Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick just stared at him.

  The woman smiled at Reznick. “Jon, we know your background. We know what you’re capable of. And I, for one, am very sympathetic to what you’re facing.”

  “My daughter’s in a coma. Do you know that?”

  “I understand,” she said. “But you need to realize, the law matters. We do things by the book.”

  “I keep on hearing that. The law. The law. No one is above the law. Except when they are, apparently. I’m talking diplomatic immunity.”

  The guy cleared his throat, looking increasingly agitated. “Mr. Reznick, what you’re doing is surveillance, I get that. But you can’t go around spying on people. Diplomats. Whoever you think was involved in this terrible accident.”

  Reznick said nothing, feeling a seething anger building inside him.

  The woman said, “Jon, can I ask, what did you hope to achieve?”

  Reznick shrugged.

  “I would suggest,” she said, “that what you’re doing is deliberately letting him know, or us know, that you are monitoring him, right? You want him to know that you’re there.”

  Reznick was impressed. She knew what he was doing. And why. “Good analysis.”

  “I’m ex-military myself. I know about these things. And would I be right in suggesting that you want this man to know that you are not going away? That you know his identity? You want to unnerve this guy. Get him to react, to make a mistake?”

  “Can’t disagree with any of what you said.”

  The burly cop said, “Let’s talk about this guy you believe lives in this building. What can you tell me about him?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want you to be upfront with us.”

  Reznick stared at the cop. “OK. I have reason to believe that Aleksander Brutka, UN diplomat for the Ukrainian delegation, was responsible for nearly killing my daughter while he was driving to a function. Official business. And that means that he is protected.”

  The cop averted his gaze, glancing at some notes on the desk. “Let’s suppose what you’re saying is correct. That such a person is living at that address. How did you find out his identity? This absolutely has not been shared with you. I know. I’ve checked.”

  Reznick stared at the man. “I’ve got nothing to say about that.”

  The woman said, “Jon, it’s important we know how you got that information. This is national security we’re talking about.”

  “Are you saying American national security is at risk because of me?”

  “I’m saying, with respect, that spying on UN diplomats, who are allowed under the Vienna Convention to operate here, is illegal. We, as the host country, must protect and permit free communication between diplomats. We must also protect their mission from intrusion or damage. This extends to their private residences.”

  Reznick leaned forward. “You’re very fond of quoting the articles of the Vienna Convention. Article 9 says the host nation at any time and for any reason can declare a particular member of the diplomatic corps persona non grata. Which, roughly translated, means we can get rid of those diplomats who have committed crimes in the host country.”

  “Are you finished, Mr. Reznick?”

  “So the question is, why the hell hasn’t this guy been made persona non grata?”

  The female cop said, “I think we’re getting off base now, Jon.”

  “I don’t think we are. Am I supposed to just sit back and take it, knowing that the guy is still free to walk around New York, attend meetings, live his life, after leaving a young American girl in a coma? My daughter. Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The guy pointed at Reznick. “Enough!”

  “Don’t point your finger at me.”

  “This isn’t going to end well, Reznick.”

  “My daughter is in a goddamn coma, and you’re saying it’s not going to end well? For me, things can’t get any worse. And I’m not going to rest until I get some answers.”

  The burly cop shifted in his seat. “You’re out of line, Reznick. Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Shut up and either arrest me, charge me, or whatever it is you guys are supposed to do, or get out of my face.”

  The woman rubbed her eyes, clearly at the end of her patience. “You need to know that we will not tolerate the harassment of a UN diplomat here in New York City. We will not tolerate any further incidents.”

  “You finished?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Good. Well, I will not tolerate this criminal in our midst. Are we done?”

  The guy nodded.

  “Then I want to go and see my daughter. That alright with you guys?”

  “Stay out of trouble, Jon,” the woman said. “Next time you’re going to jail.”

  Twenty-One

  A burnt-orange sun washed over the Manhattan skyline as Brutka sat beside his pool enjoying a glass of champagne after a late-afternoon swim. His cell phone vibrated with a message.

  He picked it up and checked the caller ID. It was the private investigator.

  “Just wanted to let you know that the dossier on Tom Callaghan is taking a little longer than we expected to pull together,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated. He’s got his hands on some sensitive historical documents. We’re trying to verify what he knows.”

  “So tell me: What’s this guy’s job?”

  “He’s a journalist.”

  “The guy asking around in Vermont?”

  “He’s the guy. We have connections to various journalists in New York, and we’re working these sources.”

  “When will I get the dossier?”

  “As soon as I have the full picture, you’ll have it.”

  “Get to work.”

  Brutka ended the call. His mind began to race again. He thought of his grandfather. He thought of Callaghan. A journalist. What did he know? Was he onto them? He tormented himself as the questions piled up again.

  Fifteen minutes later, Brutka received a text message from his head of security. Blantone wanted to speak with him in person on “urgent” business. Brutka replied that he would meet him in the secure conference room of the Permanent Mission of Ukraine to the United Nations on East Fifty-First Street.

