by J. B. Turner
He finished reading the dossier, shut down the computer, and waited for Maddox to call.
The waiting was always the worst part of the job. Endless hours spent hanging around motels, hotels, safe houses, halfway houses, flop houses, apartments and all myriad of places, before the final phase.
The end game.
Reznick was not the judge. Nor the jury. He was the executioner. Except he didn’t sit in on the trial, because there was no trial. This was summary justice, as practiced by every government in the world. Sometimes the dirty work was sub-contracted to a foreign intelligence agency or their contractors. But this was in-house.
Just after midnight, Reznick’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He switched on the TV, showing a Redskins game, to drown out his voice.
Maddox said, “Are you in place?”
“Yes.”
“This is a wet delivery. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“OK, run-through time. Our guy is a creature of habit. He’s in his room, fast asleep.”
“How do you know?”
“GPS on his Blackberry and bug in his room’s smoke detector.”
Reznick made a mental note.
“Hold back until five minutes after oh-two hundred hours when the video camera in the corridor will be remotely switched off until oh-three hundred and the lights dimmed. You have a copy of his room swipe. Assume you have fifty-five minutes to make this delivery.”
Reznick said nothing. He had enough time.
“Do good.”
“Need to get rid of my wet bag and case. Won’t be needing any of that.”
“We’re ahead of you. Your room will be cleaned as soon as this delivery has been made. A maintenance uniform is hanging in your closet with a matching navy bag.” A long pause elapsed. “Sit tight. Then it’s just you and him.”
With less than one hour to go, Reznick was sitting in his darkened hotel room, primed to carry out the delivery. He had changed into a pale blue short-sleeved work shirt and black pants, gold wire-rimmed glasses, shiny black shoes and metallic nametag on his lapel: Alex Goddard, service engineer, a small holdall at his feet. He pressed a tiny audio device into his right ear for communication, whilst the nametag concealed a hidden microphone.
Everything in place. No diversions. No TV, radio, music, magazines or newspapers to sidetrack him. The way he always worked during the crucial last hour.
The pale blue LCD display on his digital watch showed 01.21.
Not long now.
Reznick’s earpiece buzzed and he tensed up.
“Reznick, do you copy?” The voice of Maddox was a whisper. “Reznick?”
“What?”
A small sigh. “OK, we have two room service types – a guy and a woman – one dropping newspapers outside doors, the other pushing a room service trolley with food and drinks. They’re in the elevator, and they’re heading your way.”
Reznick could hear his heart beat.
“OK,” Maddox whispered, “now they’re on the sixth.”
On cue the ring of the elevator doors opening and dull footsteps padding down the carpeted corridor. The faint tinkling of metal against glass, accompanied by a low male voice. Thuds as the papers are left outside each room. The sound of a door opening.
Three long minutes later, they were gone.
“OK, buddy, sorry about that. You all set?”
“How’s our guy?”
“Sleeping like a baby. Slam dunk, Reznick. You’ve got a clear run.”
The line went dead at 1.23am.
When his watch hit 02.05, he peered out of the peephole. No movement or sound. He lay flat down on the floor and pressed his left ear – the one without the earpiece - to the carpet, listening for elevator vibrations, footsteps or sudden noises, anything.
He heard the faint sound of water pipes creaking. Perhaps the merest hint of laughter somewhere below.
Apart from that, all quiet.
Reznick got up and stood holding the bag. He took half a dozen slow, deep breaths.
Just breathe.
His breathing even, he was ready.
Slowly, he turned the handle and stuck his head out of the door and peered down the dimly lit, carpeted hallway.
Not a soul.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
The military dictum of the Marines kicked in. It meant moving fast or rushing in was reckless, and could get you killed. If you move slowly, you are less likely to put yourself at risk.
He edged out and closed the door as slowly and softly as he could. The metallic locking system sounded to him like a rifle reloading.
Reznick looked around and took the short walk to the man’s door. Slowly he swiped the card, the metallic clicking noticeably softer. He cracked the door. The sound of deep snoring. He kept the door ajar for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The room smelled of stale sweat and old shoes.
Underneath the window, the crumpled silhouette of the man lying in bed, facing the wall, duvet on. Softly he shut the door, barely making a noise as it clicked into place.
Reznick crept towards the sleeping man. Closer and closer, careful not to trip on any objects lying around.
Standing over him Reznick saw the dime-sized mole on his left cheek. Suddenly, the man groaned and turned over onto his back. The springs on the bed creaked.
Reznick froze, not daring to breathe. A deep silence opened up for a few moments as he wondered if the man was really awake. He stood still and waited. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Eventually, on the fourth beat, the snoring continued as before, rhythmic and deep. He let out his breath slowly. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the lipstick-sized Taser.
He leaned over and pressed the metal device hard against the man’s temple. Electric currents provoked convulsions for three long seconds. His eyes rolled back in his head; the sound of gurgling and groaning. Then nothing.
Unconscious.
A standard first-step procedure. Eight minutes, maybe ten, before the man came to.
