by JB Turner
"I can't discuss that with you, Jon."
"Why the hell not?"
"Protocol."
Reznick gulped some more of the hot coffee feeling it burn the back of his throat. "Protocol, huh? That's bullshit, Brigadier."
Belmont said nothing.
"Where you work out of?"
"I work for the government."
"The government."
"The American government."
Reznick said nothing.
"We need to nullify this threat, don't you agree, Jon?"
Reznick gulped down the rest the coffee. "Yeah."
Belmont went across to the desk and leaned against it. "Jon, I want to level with you. We need to talk about options."
"Options?"
"Yeah, options Jon."
Reznick sensed something wasn't right.
"But first we're going to move you to a safer location."
"A safer location?" Reznick shrugged. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Somewhere more secure."
Reznick didn't like the vibes he was picking up. "Is Meyerstein happy with this, Brigadier?"
Belmont finished his coffee and lobbed the foam cup into the trashcan. "Of course she is."
"What happens if I say I'm not going to play ball?"
"I think you will."
Reznick felt his eyes getting heavy and his mind foggy. "What was that?"
"I said I think you will."
Reznick closed his eyes for a second and struggled to open them again. Blurred vision, Belmont looming large as if through a fish eye lens. He tried to speak but nothing came.
"Are you okay, Jon?" Belmont's voice echoed as if emanating from a dark underground chamber.
Reznick's vision disappeared and then everything went black.
THIRTY SIX
The doors of the SWAT truck were flung open and a heavily armored team fanned out encircling the property.
Meyerstein watched from the backseat of the SUV as the lead guy bounded up the stairs. She could hear his heavy breathing on the headphones.
He knocked at the door.
Three more times he knocked. No reply.
His voice drawled, "Kick her in son," and his colleague stepped forward and kicked the door in and the rest of the team stormed in.
"FBI SWAT!" she heard them shout. "No one fucking move!"
Meyerstein could see the lights inside the darkened house from the flashlights and helmets.
"FBI SWAT! Come out right now!"
Meyerstein held her breath for a few moments.
The lead guy was breathing hard. "Upstairs, downstairs, basements! All clear. Still to check the attic. Stand by."
Another SWAT voice said, "GPS is showing it's here, the signal slap bang on this location. It's here. Get up into the attic."
"Yeah, we're on it."
A few moments later, a gruff voice. "Yeah, it's been converted into a sleeping area. Unmade bed, piles of books lying around."
A woman's voice said, "Larry, check this out. Koran under the pillow."
Meyerstein felt her stomach tighten. She wondered why they couldn't find the cell.
"Larry," the lead voice said, "negative on the attic. We got a clean sweep?"
"100 per cent clean, no sight nor sound of our guys."
"Fuck."
"GPS signal still shows it right here within the house. Drawers, cupboards, and every goddamn space we have to. Tear off the walls. It's here. And we're not leaving until we find it."
"Yeah, copy that."
The search continued for the next eight minutes as Meyerstein listened on the headphones, hardly daring to breath.
Then the radio silence was broken with the shrill sound of a cellphone ringing.
Another voice said, "It's downstairs. Sounds like the kitchen."
It was in that terrible moment that Meyerstein realized what was about to happen. She opened her mouth to shout instructions but she was too late.
A huge explosion ripped through the house. Flames shot through the windows as dust, glass and masonry rained down on the cars.
Then high-pitched screaming down the radio.
THIRTY SEVEN
The seconds that followed were a blur for Meyerstein. Her driver reversed down the street as flames and secondary gas explosions erupted turning the beachside community into a searing war zone, ablaze and debris strewn everywhere.
Meyerstein felt herself go into shock as they headed back to base. "Son of a bitch!"
"Ma'am, are you okay?" a young FBI agent said.
"Forget about me. I'm fine. Oh God, what about the SWAT guys? Goddamn!"
Her cellphone rang and her heart skipped a beat. She sensed who it was going to be. Part of her didn't want to answer. But that was never an option. "Who's this?"
"Assistant Director Meyerstein, I told you I would call back."
Meyerstein seethed as the SUV picked up speed on the outskirts of Oxnard. "We will find you. And we will kill you."
A long sigh. "I admire your bluster," he said. "Do you mind if I call you Martha?"
"Go to hell."
"It's just that, I feel as if I know you now."
Meyerstein struggled to contain her fury. "You know nothing about me."
"Far from it. I know a great deal about you. Is your husband still with the young beautiful student? But you still have your great career. Carved from your privileged background in the Chicago suburbs."
Her blood ran cold. "You will pay for your barbarism."
"America could give a masterclass in barbarism. Carpet-bombing of children in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos with Agent Orange. Arming death squads across the world. Smuggling out Nazi scientists after the Second World War. Illegal war in Iraq. Do you want me to go on?"
"That's not the America that I know and love."
"Well that's the America we know and hate every day. The America that visits and imposes its structures and values, whether we want them or not, and all in the name of freedom. Do you think the Iraqis live in a free and democratic society after your intervention? Was the Shah of Iran a democrat? Do you know what his torturers did? Did you know what they did to my own father?"
