by J. B. Turner
It meant he could move around. Ten thousand dollars got you a great fake passport. He had dozens.
Thanks to his health, his days were numbered. But he had been reassured by the CIA that they would offer greater long-term protection than the Russians for his family—including his son and estranged wife—not to mention his business interests, once he was in the ground.
Out of his peripheral vision, some movement.
Merkov turned and saw Don Lagunov crossing the dunes toward him. He was a Russian émigré and financier, as well as a close adviser. They began to walk along the beach together.
Merkov dragged hard on his cigarette. “What’s the latest news?”
“Dimitri made the meet. And the money has gone through, as Mr. Dragović requested.”
Merkov nodded. His son’s details had had to be sent to Dragović to confirm the request was legitimate. His son was the only person authorized to do the financial transfer. “Has Dragović confirmed he is in place?”
“He’s set.”
“Good. So where is Dimitri?”
“He’s safe. And well. You know how he is.”
Merkov smiled and closed his eyes. His crazy son was still his flesh and blood. “When will I see him?”
“A matter of hours. Tell me, when is Meyerstein going to be released? I need to get my guys an hour’s notice so they can get out of there.”
Merkov sighed. “I’ll decide.”
“Look, you don’t need to keep her anymore. Besides, she’s in a bad way.”
“She’s to be kept with us until the operation is complete.”
Lagunov shook his head. “We double-crossed them. They’re not going to like that. And she’s gonna die on us.”
“This is how I want to do it.”
“Vladimir, you’re making this personal. This seems to me to be about you allowing this Meyerstein to get into your head. I know you swore to avenge your son’s incarceration. I understand that. It’s natural. Up to a point. But you need to let it go. You need to let her go. You got Dimitri out and he has green-lit this operation you wanted, right?”
Merkov inhaled on the cigarette one last time, sucking the smoke down deep into his lungs, before he flicked it into the dark water. “Don’t ever tell me how to run my business. I gave my word. And my word I will keep.”
“Vladimir, how long have we known each other?”
“Too long.”
“Sooner or later they will find her. The switch was foolish.”
Merkov sighed. He was no longer in the mood to listen to the advice of others. He had so little time.
Lagunov leaned in close. “Make no mistake, when the FBI get to you, every one of us will be brought down. Every Russian in America will be implicated in some way. They will not stop until every one of us is destroyed.”
“Once Dragović has carried out the operation, Meyerstein will be freed,” replied Merkov. “I give you my word.”
Fifty-Three
Reznick winced as he felt his shoulder burning. He was sat in the passenger seat of a Lincoln headed north on I-95. Curt White had been replaced by a tough-looking Fed named Frankie, who was using an iPad to monitor the GPS position of the vehicle Schofield was traveling in.
“They’re about one point three miles ahead of us.”
Reznick saw a sign up ahead for New Rochelle. “So, what do you think? We intercept, or we watch and wait?”
Frankie blew out his cheeks. “My problem with watch and wait is we might lose them. It sounds crazy, but it happens. Technology isn’t failsafe. But they might just head back into town and await instructions. Or they might not have information on the whereabouts of the assistant director.”
“You know what I think? We intercept. We go in hard. And fast—when they don’t expect it.”
“Jon, I copy what you’re saying. I say let’s do this.”
“How about we wait until we get an empty stretch of road, and then do it.”
“Fine by me.”
An hour later they were still headed north and into Connecticut. Reznick looked at the driver. “Let’s get this underway.”
“You want to do this now?”
Reznick turned around to Frankie. “How far behind are we?”
“Five hundred yards, maybe less.”
“We’re the lead car on this.” Reznick flicked open his radio. “Do we copy on that?”
“Affirmative,” said the voice in the second car that they had just overtaken.
Reznick put down the radio and pulled out the 9mm Beretta from his waistband. He pulled back the slide. “Frankie, you good?”
Frankie put down the iPad and pulled out his Glock. “I’m always ready.”
Reznick spotted the SUV a couple of hundred yards ahead on the freeway. “Hardly any traffic,” he said, “which is very good.” He turned to the driver again. “Gradual acceleration.”
The driver hit the gas as they closed in on the SUV.
Fifty-Four
Brent Schofield was sitting in the back seat with Sparrow, headed for the safe house, when his cell phone rang.
“Are you OK to talk?”
“Go right ahead, sir.”
“I just got a message confirming that Dragović is en route. And we’re underway finally. Money transferred. Very well played, Brent.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve bought us some time with regards to your boss at the NYPD,” Charles said. “I’ve drafted in a replacement so you can complete this operation.”
“Much appreciated, sir.”
“Now, with regards to the asset . . . can you put him on speaker?”
Schofield pressed a button on his phone and turned to Sparrow. “My boss wants a word.”
“Yeah . . . ?” Sparrow said.
“I hope you’re feeling slightly better after your ordeal.”
“Yes I am, thank you.”
