Hard Road (20 page)

He cruised past the upscale Four Seasons and then a couple of hundred yards on he saw a sign for the Palm Beach Club.

He drove on for nearly a mile before he doubled back. Driving past he slowed down as he approached the main entrance.

Reznick scanned the locale as he pulled up opposite the entrance. The club was sandwiched between two sprawling mansions, divided by huge, manicured hedges, poles with surveillance cameras scanning the grounds.

He pulled out a pocket telescope and stared down the well lit, gravel driveway to the huge red sandstone building. Three young valets, wearing white shirts, gold waistcoats, black trousers and shiny black shoes, standing ready to park members' cars. A couple of honks from a car horn and a flash of lights from a passing car, no doubt angry at where he'd pulled up.

He slouched down low as he watched the valets goof around in the driveway. Two cameras strafed the entrance steps.

He checked his watch and saw it was 6.38pm. For the next fifteen minutes, a handful of expensive cars – a couple of Jaguars, a Porsche and a Rolls – turned into the driveway.

Reznick watched as the men got out their cars, helped by the valets – some dressed in conservative business suits, others in chinos, blazers and pink shirts, à la Ralph Lauren. Old and new money. Traditional and nouveau riche. All white. No women in sight.

He waited another five minutes. No new arrivals.

He pulled away and drove down the oceanfront road, before pulling a U-turn outside a huge property, then heading back towards the club. He turned into the driveway. The sound of gravel crunching underneath the wheels as Reznick drove towards the valets.

He pulled up outside the ornate entrance of the club and switched on the mini-jammer.
No hidden cameras or alarms would detect anything.

A young valet with a floppy fringe walked around his car. Reznick wound down his window.

“Welcome to the Palm Beach Club, sir. Can I take your car, sir?”

“Look after it, son,” he said, tossing the keys to the kid.

The kid grinned and jumped into the car as Reznick was escorted inside. A huge mahogany-paneled lobby opened up before him, black and white checked tile floor. Recessed lighting. Hanging on the walls were oil paintings of American presidents down the years that had been members of the club.

Reznick was greeted by the club concierge and asked to wait in the dark brown leather chair in the lobby while he fetched the general manager. It was all rich wood paneling, grandfather clock in the corner, hunting scenes and plaid patterned carpets. He picked up the New Yorker magazine sitting atop a pile on a glass table adjacent to him and he flicked through it, trying to appear calm, but inside burning with anger.

Was this Merceron's haunt? If so, would he be able to get an address? He was being consumed by dread, but he had to keep up the façade of calm sophistication.

The course of action he was taking could already have resulted in his daughter's death.

He checked his watch as the minutes ticked by, ignoring the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock. A full seven minutes after he had arrived, an effete man flounced over to him, hand outstretched. He wore a single-breasted well-cut dark suit, white shirt, pale yellow tie and shiny black Oxford shoes. “Mr Crenshaw,” he said, shaking his hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip. “Patrick Symington, General Manager. Lovely to have you here tonight. How was your journey?”

“Not a problem. Always good to be back in Palm Beach.”

“Indeed. Are we staying for dinner?”

“Sadly no. It'll have to be a super quick tour. I've got a late night meeting in Miami, before my flight first thing tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir, if you follow me.”

Symington led the way through the dark paneled hallways and into a drawing room overlooking the ocean, wine red seats all around. A couple of members turned round and smiled, nodding in his direction.

“What sort of line of work are you in, Mr Crenshaw, if you don't mind me asking?” Symington asked.

“Hedge fund management.”

A smile crossed his lips. “We have an eclectic cross section of Florida's business community. A couple of ex-presidents are members, too, as well as numerous senators and congressmen. I'm sure you'll feel most at home.”

Reznick nodded as he was taken to the first floor where there was a swimming pool and a gym. Then the second floor where there was a huge library, and a twenty-five-seat cinema. The third floor had private rooms and apartments for members staying over and a couple of bars. Then finally the fourth floor where he was taken to a bar.

“Are you sure we couldn't fix you at least a drink, sir?” Symington asked.

“Actually, I think I will. Scotch. Single malt, please.”

Symington signaled a waiter over. “A single malt whisky for Mr Crenshaw.”

Reznick and Symington made small talk about the balmy December weather for a couple of minutes until his drink arrived on a silver tray. He picked up the glass and took a sip of the whisky. The warm amber fired up his belly. “Very nice. Is that everything in the club?”

“We have a cigar bar, at the top, if you are interested, sir.”

“That would be great. Can someone take my malt there and I'll have a Montecristo to go with that. Can't think of a better way to relax before my meeting later tonight.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Symington called over the waiter to take his whisky upstairs and asked him to fetch a Montecristo cigar. He led Reznick up the stairs to the next level as the waiter followed.

“It attracts a terrific clientele. Of course your membership application along with the Governor's nomination should go through on the nod, probably in a matter of days.”

Symington turned and smiled before he escorted Reznick through a dimly lit corridor and opened a door into the cigar bar. The sound of easy-listening piano music filled the air. “A very popular spot later on in the evening,” he said.

A wraparound walnut bar. A barman holding a tumbler up to the light to check that it was clean. Dark brown sofas and a wine red carpet, more oil paintings of people he didn't recognise on the walls. A vague smell of cigar smoke, the humidifiers probably taking out the worst of the smell. “Very nice place you have here.”

Symington then walked through the bar and down another corridor and out more doors onto the terrace.

Reznick recognised Merceron immediately. His heart began to beat a bit faster. He was sitting at a table on the open terrace with an imposing figure in a white suit. They were both smoking huge cigars, drinking brandy. A gentle breeze blew in from the ocean, rippling a few napkins, and carrying the sound of the waves crashing on the beach.

