by J. B. Turner
He would deal with that as and when required. Besides, Reznick knew that sometimes you had to let them know you were there. What you were all about. It would result in the other side, in this case the Civil Guard, having a firm choice. Do nothing, or apprehend Reznick. If they chose the latter, the move might open things up in unexpected ways. Provoke a response. Did the American consulate want Reznick to get dragged into whatever was going on here? What if local media got wind of an American being arrested after an explosion on a yacht where two American women had died?
Sometimes creating ripples could work in your favor. Helping the truth work its way out from the center.
Reznick walked through the town and headed along a minor road, taking the sidewalk, skirting the town’s small Civil Guard outpost. Behind a fence he saw a couple of cops drinking coffee in the shade of the tree.
He returned to the bar.
“Señor,” the owner said, handing him a note. It had a cell phone number on it.
“What’s this?”
The bar owner put a fresh jug of water on the table along with a glass that had a slice of lemon in it. “A message.”
Reznick slumped in the seat and poured himself a large glass of chilled water. He gulped it down. It felt good.
“I can see that. But who gave you this?”
“A señorita, very pretty lady, wants to talk to you.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know her name. She’s Mac’s sister. That’s all she said.”
Reznick looked at the number scribbled in black ink on the scrap of paper. “Appreciate that, thanks.” He remembered Mac had said his sister was flying into Palma that morning. He took out his phone and called the number. A woman’s crisp voice answered. He said, “I was asked to call this number.”
“I believe you know my brother.” She also had a distinctive Scottish accent, slightly more refined than her brother’s.
Reznick shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. “Who are you?”
“Catherine McCafferty. We need to talk. I hope you can help me.”
“Quid pro quo?”
“Maybe.”
Reznick was intrigued. “Where are you?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Watching you.”
Reznick turned and looked across the street. Sitting in the back of a cab, wearing sunglasses, was a woman speaking into a cell phone.
“So, what are you waiting for?” she asked.
Reznick got up and walked across the street and slid into the back seat beside her. She wore a pale yellow summer dress and white sneakers and had long chestnut-brown hair.
She took off her shades and shook his hand. “Jon, pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Catherine tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Take me on to the villa, señor,” she said.
The driver nodded and pulled away.
“You have any idea where my brother is?”
Reznick shook his head.
“I just got off the plane at Palma. Had expected to see my brother. The bar owner suggested I get in touch with you. Said you were looking for my brother. He gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m too forward. Just . . . I’m just hoping you can help.”
“You’re not being too forward. I was with Mac last night.”
Catherine sighed. “Something’s wrong. I knew it when he wasn’t there when I landed. David is solid. Dependable.”
Reznick nodded.
“Something is wrong, isn’t it? I can tell.”
“Damn right there’s something wrong.”
“What’s happened?”
“Wait till we’ve got more privacy. I’ll try and explain.”
The cab pulled up at a modern villa on the other side of town. The house was on a quiet side street, three blocks from a small beach.
Reznick helped Catherine with her bags and followed her inside.
“Where do you want these?” he said.
“Just put them down in the hall,” she said. “Thanks.”
She went into the kitchen and took out a large bottle of spring water from the refrigerator and poured two glasses. She drank one and sighed. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t usually invite men back to my villa the first time I see them.”
“Relax.”
“OK, what’s the story? Something’s wrong. I know my brother. He wouldn’t not turn up like that.”
Reznick took a gulp of the water and nodded, putting the glass down on the black granite countertop.
“How do you know David?” Catherine asked. “I’m worried about him.”
“I’d seen him running through town earlier.”
“Yeah, he’s a fitness nut.”
“You can say that again. Anyway, I was asking the bar owner about an explosion earlier this week, offshore. Was told your brother might be able to help.”
Catherine nodded slowly as if she was aware of what had happened to the yacht.
“So, he came into the bar. We spoke. Had a beer. He told me he’d been taken in for questioning the day after the explosion.”
“You don’t mind me asking, I hope, but why are you interested in the explosion?”
“Friend of mine was killed on that yacht. So, it’s personal.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“What’s done is done. Anyway, the last I saw of your brother was when the Civil Guard pulled up at the bar and picked him up for the second time, to answer a few questions, they said. I went up to the police station this morning. But he wasn’t there.”
Catherine dropped her head. “Christ, this is not good.”
“You sound like you know what happened.”
She sighed. “I know a fair bit. I’m worried.”
Reznick nodded for her to continue.
“I’m worried that they think David is involved.”
“With the explosion?”
“He said that within a few hours of the incident, the place was swarming with the Civil Guard as well as Americans. Scores of them. That’s not normally what happens if there’s an accidental gas explosion on a boat.”
Reznick said nothing, letting her talk. She was smart. No one was going to pull the wool over her eyes.
“I think they thought David was involved in some way, what with his . . .”
“Military background?”
