by J. B. Turner
“Deflection? How intriguing. I know a lot more about you now, Jon.”
“I take it from this chat that you have no intention of leaving town.”
“Very perceptive, Mr. Reznick. I’m staying put. And I’m beginning to be rather intrigued with you. Former Delta operator, American assassin, occasional consultant to the FBI on classified investigations. That’s some résumé.”
Reznick knew the guy was fucking with him.
Brutka laughed. “But getting back to your daughter. She’s a high-quality girl, no question about that. She’s also got an Instagram account. I like the picture of her in the coffee shop, laughing. So natural. Very photogenic. Quite beautiful. Wholesome. I like that look. A lot. You know, in Ukraine I could help her make a lot of money with that face.”
“Stay the fuck away from my daughter, do you hear me?”
“To be frank, she’s the kind of girl I’d like to get to know better, if you know what I mean.”
“You get your kicks fantasizing about things like that?”
“I seem to have hit a raw nerve, Mr. Reznick.”
Reznick closed his eyes. “Stay away from my family, do you hear me?”
“Or what?”
“You need to know one thing, you piece of shit: I eat fuckers like you for breakfast. And any tough guys you want to send my way to do your dirty work. Now I’m going to say this one more time: stay away from my daughter, you sick fuck.”
“But Jon . . . that’s rather hypocritical of you. Why should I stay away from her if you won’t stay away from me? Bugging my lawyer’s cell phone? Tsk, tsk.”
“I will do whatever it takes to protect my family. My daughter’s all I’ve got. And what you did, running her down without stopping, is breaking a bunch of laws. US laws. You’re in America now, you piece of shit, or didn’t you know that?”
“I feel like I’m repeating myself. I wasn’t in the vehicle. At least that’s what I told the FBI.”
“You know, it’s interesting. You sound an awful lot like a guy in the Marines I once knew.”
“How intriguing. Tell me more.”
“Like you, he never admitted when he was wrong. He made up excuses for his bad behavior. He exploited people who were weaker than him. He never took responsibility for his actions. And he had no remorse.”
“How fascinating.”
“He was eventually diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder. And I’m guessing that’s why you sent my daughter the flowers.”
“I didn’t know you were a trained psychologist as well, Mr. Reznick. You are full of surprises.”
“Well, someone clearly needs to sort you out, you nutjob!”
“All this aggression. The FBI must be very annoyed with you, Jon. You do still work for the FBI, don’t you? I just had a meeting with a woman you know. Assistant Director Meyerstein. Very fine woman. Lovely mouth. Nice ass too.”
“You disgust me.”
“Know what she wanted me to do? She wanted me to leave the country. Said the FBI didn’t want me. They don’t like me. Now, answer me this: Why would I do that?”
Reznick was pleasantly surprised and rather proud that Meyerstein had taken such a stance. “If you had an ounce of decency, you would be mortified by what happened. But I guess you get off on this kind of thing. Is that your thing, Aleksander? You don’t mind me calling you Aleksander, do you?”
“Call me whatever you like, Jon. I’m thoroughly enjoying this exchange. Your daughter has a lovely cheekbone structure. Good breeding.”
“Why don’t you come over here and we’ll iron this out man-to-man?”
Brutka laughed long and hard. “You see, Jon, I admire your bravado, but it’s all bluster, isn’t it? There are limits to how far even you’ll go. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me taking up your time. I know you’re a busy man. And one final thing before I go. You need to be careful.”
“Wrong. You’re the one that needs to be careful, you dumb fuck. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disappear.”
Brutka sighed. “No. I don’t think I will.”
Twenty-Five
The conversation had ignited a rage within Reznick that was close to boiling over. It was clear he wasn’t dealing with a rational human being. This guy was a psychopath. No remorse. Quite the opposite. Disdain. And now veiled threats to his daughter.
Reznick had heard enough. The fucker hadn’t gotten the message. He pulled out his cell phone and called the hacker.
“Need a favor,” he said.
“What’s going on, Mr. R.?”
Reznick explained the tone and nature of the call with the diplomat and the encounter with the two goons in Central Park.
“Shit. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. They got the worst of it, trust me.”
“Man, that ain’t good.”
“This Brutka is fucking with me. And he’s enjoying it. But let’s see if he enjoys fucking with me on my terms.”
The hacker sighed. “Stay on the line. I’m going to do some analysis of your cell phone.”
Reznick waited for a couple of minutes before the hacker came on again.
“So the guy was calling from a new cell phone, new encryption, the works. It might not even be his.”
“Figures. He’d caught on that you were monitoring his lawyer’s phone.”
“But I’ve gone a step further. I’ve just activated the microphone on the diplomat’s new phone, and it’s picking up his voice clear as day—he’s boasting to someone about his call with you. So they clearly think by changing phones you wouldn’t be able to locate him.”
