Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  “You know I work for the DCIS as a special agent. You know what that means?”

  “Investigating defense contractors, missing millions, slush funds, right?”

  “Exactly. I examine a lot of balance sheets. And in the last three or four years, I’ve been tasked to review budgets and financial projections, for the Pentagon, mostly—some special projects, special operations, sensitive stuff.”

  “What’s this about, specifically?” Reznick asked.

  “Specifically, in less than seventy-two hours, Mr. Reznick, I’m going to testify at a closed session of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

  “And whoever you’re going to testify about wants to silence you?”

  “Got it.”

  “What exactly are you going to say?”

  “I can’t say. Or rather, I’d prefer not to say.”

  “I don’t want names. Just an idea of what you’re going to be talking about.”

  Dyer sighed. “I don’t know if I trust you enough. Yet.”

  Reznick’s gaze was drawn to the street outside. A navy Lincoln Navigator crawled down the street and parked diagonally opposite the church, farther down the road.

  Dyer moved her seat back away from the window. “What is it?”

  Reznick reached into his backpack and took out his binoculars. He saw two men wearing suits, white shirts, and ties, one speaking into a cell phone. He couldn’t be sure. But he thought they looked like undercover Feds. “I think we’ve got company.”

  Trevelle said, “They look like Feds. Don’t you work for them?”

  “Trust me, if they’ve come after us, their intentions aren’t to shoot the breeze with me or anyone.”

  Dyer looked at him. “They’re here for me, aren’t they?”

  “They’re here for all of us. We need to move.”

  Twelve

  It was just after midnight, and Meyerstein was staring out of her seventh-floor office window in the FBI’s Hoover Building. She was about to give a briefing to the Director about Reznick. And she was worried. The death of the man in New York City and Reznick’s possible involvement shone a harsh spotlight—and not only on the fact that Reznick was operating without oversight. It would also reflect on her decision to use Reznick within the FBI, as and when she saw fit.

  Her team had hurriedly compiled a dossier and timeline as they struggled to catch up with the chain of events that was unfolding. But she knew from experience that nothing Jon Reznick was involved in was ever straightforward.

  Her phone rang and Meyerstein picked up.

  “You ready, Martha?” asked the somber voice of Bill O’Donoghue, director of the FBI.

  “Yes, sir, on my way.” She picked up the dossier and timeline from her desk, headed out of her office and down the corridor, and knocked on his door.

  Meyerstein waited for a few moments. She knocked again.

  A voice inside shouted, “Yes.”

  Meyerstein walked in and handed over the dossier and timeline. “Here it is, sir, as promised.”

  “Pull up a chair.”

  “Thank you.”

  O’Donoghue picked up the dossier and took a few minutes to read it. Occasionally, he scribbled some notes on a pad. His brow furrowed deeper and deeper, as if his mood was darkening the more he read. He leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “Do you know who I just spoke to on the phone?”

  Meyerstein shook her head.

  “The President’s national security adviser. He’d been tipped off by someone inside the Pentagon.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I agree, this isn’t good.”

  “Isn’t good? Is Reznick for real? Has he lost his mind? I’m due to give a press conference in a few days about the importance of the FBI and ensuring the fair and proper rules and regulations that govern us. I’m going to be stressing the importance of working within the law. Stressing the importance of our country’s Constitution and legal framework. And now this? Some crazy running around getting involved in all manner of criminality. Can you imagine the fallout if the New York Times or CNN or whoever learns that Reznick has been working for us?”

  Meyerstein sat quietly, not wishing to fire him up even further.

  “Serious question, Martha. Has Jon Reznick gone clinically insane? Has he lost his goddamn mind?”

  “Reznick has not lost his mind, sir. For what it’s worth, the situation appears far more complicated than the national security adviser or the Pentagon is letting on.”

  “Do you know anything about this Rosalind Dyer?”

  “I do, sir. I drafted the briefing.”

  “How did we find out Dyer was involved? How did we get her name?”

  “NSA. Reznick’s voice was identified when he called her cell phone. She is a highly respected special agent with the DCIS, albeit under investigation at this moment.”

  “Rosalind Dyer is believed to have stolen classified documents. No one is above the law.”

  “Yes, and I know the law well. She could face up to five years’ imprisonment if found guilty. I get that. And we must investigate. But my reading of the situation is that she’ll be seeking immunity under the Whistleblower Protection Act. So I think it’s a bit more nuanced than simply whether she has removed or retained classified material.”

  O’Donoghue shook his head. “I don’t want to hear about nuanced. The Pentagon believes she is going to give up government secrets pertaining to national security. And their lawyers are scrambling, trying to get an arrest warrant, without the media hearing about this.”

  “I believe she’s scheduled to appear at a closed session of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

  O’Donoghue pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the thing is, will she reveal, either deliberately or inadvertently through cross-examination by members of the committee, that Jon Reznick is helping her? Have you thought of that?”

  Meyerstein shook her head. “It’s not something I’ve contemplated.”

  “Can you just imagine if they find out that the FBI uses the services of Jon Reznick? Do you know how that would look?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, sir.”