  Half an hour later, after showering and changing into a suit, Brutka sat down at the head of the conference table as Blantone leafed through his notes. “You said you wanted to talk to me face-to-face about this?”

  Blantone put his finger over his mouth, got up, and whispered in Brutka’s ear. “Give me your cell phone. Right now. Do not speak.”

  Brutka wondered what was going on. He took the phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Blantone. The security expert, who was also a senior political attaché to the embassy, calmly walked out of the room for a few moments before returning.

  “What was all that about? Is something wrong?”

  Blantone sat down in front of his papers. “I called in a cybersecurity expert to scan your premises and devices. The only thing compromised? Your lawyer’s phone.”

  “What?”

  “Someone—we don’t know who—has activated the microphone on your lawyer’s device, turning it into what the Feds like to call a roving bug, so everything you said while there and your position would be known to the individual or group who accessed it.”

  “And they can tell that?”

  “It’s done remotely.”

  Brutka contemplated the situation. “Is Reznick a computer expert?”

  “No. But we can assume he knows someone who is.”

  “Fuck. So he could’ve been listening in since when?”

  “We’re doing some more tests on the lawyer’s cell phone, but it looks like it’s been at least twelve hours.”

  “Could it be the FBI?”

  Blantone shook his head. “Possible, but not likely in this case.”

  “So, in effect I am being spied on through my lawyer. Confidentia
l communications relating to the business of our country have been compromised. That is clearly a major breach of the Vienna Convention.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Unless . . . Tell me, what else do we know about this Mr. Reznick?”

  “You’re going to like this.”

  “I’m assuming you’re being sarcastic.”

  Blantone nodded and smiled. “Former Special Forces, Delta, and occasionally, in the last few years, employed by the FBI.”

  Brutka rubbed his hands across his face. “That changes things. So either Reznick is working alone and using a specialist he knows to help him, or the FBI is using his daughter’s accident as a convenient cover. Implicating Reznick while they carry out surveillance work for the American government.”

  “It’s very serious.”

  “We need to let our lawyers know.”

  “I’ve already briefed Morton.”

  Brutka nodded. “Very good. What did he say?”

  “He said we have a major problem.”

  “We’ll see. I have friends in high places.”

  “You don’t seem too concerned.”

  Brutka got up from his chair and kicked it over. “I don’t seem concerned? I’m furious, you idiot. And I’m very angry at this Reznick character. I mean . . . what the hell is he doing?”

  Blantone sighed. “It’s personal, clearly.”

  “Is it possible this guy will just go away?”

  Blantone shrugged. “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Someone gave him my name.”

  “We’re still looking into that.”

  “My money says it’s the cops. That bitch detective Acosta.”

  Blantone said, “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Reznick has been busy again.”

  “I keep hearing the name Reznick. What is it with this guy?”

  “He’s rattling a few cages, boss.”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t know the latest.”

  Brutka stared at Blantone. “What?”

  “Seems he’s not content with just taking a tour with the Realtor. I have it on good authority that he was picked up by the NYPD a few hours ago, sniffing around the block again. Taking pictures of your residence, apparently. Photographed you using a telephoto lens.”

  “So my lawyer’s cell phone has been bugged, Reznick has violated my private residence, and he’s harassing me, stalking me. Am I missing something?”

  Blantone sighed. “Aleksander, we need to not react. You shouldn’t have sent flowers and a note expressing your sorrow. You just riled him up.”

  “I was trying to be nice.”

  “You were trying to be provocative. We need to take stock. Morton is drafting a letter. He’s demanding a meeting with the FBI.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s going to be demanding answers. And he’s going to be demanding that Jon Reznick be arrested and charged with multiple offenses. But that will be risky. If any of this comes out in the press, they’ll be all over the hit-and-run. Enough public outcry and your father might insist you head back to the Ukraine for a spell.”

  Brutka turned and looked out over the Midtown skyline. “Tell Morton to hold off for the moment.” He tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. “This guy Reznick is only hanging around New York because his daughter is in the hospital here, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Perhaps that’s something we need to look into.”

  Blantone scribbled some notes. “Just to clarify . . . you want me to look into moving his daughter to a different hospital? That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Why not? We could use it as leverage. We’ll drop any legal action if she’s moved out of New York.”

  A smile crossed Blantone’s lips. “Man, that’s cold.”

  “It’s business. I’m a diplomat, conducting the business of my country. Recognized and protected under international law.”

  “Very true.”

  “One final thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “Reznick seems to be bringing this imagined antagonism between us to my front door. Literally.”

  “True.”

  “I think it’s time he got a taste of his own medicine.”

  Blantone looked a little uncomfortable. The security chief grimaced as if suffering from bad indigestion. “I’m not sure you’re thinking rationally. And I’m begging you not to go down that route, Aleksander.”

