Hard Target (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  “The chairman?” Trevelle asked.

  “Keep it down.”

  Trevelle looked sheepish. “Sorry. He’s got a junior suite on the top floor.”

  “What’s the direct line to the phone in his hotel room? Not his cell phone. The phone in his suite.”

  Trevelle pulled out his cell phone. He took a few minutes to hack the hotel’s systems. “I just sent it to you.”

  “Already?”

  Trevelle shrugged, eating the rest of the sandwich.

  Reznick checked his messages. He headed to the bathroom and made sure the stalls were empty before he called the number. It rang six times before it was picked up. “Senator Aldrich?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Sir, apologies for disturbing you. My name is Jon Reznick. And I’m downstairs with a woman who is due to testify before your committee tomorrow.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We need to talk. Now.”

  “That’s highly irregular.”

  “Sir, she is in fear for her life.”

  Dead silence echoed on the line. Reznick feared the senator would get spooked and call the cops.

  “Sir, are you still there?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Sir, there is an ongoing situation. I consult for the FBI. I report to assistant director Martha Meyerstein. Please verify that with her.”

  “I know Martha.”

  “Good. Rosalind Dyer is here now, sir.”

  “Here at the hotel? How did you find me?”

  “Long story. Sir, she would like to speak to you in person.”

  “In person? This is not the way things work here in Washington, Mr. Reznick.”

  “I know it’s not. But the people she’s going to testify against, they want to silence her for good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I haven’t been informed of that.”

  “Trust me, this is a real and present threat. The FBI is aware of it.”

  “Mr. Reznick, I know Martha Meyerstein. And I trust her judgment. You say you work for her?”

  “Ad hoc basis, sir. Consulting. Please check with her.”

  “And how did you get involved in this, Mr. Reznick?”

  “I can explain all that. But first Rosalind needs to speak to you.”

  “She’s speaking to the committee tomorrow. She can say whatever she likes then. That would be the appropriate place. And it will be a closed session.”

  “Senator, we believe she will be killed before she testifies, sir. You have to believe me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Senator Aldrich’s aide, a young, fresh-faced college kid, escorted Reznick and Dyer upstairs to the chairman’s suite. The aide knocked three times.

  Aldrich opened the door to his suite, cell phone pressed to his ear. He ushered them inside.

  Reznick sat down on a cream sofa as Rosalind sat down on a wine-red leather chair.

  Aldrich continued his telephone conversation. He spoke for almost ten minutes about “protocol” and “standards.” Eventually, he ended the call and put his phone in his pocket. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Was just making sure that, legally speaking, my meeting with Mrs. Dyer wouldn’t break any laws.”

  Reznick nodded. “We appreciate you seeing us.”

  Aldrich sat down on the sofa opposite Reznick, next to huge windows overlooking the White House. He looked at Reznick. “I was also checking your credentials with Martha.”

  Reznick nodded.

  Aldrich leaned forward, hands clasped, and turned his gaze to Dyer. “The legal advice I was just given indicates that while I can meet with you, Mrs. Dyer, what you say within these four walls can’t be accepted as evidence to the committee.”

  Rosalind said, “I understand.”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “But I still want to talk to you. At least get you to listen to what I have to say.”

  Aldrich nodded and opened his palms. “No harm in listening, is there?”

  Rosalind took a few moments to compose herself, taking a few deep breaths. She cleared her throat.

  “Take your time. Trust me, I don’t bite.”

  Rosalind smiled, tears in her eyes. “This is difficult.” She cleared her throat again. “Sir, the last forty-eight hours have been very frightening.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve feared for my life. And my lawyer, who was supposed to be representing me tomorrow morning, has fallen to his death.”

  Aldrich stared at her. “I saw something on Fox. I’m so sorry. That was your lawyer?”

  “Yes, it was. I’ve been receiving anonymous, silent calls for a while, and my lawyer had been approached by lawyers for the Pentagon who threatened to tell lies about me to the media and to get my pension revoked if I testify. Then he falls to his death shortly before I’m supposed to appear.”

  Aldrich looked thoughtful. “That doesn’t mean those things are linked.”

  “True. But I believe they are.”

  “Is it possible he was under extreme stress and took his own life? It happens.”

  “I’m not buying it. Not one bit. Besides, there are seven others. Seven men who died. I want you to know that. The latest one, Andrew Boyd, died only three weeks ago. A partner at a DC accounting firm, Summersby and Grant.”

  Aldrich looked at Reznick. “Excuse me?”

  “At the hearing tomorrow, I plan to talk about not only the financial malfeasance, but the deaths of seven men. Accountants. Auditors.”

  Aldrich went quiet for a few moments. “That’s a lot to take in. First, let’s start, if I may, with the chain of events that has led the two of you here. How did this all begin? And I don’t mean Mrs. Dyer’s investigation into financial irregularities within the Pentagon.”

