by J. B. Turner
“Three operatives in and around the vicinity,” a Fed’s voice said.
Reznick headed out onto the street. “How long since the book was switched and he left sight of the surveillance inside?”
“Four minutes and ten seconds.”
“Fuck.”
“Relax, Jon. Our agent inside saw him. Probably just stopped to take a piss.”
Reznick hurried down Lexington and then turned onto East 95th Street. “Fuck.”
“Jon, talk to me.”
“How long?”
“More than five minutes. Nearly six.”
“Fuck! The guy’s given us the slip.”
“Copy that, Jon.”
Reznick began to run down the street, trying to get his bearings. “He’s given us the slip. Motherfucker! Fire escape or some basement exit. Can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.”
“Relax, we’ll get him. Where are you?”
Reznick climbed on top of a parked car. He scanned the distance. Suddenly, at a crosswalk a hundred yards or more away, he saw the target’s huge frame. “Got him. Crosswalk, Park Avenue.”
“Do not fucking lose him, Jon.”
Reznick sprinted down the sidewalks, barging past passers-by, some swearing at him, some getting out of the way. “Within one hundred yards. Target headed west along East 97th Street.”
His earpiece crackled again. “All units, East 97th Street, Reznick on foot. Proceed with caution.”
Reznick crossed over to the other side of the street as he slowed down to keep an eye on the target. He watched as the man headed up some steps and disappeared from sight. He crossed the street and saw the plaque. “Fifteen East 97th Street.”
“Say that again?” Stamper said.
Reznick looked up at the church spires. “Fifteen East 97th Street. You know what it is?”
“What?”
“Russian Orthodox Cathedral.”
Eighteen
Martha Meyerstein was traveling in darkness, trussed-up and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. It hit a pothole and it jolted her body. “Shit.”
She had been trying to suppress the feelings of panic that were washing over her. She’d been hyperventilating earlier and had nearly passed out. But her training had kicked in and she’d begun to get on top of her fears.
The fear of the unknown. The fear of the dark she’d had since childhood. The fear of her fate. What were they going to do with her?
She felt herself begin to disassociate. She was drifting away. She wondered about her children. She knew Jacob wouldn’t deal with it well. She pictured his eyes filling with tears. He was sensitive—he needed his mother close. Maybe because of how little she saw of him, mainly at weekends. But their time together, watching films, was precious. And what of Cindy? Her daughter was now more resilient. She saw the way Cindy had matured over the last year. She was a teenager. Fourteen. Slightly headstrong. Determined. Not unlike her own mother. She knew Cindy would reassure Jacob that everything was going to be fine. That was a crumb of comfort. What would they be thinking? How would they be coping?
She wondered how her mother was taking it. And her father. He’d take it the worst. She imagined him flying down from Chicago to DC to be with her mother and the grandkids. That was one thing. Her father would organize the family. Hopefully he would get everyone back to Chicago. Whoever had abducted her likely knew where she lived. But she found some comfort knowing that FBI protocol would have been for her family to be taken immediately to a safe house, far from harm.
She began to calm her rapid breaths. O’Donoghue would have had a task force up and running the minute they realized she was missing. She could only hope an FBI search team would find the information she had stored in her home. And that from there they could track her down.
She began to think of how she could escape. She struggled to try and get free. But she was tied tight. She wondered if she would get a chance when they opened the trunk. To lash out and grab a gun. She had to do something.
Her mind drifted. Every time she marshaled her available senses to try and piece together any clues—the tail end of an overheard whisper; a whiff of woodsy cologne; the expansive dimensions of the trunk—a different concern intruded on her thoughts. Was her hellish predicament proof of what she’d suspected but hadn’t raised with the Director—that sensitive investigations were being compromised?
In the past months, Meyerstein had begun to be more circumspect with her team, unwilling to share her innermost thoughts about the investigations she was overseeing. She’d distributed even innocuous details on a need-to-know basis. It had begun with the collapse of the long-standing investigation into the criminal empire of Vladimir Merkov. Her team had received information about his whereabouts on three separate occasions. But when they’d turned up, there was no sign of Merkov or any of his crew. It was like he was always one step ahead, as if he were being fed information from directly within the FBI. The people who knew about the investigation were the in-house team, those at the most senior levels within the FBI, and a handful of people from other intelligence agencies who were assigned to the Hoover Building.
Meyerstein wondered if she was indeed in the hands of the Russian mob. She had put Vladimir Merkov’s son away. Was this a direct reprisal? Leverage to get him released? Everything she knew about the Merkovs told her that this wasn’t the sort of crazy move they’d make.
But that other concern nagged at her. Regardless of whether she’d been taken by Merkov or by someone else, someone in the FBI—someone she worked alongside, someone she trusted—had betrayed her. This struck right at the heart of what the FBI was all about. The integrity. The commitment. She needed to trust those around her. But recently, she hadn’t been able to.
Her mind flashed back to being apprehended by what she’d thought were cops. She realized how unlikely it was that they had followed her movements. She changed her route regularly. She was a careful person. Did this point to a mole within her inner circle, tipping off the kidnappers?
