Hard Way (A Jon Reznick Thriller Book 4)
Page 19
Merkov picked up his glass and knocked it back in one. He closed his eyes as he felt himself drifting away. Images of his son as a baby flashed up in his mind.
He opened his eyes and sighed, then turned around and signaled one of his men across. “Boris, do you have the new cell phone?”
Boris handed Merkov the phone.
“Got it yesterday. It’s all encrypted, untraceable. But all the numbers you want are on it.”
Merkov dialed the number for Max Charles.
“Hey, Merkov, how are you?” Charles said.
“I’ve felt better.”
“I’m hearing that the Feds killed some of your guys and freed Meyerstein.”
“You heard correct.”
“The operation I’m assuming is still underway, right?”
“Nothing can stop it now. It’s been green-lit. We couldn’t stop it even if we wanted to.”
“I will protect your son, his family, and your associates when you’re gone.”
“That’s all I want to know.”
“You have my word.”
“The FBI will want blood.”
“Let me deal with them.” The sound of waves crashing.
“Where are you just now?”
“Offshore.”
Merkov smiled. “My favorite place.”
“When are we expecting this to be complete?”
“He’ll be dead before sunset. That’s a promise.”
Merkov poured himself another whisky.
Sixty-Six
Dragović smiled as he brushed past the concierge at the Howard Johnson. He had showered, shaved, and changed into the polo shirt and jeans. He was also wearing a Hampers of Hampton baseball cap, which he’d pulled down low. He had injected himself with a beta blocker, which was making him calm.
It was a brisk half-hour walk to the parking garage in the East Village. He saw the vehicle and opened it with the fob. The hamper was in the back, as promised.
He put on his ID lanyard. Then he pulled away slowly and drove uptown. The traffic was slow-moving. Clogged-up. But that was fine.
Dragović’s cell phone rang, and the hands-free Bluetooth speaker was activated.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Mr. D, how goes it?” The voice of Dimitri Merkov.
“En route.”
“Final run-through. The hamper is an icebox containing all the goodies this guy likes.”
“I’m listening.”
“He’s a health-food nut. Reclusive. And that’s why he likes all this fancy healthy food delivered to his house.”
“What else?”
“Today you will be delivering a variety of dishes. Sticky quinoa porridge with coconut, mango, and lime.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Just listen.”
Dragović made a mental note.
“Strawberry and peach bruschetta. And avocado fries with curry-lime dip.”
“Fucking hell.”
“And not forgetting spring pea and radish salad.”
“I get the picture. What’s his absolute favorite?”
“Sticky quinoa porridge. And the avocado fries. With . . . a sprinkling of gelsemium.”
Dragović grinned. Gelsemium—a rare, toxic Chinese plant—was a weapon of choice for Russian and Chinese assassins. “That will do it.”
“Damn right it will.”
“What else?”
“We’ve had our people remotely watching this man in his house for the last six months.”
“You guys are thorough.”
“Yes, we are. Our intelligence shows that he eats this sort of stuff in one sitting. Then does yoga, watches the stock market for a few hours, and then sleeps.”
“He’s going for a sleep all right.”
“Do good.” Dimitri said, ending the call.
Dragović negotiated the traffic until he got to Columbus Circle. Then he turned onto Central Park West, and drove into the parking entrance for number 15. He flashed his ID at security, who waved him through. He pulled up and a valet appeared.
“I’ll look after your vehicle, sir.”
Dragović took out the hamper first. He was shown into the marble lobby and to the concierge’s desk.
“Hey,” the concierge said. “Where’s Ricky today?”
“He’s not feeling too good. I’m covering.”
“When’s he back?”
“Couple days, I think.”
The concierge eyed the hamper. Then he opened it up and looked at the contents.
“Nice and chilled.”
Dragović nodded.
The concierge picked up the phone and pressed a few numbers. “Mr. Berenofsky, sorry to bother you, sir, it’s Sam in the lobby. Your hamper delivery is here.” He nodded and smiled at Dragović. “Very good, sir.” He put down the phone. “He’s just out of the shower. Take a seat for five minutes, then you can go up.”
Dragović grinned. “Thank you so much.”
Sixty-Seven
Reznick was pacing O’Donoghue’s office. “And the NSA are focused on finding this Serb?”
“Flat-out.”
“What’s this guy’s full name.”
“Andrej Dragović.”
“Can you pull up his details?”
O’Donoghue pressed a few keys on his laptop and an image appeared on the screen. Reznick stared at the wiry-looking, swarthy man in the picture.
“What do we know about him?”
“Dragović, according to the files, was a Serbian paramilitary, originally part of the Scorpions. The head of the Scorpions was Jovica Stanišić, also head of Serbia’s State Security Services, who was, get this, the CIA’s main man in Belgrade.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“It was, in essence, a back-channel link to the Serbs, via this guy and the group he headed up.”
“So we’ve got images of this guy with Merkov junior in Tijuana, am I right?”
“Precisely.”
