by J. B. Turner
He was missing her, but the dark days of last winter had passed.
Reznick didn’t venture far. He had hung around the Rockland area most of the time. He walked past the abandoned sardine packing plant his father used to work in. He tried to imagine how hard it must have been for his dad to do a job he loathed, memories of Vietnam burned into his mind. He took long walks on the beach, did the garden and took time to watch the flowers grow. He occasionally sat on the beach in the cove and thought of his wife and daughter, when she was just a baby all those years earlier, playing on the same sand, laughing and joking. He imagined what his life would have been like if his wife had survived. He wondered if they would have had more children. When he closed his eyes and listened to the water rush up the sand, he thought he heard their laughter and voices hanging in the breeze.
The rest of the time he tended the trees his father had planted. This was his home. The clapboard colonial his father had built with his own hands. The oak floors, the crafted shutters and beige and ocean blue walls.
When his phone rang, he saw an unfamiliar number on the caller display. He let it ring and ring. Eventually he picked up.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Sorry to bother you, Jon.” It was the soft voice of Meyerstein.
Reznick sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. “Hi. Long time no hear.”
“Indeed. How are you, Jon?”
“I’m fine. What about you?”
She let out a long sigh. “Working. You know how it is.”
“Do you guys ever take a vacation?”
“Not as often as I’d like. Look, I’m just calling to check on how Lauren is. I believe she has now moved to a new school.”
“She has. And she is good. And for that, I’m truly grateful.”
“Look, Jon, I have some news.”
“What kind of news?”
“Jon, I think from this moment on, Lauren can sleep securely in her bed. It’s all over. The job is done.”
“I’m sorry, how do you mean?”
“Turn on the TV. CNN.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
A long silence opened up on the line.
Reznick went inside still holding his bottle of beer in one hand, the cell in the other. He put down the bottle of beer, picked up the remote and switched on the TV, channel surfing till he came to CNN.
“And the breaking news this hour,” the male anchor in Atlanta said, “is that the second in command of Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI, has been blown up by a car bomb in Islamabad.”
Reznick stared transfixed at the screen.
The anchor continued, “Pakistan military sources tell us that Major General Muhammad Kashal’s car may have been followed by two men on motorbikes from his heavily-guarded compound, before the remote detonation took place. Pentagon sources said that Kashal’s loss was a blow in the fight against the Taliban both in and outside Pakistan.”
A picture of a smiling general in full military regalia appeared in the top right hand corner of the screen.
Reznick stared at the picture and realised what Meyerstein was saying. This was the mastermind. They had got him and someone else was getting the blame. A black flag operation if ever there was one.
The anchor continued, “And in a bizarre twist to this story, a former American military adviser was in the car with Kashal and died in the explosion. Sources say Vince Brewling had previously served as the CIA station chief in Islamabad in the 1980s, and is believed to have been good friends with Major General Kashal when they worked together to oust the Soviet Union from Afghanistan. Sources are reporting that Mr Brewling was paying a private visit to Kashal and was not on US government business.”
A picture of a whey-faced man with mottled skin, rheumy blue eyes, was shown in the top left hand corner of the screen. Brewling? So this was the man he knew only as Maddox.
Cold justice had been served.
Reznick stared at the picture on the screen before finishing the rest of his beer. He switched off the TV, and went outside.
“It’s finished, Jon,” she said. “But I’ve got a proposition.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’d like you to work with us.”
“For the FBI?”
“On a consultancy basis, so to speak. Certain situations might arise where a man of your talents–”
Reznick sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
“How about I call you in the morning?”
Reznick stared up at the billions of stars in the inky black sky, as the roar of the ocean echoed deep down in the cove.
“I said I’ll think about it,” he said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deepest gratitude, I would like to thank the following people for their help and support:
Many thanks to my editor, Emlyn Rees, and everyone at Exhibit A Books, for their hard work, enthusiasm and belief in this book. Thanks also to my agent, Sam Copeland.
Special mention must go to Angela D Bell, FBI, in Washington DC who assisted my numerous questions with good grace and impeccable professionalism. Many thanks also to the FBI field office in Miami.
I was very fortunate that Larry Vickers, formerly of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, commonly referred to as Delta Force, was another who gave his time and expert technical knowledge freely.
During research, I found Delta Force: The Army's Elite Counterterrorist Unit (Avon Books) by Charlie Beckwith and Inside Delta Force (Bantam Dell) by Eric L Haney really useful books.
I would also like to thank Ash Swanson in Miami Beach for helping out with South Beach research.
Last, my family and friends for their encouragement and support. And, most of all, my wife, Susan, who was with me every step of the way, as each draft developed, offering brilliant advice, coupled with no small amount of patience.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J B Turner began his writing career as a journalist. His news stories and feature articles have appeared in the Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Daily Express, The Scotsman and The Herald. He is married and has two young children.
jbturnerauthor.com
twitter.com/jbturnerauthor
EXHIBIT A
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A is for American Heroes!
Copyright © J. B. Turner 2013
Cover photo © Dylan Kitchener/Trevillion Images; design by Argh! Oxford
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and Exhibit A, the Exhibit A icon and
the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook: ISBN: 978 1 90922 347 9
UK Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 90922 345 5
US Trade Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 90922 346 2
