by J. B. Turner
“What’s there to talk about? We don’t do deals.”
“Sir, I understand the logic of not wanting to do deals with people like this. I understand the FBI is all about upholding federal laws and investigating major crimes, but I’ve got to say, your position on this—bearing in mind we’re talking about Meyerstein’s life on the line—is, to me, pretty bewildering. I don’t understand it.”
O’Donoghue looked at his watch. “I have a videoconference with Homeland Security in five minutes.”
“Why the hell are we not just making the deal?”
“The reason we’re not making the deal is that they can’t be trusted. And it’s not what we do.”
“And you think leaving Martha Meyerstein at the mercy of the Russian mob is acceptable?”
“That’s enough! We don’t do deals with murderers. We will find them. And we will find her.”
“When? Sir, we’re nearly out of time. They’ve given us forty-eight hours.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“The rationale for doing nothing is just plain by-the-book bullshit and you know it. And it’s the wrong call.”
“So what do you suggest? Should we let Dimitri Merkov go free?”
“Why the hell not? Get him tagged. See if they’ll settle for that. Do the deal. And deal with the fallout later.”
O’Donoghue stared at him. “I’ve listened to what you’ve had to say, Jon. And I appreciate your candor. But we’ve got this. Be thankful you’re part of Stamper’s team. Is that everything?”
Reznick rose slowly and stared down at the Director. “This will not end well—trust me.”
Twenty-Three
Reznick felt frustrated with the FBI’s rules, regulations, and procedures. He was used to being given a job, usually an assassination, and carrying it out. Nice and simple. But working with the FBI was suffocating. They were hidebound by their ways of doing things. The FBI was beholden to the law, even if it meant their assistant director would die if they didn’t find her.
Reznick felt stifled. He missed the control. His natural instinct was to go around the rules. In his world, the end justified the means. He would have much preferred to have made the deal with Merkov and gotten Martha back in one piece. In his world, doing the simple things was usually best. In this case, handing over a Russian mobster in return for Meyerstein was a no-brainer. Do it. And get her back to her family.
“Reznick, you wanna join us?” It was Stamper, who was holding open the door to a conference room. “It’s important we focus. We think we’ve got a development on the Russian thug’s cell phone.”
Reznick headed into the room and sat down. Around the table, surveillance crews and FBI specialists were all staring at a huge video screen showing a guy wearing a polo shirt.
“Afternoon, New York,” the guy said. “Special Agent Jimmy McDuffie.”
Stamper nodded, then turned to face the room. “Special Agent McDuffie is our top guy down at Quantico when it comes to examining digital evidence. He’s been examining data from the cell phone of the Russian mobster who was working as a cutout. Jimmy?”
“Since we got this cell phone and particularly the SIM, we’ve gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. Every contact is listed under a fake name. We checked the ingoing and outgoing calls and messages, and cross-referenced the numbers against the NSA’s records. Every call has been from either in or around New York.”
Stamper nodded. “What else?”
“We’re looking for patterns. Nothing concrete, but we’ve detected Russian phrases. So we’re talking Russian mob, no questions. Either known associates or prime movers. The frustrating thing is that they’re clearly covering their tracks. Calls and messages were wrapped up in advanced encryption, which we’ve stripped away, but there’s nothing really standing out. There was, however, something that got us interested. And we’ve checked this numerous times.”
Stamper cleared his throat. “And what’s that?”
“We checked the geographical identification metadata.”
“Geotagging?” Stamper said.
“Correct. And we’ve been able to determine the locations visited by people who have either called this cell phone or received messages or calls from it. Common factors? The Ritz-Carlton, Central Park, New York City. We have eight separate instances geotagged right there.”
“Jimmy, good work. Send us the exact times and dates those phones were logged at the Ritz-Carlton.” He ended the video call and looked at Reznick. “It seems only right that since you obtained this cell phone, perhaps through nefarious means, you might want to comment.”
Reznick blew out his cheeks at the barbed comment. “Let’s hack into the Ritz’s system and get the footage we need. Perhaps, at a stretch, speak to the head of security at the hotel and let him in on this. Need-to-know basis.”
“That might be problematic.”
“How come?”
“This is a very sensitive investigation. Very, very sensitive.”
“We don’t need to tell him the full story.”
“He’ll need to be convinced that the FBI should be prying into surveillance footage—unless we get a court order or something like that. And that takes time.”
Reznick shook his head. “Need to be convinced? Jesus H. Christ, Roy, are you kidding me? Hack into the fucking system!”
“That’s not how we do things, Jon. We work according to the law.”
“Well, that’s nice for Martha.”
Stamper sighed. “I’ve cut you some slack. And you’re still giving me grief.”
“Roy, the time for rules, regulations, and worrying about all that bullshit is not here and now. Getting court orders is time-consuming, and so is getting the approval of the hotel. You need to make this happen.” Reznick looked around the table. “I know you guys might not want to hear stuff like this, but from my side of the fence, you either get on this or be left behind. The only reason we’ve got this fucking bullshit lead is because I went in and got it. We didn’t have any leads before, right?”
