by J. B. Turner
Blood is thicker than water, Jon.
That was what he said that night. His father talked in a low, gruff voice. He wasn’t a big talker. He looked at Reznick and said the words that never left him:
When I’m gone, you only have yourself and your own flesh and blood to rely on.
As the years passed, the words had lingered with Reznick. He took them to mean that he needed to be self-reliant, look after himself and look after his family.
His father had the frontiersman spirit. He didn’t want handouts. He didn’t want charity. He had believed that an able-bodied man shouldn’t rely on anyone. It was a matter of honor. A matter of pride. But most of all, it was about what it means to be an American.
The family had lost its beating heart when Reznick’s mother died.
His father didn’t know how to cook. How to keep the house nice. His mother had done all that. But over the days, weeks, and months, his father had begun to learn. He learned to do all those things. There was little money left over. But his father had taught him things that money couldn’t buy. He had taught him how to hunt. To trap. And to fight.
When dawn broke on that winter morning after the funeral, his father, still reeking of drink, had gone upstairs, showered, shaved, and dressed for his shift at the sardine packing plant in Rockland. Reznick still remembered the terrible hurt and sadness in his eyes. His father hadn’t wanted to face the world. But there he was, the day after the funeral, doing what had to be done.
Reznick’s father had hugged him tight before he headed out the door. Reznick had watched his father walk down the dirt road that led into town as if it were just another day.
The sound of the fire trucks, sirens, traffic and never-ending noise in the background snapped Reznick back to reality for a few moments.
The song was still playing. The sound was like a cocoon. Against the wind.
He felt his eyes closing.
Reznick’s thoughts returned again to his childhood. The early eighties. His father sitting in the corner as a blizzard tore through Rockland, beer in hand. Fire lit, logs crackling, his dad staring at the flames, tears in his eyes. This song was playing. It seemed to stir something in his father like nothing else.
He loved this song. His father seemed to find solace within it. A beauty. A cry from the heart mourning a lost youth. A lost life. A lost love.
Reznick’s father always kept his hair short. Marine cut. He had always wondered what his father thought when he looked at the long-haired Seger on the album cover. But it didn’t bother Reznick’s father. He loved the sentiments. Raw. From the heart. Painful. Grieving. But above all else, truthful.
He wished his father was with him now. He would know what to do. Reznick wondered if he shouldn’t just grab a gun and head on over to Brutka’s. Kill the fucker. That was what his father would have done. But he wasn’t his father.
Reznick knew that sometimes the simplest solution wasn’t the best. Killing the man might assuage the terrible anger within him. But he knew that then he would have lost. And his daughter would have lost.
It would be a Pyrrhic victory.
He finally felt himself drifting to sleep, saying a silent prayer for his daughter.
When he awoke, he went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and popped a couple of Dexedrine, an amphetamine he had found useful in the past. Reznick had first started taking the drug in Delta Force during an extended combat operation. It had kept him and his fellow operators alert and focused throughout a mission. He washed them down with a bottle of water from his minibar. He called the ICU to see if there had been any change in Lauren’s status. But nothing.
He felt frustrated.
Reznick did what he usually did. He needed to move. It helped him think. He needed to get rid of his aggression. The simmering anger. The endorphins would kick it. He got changed into a marled gray T-shirt, running shorts, and his Nike running shoes. He put on his headphones, cell phone playing an essential Radiohead playlist his daughter had recommended to him. He’d bought them tickets for the band’s Madison Square Garden show coming up in the fall. But that wasn’t important anymore.
He strapped his phone to his arm and headed out onto the bustling sidewalk. The heat of the New York summer night hit him after leaving the cool of his air-conditioned hotel. The traffic was snarled all around. Cops at an intersection pulling over a vehicle.
Reznick jogged down the sidewalk, avoiding the pedestrians, and crossed Fifth Avenue. He headed into Central Park and began to pound the trail. The music was loud. The blood was flowing.
He got himself onto East Drive. Then headed north, ready to do the 6.1-mile counterclockwise loop of Central Park. He’d done it many times before when he was in the city. It was a route that was long enough to get the heart pumping, short enough not to waste too much time.
He overtook some slower joggers and power walkers enjoying the warm night. He felt sweat beading his face, sticking his T-shirt to his back.
Slowly Reznick began to feel the endorphins kicking in. He felt sharper. Better. Stronger. His sluggishness was gone. He was also alert.
He ran hard, hundreds of yards ahead of the joggers he passed. Three miles in and heading down West Drive.
The guitar riffs and sonic noise from his headphones were all he could hear. Until the sound of high revs from a powerful motorcycle cut through the music for a split second.
Reznick instinctively glanced back. Two guys on a bike accelerating fast toward him. He jumped out of the way, took off his headphones. The bike came to a stop about fifty yards ahead of him, and the two guys, both wearing full-face helmets, got off.
The guys flipped up their visors and walked slowly toward Reznick, grinning wildly.
The passenger held a baseball bat in one hand while the driver brandished a huge hunting knife.
Reznick knew what this was all about. He took a step forward, adjusted his stride and went for the guy with the knife first. He kicked the guy in the groin. Then punched the knife out of his hand a split second later. He smashed his fist hard into the side of the guy’s neck. The guy went down cold.
