by J. B. Turner
Jacobs tried to lift her head, but groaned and let it fall back on the pillow. “I don’t feel too good.”
“You banged your head when you fell. Do you remember that?”
Jacobs looked at the tubes in her arm. “What’s this for?”
“This is to make sure you’re properly hydrated, but it’s also to make sure you’re relaxed.”
Her eyelids were heavy. “I don’t want to be relaxed. I want to see him . . .”
“Him? Who’s him, Catherine?”
Reznick checked his watch. The drug—a psychotropic known as SP-17—was being administered at a high dosage. But it would take the best part of twenty minutes to take full effect.
He watched as the operative took Jacobs’s pulse and checked her pupils with a penlight. “I think you’re a bit concussed.”
“What happened?”
“You fell as you got out of the police car. Don’t you remember that?”
“No. What fall? Where am I?”
“You’re in the hospital.”
“I can’t remember a thing.”
The minutes passed as Jacobs drifted into a drugged state. Reznick checked the paperwork in front of him—her health records and biographical history—which had been compiled by Dave.
“Can I get you a glass of water, perhaps?” the operative dressed as a doctor asked.
“How long am I going to be here?”
“Not long. We’ll keep you in for about an hour, just for observation, and then we can let you be on your way. How does that sound?”
“My head feels funny . . . fuzzy, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s perfectly natural.”
“Are you going to do a CT scan?”
“We’ve done that already, don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t. Already? How weird . . .”
“Yeah, results are being analyzed in the next room, just to be on the safe side.”
Jacobs moaned softly. “The safe side . . .”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Like I’m drifting away. This stuff is good.” She smiled.
“It’ll help you relax, that’s all.”
“What?” Jacobs said drowsily. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?”
Reznick whispered into his lapel mic: “When she’s fully under, then we can begin the questions.”
Thirty-Nine
Andrej Dragović drove over into New Mexico and stopped off at a small motel, showered, and put on a fresh set of clothes. Then he went to a diner close by.
He ate pancakes and waffles smothered in maple syrup, washing them down with three black coffees. Feeling better, he filled the vehicle up with gas and drove due east to Texas.
The miles were long and hard, the sun unrelenting.
Dragović turned up the air conditioning to max and felt the cool air on his skin. He had already been given the route. It was Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and then on to New York.
It was a long, long journey.
He had taken the maximum dose of a stimulant to help him drive more or less non-stop. He felt hyper-alert and sharp. Not an ounce of tiredness.
His cell phone rang. He expected at this stage of the operation to hear a familiar voice. But it wasn’t.
“You are making very good progress, my friend.” The voice was Russian.
“I was told I’d be speaking to . . .” He hesitated to use his name. “Where’s the usual guy I speak to?”
“He is indisposed just now. But he’ll be in touch nearer the time.”
“He’s the one I do business with. The only one I do business with. I trust him.”
“Do not worry. He sends his regards.”
“But he needs to sign off on the delivery payment, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does. And he will be speaking to you the next time you hear from us.”
“Why the hitch?”
“As I said, he will be in touch. He’s just taking care of some business.”
Dragović sensed he wasn’t being told the full story.
“Any problems so far?”
“No problems. Border was fine. I’m on schedule.”
“That is all we want to know.”
Forty
When the twenty minutes were up, Reznick spoke into his lapel mic, staring through the one-way mirror at the hastily assembled replica hospital room. “OK, I think we can see she’s sedated but still conscious. Let’s get going. And let’s establish some facts to see if she’s telling the truth or not.”
The operative disguised as a doctor nodded. “Catherine, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you.”
“How do you feel now?”
“I feel good. Happy.”
“Well, that’s good to know. OK, a few minutes ago you asked, ‘Where is he?’ Do you mind me asking who he is? Is there someone we need to speak to? A relative, perhaps?”
“Him . . . you know. My fiancé.”
“Your fiancé? Wow! Congratulations. I didn’t realize you were engaged.”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind me asking something, Catherine? Just so we’ve got all our records up to date.”
“Not at all. I’m wide open!” Jacobs began to laugh.
“That’s great you’re feeling a bit better. I need to know if you’re allergic to any medications or foods.”
“Let me think . . .”
Reznick checked Jacobs’s health records again. He flipped over some pages. “Ask her if she’s OK with antibiotics.”
“Catherine, are you allergic to any antibiotics?”
“Yeah, penicillin. Bit of a bummer if you contract an STD, right?” She laughed again.
The operative looked through the glass and smiled, before turning her attention back to Jacobs. “Tell me, Catherine, I need to know the last time you were admitted to hospital.”
“That would be on my tenth birthday.”
Reznick stared at the health records, which confirmed this exact same fact. Catherine Sokolov, as she was then known, had been admitted to a Moscow military hospital with pneumonia on her tenth birthday. “She’s telling the truth,” he whispered. “It’s working. We need more. Ask her . . . ask her if she knows a man by the name of Merkov.”