“Yes. And his skill set . . . He told you about that?”
Reznick nodded.
“Look, Jon, do you understand the risks you’ve taken by getting involved with this?”
“I know all about the risks.”
Catherine took another swig of water. “You don’t seem too fazed by all this.”
He smiled. “I used to be in Delta. And I don’t mean the airline.”
Catherine smiled too. “Got it. David mentioned working alongside Delta Force a few years back in Libya.”
“I’ve also advised the FBI on a few cases. One of the women who was killed was an assistant director. But that didn’t come from me.”
“That’s a lot of information you’re sharing.”
“Well, hopefully you can share what you know in return. I’m trying to be as upfront as I can. I want to find out who did this.”
“You mean find out who blew up the yacht and killed this FBI woman?”
Reznick nodded. He looked around the kitchen and out to the pool at the back. “This all yours?”
“The villa is mine. I rent it out for ten months of the year. I usually visit in August and September to see my brother, get some much-needed sunshine, and recharge the batteries.”
“What exactly do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind at all. I’m a criminal defense lawyer back in Glasgow.”
“Interesting.”
“It has its moments.”
“And it keeps you busy?”
Catherine smiled. “Oh yeah. So you went to the Civil Guard station looking for my brother. That’s above and beyond what I’d expect a stranger to do.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, not surprisingly, they didn’t let me in. At least not at first. But when they did, I was told that some Americans had taken him away.”
“Americans? Did they identify who?”
“The CIA, Feds, and the State Department.”
“And they told you that willingly?”
Reznick smiled. “I gave them a bit of encouragement. It’s amazing how persuasive a 9mm can be when pressed to the forehead.”
“Jesus Christ, seriously?”
Reznick shrugged. “So, sue me.”
Catherine shook her head. “You’re worse than my bloody brother. Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but he can be a bit scary. And that’s coming from someone who knows him. Knows what he’s capable of.”
“I liked him a lot.”
“Thank you. He’s not an easy guy to like. But he has a heart of gold.”
Reznick nodded. “So, now I’ve told you what I know. But what do you know about this explosion? I got the impression your brother knows more than he was letting on.”
Catherine tapped her fingers on the countertop. “I don’t know if I should be telling you what I know.”
Reznick leaned in. “If you know something that’s going to help me understand exactly what happened, I would very much appreciate it. And so would the family of the woman who died.”
“Sure, of course. You’re right, David does know more.”
“Take me back to the beginning. You had heard about the explosion. How?”
“David called a few hours after he was released. Told me he had been arrested. Mentioned the explosion the previous evening.”
Reznick nodded.
“I sensed he wasn’t himself when he called me, which is why I headed out here today. A week earlier than I was going to. He sounded worried. And he sounded stressed. Which wasn’t like him.”
Reznick thought about that. “He said he had discovered pieces of the yacht that had blown up. And he had passed them on to the Spanish police.”
“I know, he told me.”
“Did he give you any details? I really need to know, Catherine.”
“David said he handed over all the fragments he found, in particular one larger metal piece, to a Spanish police diver. David thought at least one of the other divers might be FBI.”
“FBI diver . . . Did he give you any details about what he found? Was the metal part of the boat’s deck, galley, kitchen, engine?”
“It looked to him like, and I’m quoting here, an electronic circuit board. He said it was like an electronic motherboard. Like a control panel.”
Reznick nodded. “What else?”
“The fragment he found, according to David, contained writing. A serial number as well.”
“What sort of writing?”
Catherine grimaced. “He told me not to say a word.”
“Catherine, listen to me. Your brother has been taken by Americans—maybe State Department, maybe CIA—God knows where. Something is wrong. My friend, an FBI assistant director, has been blown out of the damn water. It’s sounding more and more like it was a bomb, not a gas explosion. So, if you know anything, you need to tell me.”
“I feel conflicted. He’s my brother. You understand, right?”
“Catherine . . . I need to know.”
She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, reluctant to divulge what she knew. “David said it was a national security issue. I agree.”
“Tell me what your brother saw.”
“This didn’t come from me.”
“I’ll keep it in confidence.”
“David told me that one of the fragments contained writing. Very distinctive writing.”
“Catherine, spit it out. What kind of writing? What did it say? Was there a country of origin?”
“Yes, there was.”
“What was it? For the love of God, tell me, what did it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“The writing was in Arabic.”
Eleven
A blood-red sky was spreading slowly like a cancer as far as the eye could see, enveloping the Serra de Tramuntana mountains in its crimson grip.
Adam Ford stood outside his villa, hands on hips, drenched in sweat after a run. He surveyed the scene around him. The olive trees. The smell of bone-dry earth. The hint of lemons from a nearby grove. The scent of wild fennel. It was idyllic. The sort of place a man could grow accustomed to. A place to love. A place to retire to. A place to meditate. A place to sit back and read for hours, undisturbed. A place to think. A place to forget.
