by J. B. Turner
Reznick let out a long sigh. “How can I help? She might simply be a missing person. A person that chooses to go missing. To disappear. Have you thought of that? Is it possible she’s just snapped under pressure and headed off somewhere?”
“Never in a million years.”
“Never?”
“I’m sorry about turning up like this. I feel such a fool now. I dunno . . . I thought you might help. The children are worried sick.”
Reznick put his half-empty glass on the table and looked at his watch.
“Five past eleven. It’s late.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I need to get back to DC.”
“You might have to wait. The next flight out of here isn’t until six in the morning.”
“Damn.”
Meyerstein’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “It’s Martha’s mother.” He pressed the green icon and answered. “Hi, have you heard anything?” He frowned and nodded. “I see . . . In the last hour . . . Look, I’m working on it. Call you back.” He ended the call.
“Any word?”
Meyerstein took a few moments to reply. “There’s been a development.”
“What?”
“The FBI turned up a few minutes ago and confiscated her laptop and iPad. And they’re moving my children to a safe house.”
“Did they explain why they’ve confiscated her electronic equipment?”
“Martha’s mother didn’t say. But I need to go and get back to my kids as soon as possible.” His hand shook as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “The FBI think something is wrong, don’t they?”
Reznick nodded. Time was of the essence now. “Possibly. Look, do you trust me?”
Meyerstein looked at him carefully. “Martha thought you were a man she could trust. She places a high value on trust. And loyalty. So yes, I trust you.”
“I can’t make any promises,” Reznick said. “None at all. That’s important to stress.”
“I understand that. I just want your help. I want you to find Martha. I want you to help me find her. If not for me, then for our children.”
“Then you’ve got to do exactly as I say.”
Two
It was just past 1:00 a.m. when Reznick called in a favor from a former Marine turned aerial-photography expert, Don Bleeker, who agreed to fly them in his Cessna down to DC. It was a bumpy three-hour flight to Reagan. When they landed, Reznick wrapped his arm around Bleeker’s shoulder. “I owe you one, man.”
“Forget it,” Bleeker said. “Take care.”
Reznick and Professor Meyerstein walked through the terminal, then hailed a cab outside. “This is for you,” Reznick said.
“I don’t understand . . . aren’t you coming with me?”
“No. I want you to call Martha’s mother and make sure your family are safe and sound. That’s all that matters right now.”
The professor nodded. “Do you think they’re still at risk?”
“As long as everyone is out of the house, they’ll be fine.”
Meyerstein rubbed his face. “This is crazy.”
“Listen to me. Make sure your kids are safe. Then think about moving out of your own home for a while. We don’t know what the hell is going on.”
Meyerstein looked like he was struggling to take it all in.
“You OK?”
“I’m OK, Jon. Just find her.”
Reznick watched James Meyerstein get into the cab, which sped away. He headed across to the Avis booth, picked up a rental car, and drove it away from the airport and into the suburbs. It was just before five o’clock when he pulled up outside a small home with a neat garden, well illuminated. He slunk down low in the seat and waited.
Just before six, a man emerged from the house holding a briefcase and speaking into a cell phone. Reznick watched for a few moments. Then he got out of the car and walked toward the man.
“Hey, Roy . . .”
Special Agent Roy Stamper spun around, phone still pressed to his ear. “I’ll call you back.” He ended the call and took a step toward Reznick. “What the heck is this?”
“I’d like to talk to you,” Reznick said.
“You’re outside my goddamn house.”
“You made it easy, Roy. You need to switch off location services on your iPhone.”
“Are you out of your mind? I could have the cops around here in a flash and you’d be thrown in jail, no questions asked.”
“Roy, is that any way to treat an old friend?”
“You’re not my friend, Jon. I like you. And I know we’ve worked together. But this is just way out of left field. What the hell were you thinking?”
Reznick sighed. “I was thinking why did you tell Meyerstein’s ex-husband there was nothing to worry about? Now I’m hearing that your guys have taken all her computer equipment.”
Stamper’s eyes were blazing and he pointed at Reznick. “Let me make one thing clear. This has nothing to do with you, you hear me?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Stamper pursed his lips and looked around the quiet residential neighborhood. “Last I looked, Jon,” he said, lowering his voice, “you don’t work for the FBI.”
“You’re not being totally honest with Professor Meyerstein, are you?”
Stamper flushed.
“You see, Roy, you might be a really fine special agent, but you’re a damned poor liar.”
“I don’t have to take this. You’re out of line. And I’ve got work to do.”
Reznick stepped forward and stood in front of Stamper. He smelled the man’s fresh cologne. “I don’t play games. You should know that by now. I want to help you.”
“Jon . . . this does not concern you.”
Reznick didn’t back down.
Stamper stared at him, then rolled his eyes. “Jon, I’m under a helluva lot of pressure. I need to get into work.”
