by J. B. Turner
Reznick couldn’t be bothered speaking to anyone. He only wanted to sit by his daughter’s side. He watched her chest rise and then lower, painfully slow. But he knew the FBI weren’t going to go away.
He sighed. “Show her in.”
The doctor nodded and left the room. A few moments later Meyerstein appeared with a nurse, who checked Lauren’s vital signs, noting it down on Lauren’s chart, before she left.
Meyerstein shut the door quietly and pulled up a chair beside Reznick. She looked exhausted, dark rings around her eyes. She sat down and sighed. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
Reznick stared at his daughter and said nothing.
“The doctors are doing everything they can for her. There’s still hope.”
Reznick turned and faced Meyerstein. Her eyes were moist. “I hope you’re right.” He closed his eyes tight. “Christ, I wish I could turn the clock back.”
“We all do, Jon.” She cleared her throat.
Reznick was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting together.
“Jon, I can see how much you’re hurting. Look, I’m so sorry what’s happened. No one deserves what you’re experiencing.”
“Don’t they?”
“No, of course not.” Meyerstein held his gaze for a moment too long.
Reznick looked down at the floor. “You’re wrong. I deserve this. This is entirely my fault.”
“You can’t talk like that, Jon. That’ll not help her.”
Reznick closed his eyes, not wishing to open them again. He felt Meyerstein’s soft hand on his.
“I got some questions to ask you.”
Reznick extricated his hand. “This ain’t the time.”
“Maybe not. But I’m still going to ask them.”
Reznick said nothing.
“They relate to national security. Jon, I’m going to level with you, there is the distinct possibility that many lives could be at risk. Many lives. We talked of that before.”
Reznick sat in silence and stared at his daughter.
“There are people pulling the strings, behind the scenes. I want to ask you something, Jon. Does the name Brewling mean anything to you?”
“Like I said, this ain’t the time.”
“Not an option. Sorry. Jon, I need to know if the name Brewling means anything to you. Was he your handler?”
Reznick sighed. “No.”
“You’re one hundred per cent sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Look, Jon, this guy Brewling… You can’t go after him. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I don’t even know who this guy is, so how the hell can I go after him?”
“Listen, you’ve got to allow us to deal with this from now on. I can’t allow you to head off and shoot up people all across Miami. We’re drawing a line in the sand. Are you clear?”
“So, who is this Brewling?” he said. “What is Norton & Weiss Inc? Are they working for the Agency?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
Reznick blew out his cheeks and bowed his head. A headache was developing, throbbing deep inside his brain. He put it down to exhaustion.
“I’m curious, Jon.”
“Curious about what?”
“How you get into the line of work you do. When you left Delta, I mean.”
“I got a call from a man. He knew a lot about me. Then he asked me nicely if I wanted to work for him.”
Meyerstein was shaking her head. “As simple as that?”
“Pretty much. They pay me a lot of money. And I sure as hell don’t get asked dumb-ass questions.”
Meyerstein sighed but said nothing, waiting for him to fill the silence.
He sighed. “You still trying to figure out why a guy like me is involved in this?”
Meyerstein shrugged.
“Quite simple really. It’s called plausible deniability. No direct link to the American government. That’s what this is all about. I don’t exist in their eyes. But we all know that’s a lie. Everyone and their dog know that assassination is part and parcel of who we are. It keeps us on top of the bad guys, and to hell with the law.”
Meyerstein nodded. “I appreciate your candour.” She smiled at him. “Look, Jon, I’ve gotta go. Is there anything else you need from us?”
Reznick caught a whiff of her citrus perfume again. “There is something.”
“What?”
“I need to get my daughter out of here.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“This place is wide open. She’s a sitting duck.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I’ve raised this with my superiors, but this isn’t going to be easy.”
“Make it happen. I don’t know how you do it, but just do it. Whoever is behind this will want to teach me a lesson. They’ll be crazy that I have my daughter and you have the scientist.”
Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. She looked tired.
“I need my daughter to be somewhere they’ll never get at her. I’ll speak to your guys, whatever you want. But I want my daughter at least to be protected. Just make it happen.”
She went quiet for a few moments before clearing her throat and getting up from her seat. “Leave this with me. I’m going to make a call.” She left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Reznick sighed long and hard.
Lauren stirred slightly.
When Meyerstein returned, she shut the door quietly behind her and sat down beside him. “OK, here’s what we’ve got,” she whispered. “We’re rolling. I’ve just spoken to the head of emergency medicine at the Naval Hospital in Pensacola. They’ve agreed to admit your daughter. And I can assure you, security won’t be an issue there.”
Reznick nodded. “Thank you. But I need to go with her.”
“That’s a given.”
Reznick took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “I owe you.”
Meyerstein’s gaze lingered for a few moments. She smiled sympathetically. “There will be two special agents with you. My guys will want to know the chain of events that brought this about. They’ll be babysitting you, just so you don’t go walkabout. And you still need to answer for Merceron.”
Reznick looked at his daughter. Her face was pasty, breathing still shallow. “I don’t care about that now. Get my daughter to Pensacola and get her well.”
