Hard Way (A Jon Reznick Thriller Book 4)

by J. B. Turner

  “He was. Technically still is. But there’s a price on his head. Multiple sources saying they’ll whack him on sight.”

  “But in the meantime an FBI assistant director is being held by these fucks? And we have no idea if she’s dead or alive?”

  “Right.”

  “And the Genovese family and their associates have not made contact with the FBI?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know . . . perhaps to rub your noses in it. Perhaps to show who’s boss. Perhaps, I don’t know, they want to do a deal. A swap for their guy in jail.”

  “There’s been no contact.”

  Reznick reflected on that. “Does that strike you as strange? More than twenty-four hours she’s been missing, and nothing?”

  “Jon, I’ve got to be frank with you, I’m fearing the worst. We all are.”

  Reznick began to pace the room. He looked up at the image on the screen. Then he stared again at the dashboard-cam footage on the computer. “Is that all we have?”

  “We’ve got some cell phone footage taken from a dog walker late last night. Just shows what we have already, except a different angle.”

  “I want to have a look at it.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Five

  Reznick was shown into a conference room where a young Fed was poring over the footage on a laptop, scribbling comments in a notepad.

  “What’ve we got here?” Reznick said.

  The guy stood up and shook Reznick’s hand. “Special Agent Matthew Cornell, sir.” He sat down again as Reznick looked over his shoulder. “This footage was taken by Mary Beth Milligan. She was walking her dog when she saw the stop. We were doing door-to-door yesterday and she showed us this footage.”

  Reznick said, “Run it from the start.”

  Cornell played the video again. It was shaky, as if the woman had been holding her cell phone with one hand. It showed clean-shaven toughs wearing police uniforms, a few directing traffic, a few more stopping and directing other motorists to the funnel at the side of the road, where it was barricaded off. “These guys appeared to know what they were looking for.” They watched Meyerstein voluntarily leaving her vehicle. “The angle of this footage and quality, bearing in mind how far away this was taken from the action . . .”

  “How far?”

  “Nearly one hundred yards, give or take. It doesn’t yield anything we haven’t already seen.”

  The video lasted forty-two seconds exactly.

  “These mafia guys have been doing this, on and off, for the best part of twenty years,” Cornell said. “They’re pros.”

  Reznick pulled up a chair beside the young Fed. “Play it again.” He scanned the footage and watched as four men—three close to the camera, and one at the top right of the screen—directed traffic. He watched it over and over, seven times, absorbing, watching the signals, trying to figure out who was giving the orders.

  Cornell sighed. “Not much to work with, I know.”

  Reznick nodded. “Yeah, no kidding. Play it again, but this time, slow it right down. I mean I want to see every frame, each split second.”

  “Forensics has already looked over this.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Slow it down . . . the slowest you can make it. Can you do that?”

  Cornell nodded and tapped some keys. Then the footage began to play in ultra-slow motion. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms, presumably having watched it once too often.

  Reznick leaned in close. He was transfixed, trying to get into the heads of the crew involved. He could see they looked in good physical condition. They didn’t look like the average DC cop. A different shape. They exuded a cold detachment as they directed the drivers and cars for the fake inspections. Then Reznick’s gaze was drawn to the figure dressed as a cop at the top right of the screen, arm outstretched, showing which lane the waiting cars should join. “Freeze it.”

  Cornell did as he was told. “What?”

  Reznick pointed to the man’s arm. “Uniform is two inches, maybe three inches, too short on his arm.”

  Cornell stared at the grainy footage of the man’s right wrist.

  Reznick felt his heart rate hike up a notch. The bare white skin revealed the faintest trace of what looked like a blemish on the man’s arm. “Zoom in on the area around that guy’s lower arm.”

  Cornell nodded.

  The move only showed heavily pixelated dark dots.

  “Can you clean this up?”

  Cornell tapped a few keys again, and zoomed in further on the highlighted area. Through the magic of advanced software, the grainy pixels revealed a distinct image on the man’s arm. “It looks like a bird.”

  Reznick leaned in closer.

  “It’s got two heads,” Cornell said. “It’s like an eagle. What does this signify?”

  Reznick felt a tightening in his gut. He knew exactly what it signified.

  Six

  Reznick cocked his head. “Pick up the laptop.”

  “What?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  Cornell did as he was told and followed Reznick out of the room and down the corridor.

  “Where’s Special Agent Stamper?”

  Cornell pointed to a corner office. “He’s giving a briefing.”

  Reznick pushed open the door. He saw eight people around a large table, videoconferencing on the big screen.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” Stamper snapped.

  Reznick felt all their gazes boring into him. “Turn it off. I’ve got something we need to talk about.”

  Stamper looked at the faces on the screen. “Gentlemen, we’ll talk later.” He pressed a button on the desk and the screen went blank. Then he turned to Reznick. “You mind explaining?”

  “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Reznick was handed the laptop by Cornell. He placed it on the table and turned to the young agent, whose face was flushed. “How do I get this image up on the big screen?”

