by J. B. Turner
He stared down at Sparrow. “How you feeling now?”
“I’m OK, thank you.”
“My first concern is that your cover is maintained.”
Sparrow shrugged. “You want me back at the bank?”
“You must maintain your cover.”
“I missed a scheduled call from my handler.”
“You just say you dropped your phone in your car and didn’t notice until later.”
“They’re not stupid people.”
Schofield sighed. “I’m well aware of that.”
“I don’t want to go through that again. I think my cover has been blown, well and truly.”
“Let’s not be too hasty.” Schofield’s cell phone rang. He saw the caller ID and left the room, shutting the door behind him. “Sir, how are you?”
“Where the hell are you?” The voice of Frank Calhoun, New York City Police Commissioner.
“Sir, I’m with a contact of mine in the Village. What’s the problem?”
“Haven’t you heard the news?”
“Like I said, I’m meeting a contact.”
“Listen to me. The shit is about to hit the fan.”
“How come?”
“A Russian military attaché, Sokolov, has just been found dead. Out in New Jersey.”
“You can’t be serious,” Schofield said.
“Question is, what the hell would this be about? This is way out of left field. I mean, what the hell was he even doing out there?”
“We need to talk about this. About the response.”
“I’m chairing a meeting. In my office, one hour.”
“You got it.”
The line went dead.
Schofield punched in the number for Max Charles, his ex-CIA mentor. Three rings and he picked up.
“Brent, talk to me.”
“Sir . . . we’ve got a bit of a situation developing.”
“I’m listening.”
“A Russian military attaché, Sokolov, has just been found dead.”
“You better be fucking with me, Brent.”
“Sir, this is no joke. I just got the news from the New York Police Commissioner, no less.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“It’s clearly blowback from Merkov . . . Linked to this whole shitstorm. We know Merkov and Sokolov go way back. That crazy fuck Merkov has lost his mind, that’s for sure.”
“Sparrow is our main concern. Keep him safe. He’s still got a part to play.”
“Don’t worry about him. My problem is that I’ve been ordered back to base for an emergency meeting about the response to this.”
“What does the FBI know?”
“They know we have the asset, Andrew Sparrow. And we’re calling the shots. But they don’t know the endgame.”
“So far. What did they say?”
“They weren’t too pleased, let me tell you.”
“No kidding. OK, let’s establish the facts. How is he?”
“Sparrow is safe and well, sir. Bit shaken up. I just arrived a few minutes ago.”
“We have a limited window of opportunity. Sparrow is Merkov’s banker.”
“I know. Sparrow knows everything about his wealth. But he also knows all about the thousands of companies in the Caymans, Switzerland, and Panama where Merkov directs money from the Russian mob and the Russian government.”
“You’re missing something. Sparrow is only one part of the equation. Bottom line? There’s only one person who’s authorized to transfer money from any of these accounts.”
Schofield took a few moments to contemplate what he was being told. “Dimitri Merkov?”
“Clever boy. For the operation to go ahead, we need him in person. That was the plan, and it was straightforward eighteen months ago when we started this.”
“But Dimitri Merkov’s incarceration kiboshed that?”
“Precisely. We needed him out. He alone can move the funds to our fall guy.”
Schofield was almost immune to the machinations and the Machiavellian mindset of the Agency. But this time he was stunned at the complexity of the operation. “What exactly is the endgame?”
“That’s need-to-know. All that’s required of you is to get Mr. Sparrow and hook him up with Dimitri Merkov, and get the money into the hands of the group who have been subcontracted to do the hit.”
“The hit . . . ?”
“I’ve said too much. We need Sparrow and Dimitri to transfer the final tranche to the contractor at his Swiss bank account, set up for the operation and other ancillary activities.”
Schofield paused to let the information sink in.
“Sir, did I hear you correctly?”
“Sparrow knows the details. But it’s Merkov junior who has the biometric approval. He’ll then transfer those details to our encrypted cloud storage facility, and get the money moving.”
Schofield said nothing as he continued to digest the information.
“Explain the situation to Sparrow. And tell him this is required and we will set him up for life, with a new identity in any place of his choosing in America.”
“When do we move on this?”
“You need to do this right now.”
“Look, I’m needed downtown by the NYPD, not to mention the Feds will be looking for Curt.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll put in a couple calls. Your number-one priority is Andrew Sparrow.”
“What about Dimitri Merkov?”
“He’s en route to Manhattan. They need to link up within the next hour.”
“There’s also the situation with Meyerstein.”
“Don’t worry about that. You’ve got work to do.”
The line went dead.
Schofield contemplated the conversation before he went back into the lobby. Sparrow was sitting quietly as Curt White stared at him. “You can access Merkov’s secret offshore accounts?”
“Yes, I can access them. But I need the retinal scan and thumbprint of Dimitri Merkov for money to transfer.”
“He’s en route.”
