by JB Turner
"You wanna take it easy, guys?" Reznick said.
The guards hauled Reznick to his feet and out of the room. He shuffled down a series of corridors, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the top-secret facility. He was aware Belmont was now with them. He heard his low voice in the background, directing operations.
Take him to Room 7a.
He saw a sign up ahead, which said, Intelligence Officers Only.
Reinforced steel doors up ahead.
"Hold it right there," Belmont said.
Reznick stood still as Belmont brushed past. He watched as Belmont pressed his right index finger against the scanner before the doors clicked opened. Down another corridor until they stopped outside the seventh room on the left – 7A.
Belmont again pressed his index finger against the scanner and the door clicked open.
Reznick was hustled inside. He took in his surroundings. A dark brown leather sofa, soft furnishings, nice watercolors on the wall, muted lighting. He knew what it meant. They were trying to put him at ease. But he knew it was bullshit. There was no reason to be at ease.
Belmont remained standing. "Take a seat, Jon," he said.
Reznick was hustled onto the sofa and slumped down.
Belmont turned to the guards. "Everything's fine now," he said. "Gimme fifteen minutes, the plane's not ready to leave for another 40 minutes."
The guards turned and left and the door clicked shut.
Reznick saw there was a fingerprint scanner on the inside, adjacent to the door too.
Belmont folded his arms. "I'm sorry. There was no need for the ankle cuffs as well. I can only apologize."
Reznick said nothing.
"We've got all your Canadian documentation lined up for you. Ottawa is fully up to speed. And you're going to have a new identity up there. The downside is you won't be able to come back for at least a year, maybe two, until this has died down."
Reznick shifted in his seat and winced.
"We'll get the plastic cuffs off on the plane."
Reznick knew it was bullshit. He leaned forward and stared at the floor, hands and feet bound tight. "What else?"
"There's a house. By the water. Nova Scotia. I believe that's where your ancestors hailed from at one time."
Reznick said nothing. He knew he wasn't going to Canada. There was no home by the water in Nova Scotia. He knew it would be a Gulfstream or Cessna used by a CIA front company, flown by CIA pilots, guarded by CIA guys until he was handed over. He knew about such deals. The rendition of Islamists to shithole American-friendly countries in the Middle East.
As sure as night follows day, he knew the fate that would befall him.
Torture. Death would be his only escape. He thought of his daughter alone in the world. But he knew she'd be looked after and protected by his late wife's family. And he knew Meyerstein would look after things too. He wondered if she knew where he was.
Belmont said, "I read that your father fought in Vietnam. Marines."
Reznick nodded.
"So did my father. He wasn't so lucky. He didn't come back."
Reznick said nothing.
"War does terrible things to us. Makes us do terrible things." He sighed. "I believe you worked for the Agency, on and off."
Reznick stared at Belmont.
"We never really leave its clutches, in all its guises. I was told that once. I think it's true."
The sound of a cellphone.
Belmont reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He checked the caller ID and looked down at Reznick. "I need to take this." He pressed his finger against the scanner. The door opened and Belmont headed out into the hallway, leaving Reznick on his own.
Reznick's senses went into overdrive. He made a quick mental calculation. He wondered if he had enough time. This might be his last realistic opportunity.
Damn it.
He got off the sofa and sat on the ground. He shuffled along the floor to a pair of hiking boots at the side of Belmont's desk. He undid the paracord laces and pulled them out. Then he made a bowline knot and slipped the loop around the front of his left shoe. Then he threaded the rest of the lace between the plexicuffs and tied another bowline knot and slipped the other side of the lace over his right foot. It was a move he hadn't practiced for two, maybe three years.
He thought he heard voices outside the room. Was it Belmont?
He then began to pump his legs as if on a bike. Up, down, up down, for maybe ten seconds, until the friction from the laces had severed the plastic cuffs on his wrists.
Reznick got up and shuffled back to the sofa and sat back down, hands tucked out of sight between his knees. A few moments later the door buzzed open and Belmont walked in.
