by JB Turner
He knew what was inside and the intended purpose. He didn't know who would collect and when.
Morlach sipped some water as the Frenchman prattled on. He endured the lunch for another painful hour before he ordered another bottle of Chablis to the delight of the Frenchman. He picked up the bill and descended the private elevator to the parking garage.
He was about to start up his car when his cellphone rang.
Morlach answered on the third ring. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat.
A beat. "Good lunch?"
Morlach groaned. "Interminable, if you must know."
"He's very talented, they say."
Morlach said nothing.
"I believe there was a safe delivery."
"It's all in order."
The voice on the line said nothing.
"Is there anything else I should do?"
A long sigh. "We have a fast-moving situation."
"I need to know more."
"Don't stray far from home in the next forty-eight hours."
"Why not?"
A silence opened up down the line.
"I said why not?"
A long sigh. "The schedule of filming is being altered and we might have to update the documentation accordingly."
"Altered?"
"They've ran into a few snags."
"Will that be a problem? Because if it is, we will refinance elsewhere."
Morlach nodded and smiled at the coded language. He wondered if it was fooling anyone. "No problem at all. Whatever you require, I will provide."
"Your help is much appreciated."
Then the line went dead.
TWENTY ONE
The sky was burnt orange as Reznick headed west along Pacific Coast Highway. The smell of the salty air reminded Reznick of home by the cove in Maine. He had always loved the sea. He felt free. The ever-changing vista. And the breakers crashing onto the shoreline.
Reznick saw a sign for the restaurant up ahead. He drove past for a couple of miles before he turned around outside Malibu and headed back down the Pacific Highway. He pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's and switched off the engine. The Nobu restaurant was opposite on the ocean side of the freeway.
He pulled out military field glasses and looked across at the entrance to Nobu. Top-of-the-range cars filled the parking lot.
He didn't know if Blaine would be at the restaurant tonight, but it was his best shot.
Headlights from the eastbound and westbound highway traffic strafed the road ahead as darkness fell over Malibu.
Reznick watched and waited as time dragged. He felt his stomach rumble from the lack of food. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He went inside the McDonald's and ordered a burger, fries and large coke. He sat by the window and stared across at the fancy cars pulling into the Nobu private parking lot. He wolfed his food. It felt good. He went to the restroom and popped a couple of Dexedrine. The amphetamines kicked in. He was alive again.
Reznick returned to his car and resumed his stakeout of the Nobu parking lot. He replayed the call from Tiny in his head again. He thought of Pete Dorfman. He thought of his face as he drank on the roof terrace in South Beach. Both their lives snuffed out as methodically and clinically as the scientists' lives Reznick and his Delta crew had snuffed out. Men with families too. And now it was retribution time. A sense of foreboding washed over him like he hadn't felt for a long time.
The minutes dragged into hours and nothing. Reznick wondered if the punk at the boxing gym hadn't played him. His instincts had told him to track down his old buddy. But he sensed something was not right.
Blaine had a cellphone virtually attached to him at all times. He wasn't the sort of guy just to take off or drop off the radar on a whim. Just when he was thinking of getting the hell out of there, a sleek black Ferrari cruised into view and turned into the Nobu parking lot.
Reznick's senses switched on and he peered through the field glasses. He watched and waited. The car light went off. The driver's door opened and Blaine stepped out, buttoning his blazer over his white shirt. He looked every inch the affluent West Coast businessman as he entered the exclusive restaurant.
Reznick watched and waited for a few moments. The restaurant was directly across the busy freeway. The quickest way was to jaywalk across. But that could attract unwanted attention from the cops. To hell with it, he would jaywalk.
Just as Reznick moved to get out of the car, a motorbike pulled up in the Nobu parking lot. A helmeted pillion passenger climbed off and opened up the rucksack of the man riding the bike.
Reznick peered through the field glasses. He sensed something was wrong. Badly wrong. A feeling of dread came over him. "No, no . . ."