Reznick rummaged in the bag and produced the auto-injecting syringe disguised as a ballpoint pen, containing succinylcholine chloride, which he knew as “Sux”. The drug was a skeletal muscle relaxant used as an adjunct to surgical anesthesia and had been employed as a paralyzing agent for executions by lethal injection. A twist of the nib and a quick stab into the man’s skin would deliver seven milligrams of the drug. But only five milligrams was necessary for death. The victim would be paralyzed within thirty seconds. The muscles, including the diaphragm, would shut down, with the exception of the heart. He would be unable to speak or move, although his brain would still be working. Then he had three minutes until his breathing ceased, unable to scream out for help.
The beauty of the drug for assassinations was that enzymes in the body begin to break down the drug almost immediately, making it virtually impossible to detect.
Powell was to be injected in the buttocks with the drug, knowing most medical examiners would suspect a heart attack as the natural cause of death, in the absence of evidence of foul play.
He pulled back the duvet and switched on his penlight, examining the paunchy unconscious man lying before him. He wore pale blue pajamas, white vest underneath. He had a cheap watch with a frayed brown leather strap. The last moments in his life, and the poor bastard didn’t know anything about it. He never usually felt anything when he had to kill a raghead or billionaire terrorist bankroller. But in this case it did feel strange, knowing that this was an American.
The penlight picked out something round the man’s neck, tucked inside his vest. He looked closer and thought it looked like an aluminium dog tag. Then he held it in his hand, turned it over and saw an inscription in Hebrew.
The name Benjamin Luntz, date of birth, 1.29.71, and a seven-digit identification number. Israeli Defense Forces.
He stared at the dog tag for a few moments.
Why the fuck had Tom Powell got an IDF d
og tag of an Israeli soldier around his neck? It didn’t make any sense.
The doubts began to set in. He needed certainty.
He had to wait more than eight long minutes until the man came to with a low groan.
Reznick pressed the Beretta to the man’s forehead. The man gazed up, confused and scared.
“Shut up and listen,” Reznick snarled, hand covering the man’s mouth.
The man nodded with a blank expression.
“This gun has a suppressor attached. Any sound, and you die. Got it?”
The man nodded again.
Reznick removed his hand from the man’s mouth. “All right,” he said in a low voice, “gimme your name, date and place of birth. Right now.”
The man gulped hard and Reznick pressed the cold metal of the gun tight to his sweaty brow. “Please, take whatever you want.”
Reznick pressed the gun tighter to his skin making a small indentation as the guy began to tremble. “This is the second time I will ask. I don’t ask a third time. Now, give me your name, date and place of birth. Failure to comply will result in the maids cleaning your brains off this wall in six hours time. Got it?”
“My name is Frank Luntz, born New York City, October 12, 1953.”
Reznick’s mind went into freefall for a split second. The target’s name was Powell. Something was badly wrong. “Tell me about the dog tag around your neck.”
“It’s my son’s.”
“What’s his name?”
“Benjamin Luntz.”
Reznick’s wondered whether to believe the man or not. Something wasn’t adding up. Was he being played? “Are you Israeli?”
“No. My son emigrated. He had joint citizenship.”
“What do you mean had?”
“He was…he was blown up by a suicide bomber at a checkpoint in the West Bank three years ago.”
The man made a sudden movement and Reznick pushed him back down into the pillow. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I want to prove it to you.”
The man reached under his pillow and pulled out a silver photo pendant. A faded color picture of a young man in combat fatigues, rifle slung over his shoulder, sitting atop a Merkava tank.
The man pointed to the bedside cabinet. “The top drawer. Check my wallet if you don’t believe me.”
Reznick reached over and opened the top drawer. Empty. No driving license or credit cards to establish the man’s true identity. “There’s nothing there you lying bastard.”
“That’s impossible. Perhaps Connelly has it next door.”
Reznick was tempted to kill the fucker there and then. “Who’s Connelly?”
The man began to cry.
“Answer me. Who’s Connelly?”
“He’s a Fed. He’s in the adjoining room. He’s looking after me.”
Reznick’s stomach knotted. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He has the adjoining room to this.” He pointed a shaking finger in the direction of a door next to the dresser.
“Are you lying to me, because if you are, you die, here and now?”
The man began sobbing. Reznick placed his huge hand over the man’s mouth to muffle the sound.
“One more peep out of you and I will rip out your wiring. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Hands on your head.”
The man complied. Reznick pulled a sock out of a drawer and stuffed it in his mouth, before tearing up strips of the bed sheet and tying it around his head to secure the sock. Then he tied the man’s wrists and ankles to the four corners of the wooden bed, crucifixion style.
Reznick shone the penlight directly into his eyes. The man blinked away more tears. “Don’t even think about fucking moving.”
The man nodded quickly. Reznick walked across to the adjoining door and pressed his ear up against it, listening for several seconds for any sounds. Creaks. Groans. But he heard nothing.
Slowly he turned the handle. His eyes adjusted and he scanned the room. The bed was made, wooden blinds and curtains shut, as if awaiting the next hotel guest. Perfect order. Empty. Or so it seemed. The hint of sandalwood in the air told another story. The room had been occupied.
