Hard Road (22 page)

“You all done, chief?” a guard asked.

“It's all sorted. Have a good night.”

Then he walked around the corner and hailed a cab.

“Where to, buddy?” the driver asked, as he climbed in the back.

“Penn Station. And make it quick.”

The maze of corridors inside Penn Station, the artificial light from the low ceilings, the throng of early morning commuters, the smell of cheap junk food, coffee, piss and crazy-eyed panhandlers straight out of a psychiatric unit shouting about God and Heaven and Hell, were making Scott Caan feel nauseous. He remembered the first time he rode on a train and arrived in New York. The sense of chaos and noise assaulted his senses.

As he rode a packed escalator up towards the Amtrak concourse, his nerve ends were twitching, scanning the huge arrivals/departures boards at the top. He saw that he had twenty minutes to board the 6.30am Acela Express to Washington DC, which was departing from the West Gate on the left.

Caan had been through the station numerous times before. It was a shithole and an embarrassment to the nation, tourists standing agog at the filth as the Long Island and New Jersey commuters flooded down the escalators after their early morning trains pulled in.

It was a relief to get to the Acela lounge for First Class passengers.

Caan saw for the first time the man who was shadowing him. He was clean-shaven, wore a dark blue fleece, dark blue jeans, Timberlands and was carrying a black Adidas sports holdall. He fitted the description perfectly. The man didn't make eye contact. He bent down to tie his shoes.
The sign
. Then he followed him into the empty bathroom.

The man placed the bag at his feet as he peed. Caan went over and picked up the bag and locked himself in a stall. He unzipped the bag and put on the fresh set of clothes that were inside. Then he left the toolbox in the stall for the man to dispose of, along with the discarded maintenance clothes.

Caan got a seat in the lounge and settled into a comfortable seat to read his
New York Times
with his complimentary latte and blueberry muffin. He had just over ten minutes before he had to board the train to Washington. A short while later came an announcement that his train was boarding and he followed a red cap and the other passengers to the train. He stepped on board and entered the first class compartment. The décor was all silvers and greys. He found his allocated blue leather seat and sat down, letting out an audible sigh.

He watched as his shadow took a seat four rows in front of him. The man didn't make eye contact. That was fine. That had been explained to Caan.

As the train headed out of the city – still cloaked in darkness – towards Newark, Caan was given a complimentary latte, his second of the morning.

He gazed out into the darkness as the train picked up speed. He had dreamed of this journey for the last twenty-four months since the planning started. He couldn't believe how well the New York side of the operation had gone. The mission could already be described as a success. What was to come would be the icing on the cake.

All the years he had lived a lie. He had concealed his true feelings about America. But now his wildest dreams were on the brink of coming true.

TWENTY

The first pink rays of the early morning sun could be seen on the horizon, as the traffic finally got moving. Reznick was headed south out of Miami towards Key West. Throughout the night all he could do was sit in stationary traffic after the horrific multiple-lane pile-up. The long hours were filled trying not to think of his daughter. He channel hopped from talk radio station to talk radio station.

They blasted out everything from Bible sermons to the dangers of big government. But all he could think about was Lauren. His little girl.

He pictured her lying gagged and bound, drugged, at the mercy of some Haitian crazies.

He felt a volcanic anger brewing within him, ready to devour him at any moment.

Reznick looked at his satnav which told him it was a one hundred and thirteen mile drive on Highway 1 from Miami to Key West. It would take the best part of four hours. And he would have to stick to fifty most of the way.

He pressed on south as the dawn broke finally on the sun-bleached road.

The blue-green Atlantic was on his left, the Gulf on his right. He kept an eye on his speed so as not to attract attention. His gut reaction was to hit the gas pedal and get out to the yacht Lauren was being kept on. But that was not the way he was going to do it. He was too close now to blow it.