“I’ve dealt with him before.”
“What’s he like?”
“A bastard. But it’s business. You learn to live with it. But, sure, we can do that. I’ll have to go back to the office.”
“Not an option.”
“The only other way is for me to use a special laptop.”
“Where’s that? At your house?”
Sparrow smiled. “Absolutely not. It’s in a security box in Chinatown. Dimitri Merkov picked the bank.”
“OK, that’ll work. What’s the name of the bank?”
“Industrial and Commercial Bank of China. Canal Street.”
Schofield’s cell phone rang.
“Brent?” It was Charles again.
“Sir?”
“Dimitri’s people need to know the next move.”
“Tell him to meet us inside the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China on Canal Street in one hour’s time.”
Forty-Nine
Reznick felt himself breathing hard as he sat in the lead FBI chopper headed for Hart Island, two heavily armed SWAT members strapped in beside him. The burning pain in his shoulder was only being kept at bay with morphine tablets, and Dexedrine to work against the sedative effects. In the distance was the island.
He was handed a pair of binoculars and trained them on the strip of land. He carefully surveyed the barren terrain, decrepit buildings open to the elements. They’d been told that Hart Island had once housed a prison. But it was also the final resting place for countless stillborn babies, as well as the poor, homeless, and destitute. As they got closer, he spotted something at the far end of the island.
“North-northwest, you see that?” Reznick said.
The pilot’s voice in his headphones: “Can’t see anything, Jon.”
“Like a small fire. And a few people. Get in close.”
The chopper swooped down low for a better look.
Reznick could see
some figures beside a pier. “There’s a small boat bobbing about, you got it?”
“Copy that,” the pilot said.
“Get right above them.”
The chopper went directly over them and the people looked up.
Reznick swapped the binoculars for a rifle and trained its scope on the men. “Four of them. Tell them over the loudspeaker to put their hands in the air. FBI.”
The pilot issued the warning, and the men complied as the fire was stoked in the downdraft.
Reznick could see the men all had their hands up. The chopper moved to within a hundred yards of the men and landed adjacent to an abandoned building.
He kept the rifle trained on the men. “On your knees! Hands on head! Now!”
The men did as they were told as Reznick approached them.
“Do not fucking move!”
The two SWAT team members fanned out across the island. Then the second chopper landed and the rest of the team stormed out.
Reznick walked up to the guy nearest him and pointed the rifle straight at his head. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Leonard Moritz. We’re just out fishing.”
Reznick looked at the others. He could see frightened regular Joes, not hardened mobsters. “Fishing . . .”
“Yeah,” Moritz said. “I got ID. We all work over at Rikers. We’re prison guards, man.”
Reznick heart sank. “You’re joking.”
They all shook their heads.
“I want to see Rikers IDs from all of you, nice and slow.”
The men very slowly reached into their back pockets and threw their identification at Reznick’s feet. He picked them up and checked each of their faces. Then he frisked every one. No guns. Just a fishing knife.
Moritz said, “What the hell is this all about?”
“We believe a woman was brought here and held prisoner.”
Moritz looked around at the other guards and they all shrugged. “There’s nothing here but us, man. Just abandoned old places on the island.”
Reznick motioned for one of the SWAT team to come over. “Search their boat.”
The guy did.
“Not a thing, Jon. All clear. Just some fishing gear.”
Reznick ordered him to cover the fishermen. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”
The guy nodded, rifle trained on the frightened men.
Reznick and the rest of the team fanned out and began to search the 131-acre island. He pushed open the rotting door of a building. The stench of rotting animal flesh was in the air. They headed up to a decaying redbrick premises that had been a prison. Crumbling wooden floors creaked under their weight. On and on they searched the island’s buildings. Every inch. Every room. Down into dank basements with flashlights. Bats brushed by. Night-vision sights activated as they headed down eerie corridors.
Deeper and deeper into the bleak bowels of the island. Behind thick steel doors. It seemed the ghosts of the past were lingering, as if watching their every move.
Reznick signaled for them to move out. They proceeded to the very tip of the island, down by the shoreline. The old abandoned jetty.
A couple of hours later, when they had covered every possible space on the island, it was clear she wasn’t there.
Reznick’s earpiece crackled into life, with confirmation from the gruff voice of the SWAT team leader.
“Nothing, Jon,” he said. “Goddamn nothing. No sign of life. Just those crazy fucks beside the fire.”
“Copy that,” Reznick said.
It slowly began to dawn on Reznick that Sparrow had, despite being at death’s door, lied to him. Even with a gun to his head, and his head down a grain silo, the fucker had taken him on a wild goose chase.
Reznick headed back down toward the fishermen, who were still being watched by armed men. “Guys, we had the wrong information. We got it wrong. Hope you aren’t offended. We were just chasing down a lead.”
Moritz blew out his cheeks. “Man, hey, it happens. We deal with bullshitters every day.”
