Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “Isn’t it? We have the documents, General. The documents that Belling knew about for all these years. The plans you drew up. Top-secret plans. False flag operations across the US. Plans to kill Americans. Bombings. Shootings. Plans to galvanize public opinion against Iran. Plans that would have allowed the military to launch a full-scale war. The same kind of plans that were hatched in the sixties to try to start a war with Cuba. Back then it was called Operation Northwoods. But you had drawn up plans for Operation Dustbowl. And now we have the latest plans that we’re seeing playing out in real time in New York. You wanna talk about that, General?”

  Black smiled. “Do you know anything of military strategy? Do you understand the first thing about what it takes to protect the cherished freedoms we have at our disposal?”

  “I know what this great country of ours stands for.”

  “Meyerstein, you’re a very competent assistant director. But you’ve got a helluva lot to learn when it comes to knowing how to keep our country safe. We need to fight each and every day across all parts of the world, each and every goddamn day, just to make sure we can live as free people.”

  “According to whose rules, exactly, General?”

  Black said nothing.

  “Do you believe in democracy, General?”

  His gaze wandered around the room for a few moments, as if considering the nuances of the argument. “Up to a point.”

  “And what point is that, General?”

  “The point where the people lead us over a cliff. Politicians, for example. Sometimes, the average American doesn’t realize what the hell is happening in Washington. We have to be aware of all threats that politicians are either too scared to confront or too afraid to reveal to the American people.”

  “What threats? Real or imagined?”

  “Don’t denigrate what people like me do, Meyerstein. We make tough calls, day in, day out. Every goddamn day, every goddamn night. Unseen. Unappreciated. We do the dirty work that is necessary so we can all sleep at night. You need men like me to do what’s necessary.”

  “Sir, I’m going to ask you straight.”

  Black stared long and hard at her. “Fire away.”

  Meyerstein felt a knot of tension in her stomach. “And I expect a straight answer,” she said.

  Black nodded.

  “Is a false flag operation underway? Is Ford spearheading this operation? Is that what this is all about?”

  Black closed his eyes for a moment, and smiled as he allowed a silence to open up. “There are forces at work—both within the borders of this great country, and outside—whose job is to look after the interests of America.”

  Meyerstein felt her blood pressure rise up a notch. “The interests of America? And what exactly do you deem to be in the interests of America?”

  “We need friendly governments who understand freedom. We need governments who make sure that the insidious presence of communism, in all its guises, is crushed. We need governments to understand the ever-present threat of radical Islam. They don’t want to convert us. They want to crush us. That threat has never been so real. It’s never gone away.”

  It was clear he was on a roll.

  “What do you think the Crusades were all about? It was pacifying them. That’s what we’re doing every day across the globe. We need to be strong. They want to wipe Christianity and America off the map.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “You know full well, Meyerstein. We also need to remind people, from time to time, that there are venal regimes that will stop at nothing to wipe us off this earth. It’s an ongoing battle. And sometimes, things get messy.”

  “Is that right? Is that what this is, General, a false flag operation to galvanize a new wave of public support for this war against Islam?”

  Black said nothing.

  “You’re not above the law, General.”

  “The law? Gimme a break. The law is an ass. We all know that. People like me ensure that our way of life is preserved. And along the way, there have to be casualties.”

  Meyerstein paused for a few moments. “Are American casualties OK, General?”

  “You don’t see the big picture, Meyerstein.”

  “I find your earlier reply to my original question interesting, General.”

  “In what way?”

  “You didn’t answer a straightforward question as to whether there was a false flag operation underway in the United States. What I got was a rationale for false flag operations.”

  Black leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Sometimes, Meyerstein, it’s better not to see the full picture. If the public really knew what was done in their name, they would descend on Washington in their millions and burn it to the ground.”

  “Let’s get back to what’s going on right now. And I’m going to ask you a second and final time, General . . . is there a false flag operation, either authorized or unauthorized, underway in America?”

  “Meyerstein, I don’t see where this line of questioning is leading us.”

  “Could you answer the question?”

  “What are you really wanting me to say?”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “Meyerstein, you have no idea what the truth is. No idea at all, hidden away in your ivory tower in the goddamn Hoover Building, not seeing what is really going on.”

  “Are there others involved? Because, if there are, we will find them, and they will be hunted down, no matter who they are.”

  “There is no false flag operation.”

  “You know what? I don’t believe you.” Meyerstein pulled out her phone and called Stamper, who was on her speed dial. “Roy, you at Liberty Crossing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Send around a full team to the home of Lieutenant General Robert J. Black, including FBI forensics and computer specialists. How long before you can be here?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me, Roy. How long?”

  “Eh . . . A matter of minutes.”

  “Get to it.”

  Meyerstein ended the call and looked at Black. His face was ashen.

  “This is not going to be pleasant for any of us, including your wife.”