Reznick's mind drifted back to Lauren. He remembered the day she was born, nearly a year to the day after they married, and the way his wife held her so close. When it was his turn to hold her, he stared down into her soft pink face and she smiled back, blue eyes sparkling. The feel of her silky hair. The way she held his hand. He felt lighter that day. He felt something inside like he'd never felt before. A sense of calm. And of love.

But what if she had been killed? What if she was being tortured at that moment? What if…?

“Fuck!” he shouted to himself.

Reznick resisted the urge to put the foot on the gas. He passed through Key Largo and saw a small green mile marker sign indicating 102.5, the number of miles to the southernmost part of the Keys. He drove on ignoring the kitschy gift shops selling seashell necklaces, burger stands, dive shops, bait shacks and headed towards Islamorada.

The traffic seemed to slow with a slew of camper, rental convertibles and pickups hauling fishing boats, heading south.

Overhead pelicans swooped and then dived into the turquoise waters.

His mind flashed back to an old Special Forces friend, Frank Clements, who had sported a huge tattoo of a pelican on his back. The guy was a real family man who had four kids and was nuts on diving. He raved about the sports fishing on the Keys, although he also bemoaned the crappy restaurants and entertainment bars, which were springing up everywhere. When Reznick once asked out of curiosity why he'd got a pelican tattoo, Frank told him that in medieval Europe, the pelican was thought to be particularly attentive to her young, to the point of providing her own blood when no other food was available. The story always stuck with Reznick. He would do the same. He would gladly give up his own blood for his daughter. He would die for her. He would kill for her.

Reznick drove on. The sky seemed bigger and the hamlets smaller. He passed roadside stops with sandy beaches and long shallows. Then it was past Little Duck Key, a couple of locals fishing from a bridge. The sky became a deep blue, not a cloud in the sky. He felt drowsy, losing track of time, not having slept properly in two or three days.

He cracked open the window and felt the warm breeze from the Gulf waters. It reminded him of Elisabeth, before Lauren was born, when he was on R&R from Somalia. They decided to catch a flight down from New York to Miami and then drive down to Key West for a few days. They stayed at the Hyatt-Sunset Harbor, which was close to Sloppy Joe's, where they kicked back most evenings. They walked the beaches, and he felt himself unwind from the flashbacks of atrocities he'd witnessed. They dived together. Elisabeth tanned easily and in her faded denim shorts and white vest, with her long legs and toned arms, she looked great.

It was hard to believe she'd been gone more than a decade. After a time he didn't feel anything.

He sometimes wondered how he hadn't gone under. Perhaps it was something to do with his Delta training. The desensitisation to trauma. The psychological profile that detaches at will. But then again, maybe it was because he was damaged. Maybe he didn't realise how far gone he was.

A loud blast of a car horn snapped him out of his reverie.

Reznick looked in his rearview mirror and saw a dark blue Lincoln tailgating him, desperate to overtake. Further back, he noticed a black Suburban. There were no other cars following. He let the Lincoln pass him as the driver shook his head.

Up ahead, Reznick saw a sign for an outdoor seafood restaurant, Mangrove Mama's, and decided to pull over, feeling empty inside. He parked the car and picked an outdoor table with a great view over the water.

He felt empty and realised he was famished. He ordered conch fritters followed by a crab sandwich, washed down by a large glass of Coke. The same kind of food his father liked. Afterwards, in the bathroom, he popped two Dexedrine, splashed cold water on his face, and was ready for anything.

He walked back to the car and turned the radio onto a rock station as he began the final leg of the journey.

Fifteen minutes later, he glanced again in his mirror and saw the same black Suburban as before. Same plates. Had they stopped in Sugarloaf Key when he did?

Reznick drove on. He looked again in his mirror. The black Suburban had dropped further back in traffic that was now building up as he approached Key West.

