Hard Wired: A Jon Reznick Thriller (Jon Reznick series Book 3)

by JB Turner

  Meyerstein said, "What else do we know about this guy?"

  "Westernized, like his brother. Never been under FBI surveillance."

  "What else?"

  "Here's the kicker. Bought ammonium nitrate at a home depot in Austin last month."

  Meyerstein put her head in her hands. "And him and his brother are here in southern California. The question is where?"

  "Martha, we're going door to door on the houses overlooking Nobu, Malibu. Still nothing."

  "Are you telling me there is no surveillance footage from someone's front yard or driveway?"

  "Martha, each and every house is being checked over. It takes time."

  "We haven't got time."

  "I'm well aware of that."

  Meyerstein's cellphone rang. The caller display was a number she didn't recognize. Before she answered she looked up at the screens. "Are we doing a trace on my cell?"

  McMaster nodded. "Already in place. Go right ahead."

  Meyerstein answered the call. "Yes?"

  "We don't want to hurt anyone." The man's voice. "Really we don't. So you're going to give us Reznick. Hand him over."

  Meyerstein felt her blood turn cold. "Listen, we don't do deals."

  "Don't you?"

  "Not with you. Not with anyone."

  A long sigh. "And that's your final word?"

  Meyerstein looked up at the screens and everyone was nodding. "We want dialogue."

  "You're trying my patience, Meyerstein."

  Meyerstein felt her anger rise deep within her. "We don't do deals."

  "Oh but you will. Trust me on that."

  Meyerstein's insides knotted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "I think I've said enough."

  THIRTY TWO

  Mohsen Sazegara parked the car on the third level of the parking garage in downtown Santa Monica. He wore shades, a long sleeved plaid shirt, khakis and sneakers with a Lakers cap pulled low. He glanced in the rearview mirror and made sure there was no one else around. Satisfied there was no one going to disturb him, he got out and popped open the trunk. Inside was a backpack. He took it out and slung it over his shoulder, slamming the trunk hard. Then he locked the car, took the stairs and crossed

  2nd Street to the four-screen Laemmie cinema.

  He handed over a twenty dollar bill, took his change and headed inside. They were showing four European art-house movies. He decided to head into the screening of a gloomy Scandinavian crime thriller with English sub-titles. It was nearly full. Maybe around forty people.

  Sazegara sat in the middle of the front row and placed his backpack under the seat, tight between his feet. He took off his shades and stared up at the screen. The film was about a loner detective investigating the death of a politician's mistress.

  He heard whispered voices several rows behind him. I wish he would get his goddamn head out of the way? Why is he sitting in the front row?

  Sazegara afforded himself a wry smile in the darkness. If only they knew, he thought.

  He stared at the dank images of a Copenhagen alley as the cinemagoers in far-off California absorbed its message. The European liberal mindset at work. A 'progressive' society on the surface. But dig beneath the veneer, and the alcohol, prostitution, and Godless youth in various states of undress was the norm.

  He wondered why the West had allowed things to get to such a level. To him it was a venal cesspool of permissiveness. Religion and morals had been marginalized for the liberal elites who managed the country. Gay marriage. That was the thing these days. The permissiveness was now all-pervasive.

  He had seen it as he integrated into the life of Texas. The kids who didn't respect their parents, the lack of discipline in poorly run schools and the parents and their consumer-driven quest to see who could have a new car, a new gun, a new house, and invariably a new wife.

  The rustling of candy papers a few rows behind him snapped him out of his reverie. His senses were switched back on as the Danish voices on the screen boomed out of the surround sound speakers.

  The more he thought about what he was about to do, his insides knotted. His mind was on fire. It was like he was about to be consumed by a euphoric madness. Growing within him, the sense of expectation making him so giddy, it nearly made him burst out laughing.

