by J. B. Turner
“Can’t promise anything . . .”
“Do your utmost, that’s all I ask.”
Reznick ended the call and walked over to look at the map on the laptop screen. “He wants to leave town. Which is the quickest way?”
O’Donoghue stared at the moving red dot. “George Washington Bridge and then across into Jersey.”
Reznick said, “We need a chopper.”
“Downtown heliport is just five minutes from here. SWAT is already there, standing by.”
“I want this son of a bitch.”
O’Donoghue took a brief moment, as if reflecting on the situation.
“Get on it.”
Seventy
Dragović drove across the George Washington Bridge, over the Hudson River, and into New Jersey. He felt good. He would be in Europe this time tomorrow. He envisaged a long vacation by himself. He had a huge villa with an Olympic-sized pool in Marbella. For drinks and dinner, nearby Puerto Banús was perfect.
He thought about Berenofsky smiling at him, grateful for the hamper of healthy, upscale food. And the fifty-dollar tip had been exquisite.
His cell phone rang, snapping him out of his reverie. “Hey . . .”
The voice on the Bluetooth speaker was Merkov junior. “You made the delivery?”
“It’s done.”
“More like he’s done. The fuck.”
“Whatever.”
“Any problems?”
“None at all.”
“My people watched the delivery. He won’t be seeing the sun come up over Central Park tomorrow, that’s for sure.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Your money . . . The full amount has been transferred.”
“Appreciate that, thank you.”
“So, where are you headed?”
Dragović sighed. “Going to drop out of circulation for a year or two. But I’m available for any special jobs, any time.”
“Your ride out of town is waiting.”
“Thank you.”
“But there will be a few extra passengers on board.”
“As long as I’ve got a window seat, I’m happy.”
The line went dead.
Dragović was on the New Jersey Turnpike. He checked the satnav and got onto I-95. Then he checked his rearview mirror.
He began to smile.
Seventy-One
Reznick adjusted the headset as the chopper, swooping over the Hudson, followed the snaking traffic on the expressway through New Jersey.
The voice of Frankie on the headset: “Jon, do you copy?”
“Go ahead.”
“The target is unconscious.”
Reznick sighed. “Fuck.”
“Barely breathing. Forensics is all over this. We need to wait for toxicology. But the speculation—considering who delivered this food—is that gelsemium might be involved. I seem to remember something similar a few years back.”
“You’ll be thinking about the Alexander Perepilichny case, near London in 2012.”
“Russian tycoon, right? I remember reading about that.”
“I heard he had a meeting in Paris, and the Russians poisoned him while he was eating dinner in a restaurant.”
“This is the same kind of hit. We need to find this guy. And quick.”
Reznick stared down at the cars on the freeway.
“Where exactly are you now?” Frankie asked.
“We’re following what we think is Dragović’s vehicle, through New Jersey.”
“Location?”
“Five miles from Teterboro. What the hell is there?”
“Small airport, Jon.”
Reznick was handed some binoculars and caught sight of the vehicle. “I think I can see him.” He focused the barrels and saw the Hampers of Hampton van traveling at high speed. “He’s not hanging around. That’s him all right. And the airport’s where he’s headed, for sure.”
“Problem is,” Frankie said, “once he’s in, he could be on a flight and in the air in minutes. It’s used by Wall Street hedge fund guys with Lear jets on standby.”
Reznick knew that if the helicopter landed on the freeway it would potentially end in a fatal crash. He figured they could wait until they reached the airport. Then intercept as Dragović was about to board. But that would be cutting it fine.
“There is another way,” Reznick said.
“What?”
“We take him down.”
“Jon, that poses multiple risks on a busy freeway. I don’t want us getting too gung ho.”
“There are risks whatever we do. I can take him down without taking him out.”
“How?”
“Do I have the authorization?”
“I need to put you through to O’Donoghue. Hold the line, Jon.”
Reznick was put on hold, some Billy Joel piano ballad playing in the background.
“Reznick, it’s O’Donoghue. What is it?”
“Sir, I need authorization. Dragović is nearing the airport. I believe a plane will be waiting to take him the hell out of America.”
“Can’t we land at the airport? Is that an option?”
“Course we could. But I’m telling you, if we lose this guy and let him get away, the critics of the FBI and the American intelligence community are going to have a field day. Again.”
“Jon . . . this is high risk.”
“Anything we do is high risk. Do I have the authorization?”
A long pause. “Is he aware of your presence?”
“Absolutely. And he’s not slowed down. Trust me.”
“Very well. Do what you have to—and stop that vehicle.”
“I need authorization from the highest level to take him down, if required.”
O’Donoghue went quiet for a few seconds. “If required, shoot to kill.”
“Copy that, sir.” Reznick signaled the SWAT guy beside him. “Gimme your rifle.”
“What?”
“Give me the goddamn rifle, son. I’m gonna take this fucker out now.”
“Sir, I think it might be better to watch and wait, and get him on the ground.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’ve just been given authorization. Now, are you going to give me the rifle, or am I going to have to take it off you?”