"My apologies for the interruption," Belmont said. He walked over to a corner table and pulled out of a bottle of Scotch and a glass from a drawer and poured a large measure. He walked over to Reznick and held it in front of him. "One for the road, Jon."
Reznick said nothing. His senses were switched on. Ready.
"Hell . . ."
Reznick held his breath not moving a muscle.
"I'm goddamn offering you a Scotch, Reznick!" Belmont snapped.
Reznick stared at Belmont.
"I said . . ."
Reznick sprung up from the sofa and grabbed Belmont by the throat, slamming him to the ground. Then he smashed his fist into Belmont's jaw. The sound made a terrible crack and Belmont lay motionless, unconscious.
Reznick's blood was pumping with adrenalin. He ripped off his clothes and stripped Belmont of his. He saw that Belmont had a sheathed knife on the back of his belt and a 9mm under his jacket. He pulled on the clothes and tied the belt with the knife nice and tight. It was a pretty good fit. Average size guy. He felt something in the jacket pocket. Cellphone. Sunglasses. ID with photo.
He began to think ahead. His escape. He ripped up the clothes he had discarded and rammed part of the top in Belmont's mouth.
Belmont began to come too.
Reznick pressed a hand over Belmont's gagged mouth and pushed one knee onto his chest and the other onto his right arm.
The Brigadier's eyes opened wide and he tried to scream. But it was muffled.
Reznick pulled out the knife and cut off Belmont's index finger. The cold steel easily sliced through the bone. Belmont's face turned white. Blood spilled onto the floor. Belmont's eyes began to roll back and Reznick punched him hard on the temple. Belmont was out cold again.
Reznick picked up the bleeding warm finger and walked over to the scanner. He pressed the severed fingertip hard against scanner. A green pinprick light appeared on the scanner and the door clicked open. He dropped the severed finger and pushed open the door.
The corridor was empty.
Reznick turned sharp left down a long corridor. At the end, there was a room marked Aircraft Maintenance Crew only. Reznick pushed open the door. Inside, rows of lockers. He opened a few. Then he turned and saw a uniform guard staring at him, gun drawn.
"Where's your ID badge?" the man said.
"Sorry, first day," Reznick said. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the ID badge. "Here's my identification.
Reznick walked toward the guard. The guard stared at the ID badge he held in his hand. Radio crackled into life. Distracting him.
Reznick took a step forward and punched the guard hard in the neck before he had time to react. The guard dropped to the ground, head cracking off the floor. He took off the guard's gray uniform and shoes. Shoes were half a size too small, but it would do. Uniform was a fraction big, but he pulled it over Belmont's clothes and it bulked him out nicely.
He took the guard's ID and pinned it round his neck and headed through a separate door to a washroom. He splashed his face with cold water.
Reznick was back in the zone. He walked back into the locker room and noticed a smoke alarm. He rifled in the guard's pockets and found some cigarettes and a lighter.
He pulled all the toilet rolls and paper tow
els from the washroom and threw them in a trashcan, and placed it directly underneath the sensor. Then he set fire to it.
Reznick headed out the door and down an adjacent corridor. He saw a door for Aircraft Maintenance Hangar – Authorized personnel only.
Reznick pushed open the door that led to the restricted area. A guy on scaffolding was spray-painting a small plane and three mechanics were working on an engine.
Suddenly the fire alarms blared out all around.
Reznick's heart was pumping hard. He followed the men as they headed out of the emergency exit and onto the adjacent airfield and the blistering night humidity. A guy in blue overalls in a golf buggy approached the group and Reznick put up his hand as if to halt him.
The buggy slowed to a halt.
Reznick said, "Got a fire situation buddy. Need to borrow this to alert security gate."
The maintenance guy jumped out.
"Where's the nearest gate?"
The guy shrugged. "Don't you know?"
"Just been transferred."
The man pointed his hand northwest. "Gate 3a, out here 200 yards on the right."