  He closed his eyes for a few moments. Discipline. You must be disciplined. He could hear his handler's voice now. The calm, authoritative and commanding tone. In his mind's eyes, he saw his mother again. The terrible anguish contorting her face as she buried her son, Mohsen's brother, the brilliant nuclear scientist.

  The helplessness in her eyes consumed and drove him. He had no remorse at the best of times. Now? He felt nothing. And that was good.

  He was afraid of nothing. Of no one.

  Sazegara opened his eyes and felt cleansed. Refreshed. He took another few moments to compose himself. Then he bent over and undid his backpack and felt the McDonald's paper bag. Inside was the cold metal of the aerosol container.

  The silent killer.

  He placed the bag carefully underneath his seat.

  The device was primed. It would fill the air with a deadly chemical, elements which had been added at a basement lab in a Houston suburb by one of his crew. An opium-like derivative of fentanyl, Carfentanyl. The drug used by the Russian Special Forces in the Moscow Theater Siege. Ten thousand times more powerful than morphine. Anyone who inhaled a drop would be dead in seconds.

  Sazegara contemplated the device and the sequence of events about to unfold. Within the container was the cellphone receiver. A text message sent to the number would activate the device and release the killer chemical.

  Confusion would reign for a few moments.

  He imagined the people screaming as they gasped for breath. And then they would die. A painful, bewildering and quick death.

  Sazegara leaned over and picked up the backpack, minus the McDonald's paper bag with the device, which was now under the seat, and walked out of the cinema and back across the road. He took the stairs two at a time and got back into the car.

  Sazegara took a few deep breaths and pulled away. He carefully negotiated the other parked cars in the garage and drove through Santa Monica for a mile and parked in a quiet street off the Pacific Coast Highway. The sky was red.

  He took out his cellphone. Then he texted the number and closed his eyes.

  THIRTY THREE

  "Oh shit, this is really happening," Meyerstein said. She felt sick as she stared up at the screens showing real-time images from the Hamzat team inside the cinema. Twisted bodies lying between and over the seats, some with their tongues still protruding as they gasped for air, others eyes wide. A few made it as far the exit doors but had breathed in too much of the gas to survive.

  She turned and looked at Belmont. "Forty three dead. Their families and loved ones. I can't bear to think about it."

  Belmont said nothing.

  The voice of the caller lingered long in her mind. We have plans. Those were his last words. She wondered if she had made the wrong call. Should she have tried to play along more? She began to think that in some way she was partially to blame.

  She tried to push those negative and corrosive thoughts to one side.

  The largest screen switched to the FBI's Counterterrorism guys in McLean, round a huge conference table, and Meyerstein was snapped out of her thoughts.

  "Martha," FBI Special Agent John Veitch said, "we got the latest assessment."

  Meyerstein stared at Veitch up on the screen. "Shoot."

  "This is a four-men crew. All Iranian-Americans."

  "Mohsen Sazegara?"

  A grainy image appeared on the third screen. It was from a surveillance camera in the parking garage in Santa Monica. It showed a tall, muscular man wearing a baseball cap with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  Veitch said, "This is him. Cool as a fucking cucumber. This guy walked in to the cinema and watched a film for fifteen minutes, no more, and then left the device.
Primed. He triggered by remote control from a cellphone."

  Meyerstein took a few moments to digest the facts. She knew the importance of viewing evidence and information dispassionately. She had to fight against this turning personal. "This is not Iran's usual modus operandi when it comes to the West."

  "They've crossed a line. They know the rules. It points to this Sazegara and his crew going rogue."

  "He must know that we will wipe them out."

  Veitch shrugged. "Maybe that's what he's wanting? A head to head confrontation. Revenge for his brother."

  Meyerstein sighed. "Where is Sazegara now?"

  "After leaving the cinema and returning to the parking garage, we tracked the vehicle to a parking lot on the eastern outskirts of Santa Monica. Here's the footage right now."

