by J. B. Turner
“Do you ever sleep?” The usual Russian voice.
Dragović smiled. “Tell Dimitri I’m looking forward to speaking to him soon.”
“I’ll pass that on. He’ll be in touch. And he’ll be pleased you are on schedule.”
“Trust me, I always am. So, are we still on for New York?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And he’s going to call me? Is that going to be before I get to New York? Because you know I can’t deliver until I’ve got the full payment.”
“We know. Trust us on this one. You’ll be speaking to him very soon.”
Forty-Five
Twenty minutes after he’d lowered Sparrow down into the old grain silo, Reznick was satisfied that the Russian was suitably compliant and terrified. He decided to up the ante. He wrapped the rest of the rope around the steel joist, making sure it was secure with a double-loop knot.
He moved to the edge and pulled a knife out of his back pocket. He held it over the top of the silo. “Can you see this?”
“Please! I’m begging you!”
“Now I seem to have your attention.”
“What do you want?”
“You will tell me where Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein is being held, or I will cut this rope, so help me God.”
“I don’t know! I swear on my mother’s life, I don’t know. I know she’s not in good shape, that’s all.”
Reznick pressed the knife to the rope. “Listen very carefully. I won’t ask a third time. Now, we know you have knowledge of her whereabouts. Let us know, and you’ll live. But if you don’t, you die. Your choice.”
The sound of sobbing. “Please! Stop it!”
“OK, you give me no choice.” Reznick began to shake the rope. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four—”
“I know nothing! Don’t you understand?”
“You know something. So you’re either going to talk, or I’ll cut off one of your ears, you understand? Chances are you’ll bleed to death.”
“Please, get me out of here! I’ll tell you what I know!”
Reznick held the knife in the space and the steel glinted. “If you double-cross me, I will drive you back here myself and throw you down here, are we clear?”
“Yes! Yes!”
Reznick could feel himself sweating as he pulled the man up. Yard by yard. Eventually, he saw the tears in Sparrow’s eyes. He bent down and hauled him out of the silo and back onto the concrete floor. The Russian was quivering, sobbing. Reznick pulled back the slide and pointed his gun at Sparrow’s head. “Where is she?”
The man was still shaking.
Reznick pressed the gun tight to his temple. “Speak up!”
Sparrow began to hyperventilate.
“Answer, fucker, or you go down—and this time for good!”
“It’s . . . it’s a creepy place.”
“What else?”
“I was taken there by boat. It’s an abandoned island. I swear to God. On my mother’s life. That’s where they have her.”
“Location?”
“I think it’s near New York.”
“Where?”
“Hart Island.”
“Hart Island? Never heard of it. Is she alive?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I think so.”
Reznick pulled him to his feet. He then painstakingly hustled him back down to the ground level of the refinery.
Just then, Curt White emerged from the shadows and pointed a silenced pistol at Reznick’s chest.
“What the . . . ?” Reznick said.
White grinned. “He’s coming with me, Reznick.”
Reznick could see he’d been double-crossed. His Beretta was in his waistband, his knife in his belt. “Quit fooling around.”
“Nothing personal, Jon. I kinda like you.”
“Curt, you need to think straight. You need to think this through. I’ve no idea what you think you’re playing it.”
“It’s Agency rules now. We don’t answer to anyone. We do our thing.”
Reznick was gripping Sparrow by the throat. “You’re jeopardizing the operation to get Meyerstein back, you fucking idiot!”
“Whatever. Are you going to hand him over or does this have to get awkward?”
Reznick’s mind was racing. He reckoned that if he reached for his gun, Curt would kill him in the blink of an eye. And his knife was in his belt.
Think man, think.
“Nice knowing you, Jon.”
White gave him a deathly stare as he pulled the trigger three times. Muffled shots rang out.
Reznick collapsed to the ground as an excruciating pain erupted in his shoulder. He pressed his hand to the wound as blood poured through his fingers and onto the concrete floor.
He looked up and saw that White was grinning.
Forty-Six
A wintry sun was peeking through the wooden blinds in Bill O’Donoghue’s temporary office on the twenty-third floor in Lower Manhattan, when the phone rang on his desk.
“Sir . . . sorry to bother you.” The voice was his long-serving secretary, Margaret, who had relocated to New York with him. “We have the gentleman from the NYPD to see you now about Jon Reznick.”
“Send him in.”
The man was shown in. He was in his thirties. He wore a dark-gray suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He walked over to O’Donoghue, leaned over his desk, and shook his hand. “Good of you to see me, sir,” he said.
O’Donoghue nodded. “I’m kinda busy. You want to get to the point?”
The man pulled up a seat and sat down. “My name is Brent Schofield. I’m special assistant to the New York City Police Commissioner. I also work with the CIA on various projects. I want to assure you that this matter is being handled with care and attention. But your operation has inadvertently crossed into other sensitive spheres of operation.”
