Hard Road (19 page)

“Reznick, are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank God. I thought I'd lost you again. Right, first things first. Is the target somewhere safe?”

“Sure.”

“Good. We're in business. Bring him to The Tides within the hour. He'll be taken care of. Then our priority will be Lauren.”

His mind raced as he turned onto Washington Avenue and headed south. Deep down in his soul something about Maddox's story didn't make sense. It wasn't because the explanation he gave was complex. The fact was that it just didn't feel right. But what if his own reading of the situation was wrong and Maddox was indeed right. Where would that leave him? And to compound matters, he had information that pointed to Lauren being held in Key West.

The more he thought of it the more Reznick didn't know who to trust and what to believe.

He thought of his daughter. All he wanted was her back. He didn't know for sure if she was even alive. But if she was, she couldn't be used as a bargaining chip. She was first, last and everything to him. She was all he had.

“Reznick, are you still there, goddamit?”

He saw a sign for Cybr Caffee, an Internet café, dark green awnings partially shading the sidewalk. His mouth felt dry and his stomach growled. “Maddox, I need more time on this. I've got to think this through.”

“Reznick, you're out of time.”

“Perhaps. Look, I'll call you.”

“Wait. You need–”

“Speak to you later, Maddox.”

Reznick ended the call and drove around for a couple of minutes until he found a deserted alley, garbage bins overflowing from nearby restaurants and hotels. His mind flashed back to what Maddox had said. Was the guy Tiny had really a 9/11 financier and had he been duped? Doubts were still lingering and his nerve ends jangling. He needed to focus. He needed to get back in the game. He locked the car and headed back round to the café. It was all whitewashed walls, modernist black and chrome chairs and circular glass tables, three computers per table. The place was nearly empty, some electronic music playing low in the background.

He ordered a bottle of still water, a double espresso and a large toasted cheese and tomato sandwich. He handed the girl wearing a Motorhead T-shirt in the cafe a twenty-dollar bill and asked her to keep the change, which brought a smile to her face. Probably just earning some money to pay her way through college. He had such high hopes for his own daughter despite not going on to college himself. It was something he regretted. He felt like he had missed out on something. He was a big reader, just like his dad. He envisaged Lauren attending an Ivy League college. Despite only being eleven, she talked about Princeton, the same school as her mother.

He thought back to when Lauren was just a baby. Elisabeth holding her tight, leafing over tax papers whilst breastfeeding their daughter. Reznick popped out for some Chinese food. And they would eat. Then Lauren would fall fast asleep. And he'd carry her to the cot, lay her on her back and gaze down at his beautiful little girl, sleeping like an angel.

But all that seemed so very far away just now, embroiled in a race against time with some crazy kidnappers. It might already be too late for all he knew.

He snapped back to reality.

Reznick drank his bottle of water and wolfed down the sandwich. He picked up his espresso and headed over to a table with no other users and sat down, back to the wall. He logged onto the Internet and Googled the name Claude Merceron. It pulled up six hundred and thirty-two entries. He double clicked the top entry and it showed Merceron's short biography, alongside a picture.

He moved the cursor to the images of Merceron and double-clicked. Twenty-five separate images were pulled up.

Reznick scrolled through them. They showed Merceron sitting at his desk in the Haitian consulate in downtown Miami in front of the distinctive Haitian flag, two horizontal blue and red rectangles and the coat of arms in a white panel in the center.

Shit, the guy really was a diplomat. This meant diplomatic immunity. Untouchable.

Four pictures showed him handing over a one million dollar check raised from the Haitian community in Miami for the disaster relief appeal.

He studied his profile. He looked around mid-fifties, short cropped hair with a peppering of grey. Those black eyes again. He was physically imposing and was obviously well-nourished.

He exuded quiet authority, perhaps even menace.

He thought back to the basement in North Bay Road. The voodoo symbols. The blood and bones. The smell of rotting flesh.

Reznick clicked back to open up a few of the articles written about Merceron. He read about his charity work and business interests. Then blogs from Haitian exiles came up, speaking about the fundraising efforts for under privileged children in Little Haiti.

The more he read the more he wondered if he had the wrong guy. But Reznick knew that charity work didn't mean shit.

Thirty minutes later, as Reznick felt increasingly jaded staring at the computer screen, he came across an interesting article. It was a
Miami Herald
article about Merceron's vision for Haiti following the January 2010 earthquake. He was pictured sitting on a roof terrace.

Reznick scanned the tagline on the roof terrace photo that just said “
Consulate General Claude Merceron's birthday party, March 7, 2010, in Florida”
. But no indication of the location.

He stared long and hard at the image and wondered if the party was held at the Consulate in Miami. Was that where he could be found? Then he remembered a high-tech device that could help him.

He searched for the website for specialist software and tried to down the program Opanda IExif, which would perhaps help him find the location. But he wasn't in luck. Almost immediately an error message came up on the screen saying
Incompatible Extension
.

His heart sank. “Goddamn,” he said, before he even had time to keep his emotions in check.

“You got a problem, sir?” He turned and saw it was the girl who had served him coffee.

“It's OK, I'll figure it out.”

Reznick could feel her looking over his shoulder.

“The firewalls and security measures on all our computers will stop any new installations. And that includes the exchangeable image file format reader.”

“I appreciate your help, thanks.”

Reznick turned and stared back at the error message on the screen.

“Why don't you just download it to your cell phone?”

He leaned back in his seat and turned again to face the young woman. “Unfortunately, my phone is used for work purposes, and has been configured in a certain way. I know for a fact it won't accept that.”

She smiled and shrugged her bony shoulders. “That's too bad.”

Reznick groaned and shook his head. “I'll figure it out. Do you mind if I have another espresso and some of that carrot cake?” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “Appreciate your help. Keep the change.”

