by J. B. Turner
Merkov shifted in his seat. “Yes.” He wondered why there were no bodyguards in the room.
Sokolov dragged hard on his cigarette. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“My sister recently did a dead drop for you, am I right?”
Merkov felt a tightness in his chest. “I have no idea.”
“You don’t know if she was involved?”
“I don’t know the logistics of everything. I delegate that to other people.”
“I just got back to America late last night. I’ve been back home doing some work for the government.” Sokolov took another drag on his cigarette. “And I was notified that one of my contacts hadn’t checked in.”
“Meaning?”
“There are people I know. People who I get regular updates from, to confirm that they haven’t gone missing, haven’t dropped off the grid, haven’t disappeared to claim asylum, that kind of thing.”
Merkov nodded.
“And here’s the thing . . . my sister, who was supposed to send a unique code number to my cell phone at one p.m. today—at one p.m. every day—didn’t send that number. I made inquiries. My associate called her office and was told that Catherine had been contacted in the park by a policewoman, who told her that her fiancé was in an accident.”
“I see . . .”
“The thing is, it wasn’t true. He wasn’t in an accident. He was perfectly well, showing a client around a house. I’ve had that checked out thoroughly.”
Merkov nodded.
“Now, I’m a reasonable man. I’m thinking, perhaps it’s a mix-up. Perhaps it’s someone else. But then I got to thinking no, this is not a mix-up.”
“What are you saying?”
“Do you want me to spell it out for you?”
Merkov didn’t reply.
Sokolov leaned over and crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Do you have any idea what your actions have done? Do you have any clue?”
“I wanted my son back. I need to see him before I die.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool. I don’t believe that’s why this has happened. You kidnap an FBI assistant director in order to see your fucking delinquent son? Are you for real? I don’t fucking believe you.”
Sokolov leaned closer. Merkov could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Did I or did I not authorize such a rash act?”
“You did not,” said Merkov.
“So . . . who authorized you to take such action?”
“I did.”
A muscle in Sokolov’s temple began to throb. “You didn’t engineer the kidnapping of an FBI assistant director just to see your son . . . I can look into your eyes and see everything there is to know about Vladimir Merkov. I know you better than you know yourself. Know what I think? Someone has gotten to you. Are there other reasons you need your son on the outside, perhaps?”
Merkov sighed. “That’s a fanciful story . . . but I’m a sick man. You know that.”
“Cut the crap. We’ll talk later about what you’re really up to. But in the meantime, let’s talk about Catherine. Somehow the FBI has ascertained that Catherine was part of your dead drop crew. They’ve kidnapped her.”
“That’s not the Feds’ way.”
“Well, something seems to have changed. And the Kremlin is not pleased. Does the name Jon Reznick mean anything to you?”
“I have heard that name mentioned.”
“We have it from an impeccable source that Reznick has been assigned to the FBI as part of the operation to get Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein back. They have worked together in the past.”
“You think this is his doing?”
“Without a doubt. He has Catherine. And he’ll be trying to get her to talk.”
“She doesn’t know where Meyerstein is.”
“No. But she knows about Russian operations. Russian operatives. It could very well result in all of them being compromised. And all because you decided unilaterally to try and play hardball with the FBI to get them to free your son. I mean . . . what the fuck were you thinking?”
“Look, I’m a reasonable man, who should perhaps have not been so rash—”
Merkov began to cough hard. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it. He showed the bloody saliva to Sokolov. “I’ve been told I have less than a year to live. A few days after the diagnosis, I tried to make contact. I was told you weren’t due back for another six months. I had an opportunity to take action and no chance to speak to you.”
Sokolov stared at him. “You’re not telling me the whole story. Getting your son out of jail is for a purpose. A nefarious purpose, am I right?”
Merkov didn’t answer.
Sokolov slammed his palm against the arm of his chair. “Do you understand what being a state asset means? Well, do you?”
Merkov remained silent.
“You keep out of sight and pass on useful information, in return for continuing your business.”
“And if I don’t?”
Sokolov smiled. “Merkov, you need us more than we need you. So, you’re going to tell us where Meyerstein is. Right now. And you’re going to tell me what the hell you need Dimitri on the outside for.”
“Or what?”
“From where I’m standing, you have broken not only our trust, but threatened our strategic interests in this country. And I’m starting to wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
“Have you been approached by the CIA—is that it?” Sokolov smiled a terrifying smile. “If you have, all you have to do is be upfront, and we’ll sort it out.”
Merkov pressed the handkerchief to his mouth and coughed more blood into the white cloth. He wiped his mouth and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “I knew your mother from way, way back. How is she?”
Sokolov shrugged. “She’s not getting around so easy. But she doesn’t complain.”
Merkov smiled, nodded. “Your father was a better man than me. He used to say I was a degenerate because I stole and I drank too much.”
Sokolov’s eyes narrowed, but he went quiet, as if thinking of his family back home.
“You were always the bright one, they said. KGB-material, they said.”
“Deflection is never a sound strategy with me,” Sokolov said. “Release Meyerstein to the Feds, and get Catherine back to me.”