O’Donoghue wondered where this was going. “What the hell are you getting at?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Jon Reznick was discovered, bleeding and unconscious, by two NYPD cops from the 76th Precinct on the night shift. Four hours ago to be precise.”
“Jesus Christ. Where? What happened? Is he alive?”
“The cops were on a routine patrol of an abandoned grain refinery in Red Hook after spotting a padlock had been smashed and the security gates opened.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. He was taken to a hospital.”
O’Donoghue blew out his cheeks.
Schofield allowed a silence to open up for a few moments as if relishing O’Donoghue’s discomfort. “I believe from other intelligence agencies that Jon Reznick worked with Assistant Director Meyerstein in the past. And I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to assume he’s involved in some way in trying to find her.”
“Now listen here, son. You don’t come walking into my office and start spouting off about what you do and do not know. And I don’t want you ever to assume you know what the FBI does. Know this, though. We operate according to the law.”
Schofield said, “I never said you didn’t, sir.”
O’Donoghue felt his heart rate hike up a notch. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. He could see that Schofield had pieced together what was happening. And he sensed there was something else Schofield knew. “Are you going to get to the point or not?”
“I made sure that this matter has been taken care of. No reference to Reznick.”
O’Donoghue sighed. “What else do you know?”
“He was working with a guy called Curt White, who had been assigned to an FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force.”
O’Donoghue said nothing.
Schofield narrowed his eyes. “I know how these things work. And I know how these things can go wrong. But it’s important we share information, so we know where we stand.”
“I’m all for that.”
“You might be thinking Curt White has gone rogue . . .”
“What the hell are you talking about?” O’Donoghue said.
“Jon Reznick was shot three times by Curt White, just so you know.”
“What did you say?”
Schofield shifted in his seat. “I know what went down.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Sir, trust me, I know.”
O’Donoghue felt uncomfortable even talking to Schofield. “And how were you able to establish this as fact? Curt hasn’t made contact with us.”
“He has, however, made contact with me. I’ve spoken to him.”
“You’ve spoken to him? You say Curt White shot Jon Reznick and you spoke to him? What the hell are you talking about, Schofield?”
“Thirty minutes ago, I spoke to him.”
O’Donoghue stared at Schofield. “Now wait a goddamn minute, he’s assigned to the FBI. He speaks to us if he’s going to speak.”
“Sir, this is complicated.”
“Don’t give me that CIA it’s complicated bullshit, son.”
“Sir, I can assure you, this is not bullshit.”
O’Donoghue shook his head. “We have an assistant director of the FBI missing, kidnapped by—”
“The Russian mob, right?”
O’Donoghue let Schofield’s reply sink in. “What?”
“I don’t envy you, Director. This is a fuck-up on stilts.”
“You don’t know the first thing about what we’re facing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. What if I told you there are various strands that have come together? The assistant director’s kidnapping, Reznick’s involvement, and the kidnapping of a senior employee of a Russian investment bank here in New York.”
O’Donoghue sighed. He didn’t know anything about the kidnapping of a Russian banker.
He realized the investigation had imploded. It was a mess. A terrible mess. And getting worse.
“I don’t think it would be helpful to go into too much detail about how I know and what I can say. Suffice to say, Director, there are competing interests at work here.”
“The FBI will not be held accountable for the lack of sharing of intelligence . . . you’ll know that unlike some agencies, Mr. Schofield, we do everything possible to share what we know.”
Schofield stared at him for a second too long. “Director, you’ll know in the world we inhabit, there are certain priorities. Triage, if you like.”
“You want to get to the point?”
“Jon Reznick kidnapped an employee of a Russian investment bank. This man is a valuable CIA asset. And he’s almost certainly been compromised.”
O’Donoghue pinched the bridge of his nose. “The guy from the bank was a CIA asset?”
“He’s a double agent. He was turned about five years ago. And he’s been delivering some notable insights into Russian operations in America, particularly in the banking sector.”
“Where is this CIA asset?”
“He’s been taken to a secure facility until we figure this out.”
“So tell me this. Did this Russian CIA asset know the whereabouts of the assistant director?”
Schofield sighed. “It’s possible . . . but we’re still to determine exactly what he knows. He’s being interrogated as we speak.”
“Damn it, Schofield, if he knows, we need to get that information and help us get Martha Meyerstein back.”
“Sir, we’re doing everything we can. But I need to be frank. This asset is viewed as one of the CIA’s crown jewels. And I’ve got to say, much as we’re desperate to help in any way to get the assistant director back, we’ve got to look at the big picture.”
“Are you fucking with me? Are you saying this fuck takes priority over an FBI assistant director?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, sir. We cannot and will not jeopardize an operation. He is in effect a sleeper agent, sir. A very, very valuable asset who has been deemed indispensable by the National Security Council, who are aware of his importance.”
O’Donoghue couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So I’ve got an assistant director kidnapped and another guy in hospital. And there’s nothing I can do about it?”
“We’re working hard to resolve this situation.”