  “Do you, Martha? Do you know the pressure we’re under these days? And then this? We will be annihilated if this gets out. And trust me, it will get out. Some media-hungry congressperson won’t be able to resist getting on their white horse and portraying us as enemies to the forces of democracy, openness, and Christ knows what else.”

  “This is a situation that needs to be managed, sir.”

  “Managed? Reznick is running around out of control.”

  “I don’t accept that, sir.”

  “You don’t accept that? Do you want me to give you a recap of all the times Reznick has run amok? Breaking into that diplomat’s apartment in Manhattan after his daughter was put in a coma? And that’s just the beginning.”

  “Bill, I think when you’re dealing with someone like Jon Reznick, we have to accept that there are going to be times when he pushes the envelope.”

  “He doesn’t push the envelope, Martha. He scrunches it up and sets it on fire. He doesn’t do rules. We’re the goddamn FBI!”

  Meyerstein sighed. She had tried for years to contain Reznick’s excesses. And O’Donoghue didn’t even know the full extent of his take-no-prisoners attitude. Reznick was a trained assassin, after all. The Director didn’t know about the MS-13 gangbanger he’d shot in cold blood, despite the man’s surrender while Reznick rescued the girlfriend of a compromised FBI special agent. Meyerstein had spoken to the SWAT team leader who had witnessed the killing, and he’d agreed not to mention it in his report. She’d plunged headfirst down a slippery slope into illegality. She knew it. But something deep inside her admired Reznick. Maybe even more than admired.

  “What are we going to do with Reznick? I mean, this is indefensible.”

  Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “Bill, let’s leave him out of this for now.”

  “I don’t want to leave him out of it,
Martha. The guy’s nuts.”

  “With respect, he is highly intelligent and very principled. Stubbornly so. Yes, he seems to go out of his way to find trouble, but in this situation we need to know more about why he’s involved. Let’s establish some more facts before we come to a conclusion.”

  O’Donoghue sighed. “That’s a circular argument. You’re always defending him, no matter how indefensible his actions, while I sit here wondering what the hell is going on.”

  They shared a wry smile at that.

  Getting back to business, Meyerstein said, “You read the timeline?”

  “I did.”

  “Time of death for the body found in the attic of the apartment is still to be established, but the preliminary analysis is that the guy was dead long before Reznick broke in.”

  O’Donoghue tapped his fingers on his desk. “So what the hell was he doing there?”

  “The ex-NSA hacker he was seen with, Trevelle Williams—I’ve spoken to him on the phone before, during at least one investigation. And that was a situation pertaining to national security.”

  O’Donoghue pointed to her. “You see, that’s my point. Ex-NSA hacker? Why isn’t he in jail? The FBI now relies on hackers to help us with investigations pertaining to national security? Are you kidding me?”

  “Do you remember that former Delta friend of Reznick’s who was rescued from that hospital facility in upstate New York? It was Trevelle who got Reznick in.”

  “Illegally.”

  “Look, this is a complicated situation.”

  “This just gets more goddamn murky. Hackers, hangings, and now a DCIS investigator wanted for stealing government secrets? It’s preposterous!” O’Donoghue picked up the timeline again and studied it. “Why haven’t they all been hauled in for questioning?”

  “We were able to trace the three of them to the house of a local pastor. The team we sent in were obviously identified by Reznick, who knows countersurveillance, tradecraft, whatever.”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  “When our guys knocked on the door, they were long gone.”

  O’Donoghue shook his head. “Gone? We look like amateurs.”

  “To be fair, sir, they were waiting for backup before they approached the house. And that was all the window of opportunity Reznick needed. They slipped out the back of the house without anyone seeing them.”

  O’Donoghue tossed the timeline onto his desk. “How much longer can we tolerate this, Martha? I get cold sweats every time I hear Reznick’s goddamn name.”

  “Reznick isn’t helping anyone’s blood pressure, I agree. Look, Bill, hear me out. I want to establish what exactly happened, what the connection is between Dyer, Williams, and Reznick. I can assure you, Bill, there’s more to this than meets the eye. I just need time.”

  “Time’s running out. And just so you know, Martha, we’ll find Rosalind Dyer. And she’ll be arrested. And so will Reznick.”

  Thirteen

  Reznick was sitting alone in a stolen Chevy Suburban on a dark street in Bethesda. He checked his watch. It was just past two a.m.

  Suddenly, headlights appeared out of the darkness farther down the tree-lined street. A car pulled up outside a smart Colonial house. Reznick flashed his headlights. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Meyerstein got out of her car, turned, and looked directly across the street. She began to cross the road.

  Reznick wound down his window.

  Meyerstein stared at him. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call ahead.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I know, it’s all gotten a bit crazy.”

  “No kidding. Do you mind explaining what the hell is going on, Jon? And I don’t mean you turning up at my home unannounced. Do you know you’re a wanted man?”

  Reznick held up his palms.

  “This is my house, Jon! Where I live, goddamn it! It’s the middle of the night!”

