Hard Way (A Jon Reznick Thriller Book 4)

by J. B. Turner

“We’ll obviously have to tread very carefully on this, Roy, with diplomatic protocol involved. I don’t have to remind you of that.”

  “I’m well aware of the sensitivities, sir.”

  O’Donoghue turned and stared at the Manhattan skyline. “Martha’s out there. We’ve only got thirty-six hours left until their deadline expires. But we still haven’t cracked this. We’re not even close.” He massaged his temples. “Maybe I should spell it out. Homeland Security have intimated that they want their guys to take over, Roy.”

  “Is this the same Homeland Security who were passed intel on Catherine Jacobs a few years back by the Israelis? Who haven’t passed it on to us?”

  O’Donoghue sat on the desk. “Reznick said at the outset that we should just hand the fucker over. Realpolitik, so to speak.”

  Stamper said nothing.

  “Martha’s life is on the line. We’re running out of time, fast. Failure is not an option. And I’m going to tell you, Roy, right here and now, I will do whatever it takes, and I mean whatever it takes, to bring her back.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Merkov arrived by boat on the tiny island. He was greeted by two of his men as he stepped onto dry land.

  “How are you, sir?”

  Merkov sighed. “Where is she?”

  The man cocked his head. “This way.”

  Merkov and his bodyguards followed him down a path to a shambolic old ruin of a building. The metal gates were flung open and they were shown down a series of corridors, then down a stairwell. They emerged into a room that held the slumped figure of a blindfolded woman, semiconscious, bound by ropes to a chair.

  He signaled for his men to move away as he approached.

  Merkov pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. One of his men set a small table beside him, and placed a bottle of single malt on it. He was poured a glass, and he closed his eyes as he smelled the welcome aroma of fine Scotch. He knocked the whisky back in one go, feeling the warmth hit his insides. He put down his tumbler and it was refilled. Again he smelled the drink, and swallowed the lot. He felt good. Putting the glass down on the table he stared at the wretched figure. “This didn’t have to go this way, Assistant Director,” he said.

  Meyerstein didn’t move or answer.

  Merkov cocked his head in the direction of his men. One stepped forward and slapped Meyerstein hard across the face.

  “I said this didn’t have to go this way, Assistant Director. A most unpleasant turn of events.”

  Meyerstein lifted her head.

  Merkov sighed deeply. “You don’t seem to realize, Assistant Director, that we have the whip in hand now.”

  Meyerstein spat blood onto the concrete floor.

  “You know, Meyerstein, I think under different circumstances we could have been friends.”

  “I don’t as a rule fraternize with murderers and criminals. I put them away.”

  “Like my son?”

  “Yes, like your son.”

  Merkov felt a stabbing pain in his side from the cancer. “I’m at a loss to understand, Assistant Director, why the FBI are not just cutting a deal with me. It defies any reason. My son goes free and we’re able to continue on our way.”

  “We don’t cut deals.”

  Merkov smiled. “Don’t you? That’s not what I’ve heard. I think it’s common knowledge that the American government and the FBI are very adept at cutting deals.”

  Meyerstein was silent.

  Merkov smiled, but inwardly seethed. “You think I’m responsible for my son’s indiscretions?”

  “I wouldn’t call murders and torture indiscretions. But if that’s how you rationalize it, fine . . .”

  “He’s my son. I still love him.”

  “Your son had a very privileged upbringing. You gave him everything, didn’t you?”

  “That’s very impressive, Assistant Director. You’ve done your research.”

  Merkov signaled for his glass to be filled once more. “You seem to know quite a lot about my family. I have reason to believe that you are still conducting inquiries about myself and my associates.”

  Meyerstein was silent.

  “Do you know how I know?”

  “I have a good idea.”

  “Meyerstein . . . Both of us, we have some things in common.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. We have nothing in common.”

  “Oh, but we do. I wanted the best for my son, just like you want the best for your children. I believe you send your children to an elite DC day school.”