He drove down North Roosevelt Boulevard on his way into the historic ‘old town', shrouded in tropical foliage and bone-dry palms. The pastel painted bungalows, wooden-framed mansions, the peaked metal roofs, louvered shutters, covered porches and wood lattice screens. The feel of Key West was always something that appealed to him. And it held such precious memories for him. Moments of peace.

Reznick followed the P signs for a parking garage at the corner of Grinnell and Caroline. He drove to the upper level where he parked the car and switched off the engine. Then he got out, popped open the trunk and lifted out a small rucksack containing all his ‘work' gear. A couple of pistols, scope rifle, an electric stun gun and a selection of knives.

Reznick strapped on his rucksack, locked the car and strode towards the sign for the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black car edge towards him. He stole a quick glance and saw the same black Suburban again.

He sensed the car was slowing behind him. It pulled up and the car door opened and then slammed shut. Reznick reached inside his belt for his gun.

“You're a long way from home, Jon,” a woman's voice said.

Reznick stopped in his tracks. He was surprised to hear a female voice. He turned around and saw a strikingly attractive woman in her late thirties, wavy dark hair, standing beside the Suburban. She wore a dark blue suit, pale pink blouse underneath.

“I think you got the wrong guy, sorry,” he said.

Reznick turned to walk away.

“We can help each other, Jon.”

Reznick turned around again and moved towards her. Immediately, four dark suited guys stepped out of the Suburban in a casual manner and stared at him. He stared back at each one before he turned to the woman. “Look, you must've got me mixed up with some other guy, I get that a lot.”

The woman stood her ground, before she took a few steps towards him until they were standing face-to-face. She was a few inches shorter than him. Her eyes were cobalt blue and her makeup was subtle and soft. “FBI, Jon. I'm Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein.”

Reznick said nothing.

She reached into her jacket and held up a picture of Reznick and Elisabeth, arms wrapped around Lauren. The images seared into his head. His most prized possession. The last picture he had of her alive. The last picture he had of them as a family. Two weeks later
she
would be dead. He looked at his wife's eyes, smiling, oblivious to the fate that was about to befall her. He felt his anger rise, but kept his emotions in check. “If you're wondering, we got it from your screensaver. So let's cut the bullshit. We know everything about you, Jon. We know about your wife, Elisabeth. We know about your father. We know he served his country, as have you. And we also know he brought you up when your mother died. You want me to go on?”

Reznick stared back at her. His mind flashed back to the day of his mother's funeral. He was only four. His first memories. Snow was falling as they lowered her into the bone-hard ground. His father gripped his tiny hand throughout, as if scared he would be snatched away. He wanted to cry, but he didn't. He learned later that she had scrubbed and cleaned holiday homes in Rockland in the mornings and at night, for extra money. She'd scrimped and saved all her life.

“You live in the same house your father built when he returned from Vietnam. He was in the Marines. He was the reason you joined up.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Look, there's two ways we can do this. There's the smart way and there's the dumb way. The dumb way, there's a fair chance you will be shot dead before you reach for that gun again. The smart way? Well, the smart way would be for us to talk.”

“Look, this is all very interesting, but I've got things to do.”

She looked him over with a steely gaze. “We know why you're here in Key West, Jon. We know what you've been up to since you drove down from Washington. And I've got a proposition for you.”

“What kind of proposition?”

“I want you to get your daughter back. But in return, you've got to help us out.”

The Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West's harbor walk overlooked a marina, scores of yachts and boats bobbing about in the swell. Dozens of people were drinking in and around the bar, knocking back lunchtime margaritas, beers and mojitos; country music playing loud.

Reznick headed to an empty upstairs deck and sat down under a huge umbrella. Meyerstein sat down opposite him and donned a pair of shades. He ordered a large Coke, she ordered an iced tea. The four suits sat at a table near the entrance with direct line of sight to Meyerstein and Reznick.

When the waitress was out of earshot, Meyerstein leaned over and spoke softly.

“OK, before we can get down to business, I need to get some answers,” she said, curling her hair behind her ear.