He realized in that instant something was going down.
The pillion passenger pulled out of the rucksack what looked like a metallic cellphone device and placed it underneath the Ferrari. He then climbed back on and the bike gunned hard out of the Nobu parking lot and disappeared among the rest of the steady Pacific Coast Highway traffic.
They had taken less than thirty seconds to plant the device, and no-one but Reznick had witnessed it.
TWENTY TWO
Reznick felt a surge of adrenalin rush through his body. He slammed the car into reverse and cut across the highway, swerving to avoid an oncoming truck, as he gave chase to the motorbike. He pulled up the number for Nobu on his Bluetooth phone. His heart pounded as he peered ahead into the traffic. But through the myriad of lights he picked out the streak of light from the motorbike tearing north up the coast road.
The phone began to ring. And ring. Eight rings and someone picked up.
"Nobu, Malibu, good evening."
"I need to speak to the manager," Reznick said, raising his voice above the roar of the engine.
"I'm sorry, the manager is not available just now. How can I help?"
"Who am I speaking to?"
"Heidi Franzen, duty restaurant supervisor, sir."
"Heidi, I need to speak to a customer of yours, Blaine Vincenza. He just arrived a few minutes ago."
"Sir, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss who is or isn't dining with us this evening. If you'd like to leave your number . . ."
"Heidi, I haven't got much time. I need to speak to Blaine right now."
"Sir, with respect, I do not know who you are."
"My name is Jon Reznick."
"Mr. Reznick, it is not our policy to . . ."
"Listen, miss whatever your name is, I don't give a damn about your policies."
"Sir, I'm sorry, we're very busy this evening . . ."
"Heidi, do you want me to spell it out to you? There's a fucking bomb under Blaine's black Ferrari, outside your goddamn restaurant. So are you going to . . ."?
She hung up.
Reznick thought of Blaine and the other diners inside oblivious. "Fuck." Thoughts tearing through his head.
His cellphone rang, barely audible as the traffic roared past. He didn't recognize the caller number. "Yeah, who's this?"
"Don't hang up." The voice of Meyerstein. "Jon, we've got an approximate fix on your location."
Reznick took a few moments to think of his next move. "How did you find me?"
"When you use the words 'bomb' and a few sentences earlier 'Jon Reznick', it's picked up by the NSA."
"Nice to know the NSA is respecting an American's privacy."
"You're in Malibu, aren't you?"
"I'm heading through Malibu. And I just want to let you know that you've got a problem. A big fucking problem."
"Tell me about this bomb."
"Two guys on a motorbike pulled up outside Nobu restaurant about two minutes ago, and placed what looked like a magnetic bomb to the underside of Blaine Vincenza's black Ferrari."
A beat. "Blaine? Ex-Delta Blaine?"
"The very one."
"Copy that."
"Listen, you need to clear the restaurant. You need to get Blaine. No one touches that Ferrari."
Reznick swerved as he overtook a truck and narrowly avoiding clipping another car.
"Jon, we have a chopper in the air now. FBI Swat team who are five minutes behind you. Have you got a visual on the bike?"
"Affirmative. But my car is no match. I'm barely keeping up. Listen, you need to seal off that restaurant."
"Myself and the bomb squad are on that, Jon."
Reznick braked hard as a pick-up truck cut in on him. "Goddamn!"
"Are you okay?"
"Fucking Californian drivers, that's all."
Meyerstein sighed. "Support is only a minute behind you and closing fast."
"Anti-jamming signals would be first port of call for bomb squad. Could be triggered by cellphone."
The sound of a radio crackling in the background down the line.
Meyerstein said, "Hang on. Bomb squad's ETA is four minutes."
"Where are you?"
"I'll be there in less than a minute . . . " The line began to break up. "What about you, Jon?"