  Meyerstein gritted her teeth and struggled against the restraints.

  “How do I know that?” Merkov shrugged. “I know a lot of things. But don’t worry, I’ve been told that they’ve been moved.”

  Meyerstein began to sob.

  “I think I hit a raw nerve there, didn’t I?”

  “There will already be a protective detail around them a mile deep. You’ll never even get close.”

  “Perhaps. My son has served quite a few months behind bars. I think he’s paid the price. Now it’s time to come to an understanding. The problem is . . . no one in the FBI has been in touch with us. They don’t seem in the least bit bothered if you live or die.” He looked at his watch. “They haven’t got long before we dispose of you.”

  “Is there a point to all this?”

  Merkov leaned forward. “I haven’t got long to live. Maybe a year. I’ve been to see the best doctors in Switzerland, LA, London . . . And they all say the same thing.” Merkov felt another sharp pain and winced. “Morphine and whisky are keeping me going. Not a bad combination, if you ever get the chance.”

  “What exactly do you want?”

  Merkov slowly got to his feet. He stared down at the pitiful figure, blindfolded and trussed up. “I’ve told you. I just want to see my son again.”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this. Really I am.”

  He turned and nodded to his bodyguards.

  A man walked up to Meyerstein and pulled a gun. He pointed it at her right knee. Then he pulled the trigger. An explosion of pain tore into her leg. She began to scream as waves of pain threatened to overwhelm her.

  Merkov said, “We will send another video. And another. Until we get what we want.”

  As Meyerstein went into shock, she felt herself be sick. Lights exploded in her head.

  “Scream as much as you like. No one can hear you.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Reznick was checking surveillance footage of the Russian military attaché, Colonel Yuri Sokolov, when Stamper motioned him over.

  “Jon, you wanna get some fresh air?”

  Reznick nodded, and they took the elevator and headed out onto Federal Plaza, where they picked up coffees from a vending cart.

  Stamper found a bench and sat down, grimacing hard.

  “You OK?”

  “Pains in my chest, nothing to worry about.”

  “You sure? You don’t look too good.”

  “I’ll be fine. Probably indigestion.”

  “Take it easy, Roy. We’ll find her.”

  Reznick took a seat beside him and was grateful to get some fresh coffee inside him. He looked at Stamper’s gray face. He saw a man who was being consumed by the investigation. The false lead that had led them to the Italian mafia must have been a major blow for Stamper. But he had moved on, no longer smarting, and was driving himself and his team to the very limit in the hope of getting a break to get his boss back.

  Stamper turned and gave a wan smile. “I hope so. This is taking its toll on not only me, but every Fed.”

  “We will find her.”

  Stamper nodded but remained silent.

  It was difficult for Reznick not to feel a grudging respect for Roy Stamper.

  “I wonder if we need to look closely at how we can put pressure on the Sokolovs,” Reznick said.

  “I have half a dozen analysts looking at that. But Yuri Sokolov’s diplomatic status is huge
ly problematic, Jon.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Diplomatic immunity is not something to be messed around with. There are serious protocols.” He sighed. “Sure, we could bring him in. But that would blow the whole thing. And Merkov, once he got wind of this, would have Martha moved. Guaranteed.”

  They binned the Styrofoam cups, walked around the block, and went over everything they were thinking about the case. The fate of Meyerstein. The motivation for her kidnapping. The Russian connection.

  Twenty minutes later, they were done talking.

  They headed back into the building and took the elevator back up to the twenty-third floor. They went to a briefing room, Stamper shutting the door behind him.

  Reznick felt a terrible emptiness. It wasn’t just about Meyerstein’s kidnapping—it was about the gaping hole in his heart. He saw the Freedom Tower gleaming, only a fifteen-minute walk away. It was hard to believe his wife had died like thousands of other innocents on 9/11. He usually pushed these thoughts to the darkest recesses of his mind. But being in New York always dredged up memories. Her face in his mind’s eye. He could still see that smile. If he closed his eyes he could hear her laugh. It was still with him. Deep within him after all these years.