  Cornell looked at Stamper, who dropped a pen onto the table as if annoyed at the interruption before nodding his approval.

  Cornell brought up the cell phone footage they’d watched in the other room.

  Stamper said, “So what in God’s name are we supposed to be looking at? We know who we’re dealing with.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  Stamper’s gaze lingered on Reznick. “Excuse me?”

  “Just watch.”

  Everyone in the room watched the footage again. Once it ended, Stamper said, “And?”

  Reznick signaled for Cornell to show them the enhanced close-up of the double-headed eagle tattoo. “Did you see this when you looked over the footage?”

  A deathly silence filled the room.

  “Do you know what this signifies, Roy?”

  Stamper stared at the image and shrugged. “So we’ll run it through our system. Hopefully be able to narrow down our list of suspects.”

  “I wouldn’t waste your time. This guy won’t be in the FBI’s system.”

  “Why not?”

  “This guy’s a foreign national, I guarantee it. So you might want to try Interpol.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The double-headed eagle is a widely used symbol from a foreign power going way back. And I’ve seen it countless times on certain individuals. But this is not an Italian mafia tattoo.”

  “OK, so if it’s not a Cosa Nostra tattoo—what the hell is it?”

  “You’re not dealing with the Sicilian mafia. You’re dealing with the Russian mob, here in America.”

  Seven

  What followed in the conference room was a blizzard of recriminations, simmering anger, and finger-pointing as the Feds tried to come to terms with being so badly blindsided by what was now being blamed on false information from mafia informers keen on implicating the Genovese family. Eve
ntually, they ripped up the Italian mafia armed-gang hypothesis and focused on the Russian mob.

  A team of the FBI’s Russian experts was quickly assembled.

  Special Agent Leonid Sperantsky, whose parents had been born in Moscow but left after Gorbachev’s emigration reforms, gave some background. “The tattoo is quite familiar to hundreds of what we term the Russian mob. Also known to work with and overlap with the Odessa mafia—Ukrainian émigrés—who are based in Brighton Beach. Sometimes interchangeable. They are regarded as the preeminent post-Soviet criminal gang in America.”

  “They have tentacles all over the country,” Reznick said.

  Sperantsky nodded. “They’ve established links with Armenian and Israeli crime figures in and around Brooklyn. But they’ve also expanded into LA, where those same ethnic connections with Armenians and Israelis are in place. Very secretive. Protection rackets, loan-sharking, assassinations, narcotics traffic, fuel-tax fraud. Extremely violent.”

  Reznick watched Sperantsky as the agent’s gaze wandered across the others. “Give me your assessment of who within the Russian mob could have carried this out.”

  “The kidnapping would have had to be given the go-ahead from one man.”

  “The boss?”

  Sperantsky nodded. “Vladimir Merkov.” He picked up a remote control and clicked a button. Up on the screen appeared a grainy black-and-white photo of a frail-looking guy getting out of a limo. “This is Vladimir Merkov, head of the Russian mob in America. A mythical figure who, until recently, hadn’t been photographed since he moved to the US after the fall of the Soviet Union. This was taken in London by the British Secret Service. Rumors suggest he is in failing health, perhaps close to death. He is believed to reside part of the year in Palm Beach, but we haven’t been able to definitively link him to any financial holdings. He has effectively disappeared in the US. His son, Dimitri, was recently prosecuted for money laundering, mob killings, and corruption of public officials. Serving ninety years.”

  Stamper cleared his throat. “I think you need to know one thing about Merkov before we go on.”

  “And what’s that?” Reznick said.

  “It was Meyerstein who helmed the case that brought down his son Dimitri just over six months ago.”

  Eight

  In the hours that followed, the Feds worked frantically to set up surveillance on major players in the Russian mob. Monitoring messages and calls. Trawling databases. Observing known mobsters 24/7. Agents were speaking to Dimitri Merkov’s ex-wife and kids.

  “The problem is,” Reznick said, “we don’t know for sure why the hell the Russians would do this. It doesn’t make sense. Are they looking for leverage? Do you think they might be looking to do a swap, is that what it is?”

  Stamper listened intently. “There’s been no contact with the FBI from Merkov or anyone on his behalf.”

  “We got any photos of Dimitri taken at the time he was sent down?”

  Stamper nodded. “Sure.” He pressed a few keys on a computer and a series of photos appeared on the screen.

  Reznick studied the thickset thirty-something man wearing an expensive suit. He had a bodybuilder’s physique, a deep tan. “He needs to lay off the steroids.”

  “Gym fanatic. Spends hours every day in the penitentiary yard, lifting weights. Someone who disrespected him was left brain dead after Dimitri smashed a steel weight through his skull.”

  “Nice.”

  “Was in solitary for a couple months afterwards.”

  “Visitors?”

  “Just one.”

  “And who’s that?” Reznick asked.

  Stamper tapped another key and a picture of a man in a suit wearing dark glasses appeared. “Adam Chapman, his lawyer.”

  “Is he under surveillance?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do we know about this lawyer? I’m assuming Dimitri gets a call or message to him, and from there things happen, or don’t as the case may be.”