Reznick stared at the road ahead as the motorbike headed off into the hills outside of Malibu. "Looks like these guys are heading off the highway. I'll be in touch."
"Be careful, Jon."
Then she hung up.
TWENTY THREE
Mohsen Sazegara stood on the upper level deck of the 'safe house' high up in the Malibu hills and stared through the military binoculars down to the floodlit Nobu parking lot. Police cruisers had sealed off the entrance and no one was getting in or out. He adjusted the Bluetooth headset. "I don't like this. Reznick appears out of the blue and is following our guys. Something's been compromised."
Behzad said, "Let's roll with it, Mohsen."
Mohsen watched a black Suburban pull up at the cordon and four men wearing dark suits and a woman got out. "Hang on. . . Who's this, Behzad?"
Behzad the computer specialist within the team took dozens of photos with his telephoto lens. He pulled out the disc from the camera and slid it into the side of the MacBook Pro. "Give me a moment. I'll scan against our database."
"These are not ordinary cops."
"Everyone who is anyone in the American intelligence community is on our system."
"What about Vincenza and Reznick? They're not on it?"
"We have their details from other sources."
Behzad said, "Well, well, well." He flipped the laptop around so Mohsen could see the faces.
Mohsen stared at the photo of an attractive middle aged white woman. "Who is she?"
"FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein. It says here that she's worked with Reznick in the past."
Mohsen grinned. "You kidding me? An assistant director, right? And Vincenza inside?"
"The orders were very clear. Strictly ex-Delta only, Mohsen. You know that."
Mohsen stared through the viewfinder of the field glasses. "I know what the orders were. I also know that if we do something more direct, high value casualties such as this Meyerstein woman, is not a problem. We're sending them a message, aren't we?"
Behzad turned the laptop around and scanned the information. "Why don't I send Tehran an encrypted message and await instructions."
"Fine. Two minutes."
Behzad tapped away at the keyboard for nearly a minute. A few moments later the reply pinged through.
"What does it say?"
"Hold fire . . . await further instructions."
Mohsen felt his stomach tighten with excitement. "We've got her in our sights. I don't understand."
"That's what it says here. Digital signature of Major General Jafari himself."
Mohsen knew the special operations conducted outside Iran had to be rubber-stamped by the General or it didn't happen. His word was law. The General had recruited Mohsen when he was a soldier with the elite Revolutionary Guards. He knew the General's brother who was in charge of the Basij, a loosely allied group of Islamic organizations who acted as street enforcers. Some acted like official military units like Ansar Hezbollah, whilst others were controlled by local clerics. They had both earned their spurs as young men beating anyone considered Westernized or flouting Islamic conventions. Now, here he was in the epicenter of all things decadent and western, and they were about to unleash more Quds-style payback.
"I don't like it," Mohsen said, eyes pressed up tight to the field glasses.
"Don't like what?" Behzad asked.
"Where's Vincenza?"
Behzad went to the front of the deck and stared through his telescopic lens. "The bomb squad will be here soon. We've got a window of opportunity, Mohsen."
Mohsen knew what he meant. Anti jamming devices would soon be deployed rendering the bomb inert. He stared at the gathering Feds cordoning off the Nobu restaurant parking lot. His attention was drawn to police sirens further down the Pacific Coast Highway, lights flashing. He trained his field glasses on the fast-moving vehicles. He wanted to get Vincenza. Reznick could wait. Save the best till last. "They're locking it down."
"How long have we got?"
Mohsen sighed. "Anything from five to seven minutes."
"That gives us time."
Mohsen said nothing.
"They're onto us, Mohsen. We can't jeopardize the mission. I say we should get the hell out of here and regroup."
"I think we've got them where we want them. They know we're here. And that fear will seep into every one of them. And that's good."
Behzad said nothing.
Mohsen trained the field glasses back on the Nobu parking lot.
His cell vibrated in his pocket and he answered. It was his handler in Brentwood. "You contact me for orders not Tehran."
