by J. B. Turner
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Dyer said. “It’s not moving.”
Reznick waited patiently; he didn’t want to startle the animal. A few seconds later, the deer trotted gracefully off into the trees by the side of the road. Reznick pulled away slowly. His thoughts focused again, not on the people in the car with him, on his responsibility to them, but on Lauren, his daughter. He had responsibilities to her too. What if something happened to him and she was left alone? What then?
And then it dawned on him. Meyerstein was right: he was not acting rationally. He was being driven by his own morality. Instead of his head, it was his heart, his beating heart and soul, that was dictating how he should act. It was how his father would have acted. Do the right thing and to hell with the consequences. But by doing so, was Reznick planting the seeds for his own downfall and others’ as well?
No good options.
Reznick was facing a major dilemma. He knew Dyer was determined to testify. But the people sent by the private security firm would be pulling out all the stops to track her down.
He wondered who he could trust, if anyone. He trusted Meyerstein. But the FBI was under huge pressure to find Dyer. How far could he expect Meyerstein to veer from the oaths she was beholden to?
Dyer dabbed her eyes as she sat in the passenger seat. “I can’t believe I’m out here in the middle of nowhere. What am I doing?”
“We’ll find you a place that’s secure. But we need to hurry.”
“Know what I can’t believe, Jon?”
“What?”
“I can’t wrap my head around the fact that all of this has happened simply because of my investigation. That people have been killed. It’s more than just the hacker guy in New York.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Rosalind told them about her parallel investigation into the suspicious deaths of auditors and accountants who had been involved in the oversight of government finances, especially within the Pentagon.
“Who knows about that?” Reznick said.
“My husband and my lawyer. That’s it. But I intend to tell all in front of the committee, closed session or not. I fear there will be a price to pay.”
Reznick nodded. “Sometimes there’s a price to pay for doing the right thing. But the road less traveled is never easy. Making your own choices. Setting off on a new trail. Never goddamn easy, you understand?”
“I do. But I’m starting to doubt myself. I wish I hadn’t started this whole goddamn thing. My lawyer says money, perhaps a multimillion-dollar settlement, is on the table if I drop out of the investigation and decline to appear before the committee. But I’ve come this far. I won’t be bought off. That’s not my way.”
“Then stick to your guns.”
“What about my family? They’re the ones who will have to pick up the pieces. The FBI views me as the criminal.”
“Have a bit of faith,” Reznick said. “I think the Feds, once they know the full story, might come around to your way of thinking.”
Dyer shook her head. “I had no idea it would come to this. Look at me, a fugitive. I don’t know if my heart is really in this now.”
Trevelle said, “I believe in you.”
“Your friend died because of me. What about that?”
“You didn’t kill him, Rosalind.”
Reznick sighed. “You need to be strong. Dig deep. Are you brave enough to head out on a new path? Strike out on your own?”
“Yes. But what about my husband?”
“What about him?”
“My husband has high blood pressure. This could kill him. I should’ve thought of that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“And what if they can’t find me and decide to go after my husband? Or even my kids! What if they threaten or hurt my family? How could I have been so goddamn stupid?”
Reznick shook his head. “We need to focus on you. Hour by hour. Until this is over. And our top priority is that we need to keep you out of sight until the hearing.”
Dyer nodded. “I feel so isolated.”
Reznick said, “There’s a guy I know. Lives about ten miles from here. We’ll go there. He’ll take care of us.”
Trevelle said, “Can you trust him?”
“He was in Delta. He’s a good guy. It’s been a while, but he’s pretty solid.”
Dyer nodded. “So the plan is just to stay overnight, to lie low until the committee hearing?”
“You OK with that?”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
Reznick glanced in the rearview mirror at Trevelle. “What about you?”
“I’m cool with that, Mr. R.”
“Fair enough. Let me make a call.”
Reznick pulled out his cell phone and called a number from the contact list he maintained of other ex-Delta operatives. Guys like him. Guys he knew he could turn to in a jam.
It rang four times before a gruff voice answered. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Mr. Kazinsky, you remember me?”
There was silence for a few moments. “Nobody calls me Mr. Kazinsky. Apart from . . . Reznick?”
“You got it first time, Ed.”
“Jon fucking Reznick, no way, man. How the hell are you?”
“I’m in a bit of a tight spot, and I’m looking for help.”
“When?”
“Right here and now. A place for me and two others to stay. I need to get out of sight for a day or so, and then we’ll be gone.”
More silence. “Where the hell are you?”
Reznick checked the satnav map. “Three miles south of Gaithersburg.”
“You got to be kidding me. Seriously?”
“I’m within range, brother. Can you help me out?”
“For you, man, anything. So, you want to find Huntmaster Drive. Big lamp at the end of the drive. That’s me.”
“We’re not disturbing you or your family?”
“I got no family, man. They’re gone. But hey, fuck ’em, right?”
Ed Kazinsky had arms like lamb shanks. Veins bulging from his neck. He opened the front door wearing a pale-blue button-down shirt and dark jeans, and he had blue eyes that seemed to linger too long, as if constantly sizing up whoever he was looking at. He looked like he kept himself in shape. He spoke in a quiet voice, almost humble. He invited them into his house and showed them around.