“How did you do that?”
“Long story.”
“Where is he? GPS location. Where is he right now? I want him face-to-face.”
“He’s having a drink in the bar at the United Nations.”
“Shit.”
“Not to worry. You want to get him face-to-face?”
“Absolutely.”
The hacker went quiet for a few moments. “Give me a second.”
“Can you get me in there?”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Let me think . . . Well, I could construct a perfect UN identification.”
“How would that work?”
“I can update the UN servers with new details which will comprise your ID. So you can pick up your blue UN pass as a returning delegate.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Dead serious.”
Reznick was long past caring about the consequences of his actions. He knew he could be falling into a trap. But he didn’t care. “And it’ll work?”
“All you have to do is wear a nice suit since we’re going to pass you off as a UN delegate.”
“Where do I pick up the badge?”
The hacker hummed a tune for a few seconds. “Hang on . . . Let me see . . . Yeah, it’s called the Pass and Identification Unit.”
“I want to go one-on-one with this guy. Now.”
Twenty-Six
Just over an hour later, the fake UN ID was delivered to Reznick’s hotel by a friend of the hacker who lived in New York.
“Best of luck, man,” the kid said.
Reznick tipped the guy a hundred bucks.
“Whoa, I didn’t expect payment.”
“Get yourself a beer for your trouble.”
The kid grinned. “Take care, man.”
Reznick suited up, put on his sunglasses, and called a cab. He had the driver drop him off two blocks from the UN building. He walked down the shaded sidewalk and approached the security screening area. He was asked to take off his sunglasses as his badge was activated. Security guards ran a wand over his body to check for weapons. Then his photograph was checked against the computer details.
He was escorted to the Pass and Identification Unit and handed his blue pass with his fake name, Roger McGurk. An Irish diplomat.
A woman behind the desk smiled. “We’re good now, Mr. McGurk. Have a nice day
.”
Reznick smiled back and put his sunglasses back on. “Thank you.”
He checked the signs and headed to the delegates bar overlooking the East River. His blue pass was scanned as he entered. The sun was streaming through the windows, making his sunglasses fit right in.
He walked up to the bar and ordered a club soda. He scanned the room. Small groups of diplomats and their aides chatting over drinks.
The bartender handed him his drink.
Reznick paid the bill. A short while later his cell phone rang.
“I’m monitoring the cell phone,” the hacker said. “He’s switched to a different one. The one he called you on is used by an aide. Look, I don’t want to tell you how you to do your thing, but is it possible this guy is setting a trap for you?”
“We’ll see soon enough. Where is he now?”
“He’s still in the building. A side meeting with some Libyan diplomats in the fourth-floor dining room. Hang on . . . Stand by, man . . . OK, he’s on the move.”
“Where to?”
“You might be in luck. He’s heading back down in the elevator. He’s taking the Libyan delegation to the North Delegates’ Lounge.”
“That’s where I am, right?”
“Yeah, he just got off on the second floor. He’ll be with you . . . One minute, he’ll be coming right your way. Good luck.”
“Appreciate the heads-up, man.”
“Take care.”
Reznick put his cell phone back in his pocket and sipped his soda water. He listened to a couple of interns bitching about their Moldovan boss. Rents in Manhattan. Broken air-conditioning in the subway. And one was moaning about seeing a huge rat on the sidewalk.
A couple minutes later, Reznick got a visual on Brutka. He stole a glance at the big crowd of people, including security, who ushered him into the bar. His arm was wrapped around another diplomat as if they were old friends. They were surrounded by other assorted hangers-on and aides.
The group was shown to the far corner of the room, where there was a reserved table. Champagne was delivered, and Brutka led them all in a toast as they overlooked Manhattan’s East River.
Reznick couldn’t help but notice a burly security guy approach Brutka and whisper in the diplomat’s ear.
Brutka listened intently and patted the security guy on the back before resuming his chat with the others.
Reznick walked up to the bar, facing away from Brutka and his group. “Club soda,” he said.
The bartender served up his drink, and Reznick stood and sipped it. He began checking messages on his phones. Nothing.
Reznick glanced in the mirror and noticed Brutka moving away from the group. The diplomat had a cell phone pressed to his ear. Brutka stood only a few yards from him now, complaining loudly about “schedules clashing” and “intemperate language.” He really was a loudmouth. Brutka began to bemoan the work of his housekeeper.
Then Brutka raised his voice. “I’m dealing with it, Father,” he said.
Reznick kept his back to the diplomat but watched as Brutka drifted out of the lounge with two aides by his side. He waited a few moments. A minute or so later the two aides returned, one on his cell phone. Reznick called the hacker. “Where’s our guy at this moment?”
