Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “What the hell is going on, sir?”

  “You know as well as I do, Jon, that nothing is straightforward in our world. We could be dealing with a terrorist cell, Russian Mafia . . . who knows? Take your pick.”

  “Sir, with respect, how the hell could someone get to an FBI assistant director in broad daylight, within a secure complex? This is an inside job, isn’t it? Someone wanted to derail this investigation. Throw us off the scent.”

  “There’s a lot of questions we need answered, Jon. And whoever is behind this will be taken care of. But as of now, as I’ve just told Sam, I’m taking charge of this program. Now, I know there were one or two objections about your inclusion on the team, and I was one of the objectors, but I want you to know that I want you to stay. That is, if you want to. If you want to walk away and get back to your life, I understand. Your call.”

  “I don’t do walking away, you should know that. I want to help you find out who did this.”

  “Very well. So, what’s your take on this?”

  “We have definitely been compromised, that’s goddamn obvious. My question would be, who knew Meyerstein was heading to Froch’s office?”

  “Half a dozen people directly, but then another half a dozen who’d get to know by association.”

  “The key players would be me, you, Chisholm, Froch, and Stamper.”

  “The person would need to know her every move well in advance to plan this.”

  The car hit a pothole and the suspension shuddered. Reznick looked at Chisholm, who was receiving an update on his iPad. “It happened on Froch’s patch. He was the last person to see her. It happened only yards from his office.”

  “I’ve known Ed Froch for two decades. He’s beyond reproach.”

  “Check his phone records. Check his home phone records. Check the dead woman’s phone.”

  “Jon, Froch is connected to very powerful people within the administration. We can’t go pointing the finger.”

  “I’m not asking you or anyone to point the finger at him. We need to do some checking.”

  “I suppose I could call him up . . .”

  “Assume the worst, sir. If we call ahead, he has prior warning, if he’s been compromised.”

  “And if he’s not been compromised?”

  “Then we’re only being thorough.”

  “Jon, this isn’t how we work.”

  “Sir, we need to speak to him and he needs to answer some questions.”

  “Jon, he would never harm Martha.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “You’re saying we give him no prior warning and just turn up at his office?”

  “You got it.”

  A sigh, and then a grunt. “Pass me over to Sam, will you, Jon?”

  Reznick did as he was told.

  Chisholm took the phone, nodded twice, and ended the call.

  “Straight back to Froch’s office,” he told the driver.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were back outside the State Department’s office. There was a heavy police presence. The exits were covered.

  Chisholm and Reznick rode the elevator to Froch’s floor. Cops and forensics were milling around the restroom. They headed down the carpeted corridor and toward his office.

  His secretary looked up at them.

  “I need to speak to your boss,” Reznick said.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  The young woman flushed pink. “He left the office ten minutes ago and didn’t say where he was going.”

  Twenty-Six

  The heat was almost unbearable as Ford pounded the paved track around the Central Park Reservoir. He felt the spray—whipped up by the gusts of wind from the choppy water—cooling him as the temperatures climbed into the nineties. He wondered how long it would be until the day. He mused on that as he passed red-faced joggers pushing themselves in the stifling New York heat.

  The thought of what lay ahead sparked a new rush of endorphins.

  He ran on, and looked across the water. The sky was pale blue, only a few wisps of white cloud drifting past.

  He was in the zone. He was in the right city at the right time. It was all coming together.

  The voice of his mentor on the tape ran through his head. He was playing it three or four times a day now. Everything was becoming clearer. More focused, as they said it would.

  It was remarkable to think that he was going to be remembered. That’s what his father had wanted for him. His name would live for a thousand years. Echoing down the years like a dark whisper. Infamy.

  Satisfied with the workout, Ford slowed down and stood beside the steel fence that surrounded the reservoir. He stretched out his legs, feeling his calf muscles tighten. He was cocooned in the afterglow of exertion, sweat dripping down his neck.

  He closed his eyes, listening to his breathing, as the runners pounded past him.

  He loved this moment. Being still.

  His cell phone vibrated on his waistband, snapping him out of his relaxed state of mind.

  Ford pressed the phone to his ear.

  “We got a new location,” the familiar voice said.

  “At this late hour?”

  “It’s all in hand.”

  “Why the change?”

  “It’s still in New York.”

  “Who changed the plans?”

  “That was beyond our control.”

  Ford went quiet for a few moments as he mulled it over.

  He liked order. He liked visualizing what he was about to do. Now that wasn’t possible.

  “Not ideal.”

  The man said nothing.

  “When will I know the venue?”

  “All in good time.”

  “And my wingman?”

  “He’s watching your every move. We got you covered. You’re going to have a clear run.”

  Ford afforded himself a smile at a beautiful jogger, and she smiled back.

  “This is going to happen, right?”

  “It’s gonna happen because you’re going to make it happen.”

  Ford detected a slight tension in the man’s voice, as if he weren’t telling the whole story.

  “What about an exact date and time?”

  “The date is still the same. The time is changing. We’ll let you know.”