Reznick sensed something was wrong. He shone the penlight towards the bathroom and opened the door. Opulent white marble sinks, bath and floor. White towels neatly stacked on a metal rack above the bath. A slight smell of damp pervaded the air, as if from a recent shower.
That again didn’t add up to an unoccupied room.
Reznick went back into the bedroom as the penlight strafed the high quality navy blue carpet beside the huge wardrobe. His gaze wandered round the room, past a small flaxen sofa, until he fixed on a white painted louver door. He saw it wasn’t shut properly. Perhaps half an inch ajar.
He moved closer. Kneeling down, he shone the light through the slatted openings. Inside, he saw what looked like tousled blond hair.
He held his breath.
Then slowly, he reached out and felt the wooden handle, before yanking open the door.
Reznick’s heart jolted as the penlight picked out the dead eyes of the crumpled, semi-naked body of a blond-haired man, staring back at him. Telltale purple bruises around the neck and throat, hemorrhaging around the eyes. Reznick had seen this sort of thing before. Many times. The man had been manually strangled.
This was so fucked up it wasn’t real.
His mind was racing when he returned to the darkened bedroom. He leaned down beside the man strapped and gagged to the bed. The man’s eyes stared up at Reznick like a terrified child, afraid of his fate.
Reznick untied the bed sheet around the man’s mouth and pulled out the sock. Then he pressed his face right up against the man’s, smelling the sweat and fear. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I already told you.”
“Why do people want you dead? Who do you work for?”
Again Reznick pressed the gun to his head.
“I work for the government. Look, please tell me who you are. What’ve you done to Connelly?”
“Forget about him. Forget about me. What about you? What exactly do you do?”
“I told you, I work for the government.”
“Doing what?”
The man closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Answer me.”
The man said nothing.
Reznick stuffed the sock back into the man’s mouth. He walked over to the window and buzzed Maddox on his lapel microphone, giving him the lowdown. The discovery of the murdered man’s body – perhaps a Fed – and the possibility that they had the wrong guy.
Maddox listened in silence before he said, “Gimme two minutes and I’ll get back to you.”
In less than a minute, the earpiece buzzed into life.
“The subject is to be protected and brought in. Make your way with the subject to a motel, the Clarence Suites, six blocks away on N Street NW, due southeast, and sit tight. Room 787. You are booked in under Ronald D Withers. He is your brother, Simon Withers. Clear?”
“Then what?”
“We are sending two of our guys, Bowman and Price. They’ll take him off your hands.”
Then the earpiece went dead.
THREE
“Get dressed,” Reznick snapped, as he untied Luntz.
He needed to get them both out of the hotel. And fast. But he couldn’t just walk out of the lobby as he was, dressed as a fucking maintenance man.
He rifled through the chest of drawers and found a dark blue cashmere jersey. He pulled it on but the sleeves were too long, so he rolled them up a couple of inches.
“One word out of place and you and your family will die,” he said, picking up his delivery bag. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The man nodded and licked his lower lip.
Reznick shoved the gun into the back of his waistband. The cold metal felt reassuring against his warm skin. He cracked the door, saw the coa
st was clear and grabbed the man’s arm and marched him down the thickly carpeted corridor towards the stairs. They passed a fire alarm. He punched the glass with his knuckles and pressed the red button.
The sound of ear-splitting alarms shattered the calm.
Got to keep moving.
He hustled Luntz through the fire exit doors and down the stairwell. Luntz appeared bewildered and groggy, eyes heavy. Behind them, some shouts and instructions to “get a move on”.
Luntz asked, “Please, where are you taking me?”
“Shut up and do as I say.”
Reznick pushed through doors at the bottom of the stairwell and emerged into the huge lobby. Scores of frightened guests in nightgowns and pajamas were filing out towards the main doors. He found it easy to blend in and leave the hotel. They emerged into the cold night air as doormen and valets handed out blankets. In the distance, the sound of fire truck sirens.
His mind replayed the grid of streets he’d walked the previous night as he got his bearings. They headed along a still busy K Street, the main east-west artery through Washington’s business district, past anonymous redbrick and concrete office blocks. It was home to powerful lobbying firms, think tanks and numerous advocacy groups, wanting to be close to the levers of power. But at that ungodly hour, the street was busy with groups of young revelers and professionals heading to nearby hip lounges and clubs.
Reznick was glad to cross over the road and up 17th Street NW, away from the main drag. Past the Pot Belly sandwich shop and the YMCA.
He pulled out his earpiece, lapel microphone and nametag, dropping them down a storm drain. He hurried on along the sidewalk and across the street, squeezing between two huge SUVs parked beside each other.
“Quicker!” he said.
The man nodded furiously.
Reznick hustled the man as they turned left and headed west along N Street NW, a broad, tree-lined street full of elegant row houses, past the Hotel Tabard Inn until they came to the redbrick Clarence Suites. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts.
His mind flashed to the dog tag around the man’s neck. Was it genuine? Was it a ruse?
