by J. B. Turner
Reznick pulled up a chair and slumped down. “Andrew Sparrow is a piece of work. Very smart. He gave me the name of Hart Island. I would have sworn that this information was correct. He was dangling by a fucking rope when he gave me the information.”
“They must’ve moved her.”
“I don’t get it. I keep on trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong. I really didn’t foresee one of our guys shooting me up. Fucker left me for dead.”
“We’ve all made a lot of wrong calls on this one. This whole investigation would have progressed differently if we’d known it intersected with a CIA operation from the start.” O’Donoghue sighed. “Homeland Security is busting my balls on this. They’re pulling rank, wanting us to take a step back. The FBI will never back off. Not on this. That’s not the way we work. But sometimes there’s politics involved at this level. You have to suck it up.”
“Sounds like there’s a lot of interagency bullshit going on.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Try me.”
O’Donoghue shook his head. “There’s something you need to know. After you were shot, I was visited, in this very office, by someone with the CIA. Works here in New York for the Police Commissioner.”
Reznick whistled.
“He explained the asset was of incredible value to this country, and admitted the asset was in the Agency’s hands. My understanding is that Andrew Sparrow is a double agent. A Russian, real name Lermontov, working as a banker in New York, now spying for the CIA. But still linked to the Merkovs.”
Reznick said nothing.
“It is what it is, he said.”
“Hope you told him to go fuck himself.”
“It was too late for that, Jon. They had all the cards.”
“And then he disappeared?”
O’Donoghue nodded. “Cold as ice.”
“Son of a bitch.” Reznick’s mind was racing. “Compromised from the inside.” He kicked over a trash can, the contents of a near-empty Coke can spilling out onto the carpet.
Reznick needed to clear his head. He felt they were close. But, in fact, the disappointment of Martha Meyerstein not being on the island was shattering. He headed outside for fresh air and walked a few blocks, doing what he had been trained to do. He began to focus and think about the case. It was clear that Curt White had been operating within the FBI task force for some time. He’d shown his hand to protect the asset and the Agency, no matter the fallout for the FBI.
He began to think about getting back to basics. The first people who had contacted him. Someone who would know more about Martha Meyerstein. He needed to know the smallest details of her working life, her investigations, perhaps a strand of her personal life he wasn’t privy to. Something that could have a bearing on what had happened to her. Had she confided her innermost thoughts on what was happening with her team at FBI Headquarters?
Reznick was reluctant to contact Professor Meyerstein. But as it stood, he needed someone to give him something, even a sliver of information.
He pulled up her ex-husband’s cell phone number.
“Oh my God, any news?” James Meyerstein asked when he picked up, the tension heavy in his voice.
“Nothing so far, sorry.”
Meyerstein groaned. “I can’t take this.”
“We’re doing everything, and I mean everything. James, I’m trying to figure out how Martha viewed her colleagues within the FBI.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Well, just you being married to her at one time, if she’d shared any concerns about those who worked for her.”
“None at all. But saying that, we’ve been divorced for several years now.”
Reznick sighed. “Was there anyone she confided in about her work?”
“No one. She’s always been self-contained.” That reminded Reznick of himself. “Saying that, there was one person she did trust and open up to.”
“Who’s that?”
“Her father.”
“Her father . . . Sure . . .” Reznick sighed. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I’m going to need to speak to Martha’s father. Can you give me his number?”
Meyerstein cleared his throat. “OK. But please, you must promise me, go easy on him.” He gave Reznick the number.
“James, I appreciate this.”
“Please find her.”
“We’re doing our utmost, I can assure you. Hang in there.”
Reznick hung up, and then called Meyerstein’s father.
“Yes?” The voice was solid.
“Sir, you don’t know me, my name is Jon Reznick.”
A beat. “Martha’s mentioned you. Don’t tell me bad news, please. It’ll be too much.”
“Sir, no news. I’m sorry.” A silence opened up. “We’re busting our guts on this, trust me. I’m sorry for contacting you, sir, but I want to ask a couple questions about Martha and the people around her at the FBI.”
“I didn’t know them.”
“Yes, but did she talk to you about her work at all?”
A deep sigh down the line.
“I’m looking for anything.”
“Do you want to be more precise?”
“Sir, did she ever confide in you about concerns regarding those around her at the FBI?”
“Is this connected to her kidnapping?”
“Not directly. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just trying to build a picture. To see if we’re missing anything that would give her kidnappers reason to continue holding her. It might be something you maybe don’t believe will help us find Martha. But it might help—in other, more indirect ways—to lead us to her. I’m sure you’ve probably gone over this already with the FBI . . .”
“The Feds haven’t gotten us involved at all.”
“Not even interviewed you?”
“Not at all. They’ve closed up shop.”
Reznick found that not only strange but troubling. “Sir, back to my point. Had she any concerns about people at her work?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind me asking what kind of concerns she had?”
“The first time . . .”
“The first time?”
“She had no one to talk things over with since her husband left. Sure, she talked things over with her team at the Hoover Building. But . . . the first time was about three years ago. She was heading up a team investigating Vladimir Merkov. You heard of him?”
