by JB Turner
Reznick looked up and stared at Belmont. "Am I making you uncomfortable, Brigadier?"|
"I'm trying to be respectful."
"Bullshit. You don't give a fuck for me. But that's fine because I sure as hell don't give a fuck for you or the CIA."
Belmont took two steps forward and slapped Reznick hard on the face.
Reznick tasted the blood and looked up at Belmont. "That make you feel better, tough guy?"
"You're now the property of the United States government. Satisfied?"
"Funny, I thought I was an American citizen. A free man."
Reznick spat out some blood onto the floor.
Belmont took a step back and looked down at Reznick. His face was flushed purple with rage. "You've crossed the line. I've been pretty reasonable up until now . . ."
Reznick began to laugh again and spat out some more blood onto the floor.
"It didn't have to be like this."
"I've got news for you, Brigadier whatever your goddamn name is. I don't play your stupid fucking games. Neither does Meyerstein."
Belmont said nothing. He turned and left the room, switching the light off as he closed the dead-bolt locks on the door.
Reznick was left alone in the darkness, cuffed to the cold, metal chair.
THIRTY NINE
Meyerstein stood in the empty interview room and turned and faced the base commander. "On whose authority was Jon Reznick taken from here?"
"Pentagon."
"Tell me about Belmont and his role in this?"
"Just after you left, an unregistered Gulfstream requested permission to land. CIA codes."
"Then what?"
"Six men, not in uniform, got out, and entered the building we're standing in. They left with Jon Reznick on a trolley, strapped in, unconscious."
Meyerstein felt her throat tighten. "What did you do about it?"
"I was in a meeting at the other end of the base."
"So the guys just give the right codes, land, take Reznick, and walk straight out again."
"Brigadier Belmont was in charge. He left with them. One of our guards challenged the group but Belmont pulled rank."
Meyerstein turned her back on the commander for a few moments as she tried to regain her composure. "You'd think this was goddamn Guantanamo Bay."
The commander nodded.
"So where have they taken him?"
"No one knows. This is the way the CIA play the game."
"I want to see the surveillance footage of this whole goddamn thing."
"That's not possible."
"What do you mean?"
"I've checked. There is no footage."
"Hang on, what are you talking about? I've seen the cameras all over this base. They must've captured every second."
The commander shook his head. "I've checked. Nothing."
"How come?"
"Jamming technology . . . or system hacked. No surveillance footage for the last twelve hours."
Meyerstein kicked over a metal trashcan. "Son of a bitch."
"It's like they were never here."
Twenty minutes later, Meyerstein hooked up again with Veitch and the FBI's Counter Terrorism team on a video conferencing link.
"Who knew about this?"
"No one. It was CIA."
"What's going to happen to Reznick?"
Veitch sighed. "Tough call. The Director is preparing to hook up with you any minute on this very subject."
A few moments later one of the screens had the silver haired Director O'Donoghue staring down. "Martha," he said, "this is out of our hands, I'm sorry."
"Who signed off on this?"
"The authorization goes to the very top."
"So we're just going to hand him over?"
"The wheels are in motion."
Meyerstein's felt sick. "Where is he?"
"We don't know."
"I thought we were all part of the same team, goddamit."
"Martha, all I know is that he's in a secure facility."
"And we are seriously just going to hand him over?"
"We've had assurance at the highest levels in Tehran that they will not harm him. But they will put him on trial. America will deny any knowledge or involvement. Official word will be the operation was rogue. He will go to jail."
Meyerstein bowed her head and closed her eyes. "They're going to kill him. You do know that."
"Martha, this doesn't sit well with me. But our national interests come first."
"What about the hunt for our Iranian-American operatives?"
"What about it?"
"What if we find them first?"
O'Donoghue stared at her. "We only have a very narrow window until he is handed over."
"How long?"
"Even I don't know. Hours, perhaps."
"Sir, we have two drones operating across Southern California as we speak."
"That's a long shot, Martha and you know it."
"Listen, as long as they are up in the air, we have a chance."
A long sigh. O'Donoghue shook his head. "I don't like this anymore than you do."
"This is shameful."
"That's enough, Martha."
"Sir, it is shameful. What the hell have we become?"
"What choice is there? To allow massacres to go on indefinitely until we find them? Imagine the reaction of the American public if they find out that we could've done something to mitigate the threat."
"It's the wrong call, sir."
"Martha, it's the only call. This is for the good of America."
Meyerstein said nothing.
"You know Reznick personally, and that's what makes this so hard."
Meyerstein closed her eyes and imagined Reznick alone in a Tehran prison. Or worse, dead. "Goddamn right it does."
FORTY
Reznick shuffled down a corridor, restrained at the ankles and wrists in plexicuffs, surrounded by a four-man team. He noticed sheathed knives hanging from each of their belts and 9mm handguns. He knew they were going to offload him. It was as clear as day.
He knew where they were taking him. The remotest part of the facility, cut off from all the other areas, but linked by a series of underground corridors.