  Reznick and Dyer filled Aldrich in on everything, starting with the hacked memo and the murder of Trevelle’s friend Fernandez. They laid out the case for the links between each event. Aldrich listened silently through most of this, his brows occasionally skyrocketing toward his hairline, and when they’d circled back to the lawyer’s death, he finally spoke, asking again, “How can you be so sure it wasn’t just a tragedy? A terrible suicide.”

  “Trust me,” Reznick said, “this was made to look like an accident. Just as Rosalind’s death would have if that leaked memo hadn’t screwed everything up. The head of Geostrategy Solutions is Max Charles. You might’ve heard of him.”

  “Max Charles? He used to work for the Agency, didn’t he?”

  “He did indeed. He now runs a private security company, and in addition to consulting for the Pentagon, he is currently working on behalf of Brad Firskin, the President’s national security adviser.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. And you believe Charles is behind this?”

  “I believe he’s acting on behalf of elements in the American government who want to neutralize Rosalind Dyer.”

  “I find that a bit far-fetched, Jon.”

  “I don’t.”

  Aldrich said nothing.

  “Sir, Rosalind Dyer’s life is at risk. You can believe it or not, but I’ve seen it firsthand. The Feds want her taken to a secure location. They’re likely going to arrest her on the pretense that she’s stolen classified documents. And she will allow them to do so. But only after she has told you what she knows.”

  Dyer continued, “Sir, I’ve taken the opportunity to upload the documents to a secure cloud server.” She handed him the password details. “This will decrypt the contents. I’ve also saved a copy to a server in Switzerland as a backup if anything happens to me. The documents tell you everything. They also contain the names of the seven men who have died. Boating accidents, suicide, car accidents, falls from great heights, et cetera. All of these men were investigating the irregularities in the Pentagon budget. And they all went to the inspector general. I’m the only one who took a different path.”

  Aldric
h looked at the scrap of paper.

  “There are two boxes of documents that I will have couriered to the committee tomorrow. That’s been arranged.”

  Reznick said, “Sir, I understand all too well there are protocols. How you go about things. How you make sure it’s legal. I get that. But Rosalind felt compelled to bring this to you. I hope you understand where we’re coming from.”

  Aldrich sighed. “I appreciate this. And I fully understand your reticence about speaking in front of my committee tomorrow. It’s a lot to take in.”

  Reznick said, “I have another favor to ask.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Is it possible for Rosalind to give her testimony via videoconference?”

  Aldrich shook his head. “That’s not a possibility, I’m afraid. It’s a closed-door session, and the security is excellent. There are some things we can’t change.”

  “Can you guarantee her safety?”

  Aldrich grimaced. “There are no guarantees in life. You probably know that better than anyone, Mr. Reznick.” He looked at Rosalind. “You have submitted a written statement. But oral testimony is required. And there will be questions and answers and opportunity for the committee members to expand upon the statement, gathering their evidence as they see fit.”

  Dyer nodded. “I understand.”

  “I have discretion, of course. But in this case, I know the other members of the committee will insist that it be in person. Especially in light of what you’ve told me.”

  Reznick looked at Dyer, who was sitting quietly. “What do you think, Rosalind?”

  “I will do whatever it takes to let the committee know what’s going on.”

  Reznick’s heart sank. He’d held out this last hope of changing her mind.

  Aldrich stood. “Your testimony tomorrow is going to prove very powerful. Thank you for stepping forward and doing this brave thing. Now, I suggest we all rest up. The committee will see you at ten a.m. tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Thirty-Five

  Meyerstein stared out her office window on the darkness of downtown Washington, DC. She felt drained by recent events, and she had a sense of foreboding like she hadn’t felt for some time. Once Rosalind Dyer testified tomorrow, she, Trevelle Williams, and Reznick would all have to face a reckoning for their actions over the past few days.

  Meyerstein felt mentally exhausted, running on empty. Week after week, month after month of intense work, investigations, and mounting pressure both within and outside the FBI.

  What she wouldn’t give for a long vacation.

  It had been three, maybe four years since she had taken time off. She wondered if a couple of weeks down in the Keys would raise her spirits. The hot sun, the peace, and the water lapping onto the sand. The sound of the birds in the trees. Reading some books. Drifting off on the beach. The gentle breeze blowing in off the Gulf. She longed to be down there now.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Her mind flashed to her honeymoon in Europe with her husband. The Greek islands. The smell of wild chamomile and the hint of thyme in the breeze. All her senses were alive. It seemed so long ago.

  Her desk phone rang, snapping her back to harsh reality.

  “Ma’am, Abbie Silverman at Quantico.”

  “Hey, Abbie, how goes it?”

  “We’ve been looking into the video recorded at the warehouse in Miami. The masked men who broke in and shot the kid.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “We couldn’t figure out what language these guys were using. Really struggled with it. But we got it now. It’s interesting.”

  “What’d you find out?”

  “The guys in Miami. They were speaking a Mayan language, K’iche’. Spoken primarily in Guatemala, in the western highlands. About a million people in Guatemala speak this language, about 7 percent of the population. Second-most widely spoken language after Spanish.”

  “Mayan, interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

  “There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands who speak a Mayan language in the US alone.”