“Yes, I have.”
“That case was causing her concern from the outset. Strange things were happening.”
“Like what?”
“Files going missing. Interview notes going missing. And eventually the case against him went south and a decision was made to scrap the investigation.”
“Where did she see the root of the problem?”
“She thought it was internal.”
“Did she raise these concerns?”
“Yes. And it was referred to the Internal Investigations Section of the FBI. But it just dragged on and on, no resolution or conclusion. No report.”
“So they buried it.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell me about the second time.”
“The second time, same as the first in that she talked things over with me. When she went after Dimitri Merkov, it was like she was being second-guessed sometimes. So she reshuffled her team, and she got him sent down. But I think the suspicion lingered that someone in the FBI was protecting the Merkovs.”
“Did she venture who this person was?”
“She said she had concerns about a CIA guy on her team.”
“Is that right? Does the name White ring a bell?”
“That’s it. White. Curt White.”
“I believe the FBI are now aware of him, sir, but that’s only transpired in the last day or so.”
“There’s another.”
“Another what?”
“Another name.”
“On her team?”
“That’s what she said to me, about two weeks ago. She had serious concerns over Curt White and Roy Stamper during both Merkov investigations.”
Reznick took a few moments to let that bombshell sink in.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m still here. So that’s a couple weeks ago she talked this over with you?”
“She knows she can trust me. She’s my daughter.”
“And she didn’t tell anyone at the FBI. Even O’Donoghue?”
“That’s right. She was paranoid that her concerns would get leaked. She said she had started compiling evidence.”
“Evidence? Did she have any concrete evidence that they were conspiring against her?”
“She didn’t have much, from what she said. She was building up a case in her spare time. But one thing she did have was a picture.”
“A picture? What kind of picture?”
“A source of hers, a woman she’d trusted for many years—works at the Pentagon, former undergraduate at Duke. She passed her a picture of Curt White and Roy Stamper together.”
“Is that so unusual?”
“The picture showed Curt White and Roy Stamper on their first day working for the CIA.”
The information crashed through Reznick’s head.
“How do you know?”
“Martha thought Stamper had started at the FBI straight out of Duke. It’s not in his record that he worked at the CIA. But she looked into it. He spent two years at Langley in the Directorate of Analysis.”
“And White?”
“Clandestine section. Martha said they both attended Duke with her source.”
Reznick felt a jolt of anger deep inside him. He had trusted Stamper as implicitly as Meyerstein had over the years. He couldn’t abide the thought of such deceit. He viewed Stamper as a traitor. A guy he had begun to have a grudging respect for in the hunt for Meyerstein. But it was all a front.
He wondered if Stamper had picked Curt White to be one of the CIA guys in the Hoover Building in DC. Maybe Stamper had been told by those within Langley that White was the operator who should be assigned.
The breach of trust hit Reznick hard in the guts. But, at the same time, he was also in awe of Meyerstein. She hadn’t brushed aside her doubts over Stamper. Instead she had launched a secret investigation that had unearthed the CIA connection.
“Sir, one final thing,” Reznick said, gathering his thoughts. “You say she was working on this in her spare time. I’ve heard that her electronic equipment was all taken away by the FBI.”
“Martha always thought ahead. Like I taught her.” Reznick was reminded in that instance of his late wife and the preparation she used to do for her job as a financial analyst.
“So, her notes she had typed up on the computer. Did she save the file to the cloud, or Dropbox?”
“No. She didn’t want the information on any server, anywhere. So she saved it on a flash drive.”
“A memory stick?”
“Yeah. But after she saved it, she always cleaned up her laptop so there were no traces of what she had written on the hard drive. Very meticulous about that.”
“Sir, now this is very important—do you know where she put the flash drive?”
“Yes, I do.”
“We’re building up a picture of what has happened. This might be crucial. And it might lead us to her, we just don’t know.”
Meyerstein’s father sighed. “This is killing me. Absolutely killing me. Her mother is beside herself with worry.”
“Sir, where did she put the flash drive?”
“She made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“Sir, I’m not anyone. You must trust me. Martha trusted me. And I want you to do the same. Can you do that?”
“There’s a PVC pipe in her garage. Non-functioning. She places it in there, wrapped in waterproof plastic bag.”
Reznick made a mental note.
“You find my girl, Jon. Bring her back to me. That’s all I ask.”
Reznick’s mind was racing by the time he got back to the FBI’s New York field office. He headed straight into O’Donoghue’s office, where he relayed the new information.
The Director took a few moments to consider. “The best course of action in the circumstances is not to suspend. We need to let him carry on. Besides, we can’t have him alerting anyone to what we know.”
“I agree.”
“But it would be beneficial if he was out of the way.”
Reznick nodded.
“I’ll tell him to head up to the penitentiary and interview the governor again.”
“That’ll do it. Thanks.”
“It means we can press on with finding Martha Meyerstein.” O’Donoghue bit his lower lip. “So, let’s see . . . Bethesda. There’s a new special agent, just been transferred in from Ohio to the Hoover Building. Never worked with or under Roy Stamper. I’ll get her to retrieve the flash drive.”