Past sullen guards, cameras constantly strafing the area. Down a flight a stairs and into a huge communal shower room. His shoes were removed, then his socks. His clothes were cut off him, the plexicuffs kept on at all times.
He was photographed.
Then he was strip searched before he shuffled under the high-pressure shower.
A towel was thrown and Reznick dried himself down the best he could.
Reznick was shown into an adjacent room and shuffled through, past the huge steel door and serving hatch. He went inside, naked, cuffs still on. The door slammed shut.
His clothes were handed through the hatch in a brown paper bag.
A guard said, "Hands through the hatch."
Reznick complied and the handcuffs were taken off. The guard passed through a key. "You can now take off the ankle cuffs and hand them to us."
Reznick complied.
"Now get dressed," he said
Reznick put on the new clothes. He felt stiff after being cuffed. He began to pace the room, running on the spot, followed by 200 press-ups, then 100 sit-ups.
The hatch opened. "Reznick, put your hands through, we need to get your cuffs back on the wrists."
"Is that really necessary?"
"It's orders."
"From who?"
"Brigadier Belmont."
Reznick paced the room. "I don't think I'll bother. Thanks all the same."
"You need to put them on."
"Why?"
"He wants to speak to you, face to face."
"What about?"
"Flight up to Canada."
"And if I don't want to put the cuffs back on?"
"Then we'll have to do it for you." His voice was deadpan. Without a trace of emotion.
Reznick learned early on y
ou only ever fight battles you can win. He placed his hands through the hatch and the plastic cuffs were tightened, pinching the skin on his wrists. "Easy son."
The guard ignored him.
Reznick stepped back into the locked room, cuffed hands in front.
"Can you head to the far corner of the room, Reznick?"
"What?"
"We need to put ankle cuffs on too."
"What the fuck is this?"
"Reznick, we have orders. You know how it works."
Reznick took a step forward and stared through the eye level hatch. The guard stared back, eyes dead.
"There's only one way we can do this, Reznick. And that's our way."
Reznick sensed the guard's mood was darkening by the second. He shrugged and stared through the hatch.
"Are you going to comply or not?"
"Why should I? To make your job easier? But that would make my life more awkward. So, no, I'd rather not."
The guard sighed. "Is that your final word?"
"I guess so."
The guard hesitated for a second. He raised a taser gun and fired at Reznick's chest. Pain exploded through his body, the smell of burning skin. He fell to the floor. The room went crazy, all angles up. He felt himself losing control. He began to convulse, writhing on the ground, the sound of his screaming echoing around the room.
FORTY ONE
Mohsen Sazegara stared out of the tinted passenger window of the SUV at the sun-drenched streets of the Hollywood Hills, towering palms shading the sidewalks. His stomach knotted as he thought ahead to the meeting with the reclusive man he'd never met. He knew he had to keep things in check until they were home safe and well.
The car hung a left and then a right into an affluent cul de sac.
Mohsen stared at the imposing modernist glass house at the end of the road. "Straight ahead," he said.
The driver nodded and pulled up outside the gates, shrouded by palms and a high wall. He punched the intercom buzzer.
A few moments later a man said, "Yes?"
The driver said, "Here to collect a parcel."
A few moments later the gates opened and they drove through into a beautifully paved driveway and down into a basement garage. Electronic doors closed behind them.
Mohsen said to the driver. "I'll be five minutes. Wait here."
The driver nodded. "Yes sir."
Mohsen got out and headed towards a door, strafed by three cameras. He pressed a buzzer.
A man's voice said, "Yes?"
"Here to collect the parcel."
"Can you give me the name of the person you should collect from?"
Mohsen knew the password. "Bill."
He was kept waiting for a few moments. "Turn and look up at the camera to the right."
Mohsen turned and looked up as instructed. He wondered if it was face recognition software scanning his features.
"Good," he said. "Come on in. Bill can see you now."
The door was buzzed open and Mohsen went in. A burly Persian looking man with a shaved head showed him to an airport style scanner. Mohsen stepped through and then followed the man up two levels.
Mohsen looked around. Wall to ceiling windows overlooking LA, burnt orange sunset flooding the valley below. Couple of huge white sofas. Jazz playing low in the background.
The burly man said, "He'll be with you in a few minutes. Take a seat, Mr. Sazegara."
Mohsen nodded and took a seat on the sofa at a 90-degree angle to the huge windows. The sun was getting lower in the sky, a dark red fireball engulfing the city, reflecting off the glass all around, shards of light stabbing out into the gathering gloom.
He waited for a few minutes, his heart pounding.
Mohsen heard a door open. He turned around and saw a small man wearing tinted glasses, a black polo shirt, stone chinos and brown deck shoes, smoking a cigarette.
Mohsen stood up.
The man smiled and shook his hand, motioning with his cigarette hand for Mohsen to sit down. "Please," he said. He dragged heavily on the cigarette as plumes of blue smoke filled the room. "How are you?"
Mohsen felt a mixture of excitement and fear. "I'm okay, thank you."
The man looked at him and nodded.
"Thank you for seeing us at such short notice."
The man's gaze drilled into Mohsen for a few moments. "I believe the original operation has morphed into something much more messy."