Symington led Reznick past Merceron and the other man to a seat on the opposite side of the terrace. The waiter placed the drink on the table.

Reznick sat down and stared out over the dark ocean. “This is a perfect spot for me to take twenty minutes out. Been a helluva day.”

Symington made a small bow. “I'll bring you your cigar.”

Reznick shook his head and smiled, picking up his glass. “Actually, I think I'll pass on the cigar and stick with the single malt, if that's OK.”

Symington again gave a small nod. “Very well, sir. I'll be back to see you in twenty minutes.” He turned on his heels and headed inside.

Reznick waited for a few moments before he knocked back the Scotch in one go. The warmth coursed through his veins. He looked over at Merceron and the other man, but they were deep in conversation. Then he turned around and looked into the bar. The barman was still busy polishing the glasses. He didn't think Merceron's table was in line of sight of sight, which was good news.

Apart from Reznick, Merceron and his friend, the terrace was empty.

He took off his jacket and put it on his lap. Then he assembled the Beretta and the suppressor, under the table, away from the prying eyes of Merceron and the man. Satisfied it was screwed in securely, he flicked off the safety lever with his thumb and pulled back the slide.

Reznick looked over towards the bar and could see the barman who was wiping down the surfaces and had switched on the Bloomberg channel. The grating voice of a Wall Street analyst got louder. He watched as the barman headed out of the bar and through the doors downstairs.

This was his chance. He had a minute or two, if that.

He concealed the gun under his jacket and got up from his chair and ambled over to Merceron's table and smiled. He looked at the man sitting with Merceron. His neck was thick, veins bulging. “Mr Merceron and I have some urgent business to attend to,” he said.

The man looked at Merceron who in turn shook his head. He stared at Reznick long and hard. Then he broke into a broad grin, exposing excellent white teeth. “And what's it regarding?”

Merceron raised his eyebrows at the remark and also grinned at Reznick as if he was stupid.

“None of your goddamn business.”

That wiped the smile off their faces.

The bodyguard stared sullenly up at him, a sneer on his face. “Who the hell are you?” He began to reach into an inside pocket.

Reznick smashed his fist hard into side of the man's neck, just below and slightly in front of the ear. The bodyguard's head lolled forward like a rag doll. He had been rendered unconscious by the brachial stun to the carotid artery. The man would be out of it for a good ten minutes, maybe more.

He stared down at Merceron who wasn't grinning anymore. He dragged heavily on his cigar as if he didn't care, but a slight tremor in his hand betrayed his fear.

Reznick pulled up a seat and sat down at ninety degree angle to Merceron, his back to the bar. He pointed the gun under the table. “Hands on the table.”

Merceron said nothing. He crushed the cigar in an ashtray and expelled the rest of the cigar smoke through his nostrils. Then he sat with his hands on his lap.

Reznick pressed the gun to Merceron's crotch. “I said hands on the fucking table.”

“I don't think we've met. And you are?”

Reznick leaned over and struck a quick rabbit punch to Merceron's windpipe. He winced and clutched his throat, struggling to breathe.

“You will do as I told you. Hands on the table.”

Merceron's eyes filled with tears after the shock of the blow and he placed his hands on the table as instructed.

“Where is my daughter?”

Merceron swallowed hard and took a few breaths before he spoke. “Do you honestly think you can get away with this? In my club?”

Reznick stood up and picked up a white cotton napkin, stuffing it into Merceron's mouth. Then he pressed the gun to his shoulder and shot him once. The screams were muffled. “Now, tell me where my daughter is.”

Merceron yanked the bloody napkin out of his salivating mouth and snarled through the blood, “You're gonna die, my friend. The voodoo gonna get you.”

Reznick pressed the gun to Merceron's throat. He leaned in close. “I don't care much for that superstitious bullshit. In fact, I don't care much about anything. But I do care about my daughter. And I want her back. Now where is she?”

Merceron began to laugh uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Then he spat at Reznick.

Reznick wiped the spittle with the back of his hand and wiped it on his shirt.

“Go fuck yourself.”

That was the final straw. Reznick kept the gun trained on Merceron as he pulled the tan leather belt from his chinos.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Merceron asked.

Reznick wrapped the belt tight around Merceron's neck. Tighter and tighter until Merceron looked as if his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. The leather was biting deep into the thick folds of skin, and Merceron's mouth opened wide as his breathing became constricted. “I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” he said, teeth clenched. “I'm going to squeeze the life out of you, you fat fuck, unless you tell me what I want to know. You wanna know what that feels like?”

Merceron was gasping for breath, shaking his head frantically.

He had found Merceron's tipping point.

Merceron rasped, “OK, enough! Please!”

“Where is she?”

“My wife's boat, your daughter is on the boat!”

“Name of the boat? And where is it?”

“The yacht is called
Pòtoprens
, as in the Haitian Creole pronunciation of Port au Prince.”

“I need the coordinates.”

“It's anchored one mile south of Key West.”

So, Maddox was right.

Reznick loosened the belt from Merceron's neck as he struggled for breath, coughing and retching. He stared down at him for several moments wondering if he was telling the truth. The problem was that if Merceron was telling the truth, he could easily call up the yacht and get them to move. “I don't believe you.”

Merceron closed his eyes and held his throat as blood continued to spill from his bleeding shoulder wound. “I'm telling the truth.”

“Who asked you to do this?”

“It was a favor.”

“A favor for whom?”

“A guy. He works for the government.”

“Name?”

“I can't give you his name. I've never met him. I do work for him. I do contracts.”

The sweat was running down Merceron's brow and perspiring around jowly cheeks. He eyed the gun with bloodshot eyes. “Your daughter is on the yacht.”

Reznick pressed the gun to his head. “How do I know that?”

“Check my iPhone. Open up the marine traffic application. It gives the co-ordinates of the yacht.”