Hard Road (15 page)

Meyerstein stared at the screen as the guard wiped sweat from his brow. “I don't like it. And what's happened to Luntz?”

“Our guys are scouring the footage in the parking garage as we speak.”

“Good. What about our two Fed teams?”

Clayton blew out his cheeks. “North Miami Beach to downtown. Ten minutes if they're lucky.”

“They need to get a move on.”

Meyerstein couldn't take her eyes off Reznick. He was staring into the camera and it felt as if he was staring straight at her. As if he knew she was there. She pushed the thought from her mind. “What about the guy Reznick killed inside this building? And what about his company, Norton & Weiss?”

“Don't know the identity of the kid who ran into Reznick. All we know is that Norton & Weiss Inc is a law firm, run by a former CIA guy, Brewling. He wasn't on our radar. We had him down as retired. Name ring a bell?”

“Brewling? Didn't he work under Buckley way back in the 1980s?”

“Was his sidekick in Beirut no less. Led the covert operation to free Buckley when he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. It was a fuck-up and, as you know, Buckley was killed. Brewling retreated back to Langley.”

Meyerstein didn't take her eyes off the screens. “That figures. Does he live in Miami?”

“Just north. Very upscale area. Indian Creek Island. But he's not there.”

“Well let's find him. We need to speak to him.”

“We're working on it.”

Meyerstein felt frustrated just watching pictures. “Why is there no sound? Can't we hook up to this guy's radio through his security company?”

“We're still trying. Shit, he's making his move.”

Meyerstein watched as Reznick took a step forward. She knew what was coming. In an instant, Reznick grabbed the man's gun and used his left hand to redirect it away from his body, before he slammed his right fist hard into the guard's jaw. It was a Krava Maga move Meyerstein herself had been taught by the Israeli military. The guard was out cold.

“Oh Christ, what the hell?”

She watched as Reznick headed out of view. “Is it possible to get some other camera angles, people?”

A computer guy shouted across, “That's all we've got.”

Her cell phone rang and she recognised O'Donoghue's caller display. “Damn, that's all I need.”

Meyerstein hooked up with O'Donoghue who was taking charge of the emergency secure video teleconference from inside his huge office on the seventh floor at the FBI's HQ in Washington. She quickly brought him up to speed with developments down in Miami.

The FBI Director spoke first, “Martha, we have begun discussions with the President's National Security Staff, the Director of National Intelligence and the Department of Homeland Security, on this ongoing investigation. We are all very concerned that this is resolved ASAP. How did you let him get away?”

Meyerstein felt herself flush momentarily and took a few moments to comprose herself. “With respect, sir, this is not an ordinary Joe. Jon Reznick is trained to cope with almost anything. Look, I don't think this is a time for pointing fingers. This is a very complex investigation.”

“Miami is not a big city. Why can't we trace Reznick and in turn our scientist?”

“The signals are being jammed, pure and simple. We just cannot pinpoint where he is.”

The bright red light on the phone on the conference table began flashing. “Bear with me a second, sir, I'll turn this on to speakers so we can all hear.”

She pressed the speaker's button so O'Donoghue and everyone in the FBI's Miami conference room could hear. “Martha, we got something.”

It was Kate Reynolds, a bright up and coming young FBI Special Agent in her late twenties – a political science graduate signed up at John Hopkins – who had been seconded to the Hoover building from the Kansas City field office and was now at the lab Luntz worked at. She reminded Meyerstein of herself at that age. Fresh, eager and not worn down by the pressures of the job. But Meyerstein also detected a toughness and no-nonsense approach which she could relate to.

Meyerstein said, “Kate, we're in the middle of a teleconference with Director O'Donoghue, just so you know.”

Reynolds gave a nervous cough. “I'm working alongside the lab's senior management team. We're going through the records of everyone who's worked there in that lab, and we have three members of staff who have left in the last three years. Two have been accounted for, tracked down to new jobs. But there is one guy who worked with Luntz and who seems to have dropped off the radar.”

Meyerstein said, “Kate, you got a name?”

“Lt Col Scott Caan, a US army scientist. Hasn't been seen in the last couple of weeks.”

Meyerstein spoke first, facing the screens. “That's great work, Kate. OK, let's find out everything about him. Phone records, medical history, friends, coworkers, let's get into his life and see what we can find.”

Special Agent Reynolds said, “Sure thing.”

O'Donoghue was nodding, taking notes. “You lead on this, Martha. And no more excuses.”

The screens from O'Donoghue's office went blank.

Meyerstein cleared her throat and turned to her team in the Miami conference room. “A guy disappears from a government lab. No word from him. Luntz contacts us and is under FBI protection before he is due to meet us about his concerns. There are red flags here. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded.

“Kate, are you still there?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'd like a full report in in hour. The bare bones will do. Get me a picture of Caan and send it now.” Meyerstein turned again to her team. “As soon as the photo arrives, I want it run through face recognition software. I want it analyzed in-depth and then let's get Caan's picture to every field office in the country. He's out there somewhere.”

The phone on the conference table rang. Meyerstein picked up and the caller display told her it was Roy Stamper.

“Martha, I've been following up a couple of leads with Miami Beach police,” he said, loud traffic in the background. “We've got something real interesting.”

“Where exactly are you, Roy?”

“A back street in South Beach. The body of a forty two year-old white male. Look's like he's just been waterboarded.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope. Not exactly an everyday occurrence.”

“You got a name of this guy?”

“We got a name and a direct connection to Reznick.”

“I'm listening.”

“The dead guy is called Chad Magruder. Ed has got back to me with confirmation that he was Special Activities Division. Has a sister who lives out in Weston, nice town on the edge of the Everglades.”