  A few moments later, on one of the screens, Meyerstein watched as Sazegara drove into the parking lot, pulled up, got out the vehicle, backpack over his shoulder and headed for the stairwell. Then the screen froze. "What happened?"

  "We don't know."

  "What the hell do you mean?"

  "Jamming technology. Blocked all the surveillance cameras within a one hundred yard radius. Likely he drove away in another vehicle or was driven away."

  Meyerstein shook her head as she thought about what Reznick had said. "They're fucking with us."

  Veitch said, "Big time. President is meeting his closest advisers as we speak including the FBI Director. They're assessing all options. Including . . ."

  "Including what?"

  "Martha, they might cut Reznick loose."

  Meyerstein wondered if she had heard right. "Tell me you're joking?"

  "Martha, I don't like it any more than you do. But we have to look at the big picture."

  "Are we just going to hand over Reznick to them? The United States of America is serious about this? Have I missed something?"

  "It's one of the options on the table."

  Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. She got to her feet and paced the room for a few moments, all eyes from the screen on her. "One of the options on the table? One of the goddamn options on the table? Are you guys serious? Well, you know what, it's bullshit."

  Veitch said, "Martha, I know this is personal for you. You brought Reznick into a couple of operations. But you need to see the way the wind is blowing on this one."

  "Go to hell. This isn't personal. What about the forty-three innocent Americans just murdered by this maniac? If we capitulate to their demands, this won't be the end of it. I will not hand anyone over."

  "No matter the cost?"

  Meyerstein's heart rate was up a notch. "We don't play by their rules."

  "Martha, the fallout of this could be immense."

  "It already is. No way do we bend to them. How the hell can we guarantee that these guys are just going to melt away? This is a suicide mission for them. They know there's no going back to their regular lives or escape to Tehran."

  "I think all they want is Reznick."

  "I don't give a damn what they want. We will hunt them down. And we will sort this out our way."

  "No matter the consequences?"

  "The consequences are already too high."

  "I'm not disagreeing, Martha, but sometimes you've got to make deals, it's the name of the game."

  "Can't believe what I'm hearing."

  "I'm sorry."

  "So am I."

  Meyerstein sat back down. She wondered how this was going to play out. Her cellphone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out and didn't recognize the caller ID. Her stomach knotted.

  "Meyerstein," she said.

  A long pause opened up down the line. She sensed it was him. Meyerstein signaled to those on the screen to trace the call. A fed nods the other end.

  "Meyerstein," she said, "who's this?"

  "Your voice sounds strained," the familiar man's voice said.

  Meyerstein cleared her throat. "I'm . . ."

  "Yes, there's definitely a tension in your voice. I'm not surprised. Are you shocked?"

  Meyerstein was tempted to curse him. But she remained calm. She closed her eyes and prayed that the NSA would somehow track the call. But she knew it was almost certainly being bounced off every cellphone mast to mask the GPS location. She glanced at her iPad. Real-time NSA messages running in, trying to pinpoint the location. Vermont, Canada, Florida, California, Germany, the list of false trails mounted up.

  "If you're wondering, never trace me."

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  "Cat caught your tongue, Assistant Director?" he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Meyerstein sighed down the line, stalling for time.

  "How does it feel to have someone walk into your country and do some wetwork?"

  "What do you want?"

  A long sigh. "You might not believe me, but I didn't want to kill these people."

  "But you did."

  "Yes, I did. And sadly, it's going to happen again. And again, until we get what we want."

  "I think you must understand, that there are some lines in the sand we don't cross."

  "Lines in sand get redrawn all the time, don't they?"

  Meyerstein closed her eyes.

  "America is very good at drawing lines in the sand. Lines on a map."

  "I need more time."

  "You're out of time. We're already at our next destination."

  "Goddamit!"

  "I think you're starting to understand how serious we are. We're making progress."

  "Gimme some time."

  "I will call back in precisely one hour's time. And then we will talk about handing over Mr. Reznick."

  The line went dead.