Stamper’s eyes were hooded, not liking what he was hearing.
“Listen, guys, I’m not here to bust your balls. I’m not here to rile up Special Agent Stamper. But we all want the same thing. The return of Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein.”
Nods from everyone.
“The kidnapping unit is working its guts out on this.” Reznick pointed across to the agent in charge of the group. “How’s that going?”
The agent blew out his cheeks. “We’re monitoring dozens of houses and properties belonging to various Russian gangsters.”
“And?”
“And nothing, so far.”
Reznick shrugged. “Nothing so far. Those are his words, not mine. You’ve got the best guys in the FBI working on this, and we have nothing. Now I appreciate this is not an easy operation. In fact, it’s almost goddamn impossible, against criminal degenerates who are so highly resourced. But the only way of getting any semblance of a breakthrough is to get down and dirty. And if you guys can’t do it, subcontract it out.”
“We’ve already got the CIA and Homeland Security plugged into this.”
“That’s a start. But you need to go further. I’m talking about using the services of a private military company. People that get things done that the government can’t or won’t contemplate. And perhaps they might—I stress might—get lucky. As it stands, the only way we’re going to get close to finding Meyerstein is to get our hands dirty.”
No one said anything for a few moments as they mulled over Reznick’s words.
Stamper shook his head. “Not an option, Jon. We do things our way. No matter the temptation, we do the right thing, the right way.”
“And that’s it?”
“We’re working ourselves to the bone over this. We will find her.”
“And if you don’t?”
Stamper stared at him in deafening silence.
Twenty-Four
Andrej Dragović�
�s cell phone rang as he sat in a late-night diner in Tijuana.
“You leave fifteen minutes after the pickup truck arrives.” The voice had a Russian accent.
Dragović checked his watch, which showed it was 10:30 p.m. “I need more details.”
“One of our associates will be dropping it off. Do not, whatever you do, attempt to speak to the man or get into the vehicle until he is out of sight. Got it?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“But allow at least fifteen minutes before you drive off.”
“Copy that.”
“We’ve made the initial deposit, just over an hour ago. Did you see that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“More to follow. A lot more.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
The call ended.
Dragović watched and waited and ordered another coffee and slice of pie. Then, at 11:28 precisely, a cherry-red Ram pickup truck pulled up in the parking lot. He drank the rest of his coffee and watched as a tattooed, shaven-headed man sporting a black T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots got out. The man lit a cigarette and walked off into the night.
Dragović checked his watch, and kept an eye on the vehicle for the next fifteen minutes. At 11:45, he got up from his seat and left the diner.
He walked over to the vehicle. He opened the driver’s door and saw the keys lying on the floor, as promised.
Dragović started up the engine and drove off. He headed onto the freeway, straight for the border. It was the best way for him to enter the States without attracting unwanted attention. He had considered flying straight into JFK. But he knew security there was far more rigorous than in Mexico. Far better to have a long road trip across America than deal with the multiple law enforcement agencies operating at JFK.
He began to slow down. The traffic was at a crawl. He waited patiently, listening to the Hispanic radio channels churning out Latino hip-hop, crazy talk shows, and God knows what else. He swigged some water. And waited. And waited.
Eventually, just before dawn, the vehicle and his fake US papers and passport were checked by heavily armed border police.
“Americano?” said a burly guard, smoking a cigarette and toting a semiautomatic.
Dragović nodded. “Yes sir.”
The guard looked long and hard at his ID and passport. Then he was waved through.
He drove on for a few miles until he reached a crummy motel.
Dragović called the number he’d been given. “I’m on American soil.” The code words had been spoken.
“Good work.” The same Russian voice as before.
Dragović ended the call. He lay down on the motel bed and closed his eyes. He would be up again soon. Then he’d set out on the long drive to New York.
Twenty-Five
It took the best part of six long hours to get court orders signed and for things to get moving. Then they had to wait for another two hours until the Ritz-Carlton’s director of security gave the go-ahead for the hotel’s surveillance video to be accessed by the FBI. But it wasn’t long before they made their breakthrough.
Stamper reassembled the team in the morning. He sighed as he looked around the group of Feds.
“OK, glimmer of hope. We got something. At least that’s what I’m being told.”
FBI cybersecurity expert Valerie Donaldson opened a folder in front of her. “Surveillance cameras within the hotel show that on eight separate occasions over the last year, Catherine Jacobs visited one suite. The suite was rented by a man named Damian Smith.” She picked up the remote control. Up on the screen in front of them appeared the face of a distinguished-looking man wearing a black fedora. “It was rather tricky getting a still image without the hat.”
“Deliberate concealment?” Reznick asked.
“We think so.”