Reznick was digesting all the information and piecing it together. “Merkov senior—you think he’s now working for the CIA, instead of Moscow, and looking to become a Langley asset, right? And Max Charles has facilitated this whole thing?”
“Precisely. And with Meyerstein as the pawn.”
Reznick sighed. “So this guy is in town to do a hit for who? The Merkovs or the CIA?”
“Maybe both. It’s a mess. And it’s an outrage.”
“It’s where we are, though. The endgame still eludes us.”
O’Donoghue nodded.
Reznick pulled up a seat and sat down. “I know a guy.”
“A guy . . . OK?”
“I want to call him. He is a cyber-intrusion expert.”
“FBI? NSA?”
“This guy is freelance. He used to work for the NSA. He is a bit unconventional. What he does is borderline illegal. But I would really like to put in a call to him. Do you have any objections?”
“We’ve got dozens of people who can do this sort of stuff.”
“Trust me, this guy is doing prototype surveillance.”
“If he’s so good, why isn’t he still working at the NSA?”
“The pay was lousy, he said.”
O’Donoghue took a few moments to consider it. “Make the call.”
Reznick pulled out his cell phone. He hadn’t called the number since his Delta buddy had been the victim of a Boston Brakes job. Police had called it as drunk driving, ending up with Charles “Tiny” Burns, his wife, and kid dead. But Reznick had learned—with the help of the hacker—that he was in fact murdered by an Iranian hit squad as revenge for taking out nuclear scientists in Tehran.
Reznick paced the office as the number rang and rang. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, a voice answered.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t know if you remember me.”
A beat. “Reznick, right?”
“First time. Listen, I need your help. Real bad. Time-critical.”
“De
pends on what this is about . . .”
“I need an assurance that what I say doesn’t go outside your little hidey hole in Miami.”
“OK, what do you want?”
“We’re trying to track down a guy, a foreign national, on American soil. We believe New York.”
“Face recognition should’ve picked him up if you have him on file.”
“I would’ve thought so . . . but it hasn’t.”
“Why is that?”
“This man is an assassin. And we believe he’s about to carry out a terrorist attack. Maybe a hit. We don’t know.”
“And you’ve used all face-recognition technology at your disposal?”
Reznick turned and looked at O’Donoghue, who nodded. “Yes, we have.”
“Then you got a problem.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Can you help me or not?”
There was a silence, as if the hacker was considering what he was about to say. “I might.”
Reznick felt exasperation. “Look, I haven’t got time to play games, my friend.”
“I’m working on some software. I hope to patent it later this year, once I’ve tested it more extensively. This is my intellectual property, so I’m reluctant to give out the details.”
“What exactly does this software do?”
“It recognizes people through how they walk. Their gait. And it’s phenomenally accurate.”
“We’ve got footage of the guy we’re looking for walking in Tijuana.”
“Send it to me.”
“This is real classified stuff, my friend.”
“I’m former NSA, cleared at the highest level. I know all about what you’re talking about.”
“Where will we send the clip?”
The hacker gave a ProtonMail address.
“Swiss-based, encrypted, right?”
“Exactly, Reznick. Why I use it.”
O’Donoghue keyed in the email address and sent the covert footage of Andrej Dragović with Dimitri Merkov in Tijuana.
A few moments later, the hacker spoke. “Which one is which?”
“Dragović, the guy we’re interested in, is wearing the pale blue Lacoste polo shirt.”
“Cool. What I’m going to do is upload this clip to my secure server, and then run the program I’m developing.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll hack into every surveillance camera in New York, and see if we can get a match.”
“How long?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. But there are no guarantees.”
“You speak only to me, on this number.”
“I hear you.”
The line went dead.
Sixty-Eight
The concierge’s phone rang and he picked up. He nodded a few times. “Very good, sir.” He hung up and looked across at Dragović. “He’ll see you now.”
Dragović picked up the hamper. “Thank you.”
He walked into the elevator and punched the button for the penthouse level. The doors closed, and he ascended fast. His heart rate was speeding up. He caught his reflection in the metal door.
He was smiling.
This was the part of the job he loved best. The imminent climax of the operation.
Dragović pushed those thoughts to one side as the doors opened. He walked down a corridor to a door at the far end, which was open. A handsome, six-foot-plus man was speaking into a cell phone. He waved Dragović in. Cameras were watching his every move.
“Hope you are well today, sir?” he asked.
Dragović glanced at the living room as he passed. Floor-to-ceiling windows, light flooding through. Central Park, the New York skyline, merging into one.
“Kitchen’s at the far end, on the left,” the target said. “Just leave it on the table.”
Dragović went into the kitchen and placed the hamper carefully on the table. He felt his stomach knot in anticipation.
“So, what’s on the menu today?”
Dragović spun around, surprised to see the imposing man standing before him. “A real treat today.”
“Like what?”
“Like sticky quinoa porridge with coconut, mango, and lime.”
“Sounds great. What else?”
“Strawberry and peach bruschetta. And avocado fries with curry-lime dip. We’ve also got the most delicious spring pea and radish salad.”