The vibration from the car engine had ceased. The sound of metal, like chains. She felt a rocking and swaying sensation as if they were at sea. Creaking metal. Low voices like those of her captors. A jolt. Time dragged. She felt sick. Terrified. What was her fate? Were they going to dump her at sea? The sound of the car engine starting as the trunk began to vibrate. She rolled in the trunk as if going up a sharp incline. She sensed they were on the move. She began to drift away.
Suddenly the trunk popped open. Harsh lights. Bad aftershave. She felt herself being lifted. Heard grunts.
Eventually, she was carefully placed on a hard, wooden seat. She felt herself being tied to the chair. Ankles first, then wrists. She felt the ropes biting into her skin.
She sensed people were watching her. Harsh lights again.
“Welcome, Martha Meyerstein of the FBI.”
With that single sentence, spoken with a hint of a Russian accent, her suspicions were confirmed.
“Go to hell,” Meyerstein snarled.
“Rest assured,” the voice continued, “you will be well looked after here.”
Nineteen
The imposing man Reznick had followed finally emerged from the Russian Orthodox Cathedral and walked to Park Avenue. He stepped onto the curb and hailed a cab.
Reznick spoke into his lapel mic. “I got this.” He read out the license plate number.
Stamper’s voice responded in his earpiece. “We’ve got a match for this guy, Jon.”
“Who is he? Is he connected?”
“He’s a thug. A Russian mafia boss. Andrei Brenko.”
Reznick felt his pulse racing. He hailed a passing cab and jumped in. “The taxi four vehicles ahead, don’t lose it.”
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “You a cop?”
“Just drive, my friend.”
“Suit yourself, buddy. You’re paying, right?”
Reznick kept his eyes fixed on the vehicle up ahead as they drove southbound to Midtow
n. There he watched Brenko jump out of the taxi. Reznick handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and scooted out, then jogged through the crowds. They were close to Times Square.
“Jon,” Stamper said, “you on foot?”
“Target’s on West 44th Street.” Reznick pushed through the throngs on the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of Brenko entering one of the buildings. “Stand by.” He got closer. “Yeah, he’s just headed into a bar. Looks like an old-school place. Jimmy’s Corner. You copy that?”
“Copy that. I’d like you to just hang back and we can observe.”
“Roy, listen to me. With respect, I disagree. Time is running out. We need to push this thing. We need to know what he knows. Who’s called this guy? And I know how we can get this information.”
“No, Jon, you listen to me. This is how it’s going to work. We’ll put a surveillance guy in there and we can pick it up once he leaves. Far less intrusive.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“Jon . . . Don’t do this, Jon. This is too important to compromise the operation. We need cool heads.”
Reznick weighed up his options for nearly a minute. “Get a car out front, now.”
“Jon, this is rash. I don’t want you going in there, dragging him out, and this resulting in Martha’s situation being compromised in any way, do you understand?”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
Reznick took out the earpiece and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He popped another Dexedrine and headed into Jimmy’s Corner. Inside was a long, thin bar. Boxing memorabilia on the walls. A few weathered drinkers in the booths. He walked up to the bar while his gaze scanned the drinkers. He spotted the Russian sitting alone in a booth, with a large beer and a shot.
The barman was chewing gum. “What can I get you?”
“Heineken. And a Scotch.”
“You got it.”
The barman poured the whisky and handed him a cold bottle of beer. “Where you from?”
Reznick felt the amphetamines rousing his system. Sharper. Harder. More alert. Switched on.
“I’m from outta town. I’m working nearby.”
“Yeah? Where you from, man?”
“Up north.”
“Got a brother who lives in Vermont. Fucking loves it. Fresh air and all that. You been there?”
Reznick nodded and gulped some of the beer. Then he knocked back the Scotch. He felt the amber liquid gently burn his insides as it mixed with the amphetamines. He felt himself grinding his teeth and took another drink of Heineken. He felt wired. He had the edge. He loved that feeling.
The minutes seemed to slow. The conversation from the men in the closest booth touched on politics, then veered to boxing talk. Reznick’s father had preferred Roberto Durán over Ali and Frazier. He’d always followed the fortunes of the tough-as-nails little guy from Panama. He loved the way he didn’t box his opponents, he battered them relentlessly. Slugging it out. It didn’t matter if he was hit or cut or on the ropes. He’d slugged it out.
Reznick finished the Heineken and spotted the Russian in the mirror checking his phone. Was he sending a message to someone?
The goon got to his feet and headed to the back. He was going for a leak.
Reznick counted down from ten to zero and then followed the guy. He went down the long bar and saw the men’s bathroom door swing shut. He pushed it open.
The Russian was standing, taking a piss. He turned and grinned. “OK, my friend?”
Reznick walked up to him and smashed his head against the concrete wall. The guy slumped to the floor. Reznick stomped hard on the man’s jaw. It made a cracking sound, and the guy’s eyes rolled up into his head. “I’m not your friend,” he snarled, pulling him upright by the hair.
The Russian grimaced.
Reznick punched the man repeatedly in the mouth. Blood poured down the man’s face. He dropped the man to the ground and stomped again on his face until the guy blacked out.
