Hard Road (2 page)

Inside was a metallic thirteen-inch MacBook Pro laptop, a specially modified cell phone, a 9mm Beretta handgun and sufficient ammo to kill a small town, an electronic anti-jamming device, a military issue stun gun, a powerful muscle relaxant drug in a syringe disguised as a ballpoint pen and five thousand dollars in cash.

Reznick zipped up the bag and slid it under the passenger seat. Then he drove straight to the deluxe hotel in downtown Washington to await final instructions.

TWO

The St Regis Hotel on 16
th
Street was known as one of Washington's smartest hotels, two blocks north of the White House, its impressive limestone façade only hinting at the grandeur inside.

Reznick pulled up shortly after 10pm and handed the keys over to the Hispanic valet, careful to pick up the Louis Vuitton bag.

A concierge opened a door as he strode into the lobby. It was like some Italian renaissance dream. Chandeliers hanging from coffered ceilings, gold gilt-edged paintings, oriental rugs on the marble floor and antique and dark wood furniture.

Reznick handed over his fake driver's license and credit card to a young woman behind the desk. “Good evening,” she said.

“Nice to have you at the St Regis, sir.” She brought up his details on the computer. “Is this your first time with us?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we hope you enjoy your stay.” She handed over a swipe card as a smiling uniformed bellman approached. “This is Andy, the butler for your floor. You need anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

Reznick smiled and was escorted to the sixth floor by Andy, tipping him twenty dollars. “I'll get it from here.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Absolutely.”

The butler gave a polite nod and headed back to the elevator. Reznick waited until the guy was out of sight before he carefully swiped the card. Inside, the deluxe room was decidedly upscale. A king-sized bed, large flat screen TV, dark wood antique-style writing desk, chair and sofa, gold-framed octagonal mirror, Bose radio, iPod sound dock, mini-bar stuffed with Krug and Rolling Rock beer, original artwork on the walls, chandeliers setting the scene. In the bathroom, brass fittings and earth tones of mosaic tiles, a large mirror which doubled as a 15 inch ‘intelligent' TV, two marble sinks and a fluffy white St Regis bathrobe hanging behind the door.

The first thing he did was hang a ‘Do Not Disturb' sign outside his room and lock the door. Satisfied he wasn't going to be disturbed, he opened up the luxury bag and placed the pre-configured MacBook Pro on the writing desk. He opened it up and within a matter of seconds it was up and running.

Reznick sat down at the desk and punched in his allotted password –
coldbracelet1
– into the keys of the laptop, scanning his inbox. A soft beep and there was one encrypted message with an attachment.

He clicked on Decrypt Message to view the file and was prompted to confirm two unique passwords. He keyed in
OfwaihhbTn,
initials from the first line of the Lord's Prayer, followed by DNalKcOr, his hometown spelled backwards. Then three personal questions – his grandmother on his father's side's maiden name: Levitz; his father's birthplace: Bangor; his blood group: Rh negative.

He typed in the security protected keys and the email displayed in the browser. He clicked on the ‘Reply' button and the attachment was returned securely.

A two-page dossier and six black and white photos appeared before his eyes.

The man he'd been sent to kill.

Reznick's stomach knotted as he scanned the screen. Tom Powell, aged fifty-nine, described as an ‘imminent security risk'.

He lived with his second wife and two school-age children, in a quiet cul-de-sac in Frederick, Maryland; his oldest son away at university. According to the file, he had checked into the St Regis the previous evening, Room 674, three doors down. It didn't say why exactly he should be neutralised.

He pondered on that. Usually, when he did a hit, the reason was made quite clear. It could have been spying, terrorism or a whole host of threats to the country. Invariably they had an explanation.

So, why not now?

Reznick read on. The file said Powell had to be a ‘suicide'. No other options.

This was the first time that Reznick had been asked to kill an American citizen on American soil. He knew that it would have been impossible if he was still within Delta because of the Posse Comitatus Act, which prohibits under federal law the military being used in operations within the United States. But he was no longer constrained.

In the past he'd taken out a Saudi military attaché in New York, a billionaire Arab banker in London funding Hezbollah, a Russian spy in Vienna, a host of Jihadists across the Middle East and a smattering of Islamic fundamentalists, living and working in America.

It was business. Realpolitik. The stone cold reality of politics based on realities and material needs.

He studied the picture of the man, including one with his eldest son – John, a law student at George Washington University – playing football in a local park in Frederick, and committed them to memory. A good-looking kid. Clean-cut, short blonde hair, preppy clothes.

He looked again at the photo of Powell until he could remember the smallest detail. The dime-sized mole on his left cheek, the greying sideburns, the bushy eyebrows, and the small scar above his right eyebrow caused, according to the file, in a schoolyard fight.

Reznick's training at
The Farm
in Virginia, all those years ago, had stressed the importance of knowing the subject inside out. The little details. This enabled an appropriate plan to be drawn up and executed.

Maddox and his team would have explored Powell's lifestyle habits as well. His sleeping patterns and any health problems. The file noted that he was a keen golfer, not on prescription medication, led a clean life; a glass or two of expensive French red wine over dinner on a Friday and Saturday evening, his only vice.

He finished reading the dossier, shut down the computer, and waited for Maddox to call.

The waiting was always the worst part of the job. Endless hours spent hanging around motels, hotels, safe houses, halfway houses, flop houses, apartments and all myriad of places, before the final phase.

Reznick was not the judge. Nor the jury. He was the executioner. Except he didn't sit in on the trial, because there was no trial. This was summary justice, as practiced by every government in the world. Sometimes the dirty work was sub-contracted to a foreign intelligence agency or their contractors. But this was in-house.

Just after midnight, Reznick's cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He switched on the TV, showing a Redskins game, to drown out his voice.