“Perfect.”
O’Donoghue picked up the phone and called the agent directly. He stressed the confidential nature of his request and that the contents of the flash drive should be sent via encrypted email. He ended the call. “OK, that’s done.” Then he buzzed Roy Stamper into his office. “Need you up at the penitentiary. I’m thinking that the governor might be able to open this up, might have some intel from within the prison. Got to be worth another try, right?”
Stamper didn’t look too sure but agreed. “I thought the focus was on New York City?”
“We’ve got that covered. I think this is an angle we need to look at again. I want you to try and turn the screw on this guy, Roy. Someone must know something about Dimitri Merkov up there that hasn’t been passed on.”
Stamper nodded. “Is Jon coming with me?”
“No, he’s going to stay here. I want you to get on this, Roy. And you can interview the governor in the morning.”
Stamper nodded. “Will do.” He patted Reznick on his injured shoulder as he passed.
Reznick winced.
“Sorry, forgot. How you holding up, Jon?”
“Felt better, Roy. But we’re going to find her.”
When Stamper was out of the office, Reznick began to pace the room. “This whole thing. This CIA angle is not what I expected.”
O’Donoghue nodded.
“So, what’ve we got? We’ve got that NYPD intelligence operative who is also working for the CIA, Schofield. Curt fucking White. Stamper. And the asset, Andrew Sparrow.”
O’Donoghue shrugged. “What’s your point?”
Reznick’s mind began to race. “Hang on . . .”
“What?”
Reznick clicked his fingers. “Face recognition . . .”
“What about it?”
“Last I heard, the NYPD can tap into roughly six thousand street cameras, two-thirds of which are privately owned.”
“Give or take, that’s right.”
“But I read there’s also about seven thousand in public housing and across the city’s subway stations.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, I’m assuming we’re running face recognition as we speak, across the city.”
“I should goddamn hope so. Which begs the question,” O’Donoghue said, “why the hell haven’t we picked up Schofield or White?”
“Great point,” Reznick said.
O’Donoghue lifted his phone. “Have we or the NSA tried to do a trace on Schofield or Curt White in or around New York?” A long silence. “Then do it. Now!” He ended the call. “Son of a bitch!”
“What?”
“Special Agent Guillard, who works with Roy. He said Stamper had made clear he would take care of that.”
“And had he?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Guillard’s saying Stamper must’ve forgotten or some bullshit.”
Reznick felt himself grinding his teeth. “Fuck.”
O’Donoghue rubbed his face. “Indeed.”
The phone rang, and O’Donoghue picked up. He listened for a few moments. “I see. Interesting.” Then he hung up.
“What?” Reznick asked.
“Guillard got the facial recognition guys to pull up anything in New York. Seems like they’ve already, this minute, got a hit. Schofield and White, with the asset in tow, not more than twenty blocks away.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Where?”
O’Donoghue tapped a few keys on his laptop and turned it around. He showed Reznick a tracker showing their location. “This is them leaving a bank in Chinatown. We’ve got a positive fix on their car.”
“I want in on this.”
“You got it. You’ll be with a plainclothes team, all Feds who work here in New York City. No links with Stamper. And you can call the shots. You’ll have two handpicked Feds as your backup working from the Hoover Building. An NSA guy and cybersecurity expert. Any further questions?”
“Whatever it takes?”
O’Donoghue nodded. “Whatever it takes. You were brought in to help find Martha. So find her.”
Fifty-Two
It was dark and Vladimir Merkov was standing on a deserted private beach, bathed in the light of a full moon, just beside his oceanfront East Hampton home. He inhaled his cigarette deeply and stared out at the water. He saw his breath in the chill of the evening. His audacious move had resulted in him getting his son out of jail, albeit at the expense of an FBI assistant director. But it had green-lit a strategic assassination, vital to securing his family’s long-term business and financial future in America. He’d heard rumors for years that the CIA were interested in working with him. His closeness to his Moscow handlers had made that move impossible. Until now. But he knew changing sides was ultra-high risk.
The move to come within the CIA sphere of influence would threaten his vast web of legitimate businesses if he got caught in the crosshairs of the FBI. And the fact that every law enforcement agency in the world would have been alerted, including the Russian intelligence services, would put him on their radar. They would want to kill him or his son.
His closest confidants he had talked it over with had said to his face that this wasn’t a smart move.
Merkov hadn’t made a rash move in his life since he’d left for America. He’d retreated into the shadows, any trace of his old life obliterated. New companies sprung up, old ones wound up, and safe-deposit boxes were opened and stuffed with diamonds and fine jewels, paintings by Van Gogh and Monet. And all the time he’d increased his wealth and became a billionaire. He dealt exclusively in two commodities: gold and cash. To be precise, the dollar. Suitcases of dollars. Deposit boxes with backpacks of cocaine were exchanged for dollars. He hooked up with the Colombians, and his associates spread the cocaine across North America. The money was an avalanche.