“My colleagues are taking you to a suburban safe house, and we already have your new American citizenship papers, signed and sealed. And the matching identity. The works. I trust this is in order.”
“Thank you.”
Schofield turned off the speaker and pressed the phone to his ear. “Sir, anything else? The address?”
There was a pause. “We’ll send that in ten minutes.”
Curt White glanced in his side mirror. “Goddamn!”
“What is it?” Schofield asked.
“Tailgating fucker right up my tailpipe!”
Suddenly, the SUV was hit from behind and started chaotically spinning out of control. The traffic on the freeway was going crazy in all directions. Schofield turned around. In that split second he saw, farther back down the road, Reznick in the passenger seat of the car that had hit them.
The SUV flipped over and Schofield smashed his head against the shattered glass. Shards of glass embedded in his skin. The pain burned and he groaned. Time seemed to stand still. He tasted blood. Heard the sound of moaning from those around him. The sound of crunching metal and brakes, as the smell of burning rubber, smoke, and gasoline filled the car.
“Brent, what’s happening? Talk to me!”
Fifty-Five
The SUV was billowing smoke and emitting a piercing alarm as Reznick hauled Schofield out of a smashed window. Blood spilled from a head wound.
Reznick pressed a gun to the man’s forehead. “On the ground now, fucker.”
Schofield fell to his knees. He was handcuffed by a Fed, his arms in front, and slumped on the grass verge. He was frisked, a cell phone found in his jacket pocket and a Glock in a shoulder holster. Both were handed over to Reznick.
Frankie bundled Andrew Sparrow to the ground and quickly handcuffed him. A cell phone and two keys were retrieved from his jacket. “Mr. Lermontov, I presume.”
Sparrow refused to acknowledge him.
Reznick headed around to the driver’s side and pulled Curt White out of the vehicle, semiconscious, blood spilling from his ears. He handcuffed him too. “You double-crossing
fuck!” he shouted.
“Nothing personal, Reznick. Just business.”
Reznick grabbed his head and smashed it through the glass. “Likewise.”
Blood poured from Curt’s face. His eyes rolled back in his head. Then he blacked out.
A Fed hauled the motionless CIA man into the back of the second FBI car.
Cars whizzed by. Reznick turned around and stared at Schofield. “Well, this is nice and cozy, huh?” He pulled out Schofield’s cell phone and scrolled through the incoming-call numbers. He spoke into his lapel mic. “Grady, are you hearing me?”
The NSA guy attached to Reznick’s team, working out of DC, spoke: “Go ahead, Jon.”
“I’ve got Schofield’s cell.” He gave the number of the phone. “Is it bringing up anything?”
“Gimme a sec.” Reznick heard the tapping of a keyboard. “Registered to Max Charles, Fairfax, Virginia.”
“Tell me the name of the last person who called Schofield.”
A beat. “Interesting. Same name. Seems like a lot of calls from Max Charles.”
“Get a GPS fix on Charles’s current location, if that’s possible. And get me everything we have on Charles. Also a geotag on the locations Schofield has been.”
“Hold the line, Jon.”
Reznick paced beside the crashed SUV, smoke still billowing from the engine. “ASAP, my friend.”
“The main stop was the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China, downtown Manhattan.”
“Get this information to Director O’Donoghue. And only him. There are two keys, too, so it might be a safe-deposit box.”
Eventually, Grady came back on the line. “Jon, I’ve now pulled up footage from inside the bank, with Schofield, Sparrow, and a few others in the vault.”
“Bingo. Tell O’Donoghue to get a team in there quick. No questions.”
“Hang on . . .”
“What is it?”
“Face recognition is pinging my attention to one of the faces who’s with them.”
Reznick closed his eyes. It seemed to take a lifetime for him to receive the name.
“Fuck a duck. Dimitri Merkov, no less, with two members of the Russian mafia in tow.”
His mind was racing. “Tell Director O’Donoghue everything. And tell him direct. Got it?”
“Leave it with me.”
Reznick hustled a handcuffed Andrew Sparrow into the back of the nearest vehicle. “Soon as you have something, no matter how seemingly insignificant,” he said to Grady, “I want to know.”
The line went dead.
Fifty-Six
Andrej Dragović was driving past the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey—home of the Giants and the Jets—when his cell phone rang.
“How’s the Dragon today?”
Dragović grinned. “Finally, I get to talk to the man.”
“Hey, I’ve been busy. Listen, the money has all gone through to your account, and the rest is pending upon delivery. So that means you can see it, but you can’t touch until the operation is completed.”
“I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you in person.”
“I’ve been out of circulation, as you might have heard.”
“I heard all right. Just thought you’d be able to make calls.”
“Not worth the risk, we thought.”
“Smart.”
“But I’m back. And I’m as bad as ever.”
Dragović laughed. “You crazy fucker.”
“You better believe it, my friend. OK, so here’s what’s going to happen. You drop the car off on any quiet, residential street in Moonachie. You far?”