  “Talk to me, Jon. You’ve gone all quiet on me. What are you thinking?”

  Reznick turned around. “Do you honestly want me to answer that?”

  “Goddamn, yes.”

  “We need to break some rules.”

  “That’s not how we work.”

  “I feel like we’re going around in circles, Roy. Do you want a chance of getting her back alive?”

  “Of course I want to. We all do.”

  “Then let me speak to the Director. One on one.”

  “The Director . . . What the hell for? You’ve spoken to him twice already.”

  “Look, I just wanna talk to him.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then I walk. Out of here. For good. Your call, Roy.”

  Stamper bowed his head and blew out his cheeks. “Oh, gimme a break, Jon. I don’t need this aggravation in my life just now.”

  “You need to make the call. Either I get to speak to the Director again, or I walk. Right here, right now.”

  Stamper closed his eyes for a few moments. “What do you think that will achieve?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll listen to me this time. That’s all.”

  Stamper stood in silent contemplation.

  “Your call, Roy.”

  Stamper sighed. “I need to know why you want to speak to him again.”

  “I’ll tell you why. We’re getting nowhere, fast. And sometimes it’s time for a high-risk strategy.”

  “And you think that time is now?”

  “Roy, listen to me. If we don’t take a chance, she’ll come back in a body bag, of that I’m sure. Do you want that on your conscience—that you never went that extra mile for Martha Meyerstein? Do you want to explain at some goddamn inquiry into this whole mess that you denied me the opportunity to put a plan to the Director? Is that what you really want?”

  Stamper stared at Reznick. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then let him know that I want to speak to him, one last time, face to face.”

  Twenty-Nine

  It was nearly twenty minutes of waiting as Reznick was made to sit outside the Director’s corner office during a conference call. He heard O’Donoghue giving an update to Homeland Security on the grave situation the FBI faced. He heard the reassurances and sound bites and clichés. Stretching every sinew, working every source, and reaching out to every agency at home and abroad. But it wasn’t true.

  They weren’t stretching every sinew. They were playing by the rules. They were staying within their box of laws, regulations, and protocols. They were hamstrung.

  He was frustrated. Every hour, every minute that passed, and the odds of finding Meyerstein alive were receding. His stomach began to knot as he realized that it was possible she was already dead. Maybe the Russian mob had grown weary of waiting. And killed her.

  Or maybe they were making that calculation at this very moment. It was possible. And then what?

  It occurred to Reznick that he felt the same sense of foreboding as when he’d been waiting to rescue his daughter from the yacht off Key West. He remembered the black anger that had threatened to engulf him. But also the terrible emptiness and sense of hopelessness as he’d contemplated losing Lauren.

  Reznick shifted in his seat. He reached into his jacket pocket and popped a Dexedrine into his mouth. He went across to a water cooler and filled a cup up. Then he washed down the pill with the cool water.

  He checked his cell phone and saw he’d missed a call from his daughter. He called her back.

  “Hey, Lauren,” Reznick said. “Was just thinking of you. Everything OK?”

  “I’m great, Dad. Just checking in to see how you are.”

  “You know me, honey.”

  “That’s what worries me. You’re not the most sociable type.”

  “You got me.”

  “Dad, I worry about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have people to talk to or hang out with. I think you need to get out more.”

  “Gimme a break. I do all right.”

  “You drink alone, Dad.”

  “What about Bill Eastland? I drink with him. He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s a certified alcoholic, Dad.”

  Reznick smiled. “He just likes a drink, that’s all.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I was thinking about coming home for a few days.”

  “When?”

  “In a couple weeks?”

  Reznick sensed something was up. “Sounds good.”

  “There’s a guy I’d like to introduce you to.”