  Ford said nothing.

  “One final thing.”

  “What?”

  “It won’t just be the main event at the venue.”

  Ford’s stomach knotted. “The wife?”

  “You’ll get a clear shot at both.”

  Ford closed his eyes. He could see the whole scenario unfold in his head.

  Twenty-Seven

  It was nearly dark when the Feds, with Reznick in tow, pulled up outside Terminal 4 at JFK. It had been less than an hour since Feds at the airport had seen the FBI circular that had been sent out to law enforcement agencies with Froch’s details. Facial recognition software running on surveillance cameras had pulled up a perfect match. And they had alerted Chisholm that the missing State Department official had been spotted. But Chisholm had instructed them that under no circumstances were they to approach Froch unless he boarded a flight.

  Reznick knew that was the smart thing to do. The last thing they needed was for airport security, outside of the secret program, to haul Froch in for questioning. They had to bring him in and let Chisholm’s guys interrogate him.

  They were ushered through the arrivals hall by airport security and onto Concourse B, past a myriad of shops and restaurants.

  Finally, they headed toward the gates.

  Reznick spotted Froch in a line at gate B20, talking into his cell phone.

  He turned to Chisholm. “How do you want to work this?”

  Chisholm stared as the line slowly moved forward. “We don’t want a scene. The last thing we need is for passengers to be pulling out
their goddamn iPhones and filming us taking him down. We want to do this slow and quiet.”

  “What about Customs?”

  Chisholm shook his head. “The less they know, the better. OK, approach him, nice and gentle, and explain that he needs to come with you. If necessary, make something up.”

  “And if he says go to hell?”

  “Then haul his ass out of the line. The last thing the FBI needs is for me to be filmed dragging some State Department guy out of an airport line.”

  “Got it.”

  Reznick turned and walked across the concourse and straight up to Froch. He stood in front of him, smelling liquor on the man’s breath, sensing looks from the other passengers.

  “Sir, you need to come with me.” His voice was low.

  Froch flushed a dark red and took a few moments to speak. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

  “Your wife, sir.”

  “My wife? What about her?”

  “I’ll explain on the way there.”

  Froch went quiet for a few moments, as if mulling over his options. “Is she OK?”

  “I’ll explain on the way over. You need to come with me now, sir.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Reznick inched closer to him, eyeballing him. “Don’t make this more awkward than it has to be.”

  Froch visibly blanched. “I see.”

  Reznick cocked his head in the direction of Chisholm. “OK, now we’re clear, let’s get a move on.”

  Froch stood still for a few moments before his shoulders slumped. He then headed over to Chisholm, shadowed by Reznick. He was frisked by the Feds, his cell phone confiscated, and led away to the waiting car. He didn’t say a word during the twenty-five-minute journey, sat sandwiched between Reznick and a rookie Fed.

  Reznick looked out of the window and saw a sign for Brooklyn. He wondered where exactly they were going. It looked sketchy. The area was post-industrial, with junkyards and auto body shops standing like rusting reminders of the area’s past.

  The car headed toward an unmarked redbrick building and into the parking lot, screeching to a halt.

  Froch was taken out of the car by the rookie Fed and the driver, and led into the building via a steel door. Reznick and Chisholm followed behind.

  Inside, it was a different world. Gleaming steel, with countless large-screen TVs. Al Jazeera, Arab TV stations, BBC World, CNN, and Fox—watched by terrorist-threat experts with headphones. Others were reading classified intelligence briefings. In an adjacent room, language specialists were poring over Farsi, Arabic, and Pashto jihadist chat rooms, translating hundreds of hours of audio recordings.

  Froch was taken on ahead to an interview room.

  Reznick pulled Chisholm aside beside a water cooler. “What the hell is this place?”

  “The Feds have an arrangement with the NYPD. Their counterterrorism guys run this. We stripped it out and reconfigured a few things.”

  “So this is run as a separate FBI New York field office?”

  “We’re in New York, and yes, it is an FBI office of sorts, but this runs strictly parallel to both the FBI and NYPD. We use it for high-value targets we pick up in Manhattan. Need-to-know investigations.”

  Reznick could see what he was getting at. “I see. You run special counterterrorism operations in and around New York, answerable to who exactly?”

  “You think too much, Jon.”

  Chisholm popped out of the room for a few moments, and returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “Get this down you, Jon. You must be running on empty, too.”

  Reznick nodded. “Tell me about it.” He took a gulp.

  Chisholm sipped his own coffee. “Follow me.”

  He turned and walked toward the far end of the room and the keypad-operated doors, Reznick in tow. He punched in a code and the doors clicked open. They headed along a long corridor and entered a tiny room with one large window, through which they could see Froch sitting, head bowed, drinking a cup of tea.

  Reznick stared through the one-way mirror. He watched Froch tap his feet as if agitated. He wondered what part Froch had played—if any—in the attack on Meyerstein.

  He felt helpless, knowing that the FBI would use their own interrogation techniques on Froch, and certainly nothing enhanced.