“And if I don’t hand their agent back?”
“You will die before you can see Dimitri.”
Merkov got slowly to his feet. “Leave it with me. Maybe I haven’t been thinking straight. I don’t know. I’m on medication.”
Merkov left the house and shuffled back down the path to the waiting SUV. He slid into the back seat and took a few seconds to compose himself. Then he turned to the man sitting beside him. “I need some business taken care of.”
The associate nodded.
“The man inside the house I just visited. His name is Yuri Sokolov.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“You will go back in with your brother Nikita. Find out what Sokolov knows about our plans. Be very thorough. Then kill him.”
Forty-Three
The headlights of the cars and taxis shone on the cobblestones and converted brick buildings of the Meatpacking District. Reznick checked his watch. It was just after eight. He was ready to go, watching and waiting in a surveillance van with Curt White. He thought they had made a breakthrough getting the name of Ivan Lermontov, also known as Andrew Sparrow. But he knew from his own experience that for every breakthrough, there was inevitably a setback.
Reznick checked his watch again and yawned.
“You OK?” Curt asked.
“I’m good. Sleep-deprived, that’s all.”
Reznick’s cell phone buzzed. He answered after the first ring.
“Jon?” The voice of Bill O’Donoghue.
“Sir, I’m kind of busy,” Reznick said.
“They’ve double-crossed us.”
“What?”
/> O’Donoghue sighed. “The Department of Justice got duped. As did we. Fake email instigated by Russian hackers giving legal authorization for the handover from the Solicitor General.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Bottom line? Dimitri was handed over. And Martha is nowhere to be seen. We’re trying to open up fresh communications with Merkov’s people, but the whole thing is fucked.”
“How could that happen?”
“Complete mess.”
“So they still have her? And he’s out?”
“Yup.”
Reznick took a few moments to reflect on the information. “Here’s the thing . . . why on God’s earth would they have gone to such lengths in the first place? Is there a reason they need Martha, other than as leverage? Is she already dead?”
O’Donoghue cleared his throat.
“Maybe the whole bullshit exchange of Dimitri was just a red herring to keep the FBI distracted while Merkov was doing something else right under your nose.”
“What the hell are you getting at?” O’Donoghue said.
“I’m just thinking aloud . . . But, really, are we missing something?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . has this been a setup to get that fucker out on the streets for a very particular reason? What if we’ve been blindsided?”
“For what purpose?”
“Dimitri Merkov is needed on the outside. There’s something in the works. Is that what this is about?”
O’Donoghue sighed. “A couple of our analysts have mentioned this. I think it might be prudent to pull up every picture of Dimitri Merkov from before he was arrested.”
“Now we’re talking.” Reznick saw a top-of-the-range Lexus pull up behind a BMW outside Andrew Sparrow’s townhouse. “Gotta go.”
He ended the call. Then he watched as a chauffeur stepped out of the Lexus and pressed the video-intercom button twice.
Reznick spoke into his lapel mic. “Car number two, you got a visual on the Lexus?”
“Copy that.”
“Slide in, tight as you like behind the Lexus. I’m talking a couple of inches, max. We don’t want him out of there.”
“We’re on it.”
Reznick watched as the SUV appeared farther down the street and coolly slid right up to the bumper of the Lexus. “Stand by . . .”
The chauffeur turned back to his vehicle and saw he was boxed in. He approached the SUV, arms outstretched as if annoyed at the stupidity of the driver. “Hey man,” the chauffeur could be heard saying. “You need to move.”
A female operative stepped out and started remonstrating with him in Urdu. Reznick had known her for years. She was a language specialist, and was also a tech expert who had been assigned to a CIA mission in Pakistan. She now lived in Brooklyn.
The chauffeur raised his palms, as if trying to show he was no threat to her. “Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re saying. I was just asking you to back the hell up! I cannot move. And if my boss comes out and he can’t make his business dinner uptown, he’s gonna be pissed, that’s all I’m going to say.”
The operative continued to blast him with Urdu expletives.
Reznick wondered when they should move. He hadn’t anticipated any chauffeur. He had expected to gain entry and deal with matters inside. He looked around. No one in sight. The rumble of traffic on a busy street further away. He turned to White. “Let’s do this. I’ll do the talking.”
They stepped out of the surveillance vehicle and walked toward the commotion.
The chauffeur turned and stared at Reznick. “Who are you?”
Reznick showed him a fake FBI ID. “You’re under arrest. Turn around.”
The man gaped. “What the hell you talking about?”
Reznick spun the guy around and pulled his arms tight behind his back. Then he put a pair of plastic handcuffs on him. “Go with my colleague,” he said, indicating White.
“You’re joking.”
White hustled the guy toward the open rear door of the Lexus. The female operative slid in beside him.
“No idea what this is all about,” the chauffeur said.
White slammed the door shut.
A few seconds later, the front door to the townhouse opened and Andrew Sparrow walked out. His hair glistened under the street lights as if he’d just showered. Reznick walked straight up to him and flashed the fake ID. “Andrew Sparrow?”
“Yes, what’s this?”