  He leaned forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “We’re taking you in, sir. You’ve got a lot of questions to answer.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  His eyes were glassy. He opened his mouth for a moment, as if at a loss for words.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he said finally. “I mean . . . we’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know—are we?”

  Black got to his feet. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  He stood staring at her, his lined face beaded with sweat and his jawline set as if it was granite. His eyes bored into hers.

  She didn’t flinch. She stared right back at him. She had learned from her father the importance of eye contact. Not being afraid. The sound of an old grandfather clock was all she heard.

  “Sir, you’re going to be taken from here and interviewed at length.”

  “Can I pick up some things?” He was breathing harder.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “What about Esther?”

  “What about her?”

  “What will I say?”

  “Tell her whatever you like.”

  Black bowed his head for a moment, seemingly weighed down by events. Then he looked up. “I need to go to the bathroom. Do you mind if I freshen up?”

  Meyerstein looked at her watch. “Five minutes. And leave the door ajar.”

  Black fixed his gaze on her before leaving the room.

  The sound of running water. A long silence.

  Then a single shot rang out.

  Thirty-Nine

  The shocking news of Lieutenant General Black’s suicide, amid the real possibility that a fa
lse flag operation was underway, was still sinking in as Reznick, Gritz, and the Feds watched Ford from the FBI control hub within the Flushing Meadows suite. And what was crystal clear to everyone within the special access program was that their assumptions about an Islamic threat were groundless.

  It was a worrying sequence of events, and intelligence was still being pieced together. They’d been blindsided.

  Gritz was staring through the binoculars, cell phone pressed to his ear. “Fucker is still just sitting there.”

  Reznick was handed a phone by one of Gritz’s men.

  “Assistant Director Meyerstein wants a word,” he said gruffly.

  Reznick took the phone. “You OK?”

  “What do you think?”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Look, I’m just about to land at LaGuardia. I need to be on the ground.” She sighed. “So, what do you make of this?”

  Reznick could hear the anxiety in her voice. The doubt. The fear.

  “You did the right thing by speaking to him. The whole thing has suddenly become clearer. Here’s how it is—we were wrong. Flat-out wrong. The Islamic threat is their cover. And the real and present threat comes from Ford and those who are behind this. Black was only the tip of the iceberg. And that’s why we need to haul Ford’s ass in right now. A false flag is underway.”

  Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments, her mind processing a mass of facts, analysis, and data. Her senses were switched on, knowing that something was going to go down. But no one knew what exactly. “Have you read Stamper’s analysis about false flags?”

  “I know the people that wrote the CIA manual on it.”

  “Which brings us back to General Black. He was CIA. No one told me.”

  “That’s the way they operate. Need to know. If you’re not one of them, you don’t need to know shit.”

  “Jon, I need to be clear on this. This is an inside job, hidden within the veneer of an Islamist threat, right?”

  “Meyerstein, firstly, you need to know that it will go deeper than Black. He can’t be the only one. You need the military, Pentagon, CIA, and NSA axis to make this work. But it might be wider than that.”

  “Jesus . . . why would anyone want to make this work? I mean, killing Americans?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Black’s suicide is a game changer. The probability of an attack scenario from a false flag operation is now being described as highly likely, according to Counterterrorism. And they believe Adam Ford will deliver.”

  Reznick picked up the binoculars and stared through the glass at Ford eating another hot dog.

  Meyerstein sighed. “I see that you flagged up the color of his eyes. What’s that all about?”

  “The colored contact lens is a very elaborate ruse. Sometimes used by high-end card sharks. They can read cards marked with ultraviolet pens, invisible to the naked eye. But in this case it may—I stress may—enable Ford to read hidden messages. The added attraction of that is that it helps them stay clear of electronic chatter.”

  Meyerstein was quiet.

  “What are you thinking?” Reznick said.

  “I’m thinking I want him out of there now, before the crowds all disappear at the same time. That’ll make it tricky to keep an eye on him.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But I don’t want to draw attention to us taking him away. I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking we should wait till he next goes to the bathroom and take him then.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll pass on to Gritz and his guys.”

  “Jon, I’m due to land in fifteen minutes. All you need to know is that Ford doesn’t leave our sight.”

  Reznick stared through the binoculars as Ford dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. The roar of the crowd outside the box made Reznick wince.

  “Got it.”

  Meyerstein said, “There are a lot of questions. Caroline Lieber is still missing.”

  “Consider her dead.”

  A long silence. “We don’t know that for sure, Jon.”

  “Trust me. She’s out the way. What about Jamal’s sister?”

  “Chantelle McGovern? Still under surveillance. But we think she was radicalized by her brother. And Akhtar is part of the same East Village grouping . . . The question is, were these guys planning a terrorist campaign? No evidence as yet.”

  “And we return to my point. They’re brilliant cover for the main event. Ford leaves this trace, and we pick up the morsels they’re feeding us. It’s real cute. Someone wanted us to get the Islamic connection if we latched on to Ford. But we’re being played. Have been since day one.”