Reznick nodded once. “This can go one of two ways, Roy. The first way is the Feds deal me in. The second way is you keep me out. But if you go down the second route, I must warn you, I will investigate whatever has happened to her myself.”
At this, Stamper seemed to regain his sense of authority. “Who are you to lay down the law, Jon?”
Reznick shrugged. “Your choice. You either have me inside the tent, or have me outside pissing in. Your call.”
Stamper went quiet, watching him. Then he raised his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Sir, good morning, very sorry for disturbing you so early. I have Jon Reznick standing outside my house.” He nodded. “Yes, that Jon Reznick. Thank you, sir.” He ended the call and looked at Reznick. “That was the Director of the FBI.”
“And?”
“He wants us in his office within the hour.”
Three
The seventh floor of the Hoover Building was the most secure. It was where FBI Director Bill O’Donoghue had his office. It was strictly off limits to everyone, apart from those with the highest level of clearance.
Reznick and Stamper were escorted down a corridor and through airport-style scanners. O’Donoghue’s secretary then showed them to the Director’s door and knocked. She waited for a reply.
“Yeah, show them in,” came a man’s voice from behind the door.
Reznick followed Stamper inside.
Bill O’Donoghue was seated, working on some papers. He didn’t look up for nearly a minute as Stamper and Reznick stood there in awkward silence. Eventually, O’Donoghue lifted his gaze and motioned. “That’ll be all, Roy.”
“Sir?”
“You heard.”
Stamper glared at Reznick as he made his exit, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Pull up a seat, Jon.”
Reznick did as he was told.
O’Donoghue leaned back in his seat and fixed his cold gaze on Reznick. “What in God’s name are you playing at, Reznick? You turned up at Roy Stamper’s home? I’ve a good mind to have you arrested.”
“Tell me about Martha Meyer
stein.”
O’Donoghue smiled expansively. “That has nothing to do with you.”
“It’s had everything to do with me since her ex-husband turned up on my doorstep late last night. And now it transpires that the Feds have confiscated items from her house.”
“Jon, let me be quite clear. This isn’t your concern.”
“What do you know?”
“You’re not listening, Jon.”
“Tell me about Martha’s disappearance. I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
O’Donoghue shifted in his seat. “Who mentioned anything about a disappearance?”
“I did. And the fact that you had your guys turn up at her house and take away all the electronic equipment lying around, that’s a definite red flag in my book. And you’ve moved the kids to a safe house.”
O’Donoghue picked up a pen from his desk and pointed it at Reznick. “This doesn’t concern you, OK?”
“Not OK. She hasn’t just gone off on vacation or forgotten to go home, has she?”
“As I said, this doesn’t concern you.”
Reznick sighed but held his tongue, allowing a silence to open up between them.
“I have a very important meeting in a little over an hour. And I’m already behind with my preparations.”
“Don’t shut me out. Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. I know how these things work.”
“You’ve done valuable work for us in the past, Jon, I know that.”
Reznick nodded. He knew the Feds felt uncomfortable with any input from him. He was a trained assassin, after all. His methods didn’t align with the legal structures and strictures the FBI adhered to. But Meyerstein had seen firsthand how useful he could be. “You’ve got a situation, haven’t you?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss operational matters with you.”
“Listen to me. I’m on your side. I sometimes tell you things you don’t want to hear. But if there’s any way I can help you guys, and I mean any way, I’m saying deal me in. Don’t shut me out. I appreciate that my position has never been appreciated by those over in Homeland Security. And certain sections of the FBI. I get all that. But that’s no concern to me. I’m not even asking for official accreditation.”
O’Donoghue sighed. “What do you want?”
“Just get me on the team.”
O’Donoghue said nothing.
“She’s been missing for nearly thirty-six hours and you don’t know where she is, am I correct?”
O’Donoghue pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
“This is your call, sir. You either deal me in or I’ll be out there doing this by myself, my way. With people of my choosing. Your choice.”
“This is the FBI, Jon. We don’t do ultimatums. Your methods go against everything we stand for. You kill people. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Reznick took a few moments to compose himself. “I’m here to help. I’m offering my services.”
“Look, if you think you owe her or us because of your work with her . . .”
“I do owe her. A debt of gratitude.”
“Jon, you don’t owe her or us anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Her decision to flout your goddamn protocols gave me the chance to recover my daughter from that boat those fuckers were holding her on. You remember that? Down in Key West? I owe her.”
“You need to let this go. We’re dealing with a complex situation . . .”
“Which means what exactly?”
O’Donoghue got up and stared out of the window.
“Cut me in, sir. You know, sometimes having an extra viewpoint can be beneficial. I think I can help you get her back.”
“We know what you can do, Jon.”
“Three separate occasions I’ve helped you guys . . . What’s the downside of getting me involved?”
“Legality . . . God knows where it could end up. Besides, if it leaked that you were on board . . . I mean, Jesus, you can almost see the headlines. Those bastards on Capitol Hill would have a field day with us.”
“To hell with them. Let’s focus on using everything at our disposal to get her back. What do you say?”