The guy with the baseball bat edged forward, more tentative now.
Reznick could see in the guy’s eyes that he didn’t like his odds. “Come on, son, what’ve you got?” Reznick took three steps forward and lunged at the guy.
The guy pulled back the bat. But Reznick was already in close and turned sharply, holding the guy’s wrists. He twisted his grip and snapped the bat out of the guy’s hands.
The guy moaned.
Reznick kicked the bat away, grabbed the guy by the helmet, and kicked the fucker hard in the balls. The guy yelped like a pig, face scrunched up inside his helmet, hands covering his groin, without even thinking.
Reznick ripped off the helmet and brought it down, smashing it into the guy’s jawline. A crack, a sickening groan, and the guy collapsed in the heat. Reznick bent over and punched the guy repeatedly in the broken jaw until he passed out.
A passing cyclist shouted, “Hey, what the fuck, man?”
Reznick watched as the kid cycled on, pulling out his cell phone, no doubt calling the cops. He rifled through his attacker’s pants pockets. Nothing. No ID. No cell phone. He went over to the other unconscious goon. But it was the same again. Nothing. No ID. No cell phone.
He took his own cell phone out of the Velcro strap on his arm and photographed both men.
He put the cell phone back in his arm strap, put his headphones back on, Radiohead blaring in his ears, and continued on his route, leaving the two guys lying unconscious on the Central Park jogging trail.
Twenty-Three
Meyerstein glanced at the clock. She began drumming her fingers, flicking through notes in the meeting room at FBI HQ on the twenty-sixth floor of the building in lower Manhattan. She sighed, still waiting for Aleksander Brutka and his lawyer, Lionel Morton, to show up. Eventually, thirty minutes later than the scheduled meeting there was a knock at the door.
The two men were ushered in.
Morton stepped forward and smiled. “I must apologize for our tardiness. Mr. Brutka had an emergency situation to attend to.”
Meyerstein got up and shook his hand before she greeted Brutka. He wore an impeccably tailored dark suit, starched white shirt, light-gray tie, and a chunky gold watch. “I hope everything is OK, Mr. Brutka.”
Brutka took a few moments to appraise the room, as if wanting Meyerstein to know he wasn’t overawed or cowed by the impressive surroundings.
She sat down behind the large table as Brutka stared down at her.
“Yes, thank you.” He brushed some imaginary dust or a thread off his suit before he sat down. Then he crossed his legs, examining his manicured fingernails.
Meyerstein smiled through gritted teeth. She was already annoyed. “So . . . let’s get started, shall we?”
Morton opened a pad, scribbled a few notes. “I was assured this was just an informal chat, face-to-face.”
Meyerstein fixed her gaze on Brutka, who was avoiding eye contact. “Are you OK, Mr. Brutka? You seem quite distracted.”
Brutka looked up and stared at her. “I’m just a little distressed after the incident at my residence, as you can imagine.”
“Well, I thank you for coming here with Mr. Morton. And I’d like to thank you both for being able to see me on such short notice.”
Morton scribbled again.
“I’d like to record this meeting, if that’s OK with you.”
Morton turned and looked at Brutka. “Aleksander?”
“What?” Brutka snapped.
“How would you feel about this chat being recorded?”
Brutka leaned back in his seat and sighed. “No.”
Meyerstein glanced across the table at Brutka. “Not a problem. No need to be formal.”
Brutka nodded sullenly.
“So, I’d like to say that I’m speaking with the full authority of the Director of the FBI, Bill O’Donoghue.”
Morton wrote that down. “Did he ask you to speak to us, or was this your idea?”
“This was my idea. I think it’s important that everyone is clear where they stand.”
Brutka began scrolling through messages on his cell phone.
“Mr. Brutka,” Meyerstein said, “can I have your full attention, please?”
Brutka looked at Meyerstein with disdain. He made a show of putting his cell phone in his jacket pocket. “Sorry. Was just checking an email from one of my staff.”
“Thank you.”
Morton said, “Can you tell us what exactly you want to talk to us about, Assistant Director?”
Meyerstein leaned forward, hands clasped. She looked straight at Brutka. “Mr. Brutka, after much deliberation and inquiry into recent events, the FBI considers it best for you to voluntarily leave this country. We believe that any reasonable person would conclude that you have overstayed your welcome.”
Morton leaned over and whispered briefly in his client’s ear.
Brutka nodded.
“Assistant Director, we’re rather taken aback,” Morton said. “What are you talking about? We came here after a flagrant violation of the Vienna Convention when a man we believe to be named Jon Reznick broke into my client’s private residence and held him at gunpoint! We were fully expecting an apology.”
Meyerstein sighed. “You need to stop playing games, both of you. Does either of you want to talk about what happened last night in the park?”
Silence. Brutka stared blankly at her as Morton scribbled notes.
“Would Mr. Brutka like to explain why two security personnel from your embassy, both on the diplomatic list, were found unconscious last night in Central Park?”
Brutka leaned back in his seat. “I was very distressed to hear about that, as you can imagine. Attacks on diplomatic staff are outrageous. We have already lodged a complaint with the American government.”