“Man . . . are you kidding me?”
“I’m working on the orders of the Director of the FBI.”
The SWAT guy reluctantly handed over the rifle.
Reznick took it and adjusted the sight for windage and angle. He had the car in the crosshairs. But the chopper was shaking, bad. “A bit higher . . .”
The pilot said, “Roger that, sir.”
The chopper climbed higher and maneuvered so Reznick had a clear shot of the driver’s side.
He stared through the rifle’s sight. It was at that moment that Dragović turned and looked up. The Serbian assassin was staring back up at him through the crosshairs.
Reznick had his finger on the trigger.
“Four miles and we’re there,” the pilot said.
Reznick’s headset crackled into life. “Jon . . .” The voice of Frankie. “You’re gonna love this. NSA says they’ve got the location of Dimitri Merkov from a cell phone conversation with Dragović. He’s at the airport . . .”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. He’s there.”
Reznick held his breath. Suddenly Dragović—one hand on the wheel—raised an Uzi submachine gun and pointed the weapon straight up at the helicopter.
Reznick’s instincts kicked in. He squeezed the trigger twice. The shots echoed around the chopper, temporarily deafening him. Dragović’s head was blown in half, blood spurting onto the windshield, as the car flipped and crashed into a ball of flames in the middle of the freeway.
Seventy-Two
Vladimir Merkov’s limousine pulled up outside the Trex Aviation lobby at Teterboro Airport, and he was greeted by an earpiece-wearing doorman. He was ushered through inside, where it was all beige h
ues, high glass ceilings, and nice sofas and chairs.
“So, where’s my son?”
An associate pointed at the entrance as Dimitri strode in. He wore shades and was flanked by two bodyguards.
Merkov stepped forward and hugged his son. Then he kissed him on the cheek. He held his son’s face in his hands as he felt tears spill down his face. “You OK?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m gonna miss you.”
“This is for the best. You need to get out of the way for a few months.”
Dimitri nodded, blinking away the tears. “Dad, I just want to say—”
“You don’t have to say anything. We got you out. And we did what had to be done.”
Dimitri sighed. “I might never—”
“You need to keep the bloodline going.”
“Where am I going?”
“You’ll be taken across the border, down to Mexico, and you’ll be fine.”
“Will I be able to return to the States?”
“Eventually. But not just now. Not for a while. I have people working through this. The plan is in place.”
“Are you coming?”
Merkov’s heart felt heavy. “Sadly, no. I just wanted you to know that I love you and you can return when this has died down.”
“I might never see you again.”
“That is correct.”
His son stared at him, eyes wet with tears. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“It is what it is.”
“The FBI won’t forgive or forget.”
“Don’t worry about them. We have people that can deal with that. Now, your plane is waiting.”
Dimitri hugged his father tight, as if never wanting to let him go.
“Enough.”
“What about Dragović?”
“Isn’t he aboard?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Merkov turned and whispered to his associate, who went off to inquire. Then he said to his son, “No time. Get yourself on the plane.”
Dimitri shook his father’s hand one last time and was ushered through by a doorman to the waiting plane.
Seventy-Three
Reznick’s earpiece buzzed as the airport came into view about a mile up ahead, the chopper swooping low. He looked through the crosshairs of the rifle sights.
“Jon, it’s your hacker friend on the line,” Frankie said. “We’re going to patch him through.”
“Copy that.”
A pause. “Hey, Reznick. Trex Gulfstream waiting on the runway, you see that?”
Reznick saw the Gulfstream, stairs ready for an imminent boarding.
“I’ve just hacked into their internal radio frequencies, and they’re expecting eight people on board. Dimitri Merkov, Dragović, and bodyguards.”
Just then, Reznick saw three figures on the tarmac approaching the plane. He spotted the stocky figure of Dimitri Merkov in the middle. He switched his headset to loudspeaker mode. “FBI! Merkov! Freeze!”
A bodyguard spun around holding a semiautomatic, and aimed it at the chopper. Reznick took him out, and then the other armed bodyguards.
Dimitri Merkov stood frozen. Then he turned and made a run for the stairs.
Reznick took aim. He had him in the crosshairs. Fixed in his sights. He tracked the man’s run. Then focused on the back of the head. He fired once.
The rear of Merkov’s skull was blown off as the thug fell to the ground, blood spilling onto the asphalt.
The chopper hovered as Reznick kept his rifle trained on the approach to the plane.
The pilot said, “Crosswinds coming in, Jon, need to move position.”
“Hold!”
“Jon, the chopper is struggling in the crosswinds. We’re going to become unstable.”
Reznick focused the rifle sight on the bodies. He panned over to the terminal. Suddenly, a skeletal-looking man ran out of the airport terminal and toward the strewn bodies beside the plane. An old man.
Reznick zeroed in. Behind him, a SWAT guy had his rifle trained on the same man. “What do you reckon on the ID of this guy?”
“Fuck.”
“That looks like Vladimir Merkov. Can you confirm that?”