“Who is this Damian Smith?”
“Very good question. We ran the face of the man on the screen through various recognition software programs, and it brought up the name Yuri Sokolov, who is none other than a junior Russian military attaché at their consulate on East 91st Street.”
Reznick leaned back in his seat and whistled.
Donaldson continued: “The consulate is close to Jacobs’s office, the Russian Orthodox Cathedral, and the public library.”
Stamper scribbled down some notes. “What else do we need to know?”
“The cyber division has been reaching out to agencies across the globe. And we’ve learned that Jacobs, who we had assumed was British . . . all the paperwork and passport checks show she was in fact born and bred in Russia.”
Stamper pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. Catherine Jacobs was born—you’re going to love this—Catherine Sokolov in Moscow. She’s the military attaché’s sister.”
“Shit.”
“Catherine Sokolov, or Jacobs as she’s known, has joint UK and Russian nationality. And we have it on good authority from the Israelis that she may even have been recruited into the Russian secret service, shortly after she began studying at Moscow State University. Apparently Mossad passed this on a couple years back, to someone at Homeland Security.”
Stamper shook his head. “She’s clearly an agent. The military attaché is an agent. And there’s a concrete link between these guys and Merkov. The question is, is the Russian government protecting Merkov and his activities?” Stamper looked across to FBI counterespionage expert James Sanchez. “James, you know more about this stuff than most of us do. What do you reckon?”
Sanchez glanced at his notes before he fixed his gaze on Stamper. “I reckon we got a problem. There are similarities to the deep-cover spying case in 2015 involving a New York banker called Buryakov and Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Striking similarities. And I very much agree with Jon Reznick. The woman we know as Catherine Jacobs, otherwise known as Sokolov, must be a Russian spy. And this doesn’t make us look good.”
Stamper leaned back in his seat, chewing on the end of a pencil. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Sanchez looked up at the screen. “Yuri Sokolov is the product of an old-school KGB family with ties going back to the old Soviet Union. His father was a spy based in Vienna. And he’s cut from the same cloth. The sister? We had no idea she even existed.”
Stamper’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He looked around. “Excuse me, I must take this.” He picked up. “Sir, yes, sir . . . Right now?” He nodded. “Very well, sir.” He ended the call. “The Director is wanting an update. OK, you know where we are. I suggest we meet up in exactly an hour.”
Twenty-Six
FBI Director Bill O’Donoghue was deep in thought. He felt his ulcer begin to burn his stomach. He took a couple of Zantac, and washed them down with a glass of water.
He felt empty. His workaholic tendencies made it feel like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His personal life was hanging by a thread. His wife had moved in with her mother in Denver, citing him never being home. But all this paled in comparison to the Meyerstein kidnapping. The advice from Reznick that he should have made the deal hadn’t been what he’d expected.
The release of the video by the Russian mob had incensed him. A seething anger bubbled away under his stony exterior. He had authorized the FBI to create a media blackout around the story. And it had worked so far. That was the only success. So far.
His looming congressional appearance was playing on his mind. It should have been a demanding but pretty routine encounter. The politicians would be probing the FBI’s response to the terrorism-related investigations. But with Meyerstein not present to answer questions, eyebrows would be raised.
It felt selfish to worry about such matters. But it was inevitable that they would ask why she wasn’t sitting in front of the committee, answering questions. He couldn’t lie. And if, God forbid, she was killed before the hearing and if it was leaked, he knew he’d be toast. The FBI, an organization he loved and
worked tirelessly for, would be seriously damaged.
O’Donoghue headed out of his borrowed office to sit in on a meeting of some of the FBI’s finest behavioral analysts and profilers. He listened intently and took notes as they discussed the motivations of the kidnappers, the psychological games they might be playing, and what would be their next move. As they talked, the faces of the special agents were serious and determined.
After an hour, he headed back to his office and called Stamper in. He stood and waited, again looking down on Federal Plaza, the people as small as ants. He wondered how Meyerstein was feeling at that particular moment. He imagined she was alone, helpless. But he also knew she was a resourceful, tough, and intelligent woman who would do whatever it took to withstand such an ordeal.
A knock at the door snapped O’Donoghue out of his thoughts. He turned around.
“Yeah, come in.”
The door opened and Roy Stamper walked in. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Sit down, Roy.”
Stamper did as he was told, getting himself comfortable in the leather chair.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Couple days, I think.”
“You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit,” Stamper said.
O’Donoghue took a seat behind his desk and leaned back. “I sat in with the behavioral analysts and profilers just now. A lot of really smart people working very hard. But my question to you, Roy, is—are we closer to finding Meyerstein?”
“Not exactly.”
Over the next ten minutes, Stamper gave an update on the situation. He outlined the main Russian mobsters among the dozens of gangsters who were under either physical or electronic surveillance. Then he summarized the possible connection to the Russian military attaché and his sister, who was believed to be operating as a cutout.