Mohsen took a deep breath. "Things are getting interesting here. We can show them the might of Tehran."
"Mohsen, listen to me . . ."
At that moment, Mohsen saw a man emerge from the restaurant. "Hang on," he said. "We have something."
"What?" his handler said.
"Vincenza and Meyerstein are talking. They're both in our sights."
A long silence opened up down the line.
"We can take them both out now."
Mohsen could hear his heart beating.
"Watch and wait."
"What?"
"That's an order. Let's see how this transpires. And let's not show our hand just yet."
The line went dead.
TWENTY FOUR
Reznick was driving hard as he headed up Malibu Canyon Road and struggling to keep up with the lights of the bike in the distance. His cell rang.
"Talk to me, Jon." The voice of Meyerstein was tight.
"Where the hell is the chopper? I'm following these guys up into the hills. I don't know where the fuck I'm going."
"Mechanical problem. It had to turn back."
"Are you kidding me?"
"We've got two mobile SWAT teams on the way. They're not far behind."
"Tell them to get a move on. This car is a heap of junk."
The signal dropped and they were cut off. "Fuck."
Reznick headed higher into the hills, gaining on the bike as they moved inland. Up ahead he saw the lights weave through the canyon. He wondered if the guys on the motorbike thought they'd lost him.
His thoughts went back to the arrival of the motorbike. The guys placing the bomb. He thought of the location. The restaurant was right beside the ocean. But on the other side were the hills, winding roads, and houses, overlooking the ocean from on high.
Line of sight.
The realization crashed through his head like a concrete block.
His foot was to the floor as he drove higher into the dark hills, headlights strafing the winding canyon road.
His cell rang.
"Jon, are you there?"
"Yeah, I'm on it. Listen, you've got a major problem."
"I think I'm aware of that, Jon."
"I'm not talking about the team that laid the bomb."
"What then?"
"You're being watched.
Right now."
"You think they're watching us?"
A coyote ran across the road and Reznick swerved to narrowly avoid it. "Goddamn."
"You okay?"
"Fucking Californian wildlife."
"So tell me . . . where might they be watching us from?"
"Hills directly above Malibu. Hundreds of homes there with direct line of sight."
"So how . . ?"
"Never mind how. You need to make the bomb safe as they may remote detonate at any time. Listen to me . . ."
The signal dropped off again killing the call.
Reznick sped on up through the canyon. Round sheer drop hillside roads, and all the time, in the distance, the single light from the motorbike. He saw a sign for Las Virgenes Canyon Road. Up ahead, the bike started to pull further away and then hung a right onto Mulholland Highway.
He pressed his foot to the floor but the vehicle was struggling on the steep incline. He was barely doing sixty-five.
Blue flashing lights appeared in his rear mirror. He glanced back and saw two motorcycle cops lights on full tearing toward him, sirens blaring.
"Gimme a fuckin' break."
Reznick's heart sank as they got closer. He waited for them to cut him off. But instead, they tore on past with their high-powered bikes. Dust kicked onto Reznick's windshield.
His cellphone rang again. It was Meyerstein.
"Who the hell sent up the motorbike cops?"
"Jon, second chopper is now finally in the air and SWAT's going to be with you in no time."
"There is no time. Tell me those two cops are not going to flag down the guys who planted the sticky?"
"They're armed and in radio contact, Jon. They're both highly trained officers."
"Meyerstein, you're not getting this. This is not a straightforward shoot out with some bad guys. These are pros. They will devour these guys if they are stopped, I can guarantee that. Hold on . . ."
Reznick swerved on a tight bend as he approached the turn for Mulholland Highway. He hadn't spotted another vehicle for the last couple of miles as he headed high into the mountains. He gripped the steering wheel tight, struggling to stay on the roads snaking through the canyon with the tight bends at high speeds.
A mile or so up ahead he saw blue lights flashing through the scrub.