The SWAT guy seemed to take an eternity. He checked the photos they had of him. “One hundred percent, Vladimir Merkov. No question.”
Reznick watched as Merkov flung himself on his son’s dead, bloody body. He lay like that for what seemed like a lifetime. Then he turned and got to his feet and stared up at the chopper. A ghostly smile.
Reznick’s finger was on the trigger. He paused as he felt the cold steel on his skin.
“Hands on your head!” he barked through the chopper loudspeaker.
Merkov stood and stared, grinning. Then he reached into his jacket.
Reznick squeezed the trigger twice.
Vladimir Merkov fell backward, hand outstretched as if to touch his dead son, lifeless among the bloody bodies on the New Jersey runway.
Seventy-Four
The hours that followed were like a blur for Reznick as they landed and the New Jersey airport was secured. It was only a matter of minutes before the FBI had designated the area as prohibited airspace. Frankie and his New York Fed guys were quickly on the ground, along with the SWAT team. Forensics a short while after that. There was a total news blackout. The President and his national security advisers were informed.
Reznick was given an extensive debriefing. The murmurings were of summary executions. Reznick shrugged it off.
His role would never be revealed. Not in the recovery of Assistant Director Meyerstein or the tracking and killing of a Serbian hitman. Nor the final justice for the Merkovs.
Reznick didn’t want plaudits, anyway. He was taken to a trauma unit to clean up his shoulder wound, bandaged up, and given fresh clothes.
He was finally given the all-clear. He called his daughter and arranged to meet her in a week’s time. Then he was driven to a heavily guarded Upper East Side hospital room.
Meyerstein was sitting up in bed, leg suspended by wires and wrapped in plaster. Dark shadows under her eyes.
“Hey . . .”
Reznick took a seat at her bedside. He smiled. “How are you?”
“Doped out of my head, if you must know.”
“Lucky you.”
Meyerstein smiled. “I was wondering if you were going to show up.”
“Had a few things to sort out.”
“Like what?”
Reznick explained what had transpired since she’d been retrieved from the island. “So . . . the Merkovs won’t be bothering you again.”
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment.
Reznick looked around. “I spoke to your father, too. He told me about your secret dossier.”
Meyerstein nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone about it.”
“I’m not anyone.”
“Indeed, you’re not. Was I on the right track?”
“You were more than on the right track. You had it figured out.”
“I feel such a fool. How did I not see it? Why didn’t I report it to O’Donoghue?”
“How the hell were you supposed to know that Roy Stamper was CIA, and was at Duke with that fuck Curt White?”
“Now that you put it like that . . .”
“What a bastard.”
“I’m hearing Roy is already being interviewed. They’re going over his house. It’s going to get nasty. And if this gets out . . .”
“Do you think he was really doing his job during the investigation into your abduction, or the earlier investigations?”
“We’ll find out for sure this time. And I don’t think it’ll be long. I believe he, and with Curt White, was sabotaging our investigations for CIA purposes. O’Donoghue called me about an hour ago to say Roy had been using a cell phone in his home study for private calls, and there are numerous calls to a number used by Max Charles, former CIA. He also said that Max Charles was more than a million in debt until a year ago.
Two disastrous divorces had left him dead broke.”
Reznick shook his head. “So he needed money? Wonder if he contacted his old friends at Langley to see if he could do one last job.”
“Then again, maybe he was being paid by Merkov, and Charles would be able to deliver Russian assets to the CIA.”
“The whole scheme was designed to be impregnable, with Stamper and White blocking any attempt to get near the truth.”
“They didn’t stop you.”
Reznick smiled.
“You’re crazy, you do know that, right?”
He looked around her room, with its antiseptic pastel colors. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
Meyerstein laughed. “Yeah . . . hospital beige. Think it works.”
Reznick cleared his throat. “They say you’re gonna be fine.”
“They say I might walk with a limp.”
“Yeah . . . I heard that. But maybe you won’t. Maybe the therapists will have you walking just fine.”
“It’s gonna be painful.”
Reznick sighed. “You’re alive. I’m glad.”
“My ex-husband was in a couple hours ago.”
“You have him to thank for getting me involved.”
Meyerstein rolled her eyes.
“O’Donoghue said he was expecting you at the congressional hearing in three days’ time,” Reznick said.
“I thought he might.”
“You up for that?”
“Oh yeah, I’ll be there.”
Reznick nodded. “Nobody need know what transpired.”
“Jon . . .” She winced for a moment as she adjusted her position. “I haven’t had the chance to thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for.”
“I have everything to thank you for. I owe you my life, Jon.”
“Hey, just another day at the goddamn office, right?”
Meyerstein smiled. “O’Donoghue is conflicted about you. He says you bring a lot of crossing boundaries and illegality into the equation . . . That said, he told me, just before you arrived, he was sounding me out about creating a role for you with the FBI.”
Reznick said nothing. He wondered if a role within the FBI was something that he should consider.
“What do you reckon?”
“Not too keen on roles.”
“You could be embedded in our team. A specific job title.”