Meyerstein closed her eyes. "Those SWAT guys have families. The people in the cinema have families. You're a monster. And don't blame America for your cold blooded butchering of innocent people."
A long silence opened up down the line. "I understand the hurt of families better than most, Martha. Mr. Reznick destroyed not only my brother on that day. He destroyed me. And my sister. And my mother and father. So, here's what we want. You deliver Jon Reznick to us, and we can move on."
"So you can kill him?"
"What happens to Jon Reznick will be none of your concern."
"Look, I need this to be discussed at the highest levels within the government."
"Maybe I'm not making myself sufficiently clear. If we don't have Jon Reznick delivered to us within the next twelve hours, we will carry out our third surprise. And after that there will be a fourth. And then a fifth. I'm sure you get the picture by now."
Meyerstein shook her head as the SUV approached the base and was waved through. "Delivered where?" She felt sick the moment she said the words.
"We'll be in touch."
Meyerstein went straight through to the videoconference room.
Veitch was staring down at her. "We intercepted the call again, easy as pie."
"And?"
"And we have no location."
"What? They're running circles around us."
Veitch shook his head. "NSA has their best guys working on this."
Meyerstein leaned back in her seat as she was handed a fresh coffee. She took a sip. "What about launching a drone on this to try and detect the signal."
"You talking signal interception, right?"
"Absolutely. These new surveillance drones have the capability. They have direction finding technology that can pinpoint GPS locations of cellphone devices or two way radios, right?"<
br />
Veitch went quiet for a few moments. "I'll look into it."
"Prioritize it."
"I'm on it."
Meyerstein sighed. "I need to speak to Reznick before we decide our next move."
Veitch said nothing.
Meyerstein stared up at the screen and saw that Veitch had averted his gaze.
"Am I missing something, guys?"
Veitch turned and looked at some of his counter terrorism colleagues before turning to face the screen. "Martha, I thought you knew."
"Knew? Knew what?"
"About Reznick."
"What about him?"
"Martha, Belmont and his guys have transferred him to a secure facility."
"On whose orders?"
"National Security Council. We believe he's then going to be flown direct to Tehran."
THIRTY EIGHT
Reznick sensed he was not alone. He could hear whispered voices as if in a dream. He tried to open his eyes. But couldn't. Lights suddenly burned his eyes. The drone from a plane. Vibrations. He heard someone move towards him.
"Mr. Reznick, apologies for the inconvenience, but needs must."
Reznick squinted as a towering figure came into focus. Shaved head, staring eyes. "Where am I? What the hell's going on?"
"You're in transit."
"Who the hell are you?"
"That's classified," said the man in military fatigues.
Reznick tried to get up but plastic cuffs attached to a steel ring on the floor restraining him. His mind flashed back to the naval base. "Where's Belmont?"
"I don't know a Belmont."
"Brigadier Belmont, goddammit."
The army man ignored Reznick.
"Belmont!"
The man said nothing.
Reznick's hazy mind tried to conjure up what had happened. "I want to speak to FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein."
"That's not possible, Jon."
"Why not?"
The army man ignored him again.
"What's your name and rank?"
The man smiled but said nothing.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Reznick instinctively tried to get to his feet but the restraints kept him in place. "Goddamn, what's this?"
"Just a precaution, Jon. So you don't hurt yourself."
A shudder from the plane's turbulence as Reznick's ears began to pop.
"Sit tight. We're about to land in three minutes."
The man quickly moved forward and put a cloth over Reznick's nose. He felt himself slip being swallowed up by the darkness.
Jerry Morlach was pacing his living room, the sun flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, when his cellphone rang. He lit up a cigarette and watched the blue smoke fill the room. He answered after the third ring.
Morlach said, "Yeah?"
"Sorry for the delay." It was the man who identified himself as the contractor.
"I was wondering when I was going to hear from you. Problems?"
"We've got the green light."
"Excellent. We can now get this over the line. What about the logistics?"
"Leave us to worry about that."
"Very well. If you insist."
Morlach dragged heavily on the cigarette and stepped out onto the terrace. "I need your word that there will be no last minute change of plan."
"We are good to go at our end."
"Can I give an expected time of arrival?"
"You will have him within twenty-four hours."
"You work fast."
Morlach ended the call. He finished the cigarette and crushed it into an ashtray. He stared out over the city and collected his thoughts. He sent an encrypted text message to a liaison man in Dubai, the most senior Iranian operative in the Middle East.
The lead has signed on.
Over the next hour, he fielded four separate encrypted calls as he was kept abreast of developments. Three calls came from the man in Dubai, and one direct from Tehran.
When everyone was satisfied that the necessary checks and balances were in place for the deal to go through, he then sat down and lit another cigarette. He looked down on the City of Angels with a sense of satisfaction. Then he remembered the documents, which had arrived by Fed Ex, now carefully stored away in his safe.