Meyerstein smiled at him.
He sensed her empathy, but could see it was cloaked in steely professionalism. “Why did you do this for me? You didn’t have to. You could’ve hauled me in. Couldn’t you?”
Meyerstein’s face was impassive. “Yes, I could’ve hauled you in. But we’d never have seen Luntz again.”
“But I could’ve lied to you.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “I can tell when people are lying to me, Jon. You don’t strike me as a liar. A tough son-of-a-bitch, maybe. But never a liar.”
Suddenly the door opened and two FBI agents walked in. “Are we good to go, ma’am?” one of them said.
Meyerstein nodded, pushed back her chair and stood looking down at Reznick. She handed him her card. “If there’s anything else I can do, Jon, for you or your daughter, don’t hesitate to contact me. This has got my cell number on it.”
Then she walked out of the ICU room and past the two Feds, as the door closed behind her.
TWENTY-FOUR
Thomas Wesley was already awake when he heard the sound of cars pulling up outside his home. As his wife slept soundly beside him, he leaned over and checked the luminous dial on his bedside alarm clock. It showed 3.03am. Strange. It was unusual to hear anything in his quiet cul-de-sac after nightfall.
The most noise came when there were Independence Day barbecues being held on front lawns, or leading up to Halloween, when the kids from around the block would go door-to-door, trick or treating. Most, if not all, families worked during the day and by eight pm the oak-lined street was dead.
He got out of his bed and peered through the slats of the woode
n blinds. Two Suburbans were blocking his driveway. Four men in dark suits walked up his garden path. Then his bell rang.
Who were they? Cops? Feds?
His wife stirred and switched on her bedside light looking confused, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on, honey?”
Wesley pulled on some sweat pants over his boxer shorts, put on a T-shirt and his slippers. “We’ve got company.”
Three sharp knocks on the front door followed by the ringing of the bell again.
“Thomas, what’s going on?” she said, pulling on her dressing gown.
“I don’t know.”
Wesley headed downstairs followed by his wife. The chain was on the door. He turned the key and slowly cracked open the front door a few inches.
An imposing man wearing a dark suit flashed a Department of Defense Special Agent badge in his face. “DCIS.” Then he handed Wesley a typed court order with a red wax seal on it through the space in the door. “Thomas Wesley?”
Wesley scanned the court order and shrugged. “Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?”
“We have issued you a warrant to search the premises, Mr Wesley. Open the door immediately. I believe you know what this is about.”
Wesley took the chain off the door and the man brushed past him as three other men followed. He stared at the wax seal as his mind raced, trying to take it all in. He knew the DCIS were the Defense Criminal Investigative Services. In essence, they were the criminal investigative arm of the Office of the Inspector General, US Department of Defense. He also knew they had full federal law enforcement authority and carried firearms.
He shut the door as three of the men fanned out throughout the house. Two downstairs and one upstairs. The lead investigator remained in the hallway with Wesley and his wife.
His wife held her hand to her chest. “Thomas, what’s this all about?”
Wesley reached out and held her hand. “I don’t know,” he said. He turned to the lead investigator, a tall, swarthy man, with well-cut suit and black shoes. “Am I under arrest?”
The lead investigator: “Sir, we hope you will come with us and answer some questions.”
“Regarding?”
The man sighed. “Regarding the possible mishandling of classified information.”
It was a forty-five minute journey down MD-295 South. No one spoke to Wesley. No small talk. Nothing. He sat and stared out at the headlights of the passing cars. Had Lance alerted them? Surely not.
The more he thought of it the more he wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated by going straight to Lance. After all, he was a powerful politician with a growing reputation. Had he passed it on to the Department of Defence?
He felt isolated in the car. The smell of one of the men’s cologne was sticking to the back of his throat, making him nauseous. The tension was palpable, not helped by the silence.
When they drove along Army Navy Drive in Arlington – very close to the Pentagon – Wesley assumed they were taking him to the DCIS HQ. But instead, they passed a sign on the right at an underpass for the Army Navy Country Club, and then it was a left and a left again, past some nondescript office buildings and down a ramp into a near-deserted basement garage.
Armed guards with semi-automatic rifles patrolled the garage leading to the elevators. What the hell was this?
The car stopped next to the elevator and the lead man got out and came round and opened Wesley’s door.
Wesley stepped out of the car. “Where are we?”
“Don’t worry. It’s just routine.”
The man led Wesley to the elevator as the three men followed close behind. The five of them got in the elevator and descended in silence to a sub-basement. Then he was led down a series of narrow corridors and finally in to a windowless room.
A mirror on one wall. They were watching him.
“Sit down, Thomas,” the lead investigator said. “This is not a court of law. We’re just wanting to talk to you, get to know you a bit better, and see what we can do to help you.”
Wesley sat down and said nothing.
“You want a coffee, glass of water, Coke, anything?”
“I’m good thanks.” Wesley was trying to show he was relaxed and not frightened.