Reznick jumped into the buggy and headed out onto the luminous lit roadways fringed by floodlights and towards the security gate.
An armed guard stepped forward.
Reznick said, "We've got a fire in basement level four."
"So I heard. What you doing here?"
Reznick got off the golf buggy and approached the guard and showed him his ID. "McIlroy," he said.
The guard put his head out to take the ID.
Reznick smashed his fist into the guard's jaw.
The guard fell back, cracking his head off the concrete. He was out cold.
Reznick bent over and rifled in his pockets and pulled out a set of car keys. He was in luck. He ran up to the adjacent parking lot and pressed the fob. A Jeep's lights flashed as he deactivated the alarm. He climbed in, slammed the door shut and switched on the air conditioning and car lights. Then he drove out of the facility and headed into the stifling Nevada night.
FORTY THREE
Veitch relayed the news about Reznick's escape to Meyerstein from one of the big screens. She stared up in disbelief.
"How is that possible?" she asked. "Are we sure he's escaped?"
Veitch shrugged. "Apparently so."
"What sort of bullshit is that?"
"The sort of bullshit that happens when wet behind the ear Brigadiers gets involved."
Meyerstein sighed. "They shouldn't have tried to hand him over to the Iranians."
"Not surprisingly, the CIA is saying nothing."
"What about Brigadier Belmont?"
"What about him?"
"What's the latest?"
"Lost a lot of blood. They're trying to reattach the finger. Rebuild his nose."
"What a fuck up."
"Indeed."
"Does the President know about this?"
"He does now."
"What are his people saying?"
Veitch sighed. "They think Reznick is out of control."
Meyerstein said nothing.
"If they catch him, there's a good chance they might just neutralize him. This is bad."
Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. "I need time to see where we go from here. We'll talk in fifteen minutes." She ended the video call and headed to the bathroom. She felt conflicted. If she was honest with herself, she was relieved Reznick wasn't on his way to Tehran. But there was the possibility of blowback from the Iranians once they realized the Reznick deal was dead in the water. She splashed cold water on her face and saw bloodshot eyes staring back at her reflection in the mirror. The lack of sleep and the pressure was catching up with her. Smudged mascara. Damn, what a mess. But that was nothing compared to the situation she faced with Reznick hacking off Brigadier Belmont's finger and going AWOL.
She pulled out some face wipes from her handbag and cleaned the residue of make-up from her skin. Then she applied fresh make-up, lots of Touche Éclat to cover up the shadows under her eyes and red lipstick. Hair brushed. An improvement.
She felt swamped. Being pulled in a million different directions.
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts. She'd been awake for the best part of twenty four hours and was dog-tired. Her head was swimming with a deluge of information. Assessment, analysis, hybrid threat appraisals, irregular warfare tactical briefings, and on it went.
Her cellphone vibrated and she saw a number she didn't recognize.
Meyerstein pressed the green button on her phone and expected to hear the American Iranian. She let out a long sigh. "Yes?"
A long silence opened up. She sensed someone was on the other end. She thought she heard traffic in the distance.
"Who's this?"
"Meyerstein . . ." It was Reznick.
"Jon . . ."
"What did you know about where Belmont was taking me?"
"I knew nothing."
"Didn't you?"
"Listen to me, I only discovered you'd been taken when I returned from Oxnard."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"Do you think I'm lying?"
A long pause. "No I don't."
Meyerstein sighed. "Jon, a lot has happened. Stuff you don't know about. You have to come in."
"I'm sorry I don't follow."
Meyerstein told him about the cinema chemical attack and the booby-trapped house and the FBI SWAT team. "So that's why Belmont wanted to offload you."
"I was told they were taking me to Canada."
"That's a lie."
"Yeah, no kidding."
"Jon, you need to give come in."
"No deal."
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment. "Jon, you need to see sense."
"I have had my fill of sense. Now I'm going to do things my way."
"Jon, please, don't make this personal."
"It's too late."
"Jon, you need to keep me in on this?"
The line went dead.
