Hard Road (6 page)

“Fingerprints? Cameras catch anything?”

Stamper pointed the remote control at the screen. “Grainy CCTV pictures of a white man in his thirties checking into a hotel.”

“Freeze it there, thanks,” Meyerstein said. “We got any idea who this guy is?”

Stamper cleared his throat. “Face recognition has confirmed this is highly likely to be a guy called Reznick. Used to be involved with the Agency.”

Meyerstein looked over the assembled faces towards Ed Hareton who had been seconded from Langley. “What's Langley saying, Ed?”

Hareton paused for a few moments as if thinking out his answer. “He's not on their books. Then they just give us the usual spiel, ‘we don't do that shit'.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Does that strike you as a likely scenario, Ed?”

Hareton shook his head as the briefing room became deathly quiet, all eyes trained on him.

Meyerstein stared at Hareton for a few moments, letting her withering gaze linger. “So, that's it?”

“No, I've made some calls. He once did work for us. But he hasn't worked for us in an official capacity for three and a half years.”

Meyerstein sipped some more coffee. She felt her anger grow. Why did she need to wheedle the information out of him? What happened to post-9/11 inter-agency cooperation? “Does he now or has he ever worked for the CIA in an unofficial capacity? Sub-contracted, so to speak.”

“There are indications–”

“I don't want indications or some agency doubletalk, Ed. We are looking for a missing government scientist and one of our colleagues has been murdered. Now I'm going to ask you again: has he now or ever worked for the CIA in an unofficial capacity?”

Hareton shifted in his seat. “He once did wet work for the government. What he's doing now, no one knows.”

Meyerstein's senses had switched on despite her tiredness. The phrase wet work was a euphemism for murder or assassination, alluding to spilling blood. She gazed again at the footage. “OK, now we're getting somewhere,” she said sarcastically.

Hareton flushed a deep red, embarrassed in front of everyone.

It wasn't Meyerstein's style to humiliate individuals in front of their peers. But she needed answers not prevarication. She turned to face the freeze-framed footage. “Well, he's certainly not retired. So, has he got any links to private security firms? Sub-contracting assassinations for foreign governments?”

Hareton shook his head. “He only ever worked for the American government.”

Meyerstein looked across at Stamper. “What else, Roy?”

“Reznick checked in under a false name only hours before this happened. His fingerprints are all over this.”

Stamper picked up the remote control again and played more footage. It showed Luntz and Reznick caught on camera outside the St Regis Hotel in the middle of the night after a fire alarm had gone off. He froze the image of a white guy – average height – wearing a dark jacket. “We're scouring the hotel's internal CCTV as we speak.”

Meyerstein stood up and studied the image, hands on hips. The man was ruggedly handsome, a day or two's growth, short dark hair, an impassive expression. “Tell me more about Reznick.”

Stamper shrugged. “The guy's a ghost. Black ops. No one knows or is admitting whose responsibility he is, but like Ed says, we believe he's carried out countless assassinations on behalf of the American government for the best part of fifteen years. Former Delta Force. The unit is also known as CAG, short for Combat Applications Group, for those familiar with Fort Bragg. This guy, Reznick, is something else. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Also got a major beef with authority, according to his file.”

Meyerstein sipped the coffee. “You want to elaborate?”

“It was noted by Colonel Gritz at Fort Bragg, who incidentally personally invited Reznick for the Delta assessment following glowing reports, that Reznick didn't like officers and was openly hostile during the Delta Selection phase. Apparently despised nearly all the officers he ever met.”

Meyerstein put down the coffee and folded her arms. “Anything else?”

“Highly decorated. A bit of a legend amongst the Delta cadre, by all accounts.”

“And then?”

“And then… then he disappeared into the clutches of what we assume to be the Agency, working across the globe.”

Meyerstein noticed Hareton shift again in his seat.

“The files note that Reznick was directly responsible for killing Hamas commanders, Al Qaeda operatives hiding in Pakistan, and he has advised friendly governments on assassination for the last decade.”

Meyerstein looked at Hareton. “Special Activities Division?”

Hareton shook his head. “CIA has issued a denial, but I think we can take it as read that he was at one time known to Langley.”

“Full name?”

Stamper continued, “Jon Reznick. Lives alone in a house on the outskirts of Rockland, Maine. He pays his taxes. On his IRS return describes himself as management consultant. He has two bank accounts.”

“How much has he got in them?”

“Three hundred and forty thousand dollars in the main one. He has no stocks, but he owns his own home, estimated to be worth eight hundred thousand dollars outright.”

“What about the second account?”

“That is topped up each year to the tune of fifty thousand dollars. It goes on tuition fees at Brookfield boarding school for his daughter Lauren Reznick, which comes in at $43,800 per year, and the rest on piano lessons, vacation money, that kind of thing.”

“Is he married?”

Stamper sighed. “He was. Elisabeth Reznick was a partner for a law firm, Rosenfeld & Williams Inc, who had their offices in the Twin Towers. She… she died on 9/11. Pulverised to dust. No body found.”

Meyerstein's mind flashed back to the day the world fell in on America. She remembered watching the nightmare images on the big screen in her office. The dust cloud over Manhattan.

“Tell me about his medical history.”

“He was shot in the leg in Afghanistan, but he made a full recovery. Tough as hell.”

“Has he been involved in anything high profile?”

“Textbook stuff. We believe he headed up a CIA team that went into Afghanistan, to help the Northern Alliance topple the Taliban. He led Task Force 121, a Special Forces group answerable to no one, assembled from Delta, Navy Seals, CIA paramilitary operatives and others, into Fallujah to assassinate some hardline Baathists. Then they had to fight their way out, street by street, for nearly six hours, after two Black Hawks were downed during the rescue mission.”