“However, I must caution you. Do not mention this to anyone. Family, friends. And definitely no social media. Any sign of this, we have your names, and you will be in danger of jeopardizing a federal investigation. Do you understand me? We’ll come looking for you. We understand each other?”
All the men nodded as one.
Reznick turned and headed back to the chopper.
“Where to?” the pilot asked.
Reznick seethed as he strapped himself in. “Get the hell out of here. What a mess.”
Fifty
Brent Schofield was in the back of the SUV with Sparrow by his side when they pulled up outside the bank in Chinatown. His cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID. “Yeah?”
“Brent Schofield?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Where the hell you been?”
“I’m sorry, who’s this?”
“Dimitri, that’s who.”
Schofield gathered his thoughts. “Of course. Where are you?”
“Bank. Vault. Where the fuck do you think?”
They got out of the car and headed into the bank. A manager was waiting and escorted them down to the strong room.
Dimitri Merkov was sitting, flanked by two bodyguards. He nodded to Sparrow. “OK, let’s do this.”
Sparrow took two keys from his pocket and opened the safe-deposit box. He reached in and pulled out a backpack. He turned to the banker. “Where’s a private room where we can open this?”
The banker punched a code into the keypad outside a door and let them in. Schofield followed Sparrow, Dimitri, and the two bodyguards into the room. There was a table and chair inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
Sparrow put the backpack on the table and sat down. He unzipped the backpack and pulled out a MacBook Pro. He opened it up and switched it on, then keyed in a passcode when prompted.
The window opened up showing hundreds of accounts. Then it switched to a biometric face scanner.
Sparrow got up off the chair.
Dimitri Merkov slumped down in front of the laptop. He stared at the green dot of the computer’s camera.
“Stay completely still, Dimitri,” said Sparrow.
A click, and Merkov’s image appeared on the screen.
“It’ll be scanning the iris from the picture, so it’ll be a few seconds.”
A green tick on the screen.
“We’re in business,” Sparrow said. “How much do you want transferred?”
“Ten million dollars up front to Mr. Dragović’s Geneva account.”
Schofield had heard the name a few years back down at the Farm. Dragović was a Serbian hitman who carried out political assassinations. He had worked for the Russian government across Western Europe. Schofield remembered an MI6 contact in London telling him that the only time they knew Dragović had entered the UK was weeks after a Chinese dissident, living in the north of Scotland, had fallen to his death on a cliffside walk. It had emerged, after interviewing some fishermen, that Dragović had entered the country on an Icelandic trawler. But the trail had gone cold by the time MI6 had pieced together the details of the intricate assassination.
Merkov got up from the chair and Sparrow sat down again. He tapped a few keys and turned to look at Dimitri. “Any message you want sent with the money?”
“It’s encrypted, right?”
“Military encryption, and then some.”
Merkov sighed heavily. “My father sends his love and respect. And a further ten million dollars will be transferred to your Zurich account on delivery.”
Sparrow typed in the message and sent it. “So, ten million dollars has been transferred. And a further ten million is pending approval via encryption messaging by myself, upon request.”
Dimitri nodded. “Good. Are we done?”
Sparrow logged out and shut down the computer.
Schofield cleared his throat. “We’re good. And we’re done. The e
ndgame is in play.”
Merkov hugged Sparrow and shook Schofield’s hand. “I’m going to disappear for a while.”
“Very wise.”
He put on some shades and left the room with his two bodyguards.
Schofield watched closely as Sparrow put the laptop in the backpack and went out of the room to lock it back in the safe-deposit box.
Sparrow signed himself out and they were escorted out of the building. They got into the back of the SUV, Curt White up front in the passenger seat.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“Let’s head out of the city,” Schofield said. “Anywhere.”
“You got it.”
They pulled away and drove through Lower Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Schofield dialed a number on his cell phone.
“Yes?” The voice of Max Charles.
“First step has been taken.”
“Excellent work.”
“Have you got any further instructions?”
“I’ll call you back in an hour. Head to the safe house in Bridgeport.”
Fifty-One
When they got back to the FBI office in Lower Manhattan, Reznick was summoned into the corner office to see O’Donoghue.
He turned around. “You look terrible.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
O’Donoghue bowed his head and sighed. “What a fuck-up. How you feeling?”
“I’ll survive.”
“How in God’s name did we get in this mess?”
“Curt White double-crossed us. Merkov double-crossed us. We’re being fucked over every which way.”
“We’re using every available intelligence-gathering asset, and we’re still falling short. The CIA say they are looking into what happened, but that doesn’t mean shit. Martha Meyerstein is not as important to the strategic interests of the United States of America as the man you know as Andrew Sparrow.”
“There’s more to this than just Meyerstein. I’m sure of it.”
“So am I.”
“What do you mean?”
O’Donoghue looked drained, mentally exhausted. “The fingerprints of the CIA are already all over this.”
