by J. B. Turner
“Where is she?”
“Do you have a pen and paper, Jon?”
Reznick picked up a fresh napkin.
“Are you listening carefully?” The guy gave GPS coordinates.
Reznick scribbled them down, the foreboding that had washed over him deepening.
“You’ve found one body, Jon. It’ll be really helpful if you could find this one too. I’ll be in touch.”
Twenty-Eight
The mutilated body of eighty-nine-year-old widow Luciana Lopez was found at the bottom of a well, high up in the rocky Serra de Tramuntana mountains.
Reznick could only watch as her body was retrieved in a painstaking operation by mountain guides using safety ropes and harnesses. A police screen was erected around the top of the well, concealing the body. Reznick wrapped his arm around Lauren as a forensics team arrived. A police photographer took pictures of the corpse. A local priest arrived and said prayers for the dead woman, making the sign of the cross, looking up at the flawless blue sky as if beseeching God to explain why he had allowed this to happen.
Reznick felt like he was unraveling in slow motion. A gradual descent into hell. First Martha. The death of Catherine. The body found up in the hills. Now this abomination.
A series of events, seemingly unrelated, unfolding day by day, hour by hour. And he was at the center of all of them. It was like there was nothing he could do to stop it. But one thing was apparent. The man who called him was behind this. The American. He was orchestrating it all.
Reznick held his daughter tightly, riven by doubts. Running scenarios around his head again and again. He looked at the bleak sun-scorched mountainside, tinder dry. There was nothing for miles around. In the distance, the far distance, on the horizon, on the tip of the mountainside, he saw the military radar tower that had been installed by Americans way back in the 1950s. He was a military history buff. He knew about all that sort of stuff. The tower was located on Puig Major, a mountain pass thousands of feet above sea level. The system had been put in place to detect planes or missiles violating Spanish airspace during the Cold War. An early-warning system for America’s Eastern Seaboard. But it would not have detected the person who had dumped the body in such a location.
This burial spot had been carefully chosen. No cameras for miles. Maybe tens of miles.
An ambulance arrived, and the corpse was zipped up into a body bag before being lifted onto a gurney. A short while later, a couple of SUVs arrived.
Two men in suits stepped out of the front vehicle as Lionel Finsburg emerged from the back seat.
The FBI legal attaché walked over to Reznick and his daughter. “The Director wants to speak to you, Jon.” He cocked his head, indicating the SUV. “He’s on the line right now.”
Reznick looked at Lauren and smiled. “I’ll just be a minute, honey.”
She wrapped her arms around herself as if for comfort and nodded.
Reznick slid into the back seat beside a guy in a suit he assumed was also a Fed.
Finsburg got in the front and handed Reznick the cell phone. “He’s waiting. Line’s secure, obviously.”
“Director, how can I help?”
Bill O’Donoghue’s voice was brusque and no-nonsense. He’d never been a fan of Reznick’s, but Reznick knew he’d respected Martha Meyerstein, and that she’d respected him. “I want to talk frankly, Jon. I don’t want to get into the blame game or pointing fingers. Never does any good. You told the police that you were alerted to the presence of the body by an unidentified call that came in on Lauren’s cell phone. I want to be clear—are you absolutely positive it was her cell phone?”
“It was her cell phone issued by the FBI, sir.”
“Jon, do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
“Someone managed to get a number that’s not listed in any public database, only in the FBI computers, and make an untraceable call.”
“Then you’ve got a problem.”
The Director sighed long and hard. “You don’t have to tell me that. We have cybersecurity professionals doing tests to find out how the intrusion occurred, whether it was through our system or whether the number was obtained by other means.”
“Listen, I appreciate the heads-up on that. And just so you know, my daughter hasn’t broken any FBI rules or regulations.”
“She is employed by us, Jon.”
“I know. But she’s scrupulous about her security. And she was nearly killed last night. Did you hear about that?”
A sigh. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry about that.”
Reznick looked at Finsburg, who was staring through the front windshield toward the screen shielding the top of the well. “I sent over photographs of a guy, a white male. Have you made any progress identifying him?”
“Jon, you know as well as I do how we work. We appreciate your help on this, and what you’ve uncovered we believe could be significant, but I’m not at liberty to say any more than that. I hope you understand.”
“I keep being told to leave Mallorca. The State Department and the Agency are hanging around.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“I don’t actually want you to comment. I want you to do something.”
“Not in this case, Jon. I’m sure you can appreciate what I’m saying.”
What O’Donoghue was saying was that he had limited ability to encroach on the State Department’s territory.
“One final thing,” Reznick said. “And this is something that’s been bugging me. Why is there no body? There was an explosion on a yacht. Two people were on that yacht. But there’s no body. Nothing. No clothes. Nothing.”
“Jon, let’s not go there.”
“It’s a simple question. Does that sound plausible to you? Divers have been out there for what, a week now? And nothing. Unless you know something.”
The line was silent.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m not going anywhere. Just so you know.”
“This is not your concern, Jon.”
“It most certainly is. Besides, I don’t work for the FBI, right?”