It was clear to Reznick, or anyone for that matter, that Kazinsky had a serious penchant for guns. On one wall was a wood-paneled, glass-front display containing rare handguns, long rifles, semiautomatics, and Civil War muskets.
Reznick’s thing for guns was more functional. He was happy as long as his 9mm Beretta was close to him. But Kazinsky was something else. Clearly a collector. Maybe even an obsessive gun nut.
Kazinsky showed them into a cavernous living room. He put another log on the roaring fire, bathing the room in a dark-orange glow. He brought out some blankets and gave them some drinks and food.
Dyer said, “Thank you for helping us out. This is a beautiful house.”
Kazinsky just nodded. “Part owned by the banks and my ex-wife.”
Reznick smiled. “Still a nice place, man.”
Kazinsky was looking around the room as if unable to relax. He seemed ill at ease in strangers’ company. It wasn’t long before he showed Trevelle to a bedroom upstairs, already made up for guests, log fire on, and Rosalind to a neat bedroom down the hall, with a bathroom en suite.
Reznick waited until his ex-Delta brother returned to the living room and sat in front of the roaring fire. It was just like old times. They talked, mostly, as he did with all his ex-Delta buddies, of the old days. Training. Operations. Iraq. Fallujah. And inevitably, the dark side of special operations. The loneliness, depressions, marriage breakdowns, and jail time.
He listened as Kazinsky talked about a business failure that had cost him tens of thousands.
Reznick detected a sadness in Kazinsky’s demeanor. The way his shoulders wer
e slightly hunched, eyes more downcast than he remembered, as if life had been tough on him.
Kazinsky poured himself and Reznick each a single malt scotch. He handed Reznick his glass of the amber liquid and raised his own. “To old friends,” he said.
Reznick took a sip of the whiskey, letting it warm his belly. “Yeah, old friends.” He relished the smoke-and-honey aftertaste of the neat malt. “That’s seriously nice. Clean.”
“It’s like velvet, isn’t it? Eighteen years to mature. Took me a lot longer, Jon, let me tell you—to mature, that is—but what the hell.”
Reznick smiled. He noticed a slight tremor in Kazinsky’s hand. “You OK, Ed? Saw just a slight shake there.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. I’m on a beta-blocker. I’ve seen better days, that’s for sure. ”
“What’s the drug for?”
“The beta-blocker? Early-onset Parkinson’s. Had a heightened anxiety problem and the medication seems to help the tremor.”
Reznick nodded. He sensed a terrible emptiness about Kazinsky that he didn’t remember from before. “What’s the problem, man? You don’t seem yourself.”
“Wife fucked off and left me, that’s the long and short of it. Fucking bitch.”
“Sorry about that. Not easy. Not easy at all.”
“Ran off with some young bodybuilder she met online. You believe that?”
Reznick said nothing.
“She thought I’d changed. People change though, right? I’ve changed.”
Reznick stared at his former Delta colleague. “We all change. I’m not the same crazy guy I was when I was twenty. Life catches up to us all. Takes its toll.”
Kazinsky finished his whiskey and put down the empty glass on the wooden table beside him. He looked at the crackling fire and sighed.
“What about your friends and family?” Reznick asked.
“I don’t go out much.”
“That’s fine. Not illegal in this country. Yet.”
Kazinsky didn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t like what I see with the world. You know what I mean?”
Reznick sensed him getting unduly morbid. “You know, it’s easy to just cut yourself off from the world. I should know better than most.”
Kazinsky nodded empathetically. “Sorry, Jon, I just get a bit down. I lost a lot of money in my business dealings. Wife left. And it all kind of started getting fucked up.”
Reznick decided to change the tone. “Well, I for one am grateful for your hospitality. At such short notice.”
Kazinsky got up and poured out another scotch for himself and Reznick. “What the hell was I supposed to do? I try and help, God knows I do. But it ain’t easy. I guess I miss a lot of the camaraderie. I’m lost. I don’t see people from one day to the next. One week to the next. I just sit. And stare at the walls.”
“That’s not healthy, Ed.”
“Tell me about it. I’m also on an antidepressant.”
Reznick could see it all made sense. Events had conspired to change the man. “Do you still work?”
“There might be something in a few months, could be lucrative, but nothing so far.”
“Want me to try and ask around? I know a few of the guys, mostly security consultants advising corporate clients, that kind of thing. You’re well placed with your knowledge to get in there. You remember a guy named Brad Jameson?”
“Sure.”
“He’s based out of New York. I’ve met him from time to time. He’s always asking me if I want work. He would jump at the chance to employ you.”
Kazinsky was quiet for a few moments.
“What do you think, Ed?”
“I’ve spoken to a few people about that kind of thing, so I’m going to see how that works out for me. Few irons in the fire.”
Reznick continued, “Ed, listen to me. I’ve got your phone number. How about if I put in a personal word for you if things don’t work out? Hell, I’ll talk to Brad right now if you want. Get you on your feet in no time.”
