by J. B. Turner
He looked long and hard at Reznick. Lean, handsome face, crumpled shirt, sunglasses, jeans.
Reznick looked like any tourist. He just blended in. Very astute. No loud clothes. No Day-Glo colors. No loud Hawaiian shirts or sartorial mishaps like that. Nothing memorable. He wondered what exactly Reznick knew already. The basics—an explosion, a tragic accident? How had he learned the news?
Ford had known it wouldn’t take long for Reznick to turn up. And sure enough, here he was. Sniffing around. No doubt asking questions. Trying to figure out how his dear friend, the fragrant but sadly deceased Martha Meyerstein, had met her untimely death. It would take him a long time. And that was good. Very good. It meant Ford had all the time in the world to deal with Reznick.
The thought made him feel giddy.
Reznick, for all his street smarts, was no match for Ford. It felt gratifying to acknowledge it. Intellectually, Reznick was his inferior. Ford was on a whole other level. The truth was, Ford couldn’t abide average citizens. They enraged him. When he saw the average Joe—what he read, how he behaved, what interested him—he had nothing but contempt. He wanted to wipe the fuckers out. He was disgusted by them. He’d seen them every day at the hospital in DC. Porters. Nurses. Fat-assed fuckwits. Low-IQ burger-chomping nobodies. Dumb morons. Subnormal. Their subservience. Their herd mentality. The whole human gene pool seemed to be regressing.
Reznick’s one saving grace, at least as far as Ford was concerned, was that he had never been part of the herd. Reznick had something those nobodies would never have: raw courage. He did his own thing. He didn’t answer to anyone. Ford admired that. The average Joes were cowards. Weaklings. The sort of people who were walked over, day in, day out. Reznick was many things, but weak was not one of them. He wasn’t feckless. He wasn’t a spineless son of a bitch who simply endured his life. He put himself out there. Sure, the bastard operated in the shadows. But Reznick wasn’t the type to hide when the shit hit the fan.
Ford was going to have fun. He had Reznick where he wanted him. Right here. In his sights. Just like Meyerstein had been. This day had been a long time coming. Too long. He’d been planning this for years. Vengeance, retribution—call it what you will. How sweet it would be. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand / Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
The words, spoken by a character in Titus Andronicus, had seeped into his soul. His very being. Reznick wouldn’t have read Shakespeare. A guy like that wasn’t well read. He imagined Reznick would read military history. He could imagine him poring over biographies of military leaders. That kind of thing. But Ford’s brain was far, far superior. He read Nietzsche. He liked that special brand of philosophy. It appealed to him. The mind and order on the one hand, passion and chaos on the other. Ford needed stimulation. Constant mental stimulation to make everything he had endured bearable. He didn’t believe in boundaries. A man didn’t need boundaries. Conformity led to only one place: mediocrity.
Ford believed a man should lead life on his terms. Answerable to no one. What was right and what was wrong? It was all a matter of interpretation. Perspective.
He stared through the telescope at Reznick. God, he had prayed that this day would arrive.
How often he’d fantasized about how he was going to kill Meyerstein, about ensnaring Reznick. Toying with him. Then killing him. Ford had many options available. A man always needed a backup plan. He had a plan A. But he also had a plan B and a plan C. His Special Forces training came in handy. The need for an operation to be flexible, changing tactics and strategies as and when the occasion required. Modifying existing plans. Refining plans. But always willing to change course and deploy unorthodox methods to achieve the mission’s goal. The end result was all that mattered.
Ford also understood human psychology. He knew what made a man like Jon Reznick tick. He had paid a hacker on the dark web fifty thousand dollars to find out everything there was to know about Reznick. He had seen his medical reports. The psychological profile. Reznick was a formidable operator. He was a killing machine. He had concealed his shadowy role from his private life well. But what Ford had also unearthed during his surveillance was Reznick’s close relationship to Martha Meyerstein.
Ford had been watching from afar. Sometimes near her home in the affluent DC suburb of Bethesda. Sometimes in New York, if she and Reznick were working together. He had studied Meyerstein’s demeanor. The way she walked. The way she talked. The way she interacted. She played tough. But she never played tough with Reznick. She tried to. But it was all surface. She seemed more relaxed around him. Natural.
Ford couldn’t understand what a smart woman like Meyerstein saw in a cold-blooded assassin like Jon Reznick. Granted, he was ruggedly handsome, if you liked that kind of thing. But she should have been way out of Reznick’s league. She was classy.
Reznick was uneducated. Wild. Untamed. His father was a Vietnam veteran. Reznick himself was an ex-Delta operator. A warrior. He could kill with his bare hands. And he had done so. Many times. Hand-to-hand fighting in Basra. Stabbing jihadists at close quarters during search-and-destroy missions. He seemed to excel in the hellish environment. Not to be fazed by it. He could compartmentalize. But like most men who had seen real fighting, death up close, he never bragged or boasted or even talked about it. That wasn’t Reznick. He kept those things to himself. He didn’t do emotion.
