by J. B. Turner
“Me.”
“Rendezvous times all in hand?”
“All set. Rest up. We leave as soon as it gets dark.”
FOUR
Meyerstein dropped off Jon Reznick on the fifth floor of the FBI’s DC HQ and headed up to the seventh floor. Just like the fifth, but highly secure. She could see the cameras watching him. The door said “Director.” She knocked twice, not too loud.
“It’s open.”
Meyerstein walked in and he pointed to a seat the other side of his desk.
“You look terrible. You okay?”
Meyerstein sat down and shifted in her seat. She couldn’t abide small talk about how people look, especially her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
O’Donoghue sighed and steepled his fingers. “Martha, I’m sorry I have to raise this again, but we have a problem.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir. Joint terrorism team already assembled.”
“I mean Jon Reznick.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“What is it with you and him?”
Meyerstein felt herself flush. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“This will be the fourth time you’ve included him in a major investigation. And, yes, while the results speak for themselves, there are murmurings.”
“What kind of murmurings?”
“They say he’s getting into the heart of the FBI, and they don’t know anything about him. They feel uneasy. Is he linked to the CIA? That’s all they want to know.”
“And who exactly is they, sir?”
O’Donoghue picked up a piece of paper from his desk. He paused with it in his hand for a few moments before he handed it to her. “Read.”
Meyerstein saw the Department of Homeland Security seal. A personal letter from the director, dated six weeks earlier, outlining his “continuing concerns” over the legality and ethics of deploying Reznick in an “unspecified role” within “highly sensitive FBI investigations.” Her stomach tightened. He wanted Reznick out and Meyerstein “relieved of her duties.” She felt her heart rate quicken. “And you’ve been sitting on this for six weeks?”
O’Donoghue said nothing.
Meyerstein took a few moments to compose herself. She thought of her senior position within the FBI. And how she’d worked herself to the bone for years, pursuing investigations. She knew her health was suffering. She wondered, yet again, if it was all worth it. “Sir, do you think I do a good job?”
O’Donoghue sighed. “I think you do a great job.”
“So?”
“So … Look, Martha, sometimes it all comes down to politics.”
“Sir, I don’t give a damn about politics, internal struggles within an organization, all that bullshit. I’m committed to my family, like we all are. But I’m focussed on the work. Keeping our country safe. I won’t let anything get in the way of that.”
“Martha, doing nothing is not an option. Homeland Security needs this issue addressed.”
“And what exactly do you propose?”
“I want you to do your job, but without Reznick on the team.”
“Listen to me, sir. On this particular case, more than ever, I believe Jon Reznick is the perfect fit for my team. He knows Hunter Cain.”
“How?”
“Delta.”
O’Donoghue sighed long and hard. He looked at Meyerstein with a withering gaze.
“What?”
“Martha, there are murmurings within the FBI about Reznick’s role. It’s bothering people. There’s talk about your relationship with him.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Hang on – people think you and him might be an item. Heart ruling head. They say it’s unprofessional.”
“Now listen here, my relationship with Jon Reznick is strictly professional. Strictly.”
“Your personal life, family, all that, of course it’s your private concern. But when it crosses over into work, no one likes it.”
“Do you think I’m having some sort of relationship with him?”
O’Donoghue shifted in his seat.
“Is that it?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s true he’s been part of my most pivotal investigations, but each and every time he’s been inscrutable. His instincts, his critical thinking … phenomenal.”
“Do you like him?”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes, I like him. A lot. But I also admire him.”
“I believe he lost his wife in 9/11.”
Meyerstein felt her throat tighten. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Have you ever seen the CIA file on Reznick?”
“No.”
“Makes interesting reading.”
“How so?”
“Martha, this guy is … he’s out there.”
“You want to explain how he’s out there?”
“There was an investigation after an incident in Iraq. His unit was training members of the Iraqi army, and some Ba’athist sleeper opened fire on two of his Delta colleagues.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s more.”
Meyerstein shrugged.
“Reznick killed the guy with one headshot.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“The Afghan had already been overpowered and he was in handcuffs. It’s a war crime.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“The Afghan had a brother. Reznick put a gun to his head till he was told who gave the orders.”
“Jon Reznick is an honorable soldier and a fine man.”
“Putting a gun to a defenseless man’s head is not what we’re about.”
“Sometimes we need people like Jon Reznick. I wasn’t there. Neither were you. We don’t know what it was like.”
“Martha, okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I hear what you’re saying. And I get that. But I need a commitment from you that this issue will be addressed as a matter of urgency.”
“I can give that, but not just now. I have work to do.”
“I’m going to write to Homeland Security and suggest you head across there to speak with them direct. How does that sound? It’s the best I can do.”
“Fine.”
Meyerstein got to her feet. “Anything else, sir?”
“Be careful. And keep an eye on Reznick.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“I don’t like the sound of this case. Red flags all over the place.”