O’Donoghue sighed. “I know Martha has reached out to you in the past. But the problem is, you don’t do boundaries. You don’t follow the rules of the law. And that, for the FBI, is—putting it mildly—problematic.”
“I don’t mind problems. I can work around problems.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not on this occasion. I’m not walking away. That’s not what I do. But I can help you.”
“We will find her.”
“And what if you don’t? Her intelligence knowledge could be invaluable in the wrong hands.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“No one need know I’m here, sir. Besides, we both want the same thing. Martha Meyerstein back with her family.”
O’Donoghue stared at Reznick. “You’re only here because I allowed it to happen. I decide what can and cannot happen. Are we clear on that point?”
“Very much, sir.”
“This is how it’s going to work. You play by my rules, OK?”
Reznick nodded.
“No fuck-ups. You can work alongside Stamper’s guys. But only on the proviso that you don’t hide anything from him. That’s very important. He’ll keep me abreast of everything and anything, do you understand?”
Reznick nodded again.
“I don’t want leaks. Do you hear me?”
“Got it. What’s happened to her?”
“Talk to Stamper. He leads. And, Jon, one final thing . . .”
“What’s that?”
O’Donoghue fixed him with a hard gaze. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Four
Half an hour later, after being issued a temporary FBI badge, Reznick was escorted by the Director’s secretary down to an operation room on the fifth floor. Stamper took him into a side room. There was a desk with a MacBook Pro, video footage of a police roadblock playing on the screen. A TV remote control sat beside it. Two chairs flanked the desk and a bank of huge screens covered one of the walls.
Stamper shut the door and sat down on the edge of the desk.
Reznick raised his hands. “I’m not here to make trouble. I just want to help any way I can in locating Martha.”
“Did we ask for your help, Jon?”
“I’m offering my help. And the Director has accepted. Got a problem with that?”
“We do things our way.”
“I’m fine with that, Roy.”
“Make sure you are.”
“So, what are we dealing with, Roy?”
Stamper sighed. “There’s a media blackout on this. That won’t surprise you.”
“Understandable.”
“Strictly need-to-know, even within the FBI. Everything goes through me. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Stamper picked up the remote control and switched on one of the screens on the wall. Staring down at them was a photo of a tough-looking, bull-necked man, tattoos scaling his neck.
“Who’s this?”
“Joseph ‘The Shark’ Salerno. Capo for what remains of the Genovese crew in New York. Complete renegade. Psychopath. Degenerate. Killer. Armed robber.”
“How does he fit into things?”
Stamper indicated for Reznick to watch the video on the MacBook. “We were given his name by two mafia sources.”
“Where and when was this footage taken?”
“This was taken about thirty-six hours ago in Bethesda, out near where Martha lives. Fake DC Police roadblock.”
Reznick watched as she was escorted out of her car and took several steps, heel-to-toe.
“Then she got into what looks like a cop car. But it wasn’t. It was fake plates, sophisticated paint job. Very, very convincing.”
“So she’s been kidnapped by this guy dressed as a cop?”
“Y
eah, absolutely. His brother was put away just over a year ago—extortion, murder, armed robbery, you name it. And he threatened to kill Meyerstein. The word was sent out. The crew Joseph Salerno runs with are not all mafia. But they are hardcore. From California, Texas, a couple of Aryan Brotherhood thugs . . .”
“Interesting.”
“But the backbone of the crew he runs with is from New York. Queens, mostly. Staten Island, too.”
Reznick watched as the footage ran again. “Very organized. They’ve done this before.”
“This crew, their modus operandi is fake police roadblocks, usually to snare armored trucks they’ve targeted. This is what they do. And the fact that Martha put away their leader’s brother after the armored-truck heist in Midtown Manhattan two years back—they got away with four million dollars—tells us what we’re dealing with.”
Kidnapping an FBI assistant director for payback? It wasn’t as though that would give them the green light for future heists.
“The footage . . . Who took it?” Reznick asked.
“A driver who had a dashboard camera caught most of the action.”
Reznick glanced up at the photo of the bull-necked mobster on the screen. “So this mafioso is one of the guys in this footage? And his brother is the one Martha locked up?”
Stamper pointed to the stocky fake cop, who was speaking into a cell phone in the paused video. “We’ve gone over the physical characteristics, and this guy matches Joseph Salerno’s profile.” Stamper sighed. “It’s not good. Worst-case scenario, they’ve killed her already.”
“How likely is that?”
“No one knows.”
“Have you been in touch with the New York mob?”
“Absolutely.”
“And what are they saying?”
“They’re trying to find him as well. They think he’s a rat. The word is out that they’re gonna kill him if we don’t find him first. We’ve hauled in ninety of their guys already, shut down a dozen scams they were working, you name it. And they’re telling us they don’t know anything about this, but this guy is as good as dead anyway for bringing the heat on them.”
“So is this guy a fully iniated member of the Mafia?”