  He turned to Chisholm. “So what’s the lowdown on Froch?”

  “We’re working on the assumption that he may have been compromised. If so, we need to know in what way, and by whom.” Chisholm sighed. “The problem is, we have nothing. We’re chasing shadows. They’re fucking with us.”

  “Who is they? Do we know who those two dead Russians were yet?”

  “All we know is that they entered this country on Russian tourist visas.”

  “There’s someone behind them, Sam. They’re not just Russians. This has echoes of Boston. I’m talking Chechens.”

  “We’re working with the Russians, trying to connect the dots.”

  Reznick cleared his throat as he stared at Froch, who was picking at his fingernails.

  “We’re also forgetting something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Ford. How does he fit into this? And what about goddamn Jamal Ali?”

  Chisholm looked through the glass as Froch leaned back in his chair, arms folded and eyes closed. “We’re checking the two Russians to see if there’s a security or military background. We’ve got search warrants for an apartment in Queens and a suburban house in DC.”

  Reznick shook his head. “They might be Russian. But this sure as hell isn’t the sort of operation sanctioned by Moscow.”

  Chisholm said nothing.

  “What about Meyerstein? You think Froch knew anything about that?”

  “For his sake, I hope not. Look at the poor bastard. How the hell did it come to that?”

  “I’m convinced, and this is just me talking, that someone got to him, pure and simple. Either that or he’s lost his goddamn mind.”

  Within the first few moments of the interview beginning, Reznick could see through the glass that Froch was going to talk frankly and freely. In fact he talked incessantly.

  He’d been blackmailed. It began, he said, with a trip to MIT to recruit talented math and computer graduates to work for the State Department.

  Reznick wondered where this was going. He watched as Chisholm nodded empathetically, listened carefully and occasionally took notes.

  It wasn’t long before Froch had his head in his hands. He began to cry. He’d been staying at the Mandarin Oriental in Boston, he explained. His drinks had been spiked. He’d had sex with two different women. Prostitutes, he was told later. He’d passed out. He remembered half waking, and looking up as his picture was being taken, and seeing lights from a video camera.

  It was a lost weekend.

  He flew back home to his quiet life in McLean, to his wife and family. Life went on as normal for months. He thought that he’d never hear any more about it. But then he received a phone call at his home one evening, just hours after the special access program had been set up. The red flags were all there. But he’d been too frightened to tell anyone.

  The phone calls continued. They escalated to threatening his wife, family, and friends. His carefully ordered life was going to fall apart if he didn’t do as he was told.

  Reznick felt sorry for Froch, but everyone knew the rules. Never succumb. Never put American national security at risk. Tell your superiors. No matter what you’ve done, there can be a fix.

  He listened as Froch begged Chisholm not to tell his wife.

  Chisholm retorted, “Your wife is the least of your problems.”

  Then he turned the screw. He wanted to know if Froch had received any kickbacks and from whom. Froch said absolutely not. Chisholm said, “We’re going to scour every bank account in your name, your wife’s name, your kids’ names, your mother’s name, and every goddamn relation in the world. We’ll check your cell phone records, home telephone records, office phone records, an
d we will get to the bottom of this, so if you want to stand a chance, you better spill the beans.”

  Froch shook his head. He said he hadn’t received money. He’d been frightened for his family and his career, not to mention his reputation getting trashed in the press.

  “Why didn’t you alert your superiors at the State Department?

  Froch bowed his head. “I’m in the Church. I believe in God. My family . . . what sort of man would I have been made to look like then?”

  Chisholm rubbed his face as Froch began to cry again. He stopped for a coffee break, and joined Reznick in the observation room.

  “What do you think, Jon?”

  “Hard to say. What about a polygraph?”

  “That’s next. You know what all this reminds me of?”

  Reznick shook his head.

  “The book by Dulles, The Craft of Intelligence. He said that honey traps—bar girls and all that—were classic moves favored by the Russians. And such lures were sent to trap targets.”

  Reznick stared through the glass as the sobs from Froch got louder. “Russian tactics, absolutely. But as I’ve said, there’s something more at work here.”

  “Well, whatever the purpose, the end result is that two of the senior members of the special access program, Meyerstein and Froch, are both now off the team investigating the disappearance of O’Grady.”

  “They’re sending us a message.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We know who you are. We know what you’re doing. We can get to you. I’m telling you, these guys are something else.”

  Chisholm went quiet for a few moments. “The whole thing—O’Grady, Lieber, Meyerstein, and now this Froch business—it’s like a slow-burn nightmare. You think you’re getting close to something, and it disappears.”

  “You know as well as I do, we need to refocus this investigation.”

  “Jon, gimme a break. We’re working around the clock. Scores of FBI, Homeland Security specialists, NSA, counterterrorism specialists, all desperately trying to figure this out.”

  “Either wittingly or unwittingly, that fuck in there has endangered the life of Assistant Director Meyerstein and threatened the integrity of this investigation. I want to rip him to shreds.”