How long would it be until someone would come and collect them?
When Reznick came too, he was in a huge windowless room, two air conditioning units growling low in the background. He was chained to a bolted down steel chair, plexicuffs on each ankle and wrist. He tasted a metallic aftertaste. His brain felt fuzzy, not thinking straight. Where was he? Why was he here?
His memory was blank for a few moments. Then he tried to remember. Yeah, he had a daughter. He could see her in his mind's eye. But he couldn't remember her goddamn name.
The room was cold, the walls flaking beige paint. Scuff marks on the blue navy linoleum.
The sound of a door opening up behind him. He couldn't turn to see who was approaching. The click from a mortise lock.
Footsteps getting closer.
Out of his peripheral vision he saw a silhouette of a man. He circled Reznick and stood about ten yards in front of him, arms folded. The man looked familiar. But he couldn't place him.
"Jon," the man said. "Do you remember my voice?"
It seemed very familiar. "Yeah, who are you?"
"Brigadier Belmont."
"Belmont?"
Belmont stared at Reznick for a few moments. "Is it coming back now?"
Reznick's brain was being rushed with images flashing in front of him. The sequence of events was starting to take on a semblance of order. "You . . . my coffee. You . . ."
"There was no other way, Jon."
Reznick said nothing still to fully emerge from the drug state. He felt a headache coming on as nausea washed over him.
"Four drops of chloral hydrate, and a top-up on the plane."
"Where exactly am I?"
"You're underground in the Nevada desert. Short hop from California to here. Homey Airport. A remote part of Edwards Airforce Base."
"Groom Lake . . . Watertown Strip. Dreamland, right?"
Belmont smiled. "It is known by those names too, yes."
Reznick's mind was rushing with all the connected and interconnected parts of the last few days. The trip through the desert to California. The hit on Vincenza. The chase up into the hills over Malibu. The two Iranian American students taken out by the sniper. "Iran."
"What about it?"
"I remember now."
"Do you?"
"Airforce base. Secrecy. You're going to fly me out and pass me on, aren't you?"
Belmont said nothing.
"The Iranians called Meyerstein. They want me. And they've turned the screw, am I right?"
"Maybe."
"What kind of Brigadier are you?"
"The kind that acts in the national interest."
Reznick coughed and tasted chemical residue. He spat it out onto the lino.
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. Feel it too."
Belmont nodded but averted his gaze.
"So you're gonna keep me here?"
"We're drawing up plans to perhaps move you up to Canada until this dies down."
"Then why am I being restrained?"
"It's a temporary measure. Keeps everyone safe."
Reznick stared at Belmont. "You're not taking me to Canada are you?"
"We've still to finalize a few things. But it's important we keep you safe."
"You drug me, transport me to a desert bunker, chain me up, and now you say you're going to take me to Canada? For my own safety?"
"We have ways of doing things."
"You're going to fucking rendition me, aren't you? You're going to get me off your plate, and draw the heat away from these Quds guys who're still on the loose."
"I've been reading your file, Jon."
Reznick said nothing.
"It makes interesting re
ading. Your cognitive skills, high intelligence, ability to compartmentalize your work, but still maintain a relatively stable family background."
"You don't know the first thing about me."
"Oh but I do."
"Is there a purpose to this?"
"Does there have to be a purpose, Jon?"
"Fuck your cod psychology."
"I didn't realize you had killed so many people."
Reznick said nothing.
"You just blend in . . . your analytical skills are quite extraordinary."
"You wanna go on a date, Brigadier?"
Belmont gave a wry smile. "Problem with authority, they say."
"If you say so."
"Whatever you think, trust me, we're only interested in getting you to a safe place."
"Drugged, cuffed up. You gotta do better than that, Belmont."
Belmont said nothing.
Reznick looked around the room. "This is CIA."
"We only want to ensure that no one else suffers. I don't want you getting neutralized like your old Delta buddies."
"Tell me something, did you learn that lingo at the Farm in Virginia by any chance?"
"Jon, don't make this harder than it has to be. I don't like this any more than you do."
"So why don't you let me go?"
"I can't have you going AWOL on us."
"I know this place. Did it say that in my file?"
Belmont said nothing for a few moments.
"I know about the underground tunnels. I know the layout. I know what it looks like from the air. Trust me, it's not possible to go AWOL in here."
Belmont sighed, clearing his throat. "Can I get you something to eat or drink?"
"Are you kidding me? After the last time."
"Jon, that was purely as a way to get you off that base with the minimum of fuss. I'm tasked with acting in everyone's best interests, including yours."
"That's very touching."
"Jon, I'm trying to help."
Reznick began to laugh. "Man, you're something else."
"What's so goddamn funny?"
Reznick laughed harder.
"What's so goddamn funny, Reznick?"
Reznick shook his head and laughed some more, head bowed.
Belmont took a step forward. "I just want you to know that I did admire the work you've done for our great country."
"Good for you, Brigadier."
"What the hell is wrong with you? That was a compliment goddamit."