Ford tried to push the thoughts of Meyerstein and Reznick’s relationship to one side. But still it niggled at him. Why the hell had she been smitten with him? She was highly educated. Her father a wealthy lawyer. She liked opera. She and her college friend, Ann McCaul, went to the Met when McCaul was in New York. Reznick, by contrast, was more at home in dive bars. Playing pool with guys he knew from high school. Blue-collar guys. Guys like his father. A father who had fought for his country in Laos and Vietnam and returned to the grinding poverty of the good old United States. Unloved. No hero’s return for him or his veteran buddies. Just scorched memories and scars.
Ford had delved deep into Reznick’s background. Spent countless hours reading the military reports of both father and son. Anti-authoritarian traits ran in both. Run-ins with superiors were a common thread. Reznick’s father had been incarcerated at the notorious Long Binh jail on the outskirts of Saigon for brawling with sailors on leave. Reznick senior was eventually released after three weeks’ solitary confinement in a military-rehabbed shipping container. It was noted by guards that the temperature often climbed above one hundred degrees and that inmates were left naked. Reznick’s father survived that. He survived Vietnam. Reznick himself had knocked out an officer in Fallujah who had squared up to him, screaming in his face. They had the same trait. Nonconformists, both.
The father’s spirit could not be crushed. Even when he returned to the low wages and humiliation of working in the sardine packing plant, foremen riding him all the time, he didn’t break. He took it. That same unbreakable spirit was part of Reznick. These were tough, tough people.
Ford focused on Reznick again as he sat at the bar. A shaven-headed man came into view. The guy ordered a beer and sat down at a table adjacent to Reznick.
Ford’s gaze was drawn to the man’s forearms. Thick like lamb shanks and covered in tattoos. He watched as Reznick signaled the bar owner. A short while later the owner came over with two beers. One for Reznick, one for the shaven-headed man.
Ford was intrigued. “Well, well, well, Jon. Who is your new friend?”
Eight
Reznick gulped cold beer as he stared out at the sea, bathed in an orange glow from the setting sun.
The tattooed guy at the next table was glaring at him. “Do I know you?” The words sounded extra threatening in his gruff Scottish accent. More than a hint of menace.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so. People don’t as a rule buy me a drink unless I know them. What’s this all about?”
Reznick shrugged. “I w
as told you might be able to help me.”
The guy glowered, giving off icy vibes.
“Maybe you can, maybe you can’t, I don’t know,” Reznick said.
“Thanks for the beer. But you must have me mixed up with someone else.”
Reznick picked up his beer and took a long gulp. “I don’t think so.”
The guy got up and sat down in the seat beside Reznick. “You mind telling me exactly who the fuck you are?”
Reznick looked straight at the guy’s piercing blue eyes. “I’m looking for some information. I was told you might be able to help.”
“I asked you a simple question. Who are you?”
“Name’s Reznick. Jon Reznick.”
“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?”
“A friend of mine, a close friend, died in an explosion on the water not far from here, a few days ago.”
The tattooed guy said nothing.
“She was on a yacht. She was a mother. She had two children who are now facing a life without their mom. A woman who provided for them. They’ll need to know what happened to their mother. What I can’t understand is how exactly this happened. Some people are saying it was an accident.”
“You’ve come all this way to find out what happened to your friend?”
“I heard you might know what transpired.”
The guy was staring long and hard at Reznick as if trying to unnerve him. “I heard it was a gas explosion.”
Reznick sighed. “Maybe it was.”
“You don’t seem too sure.”
“I have my doubts.”
The man scrutinized Reznick’s face. He picked up the beer Reznick bought him and downed the contents in one swallow. He leaned forward and, without asking, frisked under Reznick’s arm and the back of his collar. “You wearing a wire? You recording this? You FBI?”
“No, I’m not. Listen, I want to talk to you. Nothing more. I want to talk in confidence. Just me and you.”
The guy turned and stared out over the water.
“Talk to me, man,” Reznick said. “What do you know?”
“Listen, I don’t have anything against you. But you don’t want to get involved in this. Just leave it.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have any idea what the hell is going on.”
“Listen to me. My friend died. She meant a lot to me. To a lot of people. She had a family. Can you understand that?”
The guy was quiet.
“If you know something, and I believe you do, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”
“I don’t know exactly what the hell is going on. What I do know is that there are troubling elements to this. Very troubling.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all fucked up. My advice? Head back to the States.”
“Listen, pal, maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t be until I get some answers. A friend of mine is dead. And I believe there’s more to her death than meets the eye. What is so difficult to understand?”
The man sighed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Trust me on this, you don’t want to get involved.”
“Tough shit. I’m already involved. So are you going to help me or not? One way or the other, I will find out what happened. Either from you or from someone more obliging.”
The man sat in silent contemplation for a few moments.
“Listen,” Reznick said. “I’ve played nice so far, but my patience is going to wear thin if you’re going to jerk me around. Now, can you help me or not?”