  “Ford I still do not get, despite the Chechen link.”

  “The Chechens and the East Village Islamists are the cover. They’re the backdrop. Ford is the key. Has been since the get-go.”

  “Stamper’s still working on piecing together Ford’s past.”

  “He needs to pull his finger out. Why is this taking so long?”

  “Jon, I’ve got another two calls. I need to take these.”

  “Speak again soon.”

  Reznick ended the call and relayed the message to Gritz, who in turn fed the information to the rest of his team.

  A few minutes later, Ford got up from his courtside seat and headed up the stairs.

  Reznick spoke into his lapel microphone. “Stick to him like glue, you hear?”

  Gritz pressed the binoculars almost up to the glass. “That’s affirmative. Tail him. We don’t lose this guy.”

  A few moments later, an FBI agent’s voice. “Joined a line for the bathroom.”

  Reznick was handed a bottle of water by a young Fed, and he chugged it back in one go. He stared at the monitors in the suite, showing the line for the bathroom and the half-dozen agents milling around on the periphery. Scores of people in and out of the washrooms every couple of minutes.

  He looked across at Gritz. “Who’s going to take him and when?”

  “Special Agents Atkins and McKiernan. Both ex-college wrestling champs. Trust me, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  The seconds became minutes.

  Reznick adjusted his headset. “The match has just ended. That’s nearly five fucking minutes he’s been in there. Get in there and pull him out.”

  Gritz nodded. “Yeah, that’s a go. Repeat, get him out of there. Don’t care if he’s goin’ for a dump. Get him out, right now.”

  The two Feds barged through the line. A few beers spilled and there was shouting and pushing until three other Feds flashed badges and the boozed-up tennis clowns backed off.

  A few moments later, the radio crackled into life with the voice of Special Agent McKiernan. “We got a problem.”

  Gritz clenched his teeth. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone. He must’ve slipped out.”

  Gritz pointed to his right-hand man. “Run the surveillance cameras again from the moment he went in. Shit! Shit! Bullshit! You believe this?”

  Reznick headed for the door of the suite, earpiece in. “Get the facial recognition guys to scan everyone leaving the bathroom. He’s changed his outfit and given us the slip. I think he left before the match finished.”

  “Fuck!”

  Reznick negotiated a series of teeming corridors, full of people mingling and chatting, before he was swept along by a crowd of people. He emerged from the stadium into the sticky night air with dozens of Feds.

  Gritz’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “We need to seal off the perimeter. He’s not in his seat. There’s no one there. The fucker is on the move!”

  Reznick stared off into the distance. Hundreds of people were streaming away and heading for the train back downtown “He’ll have gone. Check the cameras in and around the stadium. We need to pick up the scent quick, before it’s too late.”

  “What a mess,” Gritz said.

  Reznick’s blood was boiling. “Let’s quit whining and find the bastard.”

  He barged past the crowd
s and headed instinctively in the direction of a ramp that led to the adjacent subway stop.

  Gritz’s voice in his earpiece. “Jon, there’s a seven train about to leave! Get yourself onto the northside platform. The Citi Field side.”

  Reznick was there in seconds, but saw the magenta circle with the number 7 moving away as he got onto the platform. “Fuck.”

  “We’re checking the cameras on board.”

  “You’ve ID’d him?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Fuck. What’s he wearing?”

  “We have footage of him heading up the ramp . . . Yup, three minutes ago, wearing glasses, khaki trousers, sneakers, and a black T-shirt. A backpack. You’re right, Jon, the fucker has changed.”

  Reznick said, “The 7 train. That heads directly to Manhattan?”

  “Goddamn super express.”

  “How long till Manhattan?”

  “Stops at a couple of shitholes in Queens. Twenty-five minutes. Times Square, end of the line.”

  “You need to stop the train.”

  “We’re already trying to do that. No one seems to have the fucking authority.”

  “What about boarding at one of the Queens stations?”

  “Hold on, Jon, I got something. There are cameras on the train and we’re scanning all the passengers. Hold on . . .” The waiting seemed to take forever. “Shit. He didn’t get on the train. Target is not on the train. I repeat, target is not on the train.”

  “So where the hell is he?”

  Reznick looked over and saw the huge silhouette of the Mets’ stadium, Citi Field, in the distance.

  “The fucker’s out there somewhere. He’s still in Queens.”

  Forty

  Meyerstein’s plane was just about to land when the phone on her armrest rang.

  “Martha, it’s Roy.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “We’ve been negotiating through a back channel with the Russians, and they’ve opened up their own secret files on Americans in Chechnya.”

  “So how does Ford fit into this?”

  “The CIA was, in effect, the operational commander for operations in Chechnya. The Chechens were our proxies. Special Forces including SEALs were involved. And I was given the name of a former SEAL in Chechnya who knew Ford very well indeed.”