Meyerstein pointed to an NSA guy, Kevin Warwick. “So, Kev, what about Reznick's phone records? Has Fort Meade unearthed anything?”

“Untraceable number made a call to a cell phone which is registered in his name. GPS pinpointed his home in Maine. Someone called him a matter of hours before he appeared in Washington. We're still trying to pinpoint who it was.”

Meyerstein turned and stared long and hard at the ‘ghost' on the screens. “So where is he now?”

Stamper blew out his cheeks. “We know he took Luntz to the
Clarence Suites
, close to the St Regis. Night desk guy said a man matching Reznick's description checked in under the name Withers, with a man who matched Luntz's description. The body of what we believe to be an unidentified foreign national, without any ID, was found in one of two rooms booked under the name Withers. Forensics are on the scene. We're checking surveillance cameras in the street as we speak. Still drawing a blank.”

Meyerstein let her gaze wander round the room. “Luntz is top priority. We must get him back. But to do that, we must find Reznick.” She went quiet for a few moments as the assembled agents scribbled or punched in notes on their iPads. She faced Stamper. “What about Luntz's wife?”

“Two agents speaking to her right now.”

“What's she saying?”

“She said he didn't talk about his work.”

“That doesn't seem credible. Are you telling me he didn't mention anything about why he was heading to Washington?”

“Apparently not.”

“Check out his computers, files, records, everything on Luntz. I want to know about him from his friends, neighbors, people at the lab, I want to know about him. I also want Bangor field office to go over Reznick's home, from top to bottom. We need to get into his life. Are there are cellphones? Laptops? Phone books, anything. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

Stamper nodded in agreement. “I believe he's got cousins that live in South Carolina. He's also got relations in Nova Scotia.”

“Good. Let's get onto the Canadian Security Intelligence Agency. We need to build up a complete picture of Reznick. Has he been in contact with anyone he knows?”

Meyerstein sighed as she looked at Stamper and knew both would be away from their families until the investigation was resolved. She hated that part of her job. She turned to face the assembled agents and sighed. “I want to make one thing clear. There must be no mention of our missing scientist or a murdered Fed. Am I making myself clear?”

The agents and specialists nodded. For the next fifteen minutes, the analysts gave their take on what was happening, sharing and sifting any trends, the log boards being updated all the time with a plethora of information on the case.

“OK, people, I want calm heads on this. Let's get to it.”

FIVE

It was still dark as Reznick headed off the freeway at Exit 24 and into Annapolis, Maryland, Luntz still out of it in the back seat. The car hit a pothole and it jolted Luntz from his slumber.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Reznick said nothing as he glanced in the rearview mirror as Luntz's head lolled like a rag doll.

“I said where are you taking me?”

“Never you mind.”

Luntz began to dry retch.

“What the hell's wrong with you?” Reznick said.

“I don't feel too good.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“No, I'm not.”

He dry retched again.

“Better keep it in.”

“I'll try.”

Reznick sighed. He got onto Rowe Boulevard and drove on for a few blocks. He couldn't wait to get shot of Luntz and let Maddox figure out what to do with him. A short while later he pulled up at the deserted parking lot at Gate 1 in the shadow of the Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium. He opened up Luntz's door. “This is as good a place as anywhere to be sick,” he said.

Luntz stumbled out of the car. Then he fell to his knees and heaved the contents of his stomach on the asphalt. He retched a few more times before he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I'm sorry.”

“You finished?”

“I think so.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

He had a ghostly pallor that wasn't surprising in the circumstances.

“Please… can you tell me what you're going to do with me?”

“You're gonna be fine, trust me.”

“Why don't you answer my questions? Why were you sent to kill me?”

“It's nothing personal.”

“Who hired you?”

“Too many questions.”

Reznick buckled him back up and slammed his door shut, before he drove off towards the safe house.

“Why didn't you kill me when you could?” Luntz asked from the back seat. “What stopped you?”

“You're starting to bug me now. Like I said before: too many questions.”

A few minutes later, Reznick was driving through a near-deserted downtown Annapolis, past the floodlit Maryland State Capitol Building and over the King George Street Bridge.

The dead man's cell phone rang.

He picked up. “Yeah,” he said, expecting to hear Maddox's voice.

A long pause. “We need to talk, Mr Reznick.” It wasn't Maddox.

Reznick realised it had to be an accomplice of the guy he had taken out. The last thing he needed was to get into a discussion with
them
. “I think you've got the wrong number.”

He ended the call and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. But a few minutes later, only half a dozen blocks from the safe house, the phone rang again.

Reznick sighed and picked up. “I thought I told you–”

“You have something we want.”

“Not interested, thanks.”

“Don't be so hasty, Mr Reznick. You need to hand him over.”

“I think we're done.”

The man let out a long sigh. “We have something of yours, Mr Reznick. Do you want to know exactly what?”

Reznick felt his insides go cold. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you recognise this woman?”

A few seconds elapsed before a familiar voice came on the line. “Jon? Jon, is that you?”

Reznick's chest tightened and a feeling of dread washed over him. He was listening to the fragile and frightened voice of his late wife's mother. His thoughts were in free fall. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Beth, what the hell's going on?”

“Jon, I'm so sorry…”

“Sorry, what do you mean sorry?”

Silence.

“Beth, what's wrong?”

A deep sigh before she spoke. “Some men… some men took me from the house and–”

The man's voice came back on the line. “I have a gun pointed at your mother-in-law's head as we speak. You give me what I want and you'll see the lovely Beth again. But you must listen very carefully to what I have to say.”