Reznick was about to disconnect the call when he sensed the guy next to him in the seat turn slightly. He felt a sharp jab in his thigh.
And everything went black.
Twenty-Nine
Adam Ford discreetly followed the two American consulate SUVs containing Jon Reznick and his daughter back down from Puig Major. He had them in his sights. But he didn’t want to get too close.
Driving down the winding mountain road, he felt invincible, wildly happy. He had watched the whole operation, a sordid and prolonged effort to retrieve the old woman’s body, with his high-powered binoculars.
Reznick had stood alone most of the time, cell phone in hand. Occasionally his daughter hugged him tight. It was fascinating to see him through the pin-sharp binocular lenses. Like he was right there in front of him. But Ford wanted to be closer. A lot closer. Maybe close enough to smell him.
Ford had concealed himself about a mile back from the well. The distance was probably for the best.
He’d studied Reznick’s hooded eyes. The grief etched on his face. The type of grief he had only dreamed of seeing there. The type he wanted Reznick to endure. Ford understood the pain only too well. He’d felt it five years ago, knowing he would be denied the chance to be revered for killing the delinquent President. He had been chosen to kill the fucker. And his chance had been snatched from him. Immortality had been snatched from him. They would have spoken his name in the same breath as Lee Harvey Oswald. But the name of Adam Ford would not enjoy or revel in such infamy.
Reznick was going to pay. It was going to take time. But there was something about watching Reznick, a cold-blooded assassin, show his humanity that fascinated Ford. Something almost touching. Reznick wasn’t a machine, after all. He had a soul. A heart. But that heart was breaking.
The thought that Reznick was hurting gave him a flee
ting moment of pleasure. But he had to keep his eye on the real prize. The endgame.
Reznick had gotten lucky twice so far—he’d avoided the poisoned booze and he’d survived the fall into the water. But his luck was about to run out for good.
Thirty
Reznick was in blackness. A faint whisper spoke in Spanish. Then an American voice. He felt himself drifting and floating. He sensed he was being carried. A warm wind on his skin. The roar of what sounded like a business jet engine. He wondered if it was a Cessna. Maybe a Gulfstream.
He felt himself being strapped in. Then takeoff. The drone of the engines. Quiet chatter. More American voices. This time a harder edge.
He needs to go now. He needs to be dropped in minus one minute.
Reznick was gripped by panic. He realized they were going to drop him from the plane. He tried to struggle but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed. He had a sense of being slightly conscious. But unable to do or say a thing.
He willed himself to move. But nothing. He could hear the sound of his breathing under the gag. It was getting faster. His mind was racing. But his pulse was virtually dead. Or so it seemed.
A feeling of weightlessness. A fierce blast of cold air.
“Time for a long sleep, Jon,” a voice said.
Reznick awoke in a cold sweat and sat straight up. He was blindfolded. He struggled, but he was handcuffed to what seemed like a metal bed. His ankles too. He tried to move again, and heard the clanking of heavy steel chains on the floor. The bed seemed to be bolted down. His mind flashed back to the seconds before they’d taken him. He had been on the phone with O’Donoghue. He’d felt a prick. Then darkness.
Suddenly, Reznick sensed he wasn’t alone. A moment later his blindfold was carefully taken off. The ankle restraints and handcuffs were briefly unlocked, detaching him from the metal bed, before both ankles were cuffed together and wrists were tightly secured. He squinted against the harsh artificial strip lights overhead. He looked around. He was sitting on a bed in a windowless room. Staring down at him was the CIA guy, Jeremiah Johnston.
“How you feeling, Jon?”
“How do you think?”
“We had to do what we had to do; I’m sure you understand. We needed to get your attention.”
“Was that your friend in the back seat who jabbed me? What did he give me?”
Johnston pointed to a chair behind a desk. “Sit down there.”
Reznick struggled to get to his feet. “Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s safe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Jon, she is with the legal attaché of the FBI at this moment. And some State Department people, I believe.”
Reznick shuffled to the chair and slumped down, handcuffs chafing against his wrists. “Are they interrogating her?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” Johnston pulled up a chair opposite and sat down. He leaned across and undid the right-hand cuff, opened it up, and clicked it onto a steel ring on the bolted table, allowing Reznick one free arm. “Just so you don’t get any ideas.”
“You want to take off the ankle cuffs?”
Johnston sighed. “Don’t fucking try anything, you hear me?”
Reznick jangled his wrist. “I’m bolted in. Gimme a break.”
“I know who you are. Don’t try any cute stuff.” Johnston unlocked the ankle cuffs. “Better?”
“A lot, thanks. Appreciate that.”
“Spanish military intelligence insisted on it. They do stuff differently in Spain, trust me.”
“So under what pretext am I being held? Spanish law? If so, where are the Spanish? Also, I wanna see a lawyer.”
Johnston leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “I’ve already cut you a break.”
“I want to see a lawyer.”
“All in good time.”
“So, what do you want to know? And why the fuck are you drugging me?”