  “So these guys might originally, quite conceivably, have come from Guatemala, but because of the death squads and killings, they wound up in America?”

  “There’s a large concentration in California.”

  “Appreciate the heads-up.”

  Meyerstein ended the call and sat down at her computer. She pulled up the FBI’s files on Max Charles. A lot of it was redacted. But she knew about the connections between the CIA and its “assets” in Central America. She knew there were many former death squad members from Central American armies who were on the CIA payroll. Past and present. She also knew that joint DEA and FBI investigations into Florida drug cartels sometimes uncovered former military officers from Central and South America who’d turned to importing cocaine from Colombia via Guatemala and into America.

  She saw the link right away.

  Meyerstein speed-read the file, then came back to what had caught her eye. An Associated Press photo of Max Charles with senior military officers in Guatemala City, 1981. He had been station chief of the CIA there in 1974. Charles knew the country well. He knew the Mayan people, the native people of Guatemala who had suffered at the hands of the military, spoke their own languages. But who were those Guatemalans that Reznick had taken down? Were they former army officers from a Mayan area of Guatemala?

  She headed immediately to let the Director know. He was working late as usual.

  O’Donoghue leaned back in his chair as he listened to what she had to say. “What do you want to do, Martha?”

  “Ideally we need to speak to Max Charles. We need to get a warrant to search his company records, his calls. That’s what we should do.”

  “Max Charles is seriously connected—you know that. You heard the same things I did when he was here. National Security Council consultant? Can you imagine how that would look?”

  “I don’t give a damn how it looks. We have enough to start with. And I believe he is bending the will of the National Security Council on this issue. For him it’s not about the law or national security. It’s about protecting senior military officers who are alleged to be accepting kickbacks.”

  O’Donoghue said nothing.

  “Without fear or favor. We need to show resolve on this. No one is above the law. And Max Charles has operated with impunity, protected by God knows who, for years, probably decades. He’s a law unto himself.”

  “I need to think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  “Martha, this is a time for caution.”

  “Sir, I believe undue caution could be construed by some as failure to take action.”

  O’Donoghue nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “We have enough to question him. More than enough.”

  O’Donoghue was quiet for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke. “I agree. Let’s find him. And bring him in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Meyerstein’s cell phone buzzed. She thanked O’Donoghue and saw the caller ID was Frank Perino, who was leading the team to track down Reznick and Rosalind Dyer. “Frank, talk to me.”

  “We know where Reznick and Rosalind Dyer and their hacker pal are.”

  “Where?”

  “Hay-Adams.”

  Meyerstein took a few moments to figure out what she should do. “First things first, let’s make that hotel secure. Talk to the manager. And I want agents outside her room until she appears. But I also want serious security in and around the hotel.”

  “What about Reznick? You want to haul him in?”

  “I’ll deal with him later. Just keep Dyer safe. But also, Frank, I just talked to Bill. We have the go-ahead to get Max Charles.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “That’s all for now.”

  Meyerstein ended the call. She gathered up her things, left the office, and drove back to her house in Bethesda. She was relieved to get h
ome. She hugged her kids and spoke to her mom, getting an update on their day.

  Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. Are you kidding me?

  “Sorry,” she said to her mother, “urgent business.”

  “Honey, you need to slow down. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Meyerstein headed through to the kitchen, where she took the call.

  “Ma’am.” Abbie Silverman again. “Got something else.”

  “What?” Her tone was harsher than she intended.

  “I just emailed it to you. It’s a photo.”

  Meyerstein flicked open her laptop on the kitchen table. She logged on and scrolled through her FBI emails. She opened the one from Silverman and double-clicked on the attachment. A photo of Max Charles shaking the hand of a handsome military officer. “Got it,” she said, cell phone pressed tight to her ear. “So what am I looking at?”

  “You’re going to love this. The military officer is Colonel Luis Molena, graduating from the School of the Americas in 1981.”

  Meyerstein’s mind began to race. She knew that was where the US trained senior officers from militaries across Central and South America. “What’s the relevance?”

  “Molena now lives in Washington, DC, with his wife and five kids. He’s originally from Guatemala. He speaks two Mayan languages. And he’s Max Charles’s son-in-law.”

  “You think he’s the point man for this operation?”

  “Guarantee it.”

  Thirty-Six

  It was nearly midnight, and Reznick was nursing a bottle of beer by himself in the Hay-Adams bar. He was pleased that Dyer had managed to speak to the senator face-to-face. But he was wary that she was still insisting on testifying.

  Reznick knew the threat was far from over. He had suggested to Dyer that she check in at another hotel nearer the Hart Senate Office Building. But she said she was stressed and tired. And besides, she said, the Hay-Adams had a nice room available and the FBI had secured the hotel. She had Meyerstein to thank for that, almost certainly. He guessed she’d given up on trying to arrest them. At least for now.

  Reznick was also pleased to learn that the Feds had teams directly outside and in and around the lobby, vetting who went in and came out. He had already been allocated a room, while Trevelle and Fifi had gotten a double room between them.