FIVE
Reznick took some more coffee as he sat around an oval table on the fifth floor of the FBI’s Washington headquarters along with the rest of Meyerstein’s hand-picked team. He’d been introduced to a plethora of counter-terrorism specialists from US intelligence agencies. CIA, Homeland Security, NSA. Plus federal police and a US marshal. And FBI profiler and behavioral analyst Michael Malone.
When Meyerstein walked in and sat down, she arranged a pile of papers, briefing documents and her iPad in front of her. There was a huge screen on the wall. She picked up a remote control and pointed it at the screen. It flashed up a picture of Cain taken inside Leavenworth US Penitentiary, Kansas. The eyes hooded. Cold, dead blue.
Reznick stared long and hard at the picture as the memories flooded back.
“People don’t usually escape from Leavenworth,” Meyerstein said. “I know it, you know it, and I’m sure most of the prison population of America knows it. But this man, Hunter Cain, managed that feat. Quite something. Quite, quite something.”
A few nods as others scribbled down notes.
Reznick had showered in her office beforehand and freshened up with a new set of clothes. He gulped some more black coffee as his system was roused from the previous night’s booze. He’d also popped a Dexedrine, which did the trick. His senses were finally switching on.
Meyerstein stared at the sc
reen. “What do we know about this guy? Caucasian male, forty-one years old, spent nearly a decade inside after being given a twenty-year stretch for terrorism offences. He was raised in Florida, but we can’t assume he’ll return there. He’s highly dangerous. Propensity for extreme violence.”
A man in a gray suit cleared his throat. “Assistant Director, James Harrison, Central Intelligence Agency. I think it is important at the outset that I put my cards on the table.”
Meyerstein shrugged. “Sure.”
“We have a record of Hunter Cain working overseas briefly as a security contractor in Baghdad.”
“For?”
“Gemini Solutions. Based out of Atlanta.”
“We haven’t got that. Why hasn’t that been passed on?”
Harrison shifted in his seat. “It’s the Agency. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is, James. What the hell is the point if we don’t share information?”
“There’s a feeling that if we have an asset …”
Meyerstein stared at him. “I’m sorry, an asset? You’re saying Cain is one of your guys?”
Harrison leaned back in his seat. He looked uneasy. “He was known to us. He was a point of contact within that firm.”
“Point of contact?”
“He was passing on intelligence.”
“Go on.”
“He worked alongside Shia paramilitaries at one time; we wanted to know what was happening. His crew tagged along with them in the early days of the liberation, but gradually he started feeding us information on these guys. Where they were based. Their alliances. Where they hung out. And from there, we got an entry into Shia politicians. We were able to work with them, identifying Ba’athists, you know the stuff.”
“When did Cain leave Gemini?”
“Late 2006.”
“Then he went home?”
“Pretty poor mental state. Some described him as clean gone.”
“Did he get help?”
“He dropped off our radar.”
“I see. And then …”
“And then, he apparently formed this militia.”
“Did you know about them? Did you try and make contact with him?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
Meyerstein folded her arms. “So we’ve got this disturbed, highly trained killing machine who’s been brutalized in Iraq?”
Harrison nodded.
Meyerstein’s gaze wandered round the table. “Jon Reznick, who some of you will already know, was in Delta Force. He actually knows Cain from their time together.” She looked across at Reznick. “First, we need to track him down. But assuming we do, give me some more about this guy.”
Reznick leaned back in his seat, all eyes on him. “Hunter Cain, like all Delta operators, is very self-contained. He can happily work alone, or in a team. Phenomenally fit, as you’d expect. But what set him apart was his intelligence. High critical-thinking skills. Comfortable with high-pressure situations, again like all Delta. Most interesting facet? Sadist. Enjoyed killing. So much so that he once cut off the fingers of a Taliban prisoner as a keepsake. Big one for trophies.”
Meyerstein asked, “Political ideology?”
“Far right from day one. A lot of Delta are what you’d describe as military right-wing – protecting the homeland and swearing allegiance to the flag are givens. But he was something quite, quite different.”
“Fascist tendencies perhaps?”
“Borderline. He read Nietzsche, books on philosophy, Goethe, and Adolf Hitler. Whole passages he could recite verbatim. Geo-political buff.”
Malone was scribbling notes furiously. “You mind if I jump in here, Jon?”
Reznick shrugged.
“I’ve worked with Jon and the Assistant Director before. So from what Jon says, this is a highly intelligent man. This is an interesting challenge in front of us, for sure. I’ve been reading up on Hunter Cain. Propensity to extreme violence from an early age. Father whipped him if he didn’t finish his meals. So we can have a clear insight into his psychological make-up. Certified sane apparently, but examples of him hearing voices as a child. Perhaps may hint at schizophrenia. But this has never been diagnosed.”