  Stamper sighed. “Pretty much. The lawyer is based in New York. Most of his work is for shell companies formed by associates of the Russian mob.”

  “Are you going to stake out this guy?”

  “Jon, you’re not running this investigation.”

  “I never said I was. I thought we were both on the same team.”

  Stamper nodded. “To answer your question—yes, we are aware of his movements, Jon.”

  “That’s good. But is he under physical surveillance?”

  “Sadly not. We do, however, have him under electronic surveillance. Cell phone, iPad, home phone, you name it . . .”

  “Why in God’s name is he not under physical surveillance?”

  “This is where it gets complicated.”

  “Complicated? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A previous bug within his offices was discovered.”

  “Shit.”

  “Indeed. Apparently this lawyer has a firm who routinely sweeps his office and house for bugs. They discovered our bugs in lighting fixtures, electrical outlets, switches, and smoke alarms.”

  “How did you find out he’d discovered the bugs?”

  “You’re going to love this. A letter to the attorney general from the dirtbag lawyer himself, no less. FBI settled out of court.”

  “Fuck.”

  “So you see our problem. In effect, that avenue is blocked off.”

  “That lawyer very well may be a cutout.”

  Stamper said nothing.

  “He’s the intermediary passing on messages or instructions, I guarantee it. He’s the conduit. Are there plans for Dimitri to take over in the future? With Merkov senior in failing health, would that make sense? I don’t know.”

  “Chapman wouldn’t be so stupid as to communicate directly with Vladimir Merkov.”

  “That’s right. But there will be others he communicates with who are only a few degrees from Merkov. So we need to get tight on him.”

  “Jon, we’re as tight as we can be without the Department of Justice hauling our asses into court.”

  “But I’m not officially part of the FBI, am I? And I know this stuff.”

  Stamper took a few moments to think it over. “I’ll head up to the penitentiary and speak to the governor. In the meantime, get yourself to New York. But remember, Jon, if this goes south and you get caught, you’re on your own.”

  Nine

  Brent Schofield, the special assistant to the New York City Police Commissioner, sat at a conference table surrounded by other security experts, listening to the latest terror-threat briefings. He scribbled some notes as he mulled over the domestic intelligence analysis. He nodded as he looked over the six other men and two women assembled. Everyone was cut from the same cloth, because he had handpicked each one of them. His ten years in the CIA, including time as a station chief in Islamabad and Riyadh, had given him a keen eye for who had what it took to be an effective intelligence operative.

  The hours began to drag as they heard reports from the undercover officers, also known as “rakers,” who were embedded in minority neighborhoods. Neighborhoods like Bay Ridge, which had seen an influx of Muslim immigrants since the 1990s. It had previously been an Irish neighborhood, but most streets were now dotted with mosques, halal restaurants and butcher shops, and Muslim education institutions.

  Schofield listened as a raker described the monitoring of daily life in a Muslim bookstore, as well as cafés and nightclubs. He also heard from the “mosque crawlers”—police informants who monitored sermons by imams. He heard about Pakistani taxi drivers. There had been a recent initiative to stop cars for speeding and broken taillights, which gave cops the chance to search for outstanding warrants. An arrest could mean leverage for the police to turn cab drivers into informants.

  A lot of the work was carried out by officers who fit the demographics. Pakistanis would target Pakistani-American neighborhoods. Palestinians would target Palestinian-American neighborhoods.

  It was a constant
struggle to stay abreast of any developments.

  His cell phone vibrated on the table. He checked the message. It read: Need to talk within the hour. Usual place.

  The office was located on the twenty-second floor of a tower block in Midtown Manhattan. He rode the elevator up, got off, then pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner on the keypad beside the lone door. It clicked open and he went inside. Schofield headed through another security door and into a large, open-plan office.

  The man he still addressed as Mr. Charles—a former director of the CIA whose company “consulted” with the Agency—had his feet up on a desk, smoking a cigarette, watching Fox News. He turned and smiled. “Hey, Brent, pull up a seat.”

  Brent did as he was told. “I got here as quick as I could.”

  “You still keeping those Brooklyn Muslims in check?”

  Brent smiled. “Someone has to.”

  “Good for you. How’s the family?”

  “They’re good. Kids are healthy. Alison is back teaching.”

  Charles stared at him as if trying to decode his true feelings. “Good to hear. Brent, I want to bring you up to speed.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A situation is developing which might impinge on one of our most valuable assets in New York.”

  “I know the guy you’re talking about, sir.”

  Charles dragged hard on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nose. “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’m hearing that an assistant director of the FBI has been kidnapped. And they’re going to be focusing their efforts here in New York.”

  Schofield already knew this through a contact in the FBI.

  “Here’s my problem, Brent. My company offers strategic geopolitical consultancy for those at the highest level within the CIA.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You won’t have heard, however, that I’m in charge of a special project. That project is to protect that high-level asset I mentioned. To see the big picture. My concern is that—”

  “You think the kidnapping of this assistant director might spill over into the CIA’s sphere of influence?”