“I never drugged you. Listen, I’ve read all about you, Jon. I know a guy who worked with you in the Middle East. Said you’re the best. But he also told me to be careful. So, you can appreciate why I’m being a bit cautious with you.”
“You got the name of this person?”
“Can’t say.”
Reznick felt the chafing on his wrist. “Goddamn, you want to loosen this cuff?”
“Not just now. Maybe later.”
“I want to see my daughter.”
“You will. Right now she’s talking to Finsburg. Nothing to be alarmed about. She’s working with the FBI, they’re trying to ascertain what she knows.”
“Is she being held here?”
“Nope.”
Reznick stared at him.
“You, my friend, are in deep shit.”
Reznick shook his head. “Oh boy, here we go.”
“How many fucking times do you have to be told?”
“I don’t work for the government. I’m here on vacation. You’re infringing on my freedom.”
“Bullshit. We know what you’re up to.”
“Is this all classified?”
“I can’t disclose that, Jon, you know how it works.”
“Answer me this: Have you identified the American who called Lauren’s cell phone? I’m telling you, this American, who’s traveling on a Spanish passport, is involved in the explosion. He’s fucking with me. Who the hell is this guy?”
Johnston stared at him as if not wanting to get involved.
“I feel like I’m repeating myself, over and over again. There is an Islamist link. But there’s also a guy who might be running this thing. The American. Maybe it’s a parallel operation. Who knows, maybe . . . a false flag.”
“A false flag?” Johnston rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if he’d heard enough. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ve been given instructions, and the Spanish government is aware of what we’re going to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“We’re going to drive you to Palma airport, you will board a flight operated under the auspices of the State Department, and you will have several Agency and State Department officials to accompany you on your journey back to the United States. It’s the end of the line for you, my friend.”
“What about my daughter?”
“She’s not my problem. You are. And we’re shipping you out of here within the hour.”
Thirty-One
A sharp knock at the door snapped Reznick out of his morose contemplation. A guy in a gray suit popped his head around the corner.
Jeremiah Johnston spun around. “Yeah, what is it, Bob? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Station chief on the line from Madrid.”
“Tell him I’ll talk to him in fifteen minutes. I’m not finished here.”
“It needs to be now. Right now. His words.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Bob nodded and shut the door again.
Johnston got to his feet, hitching up his pants, adjusting his suspenders. “You need coffee, food?”
Reznick shook his head.
“I won’t be long. Sit tight.” Johnston grinned. “I’ll be right back. And just to make doubly sure, I’m going to lock the door behind me. Don’t try anything dumb.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t try and test my patience. Sit tight, got it?”
“Yeah, like I’m going somewhere,” Reznick said.
Johnston smiled. “It’s nothing personal, man. It’s just the way it is.”
Reznick nodded as the CIA guy slammed the door hard behind him, key turning in the lock. Reznick waited for a few moments, knowing Johnston would be watching him through the peephole into the room. He sat still until he heard heavy footsteps heading down the tiled corridor outside. He waited until he didn’t hear a sound.
He had bided his time patiently. This could be his opportunity.
Reznick knew he didn’t have long. He began to twist the handcuffs, using the torque t
o put pressure on the steel chain linking the two cuffs. He clenched his teeth as he twisted farther and farther. Tighter and tighter against his skin. He wrenched the steel handcuffs another half inch. He felt his skin twist, virtually cutting off the circulation. The pain was like a pinched nerve.
Reznick grimaced, absorbing the agony as he had been trained to. The seconds were flying by. He was trying with all his might to burst it open. But nothing. “Come on, you fucker.”
He twisted harder and tighter until he felt he was going to pass out. The pain was overwhelming, biting into the skin, cutting off the circulation. Suddenly, the chain holding the two cuffs snapped. He was breathing hard. His senses switched on. He got up and moved the chair a couple of yards away, deliberately positioning it out of line of sight from the peephole.
He stood up on the chair, reached up, and pushed back one of the ceiling tiles. He could see attic space beyond. He reached up to a metal beam and dragged himself up. Then he carefully slid the ceiling tile back into place.
Reznick crawled along a wooden joist, past a huge duct, then past some air-conditioning vents. Staring down through a ceiling vent, he saw a corridor. He crawled farther along and looked down again. He could see a shaft of light below. A door opening.
Reznick watched as a Spanish guy in a suit, maybe a cop, maybe intelligence, spoke into a cell phone. He held his breath for a few moments, waiting until the conversation was over and the guy began to walk away. The guy headed down the corridor, past a bathroom, and out of sight around the corner. Reznick crawled a few yards more until he was looking down into an empty office.
A few moments later, a FedEx delivery guy wearing sunglasses, carrying three large padded envelopes, pushed through the door.
Reznick slid back a tile. He jumped down and seized the guy by the neck. With one hand over the delivery guy’s mouth, he hustled him down the corridor. Then through a bathroom door. He pressed his thumb hard against the guy’s carotid artery. “You speak English?” he whispered.
The guy nodded, eyes frightened.
“What is this place? Where are we?”
“This is a police station. We are in the middle of Palma.”