A minute later, Veitch called from counterterrorism HQ in McLean. "Martha, we got the call."
"Where is he?"
"The signal popped up just for a brief moment."
"Location?"
"He's headed for LA."
FORTY FOUR
Reznick was chewing some Dexedrine he'd stolen from a downtown pharmacist as he headed west along Sunset Boulevard when he saw a sign for a bar. He cut across lanes and pulled up at the parking lot opposite. He walked into the bar and ordered a Heineken.
He pulled out the pharmacist's wallet and gave the barman a twenty dollar bill, ordered a slice a pizza and asked if he could use the bar phone. The guy shrugged.
"Go right ahead, buddy," he said. "Pizza will be with you in a couple of minutes."
Reznick took the phone and turned his back on the barman. He punched in a number of a guy he knew in Nebraska. Bob Haines whose brother had been in Delta alongside Reznick a few years back. It rang twice. "Bob, don't know if you remember me."
A long silence. "Jon?"
"Yeah, look I need a favor. And we need to keep it low key."
"Name it."
"It's of the fast turnaround variety."
"Hey, Jon, name it."
"I've got a cellphone number. I want an address for it."
"I use an intermediary these days. Will cost you."
"How much?"
"Couple of hundred bucks."
"I'll wire it to you in the next twenty four hours. I need this now."
"You got it, Jon. I've got the number you're calling from. Gimme the cellphone you're trying to trace the address for?"
Reznick gave him the number.
"Leave it with me," Haines said, before he hung up.
Reznick sat back down on his stool and ordered a black coffee for after his slice of pizza.
The barman looked at Reznick. "Just passing through?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Reznick said,
taking a large bite out of the pizza. It felt good getting food inside him.
"I couldn't help hearing you that you were looking for an address. You a cop or a PI, man? It's cool, it's not a problem."
Reznick said nothing as he wolfed down the rest of the pizza. He always found it best not to let on.
The barman said, "I used to be LAPD many years back," he said, patting his belly, "but got shot in the stomach." He lifted his tee shirt and showed a small scar. "Gang banger, six blocks from here."
Reznick nodded and gulped some more beer before being handed his coffee by a waitress. He sipped the coffee. The caffeine fix felt great.
"The thing is," the barman said, "I was lucky. My buddy got shot up bad. Lost his fucking eye. You believe that shit? And all because we stopped the guy for erratic driving." He shook his head. "It ain't right. Fucker skipped bail. You believe they gave him bail? You couldn't make shit like that up."
The bar phone rang and Reznick grabbed it before the barman.
"Jon, this is proving to be tricky."
"How come?"
"Don't want to elaborate, but usually my guy's able to pull up cellphone addresses pretty easy."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I need time."
"How long?"
"An hour."
Reznick weighed up his options for a few moments. "I'll can you in an hour."
He hung up.
Reznick finished the coffee and handed the phone back to the barman. "Appreciate that."
"Hey any time."
Reznick tipped the guy another twenty dollars and left the bar, headed further along Sunset Boulevard on foot. Ten minutes later he was in West Hollywood. Hipsters and a younger crowd milling around. He walked on and ended up at the Power House bar. Vertical neon-lit sign. Huge slab of a doorman standing outside staring straight ahead. Reznick nodded as he brushed past the guy.
Inside it was suitably dark. Wood paneling. Red leather booths down one side. Handful of bikers sitting down the far end of the bar, a stoned white kid sitting giggling alone in a booth. Jukebox was playing Tom Petty. Loud.
Reznick bought a Heineken and sat on a stool at the bar.
The barman was smoking as he wiped down the counter.
Reznick stared at the bottles of blended Scotch behind the bar. He was tempted to just sit where he was and not go anywhere. Just drink. And forget. His mind flashed images of Belmont and the blood seeping from the severed finger. Then he saw the Twin Towers crashing at near free-fall speed, his wife one of those engulfed and pulverized to dust. The dark thoughts lingered as he sat in the dingy bar, the stench of smoke and spilled booze seeping through his pores.