The operative repeated the question.
Jacobs scrunched up her face, as if she were a child deep in thought. “I know of them. The Merkovs, I mean.”
Reznick whispered into his lapel mic: “Ask her if they are related in any way, and if the hospital can call them to let them know that she’s OK.”
“Let me think,” Jacobs said after the operative repeated the question. “I just know what they do. My brother does business with them.”
“Your brother, thanks. Catherine, we’re getting our records up to date. How do you spell your brother’s name?”
“Y-U-R-I. Yuri.”
“That’s great, thank you. And what’s his surname?”
“Sokolov, of course.”
“So your brother knows Mr. Merkov. Is there anyone else who knows him?”
“My coworker at the bank.”
The operative nodded slowly, as if taking the time to pitch the question correctly. She shrugged as she looked through the glass at Reznick, then turned to face Jacobs once more. “Coworker. That’s good to know. What’s the coworker’s name, Catherine?”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew . . . ?”
“He knows Merkov. Very well.”
“That’s great, Catherine. Can you tell me how I can speak to Andrew?”
“Why do you want to speak to him?”
The operative’s question grated with Reznick. “Let’s drop it down a notch, OK?” he said.
“Sorry, what was that, Catherine?”
“Why do you want to speak to Andrew?”
“I was told he’s a good person to know.”
“Andrew’s the best.”
The operative nodded. “So, Andrew at the bank
. . . what’s his surname?”
“Andrew Sparrow.”
“That’s great . . . what an interesting name.”
Jacobs smiled. “I know, huh?”
“Yeah, interesting name. Guess he must’ve had a hard time at school, right?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed he’d have a hard time. You know, what with his surname.”
“Duh! That’s not his real name.”
The operative stared knowingly through the glass at Reznick as she held Jacobs’s right hand. “Ah . . . that explains it. I should’ve guessed. What’s his real name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I guess so.”
“So are you able to remember his real name?”
“Sure I can. But . . .” Her face scrunched up. “But promise you won’t tell?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Ivan . . .”
“Ivan. And what’s Ivan’s real surname?”
“Lermontov. Ivan Lermontov. We both attended the same university.”
“That’s helpful. And he works at the bank?”
“A private client director.”
“Wow . . . A private client director. And he’s known as Andrew Sparrow.”
“That’s right.”
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what does the job of private client director entail? Sounds like a top job.”
“It’s a very important function within the bank. What does it entail? A lot of lunches. A lot of dinners at the fanciest Manhattan restaurants, let me tell you.”
“That sounds great. Do you like restaurants, Catherine?”
“Since I moved here I don’t ever stay in to cook. What’s the point? The best restaurants are here in New York, right? And bars. I love it.”
“Do you miss home?”
Jacobs curled her lip. “Not as much as I used to.”
“Did you get homesick previously?”
“Yeah, when I was posted to London I was pretty homesick, that’s for sure.”
Jacobs began to hum a tune.
“I know that song. What is it?” the operative asked.
“Can’t you guess?”
“‘Stardust.’ It’s my brother’s favorite song. They played it at his wedding four years ago.”
“It’s a beautiful song.”
“Isn’t it. My favorite version is by Willie Nelson. What’s your favorite version?”
“I think I agree with you. That’s the best version. Nat King Cole . . . that was a good one too, right?”
“Oh yeah. What a voice.”
Jacobs moaned and closed her eyes. “I love parties.”
“Oh yeah, me too,” the operative said.
“That’s why they sent me.”
“What do you mean, Catherine?”
“I mean parties. I’m good at starting up conversations and relationships and becoming integrated into a community or city.”
Reznick said, “Ask more about Andrew Sparrow. His interests. His haunts.”
“Does Andrew—I mean Ivan—does he head out clubbing with you or visit bars?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
“How’s that?”
“You see, Andrew—and don’t be telling people about this—on the surface he’s the family guy, the corporate type, the workaholic, and blah blah blah. And yeah, sure, that’s him. But he also has his other side.”
“You mind telling me about that?”
“Andrew is a fucking sadist at heart. You’ve got to watch him.”
“And how does that manifest itself?”
“I remember once when I was loaded and we were at a corporate function for a client, I was doing some coke in the stall of a bathroom, and when I came out, he was going at it with some girl. I began to laugh and he grabbed me by the throat and squeezed so tight I blacked out. When I came to, he was standing over me. And he threatened to have me killed.”
“And this is the private client director we’re talking about, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did he say who would have you killed?”
“He said there was an old Russian guy he knew. And he could get anyone killed, that’s what he said.”
“What was the old Russian’s guy’s name?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Tell me where Andrew likes to hang out . . . when he’s not working, that is.”