Meyerstein smiled. “NYPD cops in Central Park found these two gentlemen.” She pulled out two color photographs showing the blood-soaked faces of the victims lying unconscious. “They had a rented motorcycle and, we believe, tried to attack a man in the park. Two against one. Unfortunately, they got the worse end of it. A lot worse. Which is not so great from their point of view. But the reality is, they are accredited members of the embassy. And, we believe, they pulled a knife and a baseball bat on a man. An unarmed man.”
Brutka stroked his chin, looking at Meyerstein with a lingering and menacing stare.
“We have a description of the victim thanks to a statement from a cyclist. Was this a revenge attack on Jon Reznick as a warning, by chance? Revenge for him allegedly intruding into your private residence?”
Morton sighed. “This is an outrageous allegation. Is this deflection?”
“Not at all. Are you going to answer my question?”
“This incident has, I believe, no connection with Mr. Brutka. I’m appalled that you’re even making that suggestion. These men were the victims of a quite disgusting, unprovoked attack.”
“We don’t believe that to be the case.”
Morton was about to speak, but Brutka held up his hand to silence him. “Assistant Director, I am obviously as anxious as anyone to find out what exactly happened. But I’m wondering if the FBI are best placed to deal with this matter.”
Meyerstein didn’t drop her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, this Mr. Reznick is clearly an FBI operative. I’m talking conflict of interest. So I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be asking for this matter to be investigated by those outside the confines of the FBI.”
“That can be arranged. But be under no illusion. If we do that, you need to prepare yourself for the diplomatic fallout.”
Brutka sat in silence, as did Morton.
“Go now, and you can leave the country of your own free will. Frankly, your criminal behavior is reprehensible.”
Brutka gave a patronizing smile. “That is a scandalous suggestion, Assistant Director.”
“Is it?”
“I am at a loss to understand how this investigation has led to this grotesque situation where I am being accused of criminal behavior. I’m aghast. And I’m wondering what’s next. Are you planning to leak details to the press if I don’t comply? Is that it?”
“Mr. Brutka, any other right-thinking country would have hauled their diplomat home by now. Running down a college girl who was out jogging, not stopping after the accident.”
“I know I’m repeating myself, but I wasn’t in the vehicle. We are conducting an internal investigation to establish who was driving.”
“With respect, Mr. Brutka, we don’t accept that explanation. And, last night, sending two goons to rough up the father of the college girl so soon after he confronted you. Is that just an unfortunate coincidence?”
“This is all very bizarre and unsettling. But as I continue to insist, I have no idea what exactly this is about.”
“From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look good. And let me tell you I’m not impressed. I think we both know that you’re being protected by your father. Otherwise, you would have been off with the diplomatic bags on the first flight out of JFK.”
Brutka shook his head.
“Your explanations are less than satisfactory. And entirely unconvincing.”
“I don’t accept that, Mrs. Meyerstein.”
“That’s Assistant Director Meyerstein. And the FBI, just for the record, believes you have overstayed your welcome.”
Brutka shrugged. “I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on that particular point. I represent the interests of the people of Ukraine at the highest diplomatic levels. Only the State Department can make the call.”
“How can you be so sure that the State Department won’t listen to what the FBI has to say?”
Brutka smiled. “One can never entirely be sure, Assistant Director, but we are always keen to reach out and continue dialogue and conversations. It’s what diplomacy is
all about, after all, is it not? About maintaining relationships. Strengthening ties. And believe me, we have very strong ties in the United States.”
Meyerstein smiled. “I’m sure you do.”
“Don’t hesitate to contact me or Mr. Morton again if you have further questions.” A cold smile crossed his face. “My door is always open.”
Twenty-Four
Reznick woke from a fitful sleep at his daughter’s bedside, cell phone ringing. He took a few moments to get his bearings. His mind flashed to the night before in Central Park. He had to assume that was why someone was calling him now. He kissed Lauren on the forehead. “I’ll be right back, honey.”
Reznick went out into the corridor and stood in an alcove for privacy. He didn’t recognize the caller ID. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Is this Lauren’s father?” It was the voice of Aleksander Brutka.
Reznick wondered how Brutka had gotten his number.
“I take it from your silence that this is Mr. Reznick. Nice to speak with you again.”
“You still in town?”
Brutka laughed. “I do like you, Mr. Reznick. I like how direct you are. I admire that.”
“You want to get to the point?”
“You know who I also admire, Jon?”
Reznick felt a chill down his spine.
“I admire your daughter. I’ve seen pictures of her. The pictures are in front of me just now. Facebook. What a marvelous invention. I can look at all her photographs. Are you on Facebook, Jon?”
Reznick felt his blood pressure rise as he began to pace the corridor. “So, the mask has slipped. Didn’t take long.”
“I particularly like the ones of her on vacation in her bikini. Lovely figure.”
“You know the interesting thing about people like you?”
“No, tell me.”
“Nothing. That’s what’s interesting about you. You see, for all your wealth, your millions, your connections in Washington, everyone who knows you privately loathes you. But I guess you know that already, right?”