Ford thought the island, in all its intoxicating beauty, was a perfect, almost poetic, place for a warrior like Reznick to be slain. Ford had plans. Boy, did he have plans. So many ideas. He felt crazier than he had for a while. He had a lot on his mind. Ideas. Projects. Money. Property. And killing, obviously. All these things were whirring around his head, unable to switch off. He was on. All the time. Every waking hour.
He approached the front of the house and pressed his sweaty right index finger against the biometric reader. He had paid a security company in Palma a small fortune to upgrade the security and technology in the house. He had also had the basement reconfigured two months earlier to meet his exacting requirements. A green light came on, and the door clicked open.
Ford headed inside, the three-inch-thick solid wood door closing firmly behind him. The cool air felt good on his skin. The marble all around. The whitewashed walls soothing. Calming. But he had work to do.
He headed through to his kitchen and finished his bottle of isotonic juice. His thirst had been sated. He felt his sugar levels return to normal after being depleted in the ninety-degree heat.
Ford cranked up the air-conditioning further. He felt cold blasts on his skin. Icy cold. Good. His body temperature was getting back in sync. He dimmed the lights. A chilly blue glow bathed the whitewashed walls, creating a serene atmosphere.
He took a bottle of water out of the fridge and gulped down half of it.
Ford began to pace the room as he thought ahead. He had work to do. And it would require energy. Mental as well as physical.
He quickly fixed himself a large cheese sandwich. He wolfed it down, ravenous. He opened the finest half bottle of red wine from the cellar. He sat down in the living room with the wine and a plastic Ziploc bag of cocaine.
Ford shook out a small pile and used his platinum credit card to chop up the cocaine into six thick lines. He snorted line after line, sniffing hard. The chemicals were rushing around his bloodstream. His head felt as if it was on fire. His mood was rocketing. The natural dopamine high, coupled with the chemical high, was kicking in. Tearing through him. Wow!
Ford was reaching peak crazy. His favorite position. He loved these fleeting moments. When he knew what lay ahead. The thrill of it, of knowing what was about to happen, was intoxicating. He had work to do. Loose ends to tie up, so to speak. He began whistling a song from The Wizard of Oz. A film he had watched a hundred times with his mother as a child. He’d loved it. It always reminded him of a time of pure innocence. A time when his whole world and the possibilities within it seemed endless. Before he became a different person. The man he was today.
“Coming, ready or not!” he said shrilly, before laughing out loud at his black humor.
Ford skipped down the marble stairs to the basement. He pressed his thumb against the biometric reader. The steel door clicked open. He headed inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Inside the room, the light was soft. He had rented the house via a shell company in Grand Cayman, but he could have bought it outright many times over. Unfortunately, he had no intention of staying around.
It felt good knowing he never had to work again. Never had to endure another shift at some goddamn awful hospital. The grind. The banalit
y of work. Listening to the nurses try and engage with him. Instead, he was free. And it was wonderful. He could do whatever he wanted to do. And he intended to. The reality was he was a superior individual. He had risen above the herd. He was smarter, higher, and brighter. He was living life unperturbed by fear. Fear of what had gone before. Fear of self. Fear of social conditioning. He was free.
Money might not buy happiness. It might not even buy love. But it sure as hell felt good to have some.
Ford counted his blessings. His fortunes had accumulated when he hit the jackpot with Bitcoin. Big-time. He’d bought ten thousand Bitcoin in 2010 at six cents. And he’d sold when it hit fifteen thousand dollars.
He’d raked in a cool hundred and fifty million dollars.
That was what had given him the resources and time to plan the operation to get Reznick. And what better way to get him than through the ravishing Martha Meyerstein?
Just a few loose ends I still have to deal with.
Ford felt his breathing quicken. Heart racing just a bit. Let’s get on with it, Adam. He passed through a glass door into an anteroom, where he put on forensic goggles, a mask, and a lab coat. Ford had rented this property once he learned Meyerstein was going to be sailing around the coast. The line of sight from the property to the town had been the clincher. But when he’d seen the plans for the building, half of it buried into the hills, deep underground, where he was headed now, he started to get excited.
The place was so fucking perfect it was unreal.
He pulled on the latex gloves and Bose wireless headphones. Then he turned on one of his several cell phones and opened the music app.
The sound of Johann Sebastian Bach’s soaring organ masterpiece filled the space. Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Full volume, ahead of the task at hand.
Ford’s head was swimming. The music sounded like it was being played by a madman. Composed by a madman. It was perfect. He caught a glance in a mirror. His mind flashed back to his days as a medical student. The first autopsy he’d witnessed. He’d watched the other students. Two had puked. One had passed out. He just stood there, amazed. It was a privilege to observe up close a medical examiner opening up the human body. Most people found it difficult to watch. Traumatic, even. The smell of death lingered in their nostrils. But to Ford, it was no different from carving up a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.