Finally, the man cocked his head in the direction of the narrow street adjacent to the bar. “Follow me.”
Reznick and the guy headed down the street toward a parking lot at the rear of the bar.
“You ask a lot of fucking questions, my friend,” the guy said. “So I’m going to start asking you a few.”
“Fire away.”
“You working for the Agency? Feds? And I want straight answers.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m waiting.”
“I have worked for the FBI in the past. And I have some history with the CIA, but that was a little while ago.”
The man stopped as they passed the parking lot. He looked around, as if making sure they weren’t being watched. “You have no formal connection to the FBI or the Agency or the State Department?”
“One hundred percent correct.”
“Who’ve you been speaking to about me?”
“It’s a small town. People talk.”
The guy stepped forward, eyeballing Reznick, who didn’t back down. “You don’t get intimidated. I like that.”
“Are you going to ask me out on a fucking date?”
The man’s whole demeanor changed. He roared with laughter, tilting back his head. “I like that too. What’s your name?”
“I already told you.”
“I know you did. I’m just checking.”
“Jon Reznick.”
“You’re military. I can tell. Special Forces, right?”
“A few years back.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Who were you with? US Rangers?”
“Delta.”
The guy whistled. “I knew a few of those guys. Nasty fuckers, if I remember.”
“We have our moments.”
The guy laughed uproariously again. “I hope you don’t mind me grilling you like that.”
“Forget it.”
The guy smiled. “So who’re you working for? I mean really working for.”
“I’m working for me.”
“You flew all this way? You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. I want to know what you know. This is a personal thing for me.”
The man nodded, shaven head perspiring. “I like an honest man. Now that we’ve cleared the air, let’s go get another beer and we can talk.”
Reznick liked the guy. He reminded him of himself.
The man picked a quiet table this time, no one within earshot. After ordering two more beers, the man said, “My name is David, by the way. David McCafferty.”
“Nice to meet you, David.”
“Let’s get a few basics out of the way. I used to be in the Parachute Regiment and then the SAS. You might’ve heard of them.”
Reznick nodded. It was Britain’s elite Special Forces.
“People call me Mac.” Mac leaned back in his seat and sighed. “That’s got that sorted. Now I want to know more about that friend of yours. The one who died on the yacht. Who was she?”
“She was someone I worked with professionally.”
“Was she your boss? How did you work with her? In what capacity?”
“I don’t know if I can reveal that, Mac.”
“Jon, we need to be clear. If I give you something, I need to know who she was.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Mac leaned in close. “I’ll decide what I need to know.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not much. But I figure, from the conversations I’ve had, that she was FBI. Very senior.”
“The conversations you had?”
Mac nodded. “Two FBI special agents have spoken to me, face-to-face. At a police station not far from here. And as the Feds don’t operate outside the States, I figured the woman who died was someone very important or worked for them.”
Reznick was satisfied that Mac already had enough knowledge of Martha’s background that it wouldn’t hurt to divulge more details. He nodded. “She did work for them. And I worked with her at one time.”
“Meyerstein, right?” he asked. “Position?”
“You seem to know all this already.”
“I do.”
“Her name was Martha Meyerstein. FBI assistant director.”
Mac whistled and gulped down some beer. “Fucking hell. That’s what I heard too.”
>
“You said you spoke to a couple of Feds. When?”
“A couple of Civil Guard guys picked me up the morning after the explosion. They took me to the station. Strip-searched me and interrogated me.”
“You look like an interrogation wouldn’t bother you too much.”
“It didn’t. A bit irritating, that’s all. But I know how to deal with that. Anyway, it was four guys from the counterterrorism branch of the Civil Guard who were asking the questions. A few slaps. The usual.”
“Why did they bring you in?”
“Purely circumstantial. Think about it. I live here. I kayak and dive around this coast, near where the explosion was. I’m a foreigner. And I have military training. I’m ex-SAS. They asked hours and hours of questions about British military intelligence. Did I work for them? Was I working for a foreign government? Have I ever worked as a mercenary? Do I work for MI6? Do I know any British intelligence operatives in Mallorca? Do I know any American operatives in Mallorca?”
“And do you?”
Mac shook his head. “That’s in the past. I came here to get away from everything. I’ve started a new life here.”
“Tell me more about this interrogation. Who was there?”
“The Americans, unsurprisingly, were there.”
“Where? Actually in the room?”
“No, but they were watching. I heard their voices when I was brought in. State Department and CIA, almost certainly. And the two men who identified themselves as FBI turned up the following day. So what does that tell you, Jon?”
Reznick nursed his beer before taking a large gulp. “All this tells me is that they don’t think this was an accident. This was a targeted killing. An assassination.”
Mac snapped his fingers. “Exactly what I thought! I’m telling you, from the way they were speaking, it was clear they were working on the premise that this was a targeted attack. They asked constantly about not only my background but my understanding of the waters around here. They really zeroed in on that.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
Mac grinned. “Am I talking too fast for you?”
“No, I didn’t follow what you meant by your understanding of the waters around here.”