Reznick blew out his cheeks. “Are you saying he could’ve been in Delta, and subjected to everything we had to go through, and be schizophrenic? Is that possible?”
“Far more likely to be psychopathic, perhaps.” He stared long and hard at Reznick. “But to answer your question: yes, I believe it would be possible. Could he be delusional?”
Reznick said nothing.
“There could be multiple personalities at work here, to be frank. The cutting off of fingers, or any body part, is part of the make-up of many serial killers.”
Meyerstein stared at her notes before she fixed her gaze on Reznick. She then looked across at her FBI colleague. “Militia guy, military training, tough, possible personality disorder, hatred of government, fixation with Timothy McVeigh, on the loose. I’ve not had time to look over what the prison says, but where are we with that?”
Female Special Agent Gillian Miller cleared her throat. “It’s clear this was pre-planned, months in advance. Clearly having expert help on the outside, almost certainly on the inside too. Governor has suspended one officer he suspects of being intimidated by associates of Cain to ignore shanks in his cell, made from scrap metal, which we believe were used to cut away at the seal round the toilet before it was ripped out.”
“What about the plans for the building? Who has access to these?”
“Just about anyone. Not difficult to find. I accessed encrypted plans online couple of hours ago. Militia groups exchange intelligence all the time, always highly encrypted.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Jon, capabilities for a guy like this? I’m not looking for referenced articles, obviously; just your take on what this could mean.”
“I think you got a serious problem. This is not, as your colleague Special Agent Miller said, just a guy that got lucky. We’re talking maximum security. People don’t just walk out of places like that unless there’s a highly technical network in place. I’m talking planning, strategy for execution, and it would take time. And they couldn’t get it wrong, as he’d be on 24/7 solitary, with no chance of escape. There’s clearly a target on the outside they’ve identified. This guy doesn’t like government. But there will no doubt be other stuff he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like business either. Especially big business. Corporate America he has a major problem with. Small government is his thing. But as for targets, take your pick. Too numerous to mention. Nato summits, G8, anything like that coming up?”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Got a Nato summit in Milan in a week.”
Reznick shrugged. “So are we talking about a government target in America? McVeigh’s terrorism was clearly a signal from the far-right militia groups of what they thought of federal government control. They don’t like control. They don’t like government.”
Meyerstein stared down at her papers for a few moments as a red light began to flash on her BlackBerry. “Cain and his inner circle are based in the Florida Panhandle. The Panhandle. That’s where his contacts are. That’s where he has family and friends.”
Special Agent Miller piped up, “We have no evidence he’s there or headed there.”
“But in the circumstances, you have to start with what you know. We know to focus on Florida. And we need to assume he’s either getting help from Florida or headed directly there.”
Reznick cleared his throat. “What concerns me is: who’s behind Cain? His backers. He’s not doing this alone. Any ideas?”
Meyerstein spoke. “The militias are all pretty self-contained, divided into cells. But there’s a degree of cross-fertilization of ideas and people.”
“But we need to find out who’s backing this, or else we’re gonna be chasing shadows.”
Meyerstein sighed. “Do you thin
k this is imminent?”
“Highly likely. The shorter Cain is on the outside, the smaller the chance of him getting caught.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Think seventy-two hours max.”
SIX
The pick-up truck pulled up outside the windowless biker clubhouse bar outside Ormond Beach. Hunter Cain pulled his baseball cap down low as he watched a guy sitting astride a chopper. The biker turned and nodded in their direction.
The driver said, “That’s him. Solid.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Outlaws chapter in Oakland, California. Originally. Runs a small garage not far from here.”
Cain said nothing.
The guy on the bike pulled out a cellphone. He nodded and glanced across in the direction of the pick-up. He ended the call and put the phone in his jacket pocket. Then he signaled.
The driver said, “That’s your cue, Hunter. Best of luck.”
Cain leaned over and hugged the driver tight. “I won’t need luck. They’ll be the ones needing luck.”
The driver said, “They’ll be in touch.”
Cain got out of the truck and headed past the biker and into the bar. The place was empty. He sat down on a stool and looked at the barman. “Gimme a Heineken, son.”
The barman nodded nervously and handed over a chilled Heineken.
Cain gulped down the cold beer. It felt phenomenal. His first for years.
The barman wiped the wooden counter. “You on vacation my friend?”
“No.”
The barman nodded slowly. He stared at the tattoos on Cain’s neck. “You just outta the joint.”
“You ask a lot of questions. Gimme another beer.”
The barman served him up another chilled Heineken. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just I got out last year myself. Four fuckin’ years, man.”
Cain said nothing as he chugged back the second beer. He turned and looked around the rest of the room, walls adorned with pictures of bikers and their girls partying in the bar.
The clubhouse door opened and in walked two tattooed white guys. He recognized them immediately. They walked up to Cain and hugged him tight, then sat down either side of him at the bar.