  “A guy . . . You got a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, I have. He’s nice, Dad.”

  “He’s not got a beard, has he?”

  “No beard. Clean-cut. Hard-working. Pretty damn smart.”

  “What do you say we go out for a drink too?”

  “I’d like that. So would Robert.”

  “Robert? That his name?”

  “You’ll like him.”

  Reznick smiled. “I wouldn’t count on it.” The door opened and the Director stepped out. “Honey, gotta go. Take care. Speak soon.”

  He ended the call and followed the Director into his temporary office.

  “Pull up a seat, Jon,” said O’Donoghue.

  Reznick did as he was told.

  O’Donoghue turned his laptop around. The footage on the screen showed Meyerstein sobbing, blood running down her legs. “They’ve just kneecapped her.”

  Reznick watched the rest of the gruesome clip. “Motherfuckers. Is this being analyzed?”

  “As we speak.”

  “When did it come in?”

  “Six minutes ago.”

  “Untraceable, I assume?”

  “We’re working on it. And so is the NSA. It doesn’t look good.”

  “They’re fucking with us. And she’s going to bleed out. She’s gonna die, make no mistake.”

  O’Donoghue stared at Reznick carefully. “They’re testing our mettle.”

  “Damn right they are. And that’s why I wanted to speak to you,” Reznick said. “You should never rule out any options, no matter how difficult it is to swallow.”

  “Pragmatism I understand,” O’Donoghue said. “But this is different.”

  “Meyerstein is bleeding out in some fucking warehouse. This has escalated pretty quickly. And it will not end well.”

  “We’re all too aware of that, Jon.”

  “I’m guessing there’s no point in bringing Catherine Jacobs in.”

  “She’s tough, if she’s Russian secret service. Her cover has been impeccable.”

  Reznick pondered the issue for a few moments. “I think doing nothing is not an option at this stage.”

  “Jon, we’re not doing nothin
g. We’re using every agency of government from the NSA to the CIA to try and find out where Meyerstein is being held.”

  “I keep hearing that . . . We are using every agency, blah blah blah.”

  O’Donoghue leaned back in his seat.

  “Catherine Jacobs, as she likes to call herself, has been networking at some starry receptions. Every party, she seems to be there. Even tagged on Facebook.”

  O’Donoghue nodded.

  “I’m assuming the FBI has some guys scouring social media sites and trying to piece together what we have on her?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Are they collating the times and places of receptions?”

  “Pretty much. Trying to build up a bigger picture. The photos are from other people who are her Facebook friends. We’re also scouring sites using face recognition software, for any Russian mobsters who she may or may not be linked to.”

  Reznick rubbed his eyes.

  “You OK?”

  “Tell me . . . Catherine Jacobs’s brother, the military attaché—is he holed up at the consulate most of the time?”

  “Don’t even go there, Jon. We’ll have a diplomatic incident. Besides, they wouldn’t have sanctioned the kidnapping, but there is a possibility they know where she was taken.”

  “If I was Merkov, Meyerstein would be moved at least once, probably more. Also, someone within Merkov’s inner circle must know exactly what was going on.”

  O’Donoghue shook his head. “Fuck!”

  “Working harder is not going to solve this. Sometimes you need to get down in the shit and get your hands dirty.”

  “There are plenty of agencies who I’m sure would agree with that logic . . .”

  “Sir, I’m not about to get into a discussion about semantics and logic and what dynamics are at work here. I’ve asked once for you to make the deal. I’m not casting aspersions, but don’t allow us to fail just because we were so hung up on technicalities. Pull the strings, make it happen. And get Dimitri Merkov back to his crew and his father.”

  “There are no guarantees they will adhere to their side of the deal. Dimitri Merkov gets out, we lose every bit of leverage we have to get Martha back.”

  “I know that. And that’s why I want to run a parallel operation to make sure we locate Martha, in case they renege on the deal while we’re freeing him.”