“He likes to swim. Does a hundred lengths before work.”
“Where does he swim, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“At his home.”
“He’s got a swimming pool at home? Wow, how cool is that?”
“It’s a nice place he’s got.”
“Have you been there?”
“Sure. It’s a converted warehouse in the Meatpacking District.”
Forty-One
Brent Schofield was staring out of his window on the thirteenth floor of NYPD headquarters in downtown Manhattan when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Brent Schofield speaking.”
“Brent,” a familiar voice whispered.
“Curt, is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“You OK?”
“They got his name.”
Schofield took a few moments to process the information. “They got whose name? What are you talking about?”
“The asset. I believe they have the name of the asset—Andrew Sparrow. That’s what I’m hearing.”
“What?”
“Reznick has his name. I swear to God.”
Schofield felt himself tense up. “Don’t fuck me around, Curt. Is this a joke?”
“Listen, Reznick has it.”
“How the hell is that possible?” he hissed.
“Does the name Catherine Jacobs ring a bell?”
“Sure.”
Curt White went over everything from the surveillance in the park to Jacobs’s abduction to a secret facility. “I’m hearing that she was drugged. Some truth serum the Russians themselves use.”
“I know the stuff. And it works. Shit on a stick.”
“When she was drugged, she gave the name Andrew Sparrow.”
Schofield closed his eyes for a moment. “The fucker is piecing this together.”
“It’s Reznick, man. Drugged her, and she spilled the beans.”
“The name of the goddamn asset? I still can’t believe this.”
“From what Reznick relayed back to the FBI, she also gave up his real name and address.”
Schofield gritted his teeth. The conversation with Charles would be unpleasant.
“Shouldn’t we be giving Mr. Charles a heads-up?”
“I’m not sure that’s what he would want. I’d imagine if he wants to talk, there’s a back channel. Let me think about it.”
“How far can I let it go? I’m convinced Reznick is gonna bag the asset and turn the screw.”
“How many are on this parallel operation?”
“About a dozen in total, covering different aspects.”
“Stick with it . . .”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Schofield’s mind was racing. “What was that?”
“What happens if Reznick gets his hands on this guy?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Forty-Two
Vladimir Merkov was deep in thought, thinking about the plans he had for his son, when his cell phone beeped. He looked at the de-encrypted message that had appeared. Got an investment opportunity. Interested?
These were the code words. And the message meant they had to meet up urgently.
He took a minute to reflect on what Yuri Sokolov wanted. He sensed something was up with him.
Merkov got up and took the elevator down to the underground garage, along with three of his men. He pointed to a black BMW SUV. He got in the back and was driven through the cobbled streets of Tribeca and out of Manhattan. It was about an
hour’s journey, through the Holland Tunnel and past Jersey City.
Merkov’s mind was racing, wondering what had prompted the sudden contact. It wasn’t his way to be fearful. But on this journey, he felt a chill right down to his bones.
Sokolov was not to be trifled with. Merkov had met him only once before in person. The meeting was at a beach house on Long Island he had rented for the summer.
He remembered Sokolov cut a suave profile. His suits weren’t flashy. A plain navy, single-breasted Italian suit, perhaps off the peg. But it was the eyes. The coldest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Sokolov had stared at him for what seemed an eternity before he spoke. They’d conversed in Russian when alone, and in English when they were with others. The military bearing of the two bodyguards who shadowed Sokolov had been noticeable. Merkov had seen in their eyes the same emptiness he himself possessed. He’d noticed the way they listened when their boss spoke.
Sokolov had been softly spoken, almost a whisper. He remembered Sokolov drank neat Grey Goose vodka. He’d conveyed a sense of power that Merkov rarely saw. It was as if Sokolov, by his impeccable manners, charm, attentiveness, and impressive use of language, made those present understand he was a man to be reckoned with. But also a man to be feared.
They drove due north. When they arrived at their destination, it was dark. Merkov surveyed the leafy street in Montclair. The driver parked twenty yards from the beige, two-story colonial with red shutters. Pink flowers lined the brick path to the front door. A red four-door Honda Civic with an AAA sticker was parked in the driveway.
Merkov put on his shades and pulled on a Yankees baseball cap. The door was opened for him and he climbed out of the car. He took his time walking up to the house. As he approached the front door, he heard the sound of classical piano music. It sounded like Satie, a personal favorite. He pressed the entry buzzer. The door clicked open and he went inside, careful to shut the door behind him.
“In here.” The voice of Colonel Yuri Sokolov.
Merkov headed down a smoky hallway into the living room where the music was playing. The curtains were drawn at the front. Sitting in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the lights illuminating the garden pond, was Yuri Sokolov. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and a white shirt with no tie. He pointed to the seat adjacent and Merkov sat down.
“I assume all electronic equipment was left in your car?”