O’Donoghue slammed the palm of his hand down on his desk, sending papers flying. “Not a fucking option, son.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. If the Secretary of Homeland Security realized the workings of the FBI in this operation, you’d be indicted before a grand jury, of that I can guarantee you.”
Forty-Seven
Reznick was hearing dark whispers. He sensed there were people near him. His mind flashed up fragmented memories. He thought he saw his wife. Then a blinding light.
“Jon . . . can you hear me?” A female voice. “Jon . . . wake up. Wake up, Jon.”
Reznick tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.
“Jon,” the voice said, “it’s time to wake up. You’re safe.”
Reznick slowly managed to open his eyes to the blurred image of a woman in blue.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Dr. Marie Lopez. How are you feeling?”
Reznick squinted as the doctor came into focus. Her brown eyes and gentle smile made him feel good. Then he felt a sickening, burning sensation in his shoulder. “Goddamn . . .”
“I can imagine. We’ve given you pain relief, so that’ll take the edge off. A bullet grazed your shoulder. Severe chest bruising. So my advice is you need to rest up for the next few days.”
Reznick’s mind went back to Curt White shooting him at the grain refinery in Brooklyn. “Where am I?”
“New York Methodist Hospital. You’re in Brooklyn.”
“Am I ever going to escape from Brooklyn?”
The doctor laughed. “I think that very same thought each and every day, trust me.”
Reznick stared at her as he tried to piece together recent events. “I need a phone.”
“A phone?” Dr. Lopez shook her head. “You need to rest. You’re strictly in recovery mode.”
Reznick looked around the room. “Where are my clothes?”
“Blood soaked from the bullet wound in your shoulder. Thankfully you had the good sense to wear an FBI bullet-resistant vest.”
“At least I got something right, huh?”
Dr. Lopez smiled. “You lost some blood. But we got the slug out of your shoulder. Trust me, you were lucky.”
Reznick winced as he felt a burning pain in his shoulder. He began to scrunch up his eyes. “Can you up the morphine, Doc?”
“Can do.”
“Have you got the things in my possession. Cell phone, wallet and stuff?”
The doctor pointed to the small bedside table. “Bottom drawer, it’s all there in a Ziploc bag.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have I been here for?”
“You were brought in this morning.”
“What time is it?”
The doctor looked at her watch. “Nearly one o’clock . . . p.m. I meant to say, there’s a man from the FBI wanting to speak to you.”
“Where?”
“He’s outside.”
“What’s his name?”
“Stamper. Ring a bell?”
“Send him in, Doc.”
The doctor smiled and left the room. A few moments later, Stamper was in front of him. He was carrying a garment bag and a small black overnight bag. “Jesus Christ, Jon. What the hell?”
“Yeah, nice to see you too, Roy.”
Stamper pulled up a chair and sat down beside Reznick, placing the bags on the bed. “Man, I’m so sorry . . . I wish to God . . .” His voice trailed off.
Reznick edged himself upright. He moaned as the pain shot through his shoulder.
“You OK?”
“Of course I’m not OK, Roy. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Sorry . . .”
“Roy, look, we haven’t got much time.”
“Jon, you should’ve kept me in the loop. This is
a mess. This is what happens—”
“I haven’t got the time or energy for lectures or to argue with you. First of all, what’s the latest, apart from me getting shot?”
“Well, the investigation has gotten a lot more complicated. Thanks in part to you kidnapping the Russian banker. This is a CIA thing now . . . the guy you got your hands on, the banker, he’s a double agent . . . the Agency turned him.”
“That figures. Roy, there’s more to this. We’re still missing something. Dimitri is needed on the outside, of that I’m sure. We need to join up the dots.”
Stamper nodded. “Homeland Security is going nuts. And so is the National Security Council. They’re saying Sparrow is to be protected at all costs.”
“I don’t answer to Homeland Security or the National Security Council. I don’t answer to anyone.”
“Jon, let’s not go there . . . We need to back up. Now is not the time to go out on a limb again.”
“Now is exactly the time to go out on a limb!” Reznick tapped the side of his head. “Besides, it’s all in here.”
“What is?”
“Andrew Sparrow . . .”
“Ivan Lermontov, you mean?”
“Yeah . . . he gave me something.”
“He gave you what?”
“He told me about a trip to Hart Island he made. Where the hell is that?”
Stamper scrunched up his face in thought. “I think that’s in Long Island Sound.”
“We need to go there.”
“Absolutely. We’ll check it out.” Stamper pointed at the bags on the bed. “Got a change of clothes for you when you get out. In the meantime, just rest up.”
“Not a chance. I’m going with you.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding? Let’s get to this, right now.”
Forty-Eight
The cab dropped Brent Schofield off at the Fifth Avenue entrance to a private gated street, Washington Mews, in the heart of Greenwich Village. He walked halfway down, to a beautiful stucco-fronted townhouse with a gray door. It was a CIA safe house. He pressed the buzzer and was let in. He walked up the stairs to a lobby area, where Curt White was sitting with the CIA asset, Andrew Sparrow.