  THIRTY FOUR

  Three minutes later, a flushed Veitch was back up on the screen, staring down at her. "Martha, NSA have got a fix on the phone!"

  Meyerstein felt an adrenaline rush. "Location?"

  "Ten minutes. Oxnard, right on the beach."

  "Let's do this."

  Meyerstein headed outside to a waiting SUV, accompanied by three LA Feds, before being driven off the base at high speed. The radio crackled into life, speakers on.

  "Be advised," Veitch said, "SWAT team on the outskirts of Oxnard. One minute from location."

  "Have we got more details?"

  "1262 Santa Cruz Avenue. Colonial house, stairs up to the door on the first level. Double garage. Owner of the house is Jackson Melrose, boat builder, but he rents it out through Oxnard realtor Leland Van Zandt. No note of who is living there at this moment."

  Meyerstein nodded. "We copy that, thanks." She looked at the driver. "ETA for us?"

  The driver glanced at the GPS as they sped down the street. "Seven minutes."

  Meyerstein said, "Goddamn! SWAT will make the call, as they'll be first on the ground. But approach with extreme caution."

  Veitch said, "Copy that and out."

  Meyerstein sensed the mood amongst the team she was travelling with had hardened. The focus had intensified. She knew that getting the cell, either dead or alive, was all that mattered. But something was gnawing away at her.

  Her father had always instilled in her caution. She wondered about the sudden revelation of the cellphone GPS location.

  She punched in the number for Veitch and he picked up after one ring. "Martha, you still en-route?"

  Meyerstein peered at the road up ahead. "Copy that. Listen, about the trace on the GPS signal."

  Veitch said, "What about it?"

  "How come they've jammed their signals so far, but not this time?"

  "Jamming technology works best when on the move. Indoors, it's more susceptible to interference from a TV cable box or wireless signal on a router."

  Meyerstein pondered on that for a few moments. "Yeah, but what if it's something else."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What if it's a trap, that's what I'm saying?"

  Veitch again said nothing.

  Meyerstein thought the silence went
on too long. "I'm still waiting for a reply," she said. "We're nearly there. I need to know."

  The driver said, "ETA two minutes."

  Veitch's voice on the radio. "One of the analysts Matty Sanders thinks they're fucking with us."

  "I know Matty. He's working counter terrorism for Homeland Security?"

  "Yeah. Joint counter terrorism taskforce. He believes these guys are out of the Quds loop, acting on their own, and are fucking with us all."

  Meyerstein's sensed were switched on.

  "And he's convinced they won't stop until we get Reznick. He believes this little trip into Oxnard might just be a little diversion. He said it might be a counter surveillance move, with them watching us."

  Meyerstein said, "Tell him I want to talk when I get back," she said.

  "Will do, Martha, but the analysis is saying irrefutably it's them."

  The sound of a chopper overheard was partially drowning out the conversation. "Let's hope you're right."

  Veitch said, "I'm monitoring from the sky. If they are there and make a run for it, we've got it covered."

  Meyerstein said, "Keep this frequency open."

  "Will do."

  A radio crackled into life in Meyerstein's vehicle. "Ten seconds till arrival," a voice said from the SWAT vehicle as it approached the front of the house.

  Meyerstein said nothing as a feeling of dread washed over her.

  THIRTY FIVE

  Reznick was sitting in a chair in the naval base interview room when Belmont came in carrying two cups of coffee.

  "How you holding up with this confinement, Jon?" he asked.

  Reznick shrugged. "I'm holding up fine. Where's Meyerstein?"

  Belmont handed him one of the cups. "Black, right?"

  Reznick nodded and gulped some of the coffee, feeling good to get something apart from Dexedrine into his bloodstream.

  "She's . . ." Belmont blew on his white coffee and sipped it. "She's in a meeting."

  "This about the earlier call they put in?"

  Belmont nodded.

  "Meyerstein said that one of the guys is the brother of one of the scientists my team took out."