  “I know, it’s not the way I should do things, I get that. It’s not good protocol, I know all that.”

  “Seriously, whatever is going on, you need to drop it.”

  Reznick stayed quiet, not wishing to enrage her further. He needed her on his side at all costs.

  Meyerstein scrutinized his face. “You haven’t shaved. You have bags under your eyes. You look terrible.”

  “What can I tell you?” he said. “Sleep deprivation does that to a man.”

  “You could help yourself by cutting down on all that Dexedrine.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, it’s nice to see you, by the way. You look nice.”

  “I feel like shit if you must know.” She looked around. “The neighbors will be wondering what the hell is going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few are already calling the cops.”

  “Two minutes of your time, that’s all.”

  Meyerstein looked around once more, then walked around the car, slid into the passenger seat, and quietly shut the door. “This is most irregular.”

  “What can I say? I’m an irregular guy.”

  Meyerstein didn’t smile. “I’m not in the mood, Jon.”

  “Was that the Feds you had on my tail outside the church earlier?”

  “I can’t comment on that, Jon.”

  “They need to brush up on their surveillance methods. They stood out like a car full of sore thumbs.”

  Meyerstein cleared her throat but said nothing. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

  Reznick reached under his seat, pulled out a file, and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Remember the hacker in Miami? Trevelle Williams? You spoke to him once, maybe a couple of years ago. Martha, don’t act as if you don’t know anything about him.”

  “This is the guy you’re running around New York with? And now DC?”

  “That guy came to me with that information. It was passed to him from a friend of his, another hacker in New York.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “Don’t tell me, you discovered the body.”

  “How the hell do you know about that?”

  “Isabella Acosta gave me the heads-up.”

  “Isabella, huh? Good for her.”

  “This is not good, Jon. No matter how you look at this. Not good.”

  “Just so you know, someone got to that guy before we got there. Almost certainly the same guys who were looking around Trevelle’s home in Miami.” Reznick pulled out his cell phone. “Take a look at this footage. A warning, it’s pretty graphic.” He played the footage of the masked men and the point-blank killing of the bespectacled Fernandez.

  Meyerstein stared at the footage. “This is not a home invasion crew, that’s for sure.”

  “Absolutely right. Thank you. These are pros, Martha. This was in Miami. Were these mercenaries from there? Who knows. They took Trevelle’s computers and hard drives. And they’re looking for him. I’m trying to protect him.”

  “You need to bring him in.”

  “Look at it from his point of view. The kid is scared. He’s ex-NSA, he’s a hacker, he’s convinced he won’t see daylight again if he gives himself up.”

  “I’ll do all I can, I promise. But as it stands, you’re in a sticky situation. The NYPD is looking to question you about the death of the guy in the Village. You’re a wanted man. But more importantly, Rosalind Dyer is wanted by the FBI.”

  There wasn’t time for him to ask her how the FBI had learned about Dyer or what charges they were planning to press. But it confirmed for him that Dyer was right—someone in the government was very afraid about what she was going to testify about. Arrest her or kill her—they’d do whatever they could to silence her.

  “Read the file,” Reznick said. “You’ll see a decrypted version of a memo that was passed from a hacktivist group in Europe to the dead guy in New York, who passed it to Trevelle. And I just showed you how they didn’t hesitate to kill Trevelle’s friend when they were looking for him. The kid is seriously
spooked. But the memo they accessed—”

  “Do you mean stole?”

  “Whatever, the memo needs to be read to be believed. They—whoever in our government has hired this private firm—want to neutralize Rosalind Dyer, an American, on American soil, using a foreign intelligence service. That’s what this is all about. This is what we’ve got our hands on.”

  Meyerstein looked at her watch. “I don’t have time for this now.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have time? You need to make time for this. I’m asking for a favor. A big favor. Just check it out.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “None of this negates the fact that Rosalind Dyer is believed to have stolen classified government documents.”

  Reznick shook his head. “That file you’re holding also contains some rather interesting documents that Rosalind Dyer is alleged to have stolen. Swiss bank accounts linked to members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It’s outrageous, and she’s doing the right thing by trying to expose it.”

  “Jon, you’re overstepping. You’re allowing this to become personal. You’re becoming emotionally attached.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I am. The kid came to me for help. I owe him. He’s helped me out in the past. He helped you in the past too.”

  “When?”

  “When I used him to find out more about the Russian mob who kidnapped you, remember that? There’s numerous other investigations his hacking skills have helped with as well. Besides, he doesn’t have anyone else. He can’t go to you guys or the cops. Neither can Rosalind.”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do? Let the kid get killed? And what about Rosalind? Don’t you get it? People are going to kill Rosalind Dyer to keep their bad behavior hidden. Some of the reasons why are in that file. And that’s why I’m reaching out to you, someone I trust within the FBI.”

  Meyerstein hesitated slightly before she answered, and when she did, she wouldn’t meet Reznick’s eyes. “I can’t comment, Jon. It sounds like quite a conspiracy theory, and I’d like to help. But that’s not possible in this case.”

  “A woman’s life is at risk.”