“My name is Carlos Rodriguez,” the lead investigator said, pulling up a chair opposite, “senior investigator in matters pertaining to the NSA.” Rodriguez shifted in his seat. “I’ve just been reading your file.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I was expecting to be taken to 400 Army Navy Drive. What’s this place?”
“Satellite office. It’s crammed where we are.”
“And the guys with the guns?”
“Heightened security after a recent internal audit.”
Wesley nodded.
“OK, Thomas, I appreciate this must all be very unnerving.”
Wesley forced a grin. “You got that right.”
“But I want you to know that we’re here to help. We don’t want to point fingers. We just want to try and understand what has happened. But I’ll be honest, we need answers.” He went quiet for a few moments. “You see, what I can’t get my head around, is how someone like you, a smart guy, would want to jeopardise American security by stealing and then leaking classified documents.”
“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t believe I have ever jeopardised American security. I am a patriot.”
“OK, we’ll leave that aside just now. Would you like to talk about a conversation you had with Congressman Lance Drake, an old friend of yours from way back?”
Wesley said nothing. So, it was Drake. Son-of-a-bitch.
“Isn’t it true that you passed to him an alleged decrypted conversation of a top secret military intelligence nature?” Rodriguez leaned back in his seat and shrugged as if waiting for an answer.
Wesley sighed. “Do you know why I did that?”
“I was hoping you would be able to help us with that.”
“I had no other choice. I went through the system, and no one wanted to know. I was in their bad books because I decrypted a conversation that linked a White House adviser to the Chinese military. I was sidelined as the adviser was well-connected. No one wanted to listen to me. They thought I was an embarrassment.”
Rodriguez frowned and bit his lower lip. “So, you alerted the Congressman because you thought as he was an old friend, he might get something done?”
“Precisely. I wanted someone who had the clout, to ask the questions. I didn’t want to go to the papers. What the hell was I to do when the established avenues are shut down?”
Rodriguez leaned forward and stared at him long and hard. “So, you’re saying you admit leaking this information, is that right?”
“Only to Lance. I thought I could trust him.”
“Have you leaked this to anyone else?”
“Of course I haven’t. I understand the seriousness of this. The ramifications.”
The agent said nothing.
Wesley said, “Have you listened to it?”
“Yes, it was intriguing. Our guys are currently working on the embedded message it contained. Did you manage to crack it?”
“Nope, but not for want of trying.”
“So let’s be clear, you didn’t uncover the message, if indeed it does contain some form of data communication?”
“Correct.”
The guy cleared his throat and smiled.
Wesley sighed long and hard. He was tired and wanted to go home. “Look, can we hurry this along a bit?”
“All in good time, Thomas.”
“Have you guys established the identities of those on the tape?”
“We have a very good idea.”
Wesley clenched his fist. “Well, thank God. At last someone gets it. And you guys have passed this on to the Feds and the NSA?”
“It’s all in hand, Thomas.”
A sense of relief swept over Wesley, glad the right people now knew the threat to the country. “Finally, at long last…”
>
“It’s a stunning piece of work, piecing this together, I’ve got to say.”
Wesley felt his cheeks go red. “I started getting goose bumps when I started to unravel this. The raw intercept was just audio of a pop song. The Bangles or some crap from the eighties. But then I stripped all that away and got to an encrypted conversation. It took a long time to decipher, but eventually I got. I ran the programs to see if it matched anyone on the NSA files, and it brought up a perfect match and a near-perfect match.”
The agent shifted in his seat as one of the other agents left the room.
“Don’t get me wrong, I thought the exact same thing as you guys. But it’s a very convincing bit of voice morphing. I’m assuming you got right down to the authentic voices, right?”
“Tell me how you did it.”
“Well, initially, I thought it sounded like a former senior CIA agent and the recently retired head of Mossad. You came to the same conclusion, right?”
The agent nodded. “Did you discuss who was on the recordings, when you spoke to the Congressman?”
“No, I wanted him to listen to it first, and then speak to me. He probably doesn’t know who the hell it is.”
“Getting back to your initial assessment…”
“Yeah, well it seemed on the surface, like a slam dunk. Two perfect matches. But they weren’t. One was one hundred per cent perfect – the former CIA spook – the other was a ninety-nine point three per cent match. And that’s what intrigued me. I’m a perfectionist. I delved deeper into the voice. Analysing it. I examined waveform graphs for hours at a time.”
“What’s that?”
“Waveform graphs? Well, they show detailed information about the environmental noises in the background, clicks. Sound depth. And I saw a couple of anomalies that pointed to highly sophisticated, state of the art, voice morphing.”
“You better try and explain, in layman’s terms, what exactly the hell voice morphing entails.”
Wesley blew out his cheeks. “Voice morphing technology was originally developed at the Los Alamos laboratory in New Mexico. In effect, an expert can, in real-time, clone speech patterns and develop a near perfect copy.” He felt himself getting excited talking about it and how he had cracked it. “In this digital morphing world, nothing is as it seems. And that includes voices. I am convinced the voice of the Israeli intelligence guy is fake. A quite brilliant fake. It’s near-nigh impossible to detect, it’s that good.”