Mohsen felt his throat go dry with the smoke and he cleared his throat. "Mr. Morlach, we hit all the targets."
"Bar one." The man cut him down quick. He felt his pulse quicken again. Something about the guy unnerved him. Something intangible. "You've also attracted some attention . . . FBI, Homeland Security, National Security Council. In what was meant to be a low key. A series of accidents."
Mohsen shifted in his seat.
"What happened to make it go so wrong?"
"Reznick. That's what happened."
"And he headed here to LA?"
Mohsen nodded, head bowed.
"He was trying to warn his old Delta friend, Blaine, right before you took him out?"
"He might've had the restaurant under surveillance, waiting to speak to Blaine. Then motorcycle couriers turned up."
"Very messy. Look around you. I don't like messy. I like order."
Mohsen nodded.
The man dragged heavily on the last of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. "There are now ramifications . . . it makes things so much more complicated."
Mohsen opened his mouth about to speak but the man held up his hand as if to silence him.
"Don't get me wrong. You carried out the reprisals to the letter. But all this could have been avoided. When an operative starts becoming the news, you know we have fouled up."
Mohsen nodded keen to appease him, realizing the futility of arguing. He knew the man was connected to the highest echelons of power across Tehran. The military. Politicians. The religious leaders. He was viewed by some as a mystic. Others as a dangerous man to know, who could get you killed with one call to the right person. It was said by some within the Quds Force that he was an American spy. A double agent. Others believed that the man was in fact a former operative himself, his reputation forged during the revolution, which overthrew the Shah. Rumors also persisted that he had grown accustomed to a western lifestyle, a private number on the speed dial of a Beverly Hills madam. He looked at the man who smiled back at Mohsen, trying to push negative thoughts to one side.
"Tell me, how do you think you will integrate back into Iranian society after living in Texas for so long."
"I don't ask questions. I just fit in and get on with it."
"Good answer. It's a big move. How do you think your family will react?"
"My wife will miss the mall, but, hey, that's not such a loss."
The man smiled. "Indeed." He leaned over and crushed his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the coffee table before walking over to the huge windows as the skies darkened over LA. "When I look out here every night, do you know what I see?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir."
"I see a city in chaos. A city without a soul. A city where the poor and sick are left to die, like dogs. A city that is choking with pollution, where the wealthy, like me, can afford to live above the smog line. Where politicians are bought and sold for campaign contribution funds from anonymous lobbyists. A city at war with itself. A city, which is dying. But paradoxically, a city where the fantasy of the American Dream is created, before it is spread around the world." He turned to look at Mohsen, hands behind his back. "How do you feel about America?"
"It sickens me." He shrugged. "But I try not to think about it."
The man motioned the burly man into the room.
Mohsen stood up. "I appreciate your help and support."
The man smiled. "Don't beat yourself up over this. The cinema? Forget it. We don't need to take lessons from the Americans about how we should conduct ourselves. I mysel
f have suffered. I know from personal experience."
"How do you mean?"
The man sighed. "Do you know what happened to my father?"
Mohsen shook his head.
"My father was a quiet man. A scholar. Intellectual. Leftist. And only days after the Americans installed the Shah, he was taken from us. In the middle of the night."
Mohsen said nothing.
"Do you know what those bastards did to him?"
"I can imagine."
"They stripped him naked, attached electrodes to his genitals and shocked him until he was unconscious. He was pissing blood for a week. And then he died of a heart attack, alone, in a fucking rat-infested basement that the SAVAK used. So, my friend, don't weep for them. We have tasted enough tears to last a hundred lifetimes."
Mohsen nodded and held the man's hand and kissed the back of it.
The man leaned over and pressed a buzzer. His assistant came in and handed over a backpack to Mohsen.
"It has everything you need. Brand new American passport, new identity, driver's license, and cash, credit cards, and return airline tickets, all under your new name, Charlie Thomas."
"I like that name. Sir, I can't thank you enough."
The man put his hand on Mohsen's shoulder. "They'll be watching LAX. My private plane will take you from Bob Hope airport, in Burbank. Gate A1, your flight will take off directly after Alaska Airlines' red eye. And from there you will be flown to JFK. You will then catch a British Airways flight to London. And from there a Lufthansa flight to Tehran with a stopover in Frankfurt."
Mohsen nodded.
"Police are at Bob Hope, don't get me wrong. But not in the same numbers and certainly not Feds crawling all over it."
"I'm sorry we didn't complete the operation."
"You did very well. You are a hero."
Mohsen was choking back the tears.
"What about Jon Reznick?"
"He will be taken care of. Diplomatic channels are working overtime on this. Reznick will be on Iranian soil, God willing, before you touch down in Tehran."
FORTY TWO
The squeaking of heavy steel doors roused Reznick. Harsh artificial light flooded the windowless room. His head hurt, neck and back ached. He couldn't stretch properly. Plexicuffs around his wrists and his ankles tied to the chair. Three guards approached, towering over him. They undid the ankle cuffs from the chair. Then re-attached them tight, pinching his skin.