Maddox said, “Are you in place?”

“Yes.”

“This is a wet delivery. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“OK, run-through time. Our guy is a creature of habit. He's in his room, fast asleep.”

“How do you know?”

“GPS on his Blackberry and bug in his room's smoke detector.”

Reznick made a mental note.

“Hold back until five minutes
after
oh-two hundred hours when the video camera in the corridor will be remotely switched off until oh-three hundred and the lights dimmed. You have a copy of his room swipe. Assume you have fifty-five minutes to make this delivery.”

Reznick said nothing. He had enough time.

“Do good.”

“Need to get rid of my wet bag and case. Won't be needing any of that.”

“We're ahead of you. Your room will be cleaned as soon as this delivery has been made. A maintenance uniform is hanging in your closet with a matching navy bag.” A long pause elapsed. “Sit tight. Then it's just you and him.”

With less than one hour to go, Reznick was sitting in his darkened hotel room, primed to carry out the delivery. He had changed into a pale blue short-sleeved work shirt and black pants, gold wire-rimmed glasses, shiny black shoes and metallic nametag on his lapel: Alex Goddard, service engineer, a small holdall at his feet. He pressed a tiny audio device into his right ear for communication, whilst the nametag concealed a hidden microphone.

Everything in place. No diversions. No TV, radio, music, magazines or newspapers to sidetrack him. The way he always worked during the crucial last hour.

The pale blue LCD display on his digital watch showed 01.21.

Reznick's earpiece buzzed and he tensed up.

“Reznick, do you copy?” The voice of Maddox was a whisper. “Reznick?”

“What?”

A small sigh. “OK, we have two room service types – a guy and a woman – one dropping newspapers outside doors, the other pushing a room service trolley with food and drinks. They're in the elevator, and they're heading your way.”

Reznick could hear his heart beat.

“OK,” Maddox whispered, “now they're on the sixth.”

On cue the ring of the elevator doors opening and dull footsteps padding down the carpeted corridor. The faint tinkling of metal against glass, accompanied by a low male voice. Thuds as the papers are left outside each room. The sound of a door opening.

Three long minutes later, they were gone.

“OK, buddy, sorry about that. You all set?”

“How's our guy?”

“Sleeping like a baby. Slam dunk, Reznick. You've got a clear run.”

The line went dead at 1.23am.

When his watch hit 02.05, he peered out of the peephole. No movement or sound. He lay flat down on the floor and pressed his left ear – the one without the earpiece - to the carpet, listening for elevator vibrations, footsteps or sudden noises, anything.

He heard the faint sound of water pipes creaking. Perhaps the merest hint of laughter somewhere below.

Apart from that, all quiet.

Reznick got up and stood holding the bag. He took half a dozen slow, deep breaths.

Just breathe
.

His breathing even, he was ready.

Slowly, he turned the handle and stuck his head out of the door and peered down the dimly lit, carpeted hallway.

Not a soul.

The military dictum of the Marines kicked in. It meant moving fast or rushing in was reckless, and could get you killed. If you move slowly, you are less likely to put yourself at risk.

He edged out and closed the door as slowly and softly as he could. The metallic locking system sounded to him like a rifle reloading.

Reznick looked around and took the short walk to the man's door. Slowly he swiped the card, the metallic clicking noticeably softer. He cracked the door. The sound of deep snoring. He kept the door ajar for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The room smelled of stale sweat and old shoes.

Underneath the window, the crumpled silhouette of the man lying in bed, facing the wall, duvet on. Softly he shut the door, barely making a noise as it clicked into place.

Reznick crept towards the sleeping man. Closer and closer, careful not to trip on any objects lying around.

Standing over him Reznick saw the dime-sized mole on his left cheek. Suddenly, the man groaned and turned over onto his back. The springs on the bed creaked.

Reznick froze, not daring to breathe. A deep silence opened up for a few moments as he wondered if the man was really awake. He stood still and waited. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Eventually, on the fourth beat, the snoring continued as before, rhythmic and deep. He let out his breath slowly. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the lipstick-sized Taser.

He leaned over and pressed the metal device hard against the man's temple. Electric currents provoked convulsions for three long seconds. His eyes rolled back in his head; the sound of gurgling and groaning. Then nothing.

Unconscious.

A standard first-step procedure. Eight minutes, maybe ten, before the man came to.

Reznick rummaged in the bag and produced the auto-injecting syringe disguised as a ballpoint pen, containing succinylcholine chloride, which he knew as “
Sux
”. The drug was a skeletal muscle relaxant used as an adjunct to surgical anesthesia and had been employed as a paralyzing agent for executions by lethal injection. A twist of the nib and a quick stab into the man's skin would deliver seven milligrams of the drug. But only five milligrams was necessary for death. The victim would be paralyzed within thirty seconds. The muscles, including the diaphragm, would shut down, with the exception of the heart. He would be unable to speak or move, although his brain would still be working. Then he had three minutes until his breathing ceased, unable to scream out for help.

The beauty of the drug for assassinations was that enzymes in the body begin to break down the drug almost immediately, making it virtually impossible to detect.

Powell was to be injected in the buttocks with the drug, knowing most medical examiners would suspect a heart attack as the natural cause of death, in the absence of evidence of foul play.

He pulled back the duvet and switched on his penlight, examining the paunchy unconscious man lying before him. He wore pale blue pajamas, white vest underneath. He had a cheap watch with a frayed brown leather strap. The last moments in his life, and the poor bastard didn't know anything about it. He never usually felt anything when he had to kill a raghead or billionaire terrorist bankroller. But in this case it did feel strange, knowing that this was an American.

The penlight picked out something round the man's neck, tucked inside his vest. He looked closer and thought it looked like an aluminium dog tag. Then he held it in his hand, turned it over and saw an inscription in Hebrew.