“Thanks. You mind me asking what you need that program for? Not gonna case some joint through geotagging, are you?”

Reznick showed his palms, as in mock surrender. “You got me. Am I that transparent?”

She laughed.

“No, actually, I'm wondering where a picture was taken. I'm a location scout. Just curious where it is.”

“You kidding? You in films?”

Reznick nodded.

She flushed crimson. “Oh wow, how cool is that?” She handed him her iPhone. “Hey listen, you're in luck. Download the program to my phone if you want.”

Reznick smiled graciously. “Very kind, thanks. Are you sure?”

“Go right ahead.”

For a split second, Reznick felt bad for spinning such a line. But what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Besides, Merceron was hiding his daughter, he was sure of it. And all bets were off.

He downloaded the program. Then he Googled the name Claude Merceron again, moved the cursor icon toward the image tab and then clicked enter. Then he scrolled through the images until he got to the one with Merceron being interviewed on the roof terrace.

Reznick opened the image. His heart hiked up a notch.
Please gimme a break, he thought
.
Almost immediately the GPS longitude and latitude references and the time stamp came up. Then he opened a tab that said ‘Locate Spot on Map by GPS'.

A Google map appeared before him with a red dot at South Ocean Boulevard, Palm Beach. The tag read The Palm Beach Club.

Reznick kept his feelings in check. He didn't want to get ahead of himself. It didn't mean a goddamn thing if Merceron wasn't there. But he sensed he was getting closer. A lot closer.

The website showed a liveried door man wearing a dark blue suit with gold braid, smiling outside a sprawling five-story white-washed mansion, its marble entrance shrouded by palms. It was founded in 1959 and drew its clients from wealthy businessmen and political leaders who had ‘made Palm Beach their home', including Florida Senator Jimmy Labrecq and Governor Collins and a smattering of retired hedge fund head honchos from Manhattan. The website showed the dark mahogany interior, the forty thousand dollars per annum fees, the health club, the cigar bar, the roof terrace, the three restaurants and the butterfly-shaped swimming pool.

He added the club's main number to his cell phone.

The girl arrived with his espresso and carrot cake and Reznick finished it in seconds.

“Appreciate your help,” he said again.

“You got everything you were looking for?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

Then he headed out of the café into the blinding afternoon sun.

Reznick knew that the temptation was to get into the car and drive at breakneck speed up to Palm Beach and storm into the club, trying to find Merceron or anyone who knew where he resided. But that wasn't the smart way. The smart way was the slow way. The considered way. He needed a way to get into the club.

He strode down Washington Avenue, along Collins, all the time gathering his thoughts, before he got back into the car.

Reznick fired up the car and pulled up the club's number on the phone.

“The Palm Beach Club” a man said, “how may I help?”

“Good afternoon. My name is Bill Crenshaw, the Governor asked me to give you a call. He's sponsoring my membership of the club next month. I've just bought a place down in Palm Beach, and he thought it would be a good idea for me to have a look around the club first.”

“That's not a problem, Mr Crenshaw. I can arrange for you to meet with Mr Symington, our general manager tomorrow.”

“That doesn't work. I've got a flight first thing tomorrow morning and I'm pressed for time, so it would have to be later this afternoon or this evening.”

“Very good, sir. Please hold the line, Mr Crenshaw, and I will check to see if Mr Symington is free later.”

A few moments of Bach before the man spoke.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Crenshaw. That's not a problem. The general manager has set aside his diary for this evening, if that's alright with you, sir.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing what you have to offer.”

Reznick gave the false name and personal details, before he ended the call. The shadows were lengthening as he drove off and headed along Collins. Up ahead he saw Barney's, an upscale clothes shop. He parked the car nearby and popped inside to the second floor up a staircase and bought a pair of shades, a dark blue linen jacket, new expensive faded jeans and a pair of burgundy loafers.

Then he went into a convenience store and bought himself some shaving gel, a razor, a comb, shower gel and booked himself into the nearby art deco Stardust Apartments further up Collins, using a false credit card. He showered and shaved, cleaning himself up. He stared at himself in the mirror. His grey-blue eyes always reminded him of Lauren's eyes. The same grey-blue.

Elisabeth often remarked on that.

Reznick put on his new clothes and stared at himself in the full-length mirror. He looked like a different person. Hair short and groomed. Smart clothes.

He knew chasing down the Merceron lead was a long shot. It was risky as hell. But he believed Merceron held the key to where his daughter was being held.

He headed downstairs and dropped off the key card for his room at reception and got back to the car, popped a couple of Dexedrine washed down with a bottle of water, punched the details of the club into the satnav and drove back over the causeway into Miami.

The dark orange sun was low in the sky as Reznick headed north out of the city. He got onto I-95 and sped on, past sun-scarred housing projects on one side, country clubs on the other. The lights of oncoming cars dazzled his eyes as the sky darkened.

A sense of foreboding swept over him like he'd never felt before.

EIGHTEEN

It was dark and the air warm and muggy when Reznick drove across the Southern Boulevard causeway onto Palm Beach Island. He hung a left onto South Ocean Boulevard. Huge palms swayed in the breeze, manicured hedges shielding the Mediterranean-style villas and mansions of the rich and powerful. Rock stars, royalty and assorted wealthy émigrés, including a few Russian Oligarchs.

Reznick knew the area quite well having done a job there three years earlier, made to look like a heart attack, on a Saudi Prince – a minor royal – who was funneling millions of dollars each year via secret Swiss bank accounts to bottom feeders used by the Taliban. It was a rather crude job, a jab in the ass with the nib of a syringe inside a Mont Blanc pen filled with Sux, in the middle of a crowded champagne bar during a polo match. The Prince went down within seconds, clutching his chest. Within minutes, he was pronounced dead, but Reznick was already gone.