The man was grinning, eyes wide. “Love it. I’m absolutely starving.” He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it over. “Thanks a lot.”
Dragović gave a respectful bow. “That’s lovely, sir.”
The man escorted him to the door. “When’s Ricky back?”
Dragović had asked for some heavies to kidnap Ricky for a few hours after his first delivery of the day in East Hampton. Then the van had been driven to Manhattan and dropped off in the East Village. “Should be back in a couple days. Pulled a muscle in his back, I think.”
“Tell him I was asking after him.”
Dragović nodded and walked out. He heard the door being closed and locked behind him.
He got into the elevator and descended, heart fluttering, then walked past the concierge.
“Everything fine?” the guy said.
“Just perfect. Have a good day.”
Sixty-Nine
Exactly twenty-two minutes after Reznick called the hacker in Miami, his cell phone rang.
“Jon? Your guy is on the move.”
“You managed to find him?”
“Andrej Dragović, according to my software, left the Howard Johnson in Chinatown, one hour and fifty-two minutes ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“Parking garage in East Village, picked up a van marked Hampers of Hampton.”
Reznick looked at O’Donoghue who was listening, taking notes.
“And you were able to track it from there?”
“Jon, I got him headed direct to Upper West Side, a fancy apartment overlooking Central Park. Owned by a guy called Berenofsky. He lives top floor, penthouse apartment, 15 Central Park West.”
Reznick muted the call and turned to O’Donoghue. “Russian oligarch. Saw his picture in Time.”
“He’s more than that.”
“How come?”
“I believe he has been providing details of Russian security operatives working in the States. But also their penetration of the financial system.”
“So the Russians would want him dead. But why would the CIA?”
“He’s due to testify in a month’s time, in a closed session of the Senate Intelligence Committee. I’m speculating, but what if he inadvertently gives details of CIA double agents, people like Andrew Sparrow.”
“Fuck.”
O’Donoghue picked up his phone.
Reznick unmuted the call.
“You still there, Jon?” the hacker asked.
“Sure. Appreciate your help on this.”
“That’s not all. I’ve hacked into the surveillance system within 15 Central Park West, where Dragović entered. It appears that someone else was spying on Berenofsky remotely, or at least that’s what it looks like.”
“Fuck.”
“So . . . Dragović emerged from an elevator less than seven minutes ago.”
“Fuck. What else do we know?”
“I’m watching Berenofsky as we speak. I’m watching him in real time via the cameras on his cell phone and laptop.”
“And what?”
“He’s unpacked the hamper that was delivered, and is this minute about to settle down to a pretty large meal with his MacBook beside him, Bloomberg Channel on.”
“Listen to me. Pull up the guy’s email and phone numbers, right now!”
The sound of tapping on a keyboard. “OK, I’m in.”
“Message me with them, do you hear me? He’s in danger if he eats that food.”
A beat. “Done.”
Reznick’s cell phone beeped. “Got it.”
“Anything else?”
�
��Stay on the line . . .” Reznick called Berenofsky’s cell phone but there was no reply. He called the apartment’s landline. Still no one answered. Then he sent a text, telling him to stop what he was doing immediately and call Reznick’s number.
Just then, Frankie arrived in the office.
Reznick quickly updated the burly New York Fed, then told him, “You need to get your guys up to the Upper West Side right fucking now.” Frankie called his team and got the wheels in motion. “Get paramedics, doctors, and at least six agents up to that apartment, right now!” He ended the call, patted Reznick on the back, and barged out the door. “We’re on it.”
Reznick still had the hacker on the line. “Now this is really, really important, my friend. Let’s leave aside the guy who is about to eat this meal.”
“He’s just started.”
“He’s just started eating?”
“Watching some suit talking about oil futures.”
Reznick groaned. “Forget him, we’ve got guys on the way, ready to help him. What I’m interested in for now is Dragović. I need to know where Dragović is.”
“You wanna know where the fuck he is?” The sound of typing.
“Right this moment. Where the fuck is he?”
The hacker began to hum. “He’s in his little van, headed north.”
O’Donoghue gave the thumbs up as his desk phone rang. He picked up and gave the license plate numbers of the Hampers of Hampton van. “NSA has pinpointed this vehicle. He’s in uptown Manhattan headed north . . . You on it? Good.” He tapped a few keys on his laptop. On the screen, GPS tracking showed the vehicle’s route in red on a map of Manhattan.
Reznick spoke into his phone. “We’ve got this now. That’s fantastic.”
“Anytime, Jon. Who do I send the bill to?”
“Not so fast. One final favor.”
“Name it.”
“Vladimir Merkov.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“You don’t need to know. There’s footage we can send to you. I want you to analyze it with this movement software.” He turned to O’Donoghue, who forwarded the files to the hacker. “We’ve just sent it to you.”
A beat. “Yeah . . . just landed. OK, so we’ve got some footage of an old guy . . . in London?”
“That’s Merkov, many years back. But it shows him walking, right? And we’ve also sent footage of his son Dimitri.”