“You’re under arrest. You don’t have to say anything—”
“For what?”
“Securities fraud.”
“Bullshit.”
Reznick grabbed the man’s thick wrists and placed him in metal cuffs, hands in front of him.
“You have no idea what you’re doing . . . This is ridiculous.”
Reznick frog-marched Sparrow to the surveillance van and pushed him into the back seat as White followed close behind. He was strapped in, Reznick slammed the door shut, and they drove off.
“I want to see my lawyer,” Sparrow said.
“Not a problem.”
“I want to call him right now.”
Reznick turned around and stared at the guy. “I said not a problem. Once we arrive at the office, you can call your lawyer.”
“You don’t look like a Fed.”
Reznick ignored him.
They drove through the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel and into Red Hook. Past the abandoned warehouses and cobbled streets near the docks.
A huge floodlit building loomed over them.
Reznick stepped out and opened the door to the handcuffed passenger. He grabbed him by the arm. “You mind stepping out, Mr. Sparrow?”
“What the hell is this? This isn’t the goddamn FBI.”
“It’s a satellite office. Get a move on.”
Sparrow shook his head. “I’m not moving. I want to see my lawyer.”
“Not an option, buddy. You either come with us or . . .”
“Or what?”
Reznick pressed the gun to the man’s temple. “Or I’ll blow your brains out right here, you motherfucker!”
Sparrow stared at Reznick. “You’re not the FBI, are you?”
Reznick turned to White. “Wait here. Keep the engine running. I’m going to deal with him.”
White nodded.
Reznick grabbed Sparrow by the collar and hustled him toward some padlocked metal gates. He kicked them open and pulled Sparrow up some steps to a weed-strewn, deserted loading bay. Then through a metal door.
The abandoned grain refinery was perfect. Out of sight. Out of mind.
“Do you know who you’re dealing with?” Sparrow said. “You’re making a monumental mistake, trust me.”
“Is that right?”
“You have no idea, my friend, what kind of shit you’re getting yourself into. No idea.”
Reznick pushed him up a flight of rickety stairs.
Sparrow spun around and aimed a kick at Reznick’s head. Reznick ducked and smashed him in the neck with his fist. The man fell to the ground, semiconscious.
Reznick dragged him up a further two flights of stairs until they were at the top of the refinery. And then through some more metal doors. Then he hauled him to the edge of what looked like an open manhole cover. “This is perfect.”
He tied up Sparrow’s feet with nylon rope, and then looped another knot over an exposed steel joist five yards away so he couldn’t escape.
Reznick slapped him fully awake and sat him on the concrete floor.
Sparrow spat in Reznick’s face.
“Fuck you! Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with? Do you think you can strong-arm me? You really think that’s possible?”
Reznick wiped the spittle off with the sleeve of his jacket, grabbed him by the neck, and squeezed tight. “OK, loudmouth, here’s what’s going to happen. We are somewhere in Brooklyn, at a disused fucking site with no one around. You scream, no one hears. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions. And if you
don’t give me some honest answers, we’re going to drop you head first down that grain silo.”
Sparrow struggled against the ropes. “You know nothing about me, you motherfucker!”
“Actually, Andrew . . . Or should I call you Ivan? Ivan Lermontov, private client director, huh?”
The man glared at him.
“Now, here’s the thing. I don’t give a shit about the spying operation you’re engaged in. And I don’t give a shit if you’re covert FSB on a slow-burn operation in the United States, trying to forge networks of possible informers for Russia. What I am interested in is Mr. Merkov.”
“Look, my name is Andrew Sparrow and I work in investment strategies, risk management, that kind of thing.”
Reznick slapped him hard across the face. “Do not fuck with me.”
Sparrow looked at him defiantly.
Reznick undid the rope from the steel joist and dragged him across the ground until the back of his head was over the grain silo. “All that’s standing between you and your maker is me.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Reznick began to lower Sparrow down the silo, head first, letting the rope go every few seconds before gripping it again to hold the man’s weight.
“Pull me up! Are you out of your mind?”
Reznick let out more of the rope and Sparrow dangled in the darkness of the silo.
Then the Russian began to scream.
Forty-Four
Andrej Dragović was headed down the freeway in the Ram pickup truck in rural Illinois. He pulled into a small gas station, filled up the car, and ordered a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee in the adjacent all-night diner.
The waitress smiled. “You OK, honey? You looked exhausted.”
Dragović smiled but kept quiet. His Eastern European accent was something he wasn’t too keen to advertise. Besides, his business was not to engage in small talk. He had work to do. He had a very tight schedule to keep.
“You want some fresh coffee?”
Dragović smiled. “Yeah.”
“Coming right up.”
The waitress returned a few moments later and poured him a fresh mug. “If you need anything else, you just holler, all right?”
“All right.”
Dragović waited a minute or so before going to the bathroom. In the first stall, he checked the cistern and saw a small plastic bag inside. It contained a piece of paper. He had instructed his Russian paymasters to do this to ensure the conversation couldn’t be tracked. He pulled it out. Written on the paper was a new cell phone number. He washed and dried his hands. Then he made the call.
