Hard Road (3 page)

The name Benjamin Luntz, date of birth, 1.29.71, and a seven-digit identification number.
Israeli Defense Forces
.

He stared at the dog tag for a few moments.

Why the fuck had Tom Powell got an IDF dog tag of an Israeli soldier around his neck? It didn't make any sense.

The doubts began to set in. He needed certainty.

He had to wait more than eight long minutes until the man came to with a low groan.

Reznick pressed the Beretta to the man's forehead. The man gazed up, confused and scared.

“Shut up and listen,” Reznick snarled, hand covering the man's mouth.

The man nodded with a blank expression.

“This gun has a suppressor attached. Any sound, and you die. Got it?”

The man nodded again.

Reznick removed his hand from the man's mouth. “All right,” he said in a low voice, “gimme your name, date and place of birth. Right now.”

The man gulped hard and Reznick pressed the cold metal of the gun tight to his sweaty brow. “Please, take whatever you want.”

Reznick pressed the gun tighter to his skin making a small indentation as the guy began to tremble. “This is the second time I will ask. I don't ask a third time. Now, give me your name, date and place of birth. Failure to comply will result in the maids cleaning your brains off this wall in six hours time. Got it?”

“My name is Frank Luntz, born New York City, October 12, 1953.”

Reznick's mind went into freefall for a split second. The target's name was Powell. Something was badly wrong. “Tell me about the dog tag around your neck.”

“It's my son's.”

“What's his name?”

“Benjamin Luntz.”

Reznick's wondered whether to believe the man or not. Something wasn't adding up. Was he being played? “Are you Israeli?”

“No. My son emigrated. He had joint citizenship.”

“What do you mean had?”

“He was…he was blown up by a suicide bomber at a checkpoint in the West Bank three years ago.”

The man made a sudden movement and Reznick pushed him back down into the pillow. “Don't even think about it.”

“I want to prove it to you.”

The man reached under his pillow and pulled out a silver photo pendant. A faded color picture of a young man in combat fatigues, rifle slung over his shoulder, sitting atop a Merkava tank.

The man pointed to the bedside cabinet. “The top drawer. Check my wallet if you don't believe me.”

Reznick reached over and opened the top drawer. Empty. No driving license or credit cards to establish the man's true identity. “There's nothing there you lying bastard.”

“That's impossible. Perhaps Connelly has it next door.”

Reznick was tempted to kill the fucker there and then. “Who's Connelly?”

The man began to cry.

“Answer me. Who's Connelly?”

“He's a Fed. He's in the adjoining room. He's looking after me.”

Reznick's stomach knotted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He has the adjoining room to this.” He pointed a shaking finger in the direction of a door next to the dresser.

“Are you lying to me, because if you are, you die, here and now?”

The man began sobbing. Reznick placed his huge hand over the man's mouth to muffle the sound.

“One more peep out of you and I will rip out your wiring. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Hands on your head.”

The man complied. Reznick pulled a sock out of a drawer and stuffed it in his mouth, before tearing up strips of the bed sheet and tying it around his head to secure the sock. Then he tied the man's wrists and ankles to the four corners of the wooden bed, crucifixion style.

Reznick shone the penlight directly into his eyes. The man blinked away more tears. “Don't even think about fucking moving.”

The man nodded quickly. Reznick walked across to the adjoining door and pressed his ear up against it, listening for several seconds for any sounds. Creaks. Groans. But he heard nothing.

Slowly he turned the handle. His eyes adjusted and he scanned the room. The bed was made, wooden blinds and curtains shut, as if awaiting the next hotel guest. Perfect order. Empty. Or so it seemed. The hint of sandalwood in the air told another story. The room had been occupied.

Reznick sensed something was wrong. He shone the penlight towards the bathroom and opened the door. Opulent white marble sinks, bath and floor. White towels neatly stacked on a metal rack above the bath. A slight smell of damp pervaded the air, as if from a recent shower.

That again didn't add up to an unoccupied room.

Reznick went back into the bedroom as the penlight strafed the high quality navy blue carpet beside the huge wardrobe. His gaze wandered round the room, past a small flaxen sofa, until he fixed on a white painted louver door. He saw it wasn't shut properly. Perhaps half an inch ajar.

He moved closer. Kneeling down, he shone the light through the slatted openings. Inside, he saw what looked like tousled blond hair.

He held his breath.

Then slowly, he reached out and felt the wooden handle, before yanking open the door.

Reznick's heart jolted as the penlight picked out the dead eyes of the crumpled, semi-naked body of a blond-haired man, staring back at him. Telltale purple bruises around the neck and throat, hemorrhaging around the eyes. Reznick had seen this sort of thing before. Many times. The man had been manually strangled.

This was so fucked up it wasn't real.

His mind was racing when he returned to the darkened bedroom. He leaned down beside the man strapped and gagged to the bed. The man's eyes stared up at Reznick like a terrified child, afraid of his fate.

Reznick untied the bed sheet around the man's mouth and pulled out the sock. Then he pressed his face right up against the man's, smelling the sweat and fear. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I already told you.”

“Why do people want you dead? Who do you work for?”

Again Reznick pressed the gun to his head.

“I work for the government. Look, please tell me who you are. What've you done to Connelly?”

“Forget about him. Forget about me. What about you? What exactly do you do?”

“I told you, I work for the government.”

“Doing what?”

The man closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Answer me.”

The man said nothing.

Reznick stuffed the sock back into the man's mouth. He walked over to the window and buzzed Maddox on his lapel microphone, giving him the lowdown. The discovery of the murdered man's body – perhaps a Fed – and the possibility that they had the wrong guy.