  “I disagree.”

  “My honest opinion, sir?”

  Brutka shrugged. “By all means.”

  “I think it would be prudent to let it go. Let the law take care of Reznick.”

  “I’m rather fed up hearing that guy’s name.”

  “Sir, it’s imperative that we have a proportional response. A measured response. What if this is the sort of overreaction he’s hoping for?”

  “I don’t give a damn what he’s hoping for. He’s making a fool of me. And I don’t like it. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

  Blantone nodded. “Very well. When do you envision issuing our response?”

  “When the opportunity arises. Sooner rather than later. Let him know that this won’t be allowed to continue. Enough is enough.”

  “What if he doesn’t get the message?”

  Brutka leaned back in his seat and stared at his underling. “Your job, Blantone, is to make sure that Mr. Reznick definitely gets the message.”

  Twenty-Two

  Reznick was starting to think that Lauren might never emerge from the induced coma. He felt that every hour she was unconscious made it less likely that she would make a full recovery. Reznick gazed at his daughter, his heart breaking. He asked question after question of a series of doctors. They each listened, and they all explained it was simply a matter of watching and waiting. They talked about brain scans. They showed him Lauren’s results. Pictures of her swollen brain. He listened as if in a dream. He felt as if he was going out of his mind.

  Reznick stroked his daughter’s hand. It felt surprisingly warm. He pressed her hand against his cheek. He wanted to be reassured that she was alive. Still with him. The machine was keeping her breathing. The beeping relentless, like a metronome.

  He wanted her to wake up, but he worried too. Would her brilliant mind still be able to think the way it had before? The doctors hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Were they holding something back?

  A nurse appeared, smiling. “Hi, Mr. Reznick,” she said. “We’re going to give your daughter a sponge bath.”

  “Sure, sorry, of course.” Reznick got up and looked at the nurse. “The doctors showed me a bunch of images of her brain. And it’s still watch and wait. Is she going to be OK?”

  The nurse sighed. “It’s really difficult, Mr. Reznick. From what I know, and from her notes, they’re soliciting opinions from several specialists in this area.”

  “And they all agree on the prognosis?”

  “They all agree. Look, you must be tired. Maybe get away from here for a little while, get some shut-eye. Maybe come back later and see how she is.”

  Reznick smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “Are you afraid she’s not going to wake up?”

  “That and her being brain damaged.”

  “It is a potentially life-changing incident. But what the doctors have done is the best course of action. What her body needs is time to heal.”

  “Amen to that. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Reznick felt marginally better after talking things over with the nurse. He left the hospital and headed back to his room at the Bentley. He put in a call to Acosta, but there was no answer. He wondered if he should call Meyerstein. She would be sympathetic. Of that he had no doubt. But he didn’t really feel comfortable reaching out to her.

  He stared out the window and was tempted to head down to the bar and get drunk.

  The more he c
onsidered it, the more he realized that he had to curtail his urge to drink himself into oblivion. A few beers or glasses of wine were one thing. But in the twelve months that followed Elisabeth’s death all those years ago, he had plunged into excessive drinking. It was like he would never emerge from the darkness.

  It reminded him of his father’s demons. He had used alcohol to numb the pain of his nightmares and bad memories of Vietnam. Mangled bodies screaming in his head. He had wanted to quiet them. Nothing more. Reznick’s own mind was itself awash with bad stuff. Death. Destruction. He had mostly managed to compartmentalize it through the years. Pushing that stuff to the darkest recesses of his mind.

  But occasionally the bad memories emerged like ghosts, encroaching on his world. As if to remind him of what he had done. What he had seen.

  Reznick switched on the radio at a low volume. It was tuned to a classic rock station. They were playing Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind,” a song he remembered from his childhood. His father had played it often. It seemed to offer solace. Plaintive lyrics. The grind. The road ahead.

  He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  He thought back to Rockland in the early eighties. He was a boy lying on his bed at night, listening to his father downstairs sobbing hard after his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t felt like intruding on his father’s personal grief. So he had just lain there and stared at the freshly painted ceiling until he fell asleep. Eventually, he woke up in the middle of the night and went downstairs.

  His father was staring into the fire, a half-empty tumbler in his hand, tears streaming down his face. He remembered his father turned around and stared at him glassy eyed, then pulled him close and tight. As if afraid to lose him.

  Reznick had sat with his father the rest of the night. And they had talked. They had talked about life. Death. Vietnam. About America. But most of all he had talked about his wife, Reznick’s mother. A woman who had worked. Who had sacrificed. And put up with his father’s mood swings.

  A woman who had wrapped her arms around her husband. She had held him close as he had sat hunched in silence in his chair beside the back window. Beer in hand, a black mood engulfing him. She had always seemed to know when to listen. When to chide him for being morose. Or to rouse him for work. Most of all from that night, Reznick remembered his father talking about family.