“Appreciate that, Jon. That would be good. Yeah, maybe something to think about.”
“Just let me know, and I’ll put in the calls.”
Kazinsky stared into his glass again as if lost in his thoughts.
Reznick took a sip of his scotch and put down his tumbler. His cell phone rang and he groaned. “You mind if I take this?”
“Go right ahead, man.”
Reznick got up and walked across the room before he took out his phone. He recognized Meyerstein’s number.
“Jon, we’re trying to pinpoint your location,” she said. “We need to know where you are.”
“Hold on, Martha.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked across at Kazinsky. “Sorry, Ed, it’s a private call. You mind?”
Kazinsky got to his feet and grinned. “Don’t sweat it.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Sorry, Martha. So, have you read the file I showed you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“We’re investigating this as we speak. You have my word, a team is looking into this. Dyer’s preliminary report on the corruption was sent to the inspector general, but nothing seems to have happened. They just sat on it. Buried it.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sadly, no.”
“You’ve read over it, right? Her file. The extracts from her investigation that I gave you.”
“I’ve looked at it.”
“And?”
“It’s compelling. I’ve written to the inspector general asking for an explanation.”
“Good, that’s something to build on. Thank you.”
“I know it’s frustrating. But in the meantime, Jon, she needs to hand herself in. I hope she’ll be exonerated, but if not, she needs to face the music.”
“I’ve suggested that myself. But she’s concerned not only about keeping herself and her family safe but also about ensuring she has her chance to testify to the committee.”
Meyerstein was silent.
“You need to put yourself in her shoes.”
“I’m not in her shoes, Jon.”
“Martha, she’s worried she’ll be sent to jail for a very, very long time.”
“There is a live warrant for her arrest. Whether I believe her investigation is justified or not is frankly irrelevant.”
“How?”
“It’s not up to me to decide. The law should run its course. We’ll find her, Jon. And I can’t have you interfering when we do. That’s not who we are.”
Reznick wondered what he needed to do to get Meyerstein to listen to him. “Martha, I feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. Rosalind just wants to testify. That’s all. Then she’ll turn herself in, and you can talk to her.”
“Why don’t you put her on the phone now?”
“Why?”
Meyerstein sighed. “Jon, I just want to talk to her.”
“Hold on.” Reznick headed out of the room and into the hall and called out Rosalind’s name. She came downstairs from her room and followed him into the living room. “It’s the FBI. Martha Meyerstein. She’d like to talk. She won’t be able to track you. So you’ve got nothing to fear on that front.”
Rosalind bit her lower lip. “What do you think?”
Reznick shrugged. “Your call.”
“Fine.”
Reznick turned the phone on speaker mode and placed it on the table.
“Rosalind Dyer speaking.”
“Rosalind, this is Martha Meyerstein, assistant director of the FBI. There is a warrant out for your arrest. And we’re going to find you.”
Dyer sighed. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
“You have to understand how this looks from our point of view. And from the point of view of the DCIS. You stole classified files. Data. There are so many charges, it’s hard to even list them. It’s treason, that’s what they’re saying.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to believe me. You need to see th
e bigger picture.”
“Then you need to give yourself up. Right now.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then God knows where that leaves us.”
Sixteen
It was the dead of night as Max Charles looked out of the Gulfstream, down onto the lights of DC. He began to contemplate the meeting that lay ahead. A meeting with the man who was pulling the strings. It would be interesting. The man he was meeting was a multibillionaire, according to Forbes. The guy had made his money in oil, Manhattan real estate, and the funding of tech start-ups. And the man was Charles’s firm’s most lucrative client, racking up tens of millions of dollars in fees in the last eighteen months alone. Geostrategy Solutions provided geopolitical strategies for the man’s Nigerian oil interests, greasing the wheels that needed to be greased, eliminating union and political threats to the economic interests of his client. But it wasn’t just in sub-Saharan Africa that Charles’s client operated.
He was pulling strings in America, unseen.
The client, John Fisk, was a close friend of presidents, chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Pentagon big shots, and a host of politicians. He funded numerous campaigns through a myriad of firms. Some based in Bermuda, some in the Caymans, and many run by trusts, unaccountable and untraceable to even forensic accountants.
It was a web of companies whose interests included oil drilling, mining in South Africa, and mineral extraction in the Ukraine, but their owner’s influence was wielded through slush funds for American politicians and multimillion-dollar deals with private security companies like Charles’s, which provided advisory services in various countries that included, if required, regime change. Fisk was also the brains behind the Commission, a shadowy organization that still existed in a different guise, drawing up plans to eliminate US politicians who got in his way.
The Gulfstream descended as they approached Dulles. Charles disembarked and got into the back of a waiting SUV. Then he was whisked to a sprawling gated estate not far from McLean, Virginia.
Charles was shown into the library, where Fisk was already waiting. Fisk, despite the late hour, wore a gray suit, black shoes, and a pale-blue shirt.
“How was the flight?” Fisk asked, making small talk.
“It was comfortable, thank you.”
