling Rock beer, original artwork on the walls, chandeliers setting the scene. In the bathroom, brass fittings and earth tones of mosaic tiles, a large mirror which doubled as a 15 inch ‘intelligent’ TV, two marble sinks and a fluffy white St Regis bathrobe hanging behind the door.
The first thing he did was hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside his room and lock the door. Satisfied he wasn’t going to be disturbed, he opened up the luxury bag and placed the pre-configured MacBook Pro on the writing desk. He opened it up and within a matter of seconds it was up and running.
Reznick sat down at the desk and punched in his allotted password – coldbracelet1 – into the keys of the laptop, scanning his inbox. A soft beep and there was one encrypted message with an attachment.
He clicked on Decrypt Message to view the file and was prompted to confirm two unique passwords. He keyed in OfwaihhbTn, initials from the first line of the Lord’s Prayer, followed by DNalKcOr, his hometown spelled backwards. Then three personal questions – his grandmother on his father’s side’s maiden name: Levitz; his father’s birthplace: Bangor; his blood group: Rh negative.
He typed in the security protected keys and the email displayed in the browser. He clicked on the ‘Reply’ button and the attachment was returned securely.
A two-page dossier and six black and white photos appeared before his eyes.
The man he’d been sent to kill.
Reznick’s stomach knotted as he scanned the screen. Tom Powell, aged fifty-nine, des
cribed as an ‘imminent security risk’.
He lived with his second wife and two school-age children, in a quiet cul-de-sac in Frederick, Maryland; his oldest son away at university. According to the file, he had checked into the St Regis the previous evening, Room 674, three doors down. It didn’t say why exactly he should be neutralised.
He pondered on that. Usually, when he did a hit, the reason was made quite clear. It could have been spying, terrorism or a whole host of threats to the country. Invariably they had an explanation.
So, why not now?
Reznick read on. The file said Powell had to be a ‘suicide’. No other options.
This was the first time that Reznick had been asked to kill an American citizen on American soil. He knew that it would have been impossible if he was still within Delta because of the Posse Comitatus Act, which prohibits under federal law the military being used in operations within the United States. But he was no longer constrained.
In the past he’d taken out a Saudi military attaché in New York, a billionaire Arab banker in London funding Hezbollah, a Russian spy in Vienna, a host of Jihadists across the Middle East and a smattering of Islamic fundamentalists, living and working in America.
It was business. Realpolitik. The stone cold reality of politics based on realities and material needs.
He studied the picture of the man, including one with his eldest son – John, a law student at George Washington University – playing football in a local park in Frederick, and committed them to memory. A good-looking kid. Clean-cut, short blonde hair, preppy clothes.
He looked again at the photo of Powell until he could remember the smallest detail. The dime-sized mole on his left cheek, the greying sideburns, the bushy eyebrows, and the small scar above his right eyebrow caused, according to the file, in a schoolyard fight.
Reznick’s training at The Farm in Virginia, all those years ago, had stressed the importance of knowing the subject inside out. The little details. This enabled an appropriate plan to be drawn up and executed.
Maddox and his team would have explored Powell’s lifestyle habits as well. His sleeping patterns and any health problems. The file noted that he was a keen golfer, not on prescription medication, led a clean life; a glass or two of expensive French red wine over dinner on a Friday and Saturday evening, his only vice.