The Russian lay on the tiled floor, blood oozing from his head wound.
Reznick reached down and rifled through the man’s pockets. He retrieved the cell phone and placed it in his own pocket. He washed and dried his bloodstained hands, checked his reflection in the mirror. Eyes cold.
He walked out of the bathroom and headed back through the bar toward the exit, nodding to the barman.
The barman smiled. “You off already, man?”
Reznick nodded again and walked out the door.
Twenty
Brent Schofield was waiting in an outer office of the New York City Police Commissioner, ahead of a security briefing, when his cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.
“You OK to talk?” It was Curt.
“Go right ahead. Where you calling from?”
“I’m calling from a deli, if you must know. A block from the office.”
“Secure line?”
“CIA cell phone.”
Schofield smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
“You said you wanted to be kept abreast of any developments?”
“What’s up?”
“Just hearing that Reznick and the surveillance team have got a result.”
“What kind of result?”
“This is what I know . . . Reznick and a surveillance crew tailed Dimitri Merkov’s lawyer to the Yale Club.”
“Go on.”
Curt explained the sequence of events.
“Hang on, and the Feds have put all this together?”
“You got it.”
“Christ.”
“Reznick is the driving force. He wanted them to get down to street level and take it from there, instead of electronic surveillance. He doesn’t play by their rules. And it sure as hell isn’t the usual Fed modus operandi.”
The Police Commissioner’s secretary popped her head around the door. “He’ll see you now.”
Schofield nodded. “Curt, gotta go. Keep in touch. And let me know what else transpires.”
Twenty-One
When Reznick returned to the FBI’s Lower Manhattan field office on the twenty-third floor of Federal Plaza, he was shown into a small room where Stamper was sitting behind a desk.
“Shut the door, Jon,” Stamper said.
Reznick did as he was told and pulled up a seat. He sensed his actions at the bar hadn’t been how Roy Stamper would have liked things to progress.
“Jon, you’re going to give me a heart attack if you pull stunts like that.”
“Roy, we got his phone. Forensics is analyzing the SIM card as we speak. So let’s see where it leads us.”
Stamper sighed and shook his head. “Our number-one priority is finding Martha. But I don’t think your actions have brought us any closer to finding Martha, do you?”
“No, you listen to me, Roy. You’re so fucking wrapped up in rules and regulations, you’re fighting this battle with one hand tied behind your back. The NSA is great at listening in to cell phone conversations, tracking people, and all that shit. But I can guarantee, with guys like these, they’ll be using new phones—once, maybe twice a week. Who knows, maybe every day, new phone. And then it’s wrapped up in military-grade encryption. They might be using code phrases or words. Don’t you understand that?”
“Of course I damned well understand that.”
“We need to find Martha Meyerstein before she ends up in a body bag. Do you appreciate that?”
Stamper stood up and went over to the window, staring out over the city. “This is not how we do things.”
“Listen, Roy, you made the right call when you said we don’t want to compromise Martha’s situation even further by dragging the Russian out of the bar. That would have alerted those higher up the chain in this organization, and they would’ve moved Martha. But this guy was using his cell phone in the bar. Maybe to message or email, I don’t know. He’ll just think he’s been mugged in the bathroom of a New York bar. It happens, right?”
“It’s illegal, what you did.”
“
No kidding.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Yeah,” Stamper shouted.
A young man came in. “Sir, sorry to bother you. The Russians have made contact.”
Stamper turned around. “How?”
“They’ve sent us some footage.”
Reznick’s stomach churned. “Fuck.”
“Channel thirty-two. I must warn you, sir, it’s pretty graphic.” The kid shut the door on his way out.
Stamper went over to the desk and picked up a remote control. He switched the TV on the wall to channel 32. His boss appeared on the screen. Face defiant. Gun to her head.
Reznick felt anger tighten every sinew in his body. “Motherfuckers!”
Reznick and Stamper watched as they played Russian roulette with her.
Then a voice with a Russian accent said, “You have forty-eight hours to release Dimitri Merkov. Otherwise, the next video you watch will show her brains getting splattered all over the walls.”
Twenty-Two
The sight of Martha Meyerstein enduring Russian roulette at the hands of such thugs had enraged Reznick. He headed down a corridor. Then he was frisked by a security team, before being ushered into the corner office the Director had been allocated in New York.
Bill O’Donoghue was sitting behind a huge desk, dictating notes for a White House security briefing to a young male agent. “That’ll be all for now, Agent Williams.”
Williams nodded. “Yes sir.” Then he turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Reznick took a step forward. “Are you aware of the new footage?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I just want some answers.”
“Then you learn to follow some basic rules when you’re in my company. Is that understood?”
“Sir.”
“Have I seen the footage? Yes. And I know from long experience in the intelligence community that this is not the time to overreact, Jon. We need cool thinking, rational thought.”
Reznick pulled up a chair. “Sir, I couldn’t agree more. Let’s look at what we’ve got. We now have confirmation that they want to trade Dimitri Merkov for Meyerstein. They’ve made their terms crystal clear. And I say we should swallow some humble pie, and do what we have to do. So, we need to talk to them and open up a channel of communication.”