“The satnav has it at only two miles away. So I’m on the outskirts.”
“Tiny little place. But ideal. You drop it off wherever you like. And you get a Line 161 bus to Manhattan. Port Authority Bus Terminal.”
“Got it, 161. Then what?”
“You make your way to the Howard Johnson in Chinatown. Get a good night’s sleep. In your room will be a smart polo shirt, nice jeans, and sneakers—the usual attire for the delivery guy apparently.”
“Then what?”
“Tomorrow morning, bright and early, you head to a parking garage in East Village. Quik Park, East 14th Street. The vehicle you requested will be waiting.”
Fifty-Seven
Reznick grabbed Sparrow by the throat and stared into his eyes. He exerted pressure on the carotid artery. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Sparrow, or whatever you like to call yourself. I’m going to get an answer this time. If not, I will dispose of you myself.”
Sparrow’s eyes filled with tears as Reznick exerted more pressure with his thumbs.
“I told the truth!”
“You lying sack of shit.”
“I swear!”
“You lied to me. And you know what I said I would do?”
“Please, I deal with investment strategies, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You got a lucky break before. You’ve had your nine lives. Now you’re going to tell me the truth. And, believe me, you will tell me the truth.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I asked you where the assistant director was. You mentioned Hart Island. Well, we checked. She wasn’t there.”
“I swear to God, that’s where she was.”
Reznick pressed his thumbs tighter into the man’s neck. “Now listen, you stupid fuck, do not mess with me. I will kill you if you lie to me again.”
“I’m telling you the truth! She’s there!”
“We checked! That’s bullshit.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, she was there!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“I’m not lying! She was there! I heard her!”
Reznick released his neck for a moment. “You heard her?”
“Yes, I was there.”
“When? Tell me!”
“Forty-eight hours ago.”
Reznick called Grady.
“Still working on it, Jon?”
“Grady, check Sparrow’s GPS to see if he was at any location on Hart Island that was previously searched.”
“Now?”
“Right fucking now.”
A pause. “Jon, we’re running that as we speak. We’ve got a track on where he was.”
“Was he on Hart Island?”
A silence opened up down the line. “No.”
“You lying piece of—”
“However . . . Wait, Jon, at 02:43 hours we have him at North Brother Island, two nights ago.”
“Say again, where was he?”
“North Brother Island. It’s deserted. Site of an abandoned old hospital. Slap bang in the middle of the East River.”
Reznick released Sparrow and got out of earshot of those in the car.
“East River? Fuck! Listen to me, Grady, pass this to the Director. Message him. Do you understand? North Brother Island. Top priority. I repeat, this is top, top priority. But it’s also classified. Top secret. So not a word to anyone apart from O’Donoghue.”
“Copy that, Jon.”
“Strictly need-to-know. Get back to me if you get anything else. This is critical.”
Reznick ended the call. He looked into the car, where Sparrow was holding his neck, tears streaming down his face. “My colleague says you were not telling the truth. Do you want to explain why you were visiting an abandoned hospital on an uninhabited island on the East River?”
Sparrow closed his eyes. “What? That’s not correct. They took me, blindfolded, and told me I was going to Hart Island in Long Island Sound.”
Reznick took a few moments to let his words sink in. “Blindfolded?”
“I swear, I’m telling you what they told me.”
Reznick could see what had happened. “They told you you were going to Hart Island . . . Don’t you get it? Fuck! They hoodwinked you. Big time.”
Sparrow shook his head. “They’re scary people. You do as you’re told. Look after his mone
y. His companies. I know the keys to everything he has. His son is a scary guy, believe me.”
“How did you get there? Tell me about that.”
“I got a call. I was picked up at some place on the Bronx waterfront, and taken on a boat, blindfolded. It was pretty intense.”
“Why did you have to see him in person?”
“Mr. Merkov needed to sign some documents.”
“Did you ask why you were having to do it there?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“Told me to mind my own business. He signed, then I was blindfolded again, and the boat took me back.”
“What’s the place like?”
“The place I was taken was a sprawling, creepy place. All abandoned, overgrown . . . old buildings, staircases, plant and coal houses, smokestack too. I was under the assumption it was Hart Island.”
“What else do I need to know?”
“I can’t say too much more . . .”
“You need to be honest with me if you’re not going to be packed off on a rendition flight direct to Moscow, my friend. Trust me, Merkov is not going to save you now. No one can. Except you. So spill the fucking beans.”
“I’m working for the CIA.”
“Might’ve fucking guessed. What did you do for Merkov?”
“In a nutshell, we were both working for the CIA. I disappeared money offshore, via a law firm in Delaware set up by Langley.”
“So the Agency knew what Merkov was up to all along?”
“Some people did.”
“I’d imagine you must have some contact with Mr. Merkov on the phone?”
“Never. I’m contacted by iMessage and then directed.”