Maddox listened in silence before he said, “Gimme two minutes and I'll get back to you.”

In less than a minute, the earpiece buzzed into life.

“The subject is to be protected and brought in. Make your way with the subject to a motel, the Clarence Suites, six blocks away on N Street NW, due southeast, and sit tight. Room 787. You are booked in under Ronald D Withers. He is your brother, Simon Withers. Clear?”

“Then what?”

“We are sending two of our guys, Bowman and Price. They'll take him off your hands.”

Then the earpiece went dead.

THREE

“Get dressed,” Reznick snapped, as he untied Luntz.

He needed to get them both out of the hotel. And fast. But he couldn't just walk out of the lobby as he was, dressed as a fucking maintenance man.

He rifled through the chest of drawers and found a dark blue cashmere jersey. He pulled it on but the sleeves were too long, so he rolled them up a couple of inches.

“One word out of place and you and your family will die,” he said, picking up his delivery bag. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

The man nodded and licked his lower lip.

Reznick shoved the gun into the back of his waistband. The cold metal felt reassuring against his warm skin. He cracked the door, saw the coast was clear and grabbed the man's arm and marched him down the thickly carpeted corridor towards the stairs. They passed a fire alarm. He punched the glass with his knuckles and pressed the red button.

The sound of ear-splitting alarms shattered the calm.

He hustled Luntz through the fire exit doors and down the stairwell. Luntz appeared bewildered and groggy, eyes heavy. Behind them, some shouts and instructions to “get a move on”.

Luntz asked, “Please, where are you taking me?”

“Shut up and do as I say.”

Reznick pushed through doors at the bottom of the stairwell and emerged into the huge lobby. Scores of frightened guests in nightgowns and pajamas were filing out towards the main doors. He found it easy to blend in and leave the hotel. They emerged into the cold night air as doormen and valets handed out blankets. In the distance, the sound of fire truck sirens.

His mind replayed the grid of streets he'd walked the previous night as he got his bearings. They headed along a still busy K Street, the main east-west artery through Washington's business district, past anonymous redbrick and concrete office blocks. It was home to powerful lobbying firms, think tanks and numerous advocacy groups, wanting to be close to the levers of power. But at that ungodly hour, the street was busy with groups of young revelers and professionals heading to nearby hip lounges and clubs.

Reznick was glad to cross over the road and up 17
th
Street NW, away from the main drag. Past the Pot Belly sandwich shop and the YMCA.

He pulled out his earpiece, lapel microphone and nametag, dropping them down a storm drain. He hurried on along the sidewalk and across the street, squeezing between two huge SUVs parked beside each other.

“Quicker!” he said.

The man nodded furiously.

Reznick hustled the man as they turned left and headed west along N Street NW, a broad, tree-lined street full of elegant row houses, past the Hotel Tabard Inn until they came to the redbrick Clarence Suites. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts.

His mind flashed to the dog tag around the man's neck. Was it genuine? Was it a ruse?

He turned to the man. “Not a word.”

The man nodded, fear in his eyes.

Reznick held Luntz's arm as they climbed the stone steps and through the hotel doors. The night desk guy looked very young, but was clean-shaven and sported a maroon waistcoat and matching tie.

“Good evening,” the kid said. “You guys booked a room?”

Reznick forced a smile. “Sorry we're so late. We got delayed with a connecting flight. My name's Withers and this is my brother. We've booked a room.”

The kid smiled back. “Not a problem.” He checked the computer in front of him, going down a list of names with a pencil. “OK, Room 787.” He handed over the swipe card. “You guys in town for a convention or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he said.

“Any luggage?”

“Got lost at the airport, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want me to try and contact your airline?”

“Don't worry; we've already been on to them. Should arrive later today. But thanks anyway. Appreciate your help.”

The night desk guy smiled. “Anytime.”

Reznick looked at the kid's badge, which read, “
Steve Murphy, Night Desk”
. He was clean-cut, polite and doing a thankless job for what probably amounted to minimum wage. He looked sixteen, if that. The kid reminded Reznick of himself when he was that age. Having to work shitty jobs on weekends and vacation time to help his dad make ends meet. “Hey Steve, tell me, have you got a room nearby which is free?”

The kid shrugged and checked the register. “Room 788 is vacant. Across the hall. You want to change rooms?”

“No, I'd like to book room 788 as well, if that's OK. I'm a light sleeper and my brother the opposite. And it'll be the only way I get some shut-eye.”

The night desk guy grinned. “No problem, Mr Withers. We've already got your card details, so that's all been taken care of. Will you be requiring a wake-up call?”

“No, I think I'll have a lie in. Long flight.”

“Enjoy your stay,” he said, and handed over the other swipe card. “Coffee machine and cable on demand in both rooms. So we've got you down for staying one night.”

Reznick smiled and nodded. He took Luntz by the arm and they rode the elevator to the 7
th
floor in silence. It was a long walk down the carpeted corridor. He swiped the card for Room 788 and went inside. He sat Luntz down on the bed.

“Why the room change?” Luntz asked.

“Never you mind.”

The truth was he didn't like the set-up. Not one bit. This didn't happen. So why this time? And how long until the handover?

The questions were stacking up as he paced the warm room while the man he should have killed sat with his head in his hands. He needed to think this through without having to babysit this guy.

Reznick reached inside his back pocket and produced what looked like a nasal spray and calmly sprayed the highly concentrated sleeping drug into Luntz's left ear.

The man's eyes rolled back in his head and Reznick had to stop him collapsing onto the floor. He picked him up and placed him on the bed. The drugs would knock him out for at least four hours, leaving Reznick without that worry ahead of the handover.

The minutes dragged.