Meyerstein felt her stomach knot. “Tell me all you've got on this connection.”

“You're gonna love this. Magruder and Reznick were in Iraq together. Black ops. But it doesn't end there.”

Meyerstein glanced up at the screen as medics attended to the unconscious security guard at the Brickell Tower. “Yeah, I'm listening.”

“Four hours ago, a suspicious death was called in from Fort Lauderdale.”

“Go on.”

“Local police found a dead guy on a boat. Guy named Leggett. Old Delta operator, just like Reznick. Best man at his wedding.”

“Good work, Roy.”

She ended the call and looked around at her team, relaying the news. “I don't believe in coincidences. It's obvious Reznick is the common thread. Two dead former Delta buddies of his. A dead young man who worked in Norton & Weiss. And a missing scientist. And let's not forget, one of our colleagues, Special Agent Connelly from Seattle, is also dead.”

She detected a renewed sense of determination amongst her team. “We might've let Reznick slip through our fingers. But that's the first and last time it's gonna happen. I want to find both Reznick and Luntz. I want everyone on it. I want all agencies brought up to speed. And I want results, not excuses.”

FOURTEEN

The first thing Reznick did after speeding away from the Brickell Tower was to dump the car in an underground garage. He hauled Luntz out of the trunk and moved him into the passenger seat of a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe with blacked-out windows. Then he headed across the causeway to South Beach.

He glanced at Luntz who looked clammy and pale, clearly not well. Probably exhausted as well as traumatised. Tiredness was also beginning to cloud Reznick's head. His thoughts seemed to be slowing down. Even the amphetamines couldn't kill the creeping mental fatigue. But he knew he had to try and head across to 5131 North Bay Road.

Was his daughter being held there?

The cold reality was that she could be anywhere.

The satnav showed North Bay Road was on the north side of South Beach, overlooking Biscayne Bay.

“I feel unwell,” Luntz said. “I feel a migraine coming on. I can't go on.”

“Just hang in there.”

Reznick groaned. He could see that driving around with Luntz was asking for trouble. Sooner or later a cop would pull them over. It was getting too risky having him around. The bottom line was that he needed to dump Luntz. Get him somewhere safe.

His mind raced realising he was clean out of ideas. He needed someone who knew the area. But who?

He racked his brains, desperately trying to think of ideas. The more he tried to conjure up an idea the more his mind clouded over.

He drove on for a couple of more blocks.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a name sprang into his head.
Tiny
.
Ex-Delta operator, Tiny. That's right.

Reznick began to remember back to a telephone conversation he'd had with Leggett, a year or so earlier. He said he'd bumped into Tiny in a bar. Tiny was working the door. But what was the name of the bar? And where exactly? Had to be relatively close to Fort Lauderdale.

He took the cellphone from his jacket and punched in the number of Leggett's bar. A young woman answered.

“I need to speak to Ron Leggett right away,” Reznick said.

“Who's this?”

“Just put him on. I'm a friend.”

A few moments later Ron came on the line. “I'm sorry, things are–”

“Ron, don't hang up. I think your phone will be bugged, so I want you to go to someone in the bar and ask for their cell number. I'll call you back in ten seconds on that number.”

“I don't understand.”

“There's no time to explain. Just do it.”

Leggett came on the line and gave Reznick a cell phone number. Then he hung up and Reznick punched in the number.

Leggett answered immediately. “What do you want?”

“The man who killed your father has been taken care of.”

A long silence opened up as if the kid didn't know how to react. Was he in shock? “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Now listen. I need a little help. Your father mentioned to me that he visited and had bumped into an old friend. Big guy. We called him Tiny.”

Ron sighed. “I know the guy. Met him once. I was with my dad. The guy was working the door.”

Reznick said, “Which bar? Where?”

“South Beach. 14
th
Street.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I got it. Ibar. It's open twenty-one hours a day. Just off one of the main drags.”

The line went dead.

That's all Reznick needed. It was nearby. He headed half a dozen blocks down Collins and turned left on Espanola, turned back onto 16
th
Street and then cruised down Washington Avenue and past The Playwright Irish Pub. A prowl car was parked outside a tattoo parlor, the cops drinking coffee, the window down, watching a group of five black guys fooling around with a couple of scantily-dressed Hispanic girls.

He doubled back down Washington again and pulled up at some lights. A crowd of young white girls, wearing short skirts and tight tops and impossibly high heels, swayed past. Then he took a right down 14
th
Street. Up ahead on the right, at the front of a queue of kids, a huge black doorman stood outside a dive bar. Reznick slowed and wound down the window. He looked across the street and saw the familiar diagonal scar on the guy's left cheek.

Charles ‘Tiny' Burns. It had been more than ten years since they'd worked together in Special Forces, but he recognised him immediately.

Reznick turned right and parked down an alley round the corner from the bar. He hustled Luntz out and threw him in the trunk again. Then he headed round the corner.

“Charles,” Reznick said, “how the hell you doing?”

Tiny turned around and took a few moments to twig who it was. His face broke into a broad smile. “You gotta be kiddin' me? Jon, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You don't wanna know, believe me.”

Tiny roared with laughter and gave Reznick a hug that nearly crushed the wind out of him. “Goddamn, man, you've no idea how good it is to see you.”

Tiny gripped Reznick's hand tight. “Man, how the fucking hell are you?”

“Better for seeing you. Look, I've got a problem. And I need help. If you can do this, you need to leave right now.”

Tiny shrugged and nodded. “Jon, what do you want?”

“Where do you live?”

“What?”

“Do you live here on the beach?”

“No, man, a former Delta operator, Bobby Sloan, you know him?”

Reznick shook his head.