A beat. “He’s . . . Bathroom. Second floor. Opposite end of the bar from where you are now.”
Reznick ended the call and strolled down a corridor and into the bathroom. He walked in and saw Brutka taking a piss, his back to the door. Reznick removed his sunglasses, set them on the counter, and began to wash his hands.
The diplomat turned around, zipping up his pants.
Reznick shoved Brutka’s shoulder back with the palm of his right hand and, with his left arm, he put the diplomat in a choke hold. He squeezed the guy’s neck tightly, and he buckled to the floor. Eyes rolling around his head as if he was ready to pass out. “You get a kick out of saying those terrible things about my daughter? You get off on that?”
Brutka moaned, eyes screwed up in pain.
“Think you can play games with me? You picked the wrong guy.”
“Are you out of your mind? . . . I was just passing on a compliment! I admire your daughter and wish her a speedy recovery!”
“No, you don’t. You were having a bit of fun at her expense, weren’t you? You need to learn to show some respect, you spineless fuck.”
“You’re out of your mind. Stop!”
“You’re not even sorry. You criminal piece of shit.”
Brutka’s teeth were clenched. “You misunderstand my intentions.”
Reznick pressed his mouth to Brutka’s right ear. “You need to get the fuck out of town before it’s too late.”
“I was not responsible for what happened—”
“Wrong answer.” Reznick exerted more pressure on the guy’s windpipe. “How does that feel? You feel out of control?”
Brutka rasped, “You’re making a terrible mistake!”
Reznick hauled the man to his feet and grabbed him by the throat. He pressed hard into his carotid artery with his thumb. “You like that, tough guy?”
Brutka’s eyes were wide.
Reznick dragged Brutka into one of the stalls by his hair. He rammed the diplomat’s head into the toilet bowl, flushing the water onto his head. Time after time. The diplomat thrashed as he swallowed the water and disinfectant. Seconds passed. Reznick flushed the toilet again. And again. Until Brutka went limp.
Reznick yanked him up by the hair one more time. “Final warning,” he said. He smashed Brutka’s face down hard against the porcelain bowl. An anguished groan as blood and teeth splattered onto the tiled floor of the stall.
He dropped the diplomat onto the floor. Brutka lay motionless, blood oozing from his mouth.
Reznick stepped out of the stall. He checked himself in the mirror. He straightened his tie and picked up his sunglasses. Then he bent down and wiped the specks of blood off his shoes with a paper towel.
He threw the paper towel in the trash, then walked out of the bathroom and made his way through the lounge, down in the elevator to the ground-floor lobby, past security, and once again into the stifling New York air.
Twenty-Seven
Three minutes later, as Reznick strode north on Second Avenue toward Fifty-Second Street, a cop car pulled him over.
A cop pulled his gun on Reznick. “Freeze, fucker!”
Reznick stared at the cop.
“Slowly, hands on your head.”
Reznick complied. A second cop handcuffed him and frog-marched him into their vehicle before taking him the short journey to the Seventeenth Precinct on Fifty-First Street. He was arrested, booked, photographed, and then strip-searched. Then he was taken to a windowless interview room. He was kept waiting for more than an hour.
Eventually, a detective entered the room with a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Reznick, flicking through a pile of papers. “I’ve been speaking to a few people about you. That’s what took me so long. Seems like you’ve been having quite a few days in New York, Mr. Reznick.”
Reznick stared at him. “My daughter’s in a coma.”
“Shit, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean it like that.”
Reznick nodded. “Sure.”
“Jon . . . Can I call you Jon?”
Reznick shrugged.
“Jon, here’s where I’m at. My boss wants to charge you with numerous offenses. Hard to know where to start. I mean, entering the secure area of the United Nations, are you crazy?”
“It’s not me that’s crazy. It’s the guy who nearly killed my daughter.”
The detective leaned back in his seat and showed his palms. “I understand. I’m the father of two girls. Trust me, I get where you’re coming from. But come on, let’s face it, this is off-the-scale nuts. And it’s not a one-off. I’m reading that apparently you beat two guys unconscious in Central Park. Political and security personnel from the Ukrainian embassy. And now we’ve got a United Nations diplomat, Aleksander
Brutka, who was attacked and left unconscious. Hell of a face you left on him.”
“Will he live?”
The cop shrugged.
“He’ll live,” Reznick said. “I was only toying with the fucker. If I really wanted to put him to sleep, that wouldn’t have been a problem.”
“Here’s the thing. The diplomat—once he recovers, if he recovers—is going to want to press charges. You’re in deep shit.”
“Trust me, I’ve been in worse.”
The detective flicked through the files again and sighed. “I don’t understand. It says in this file that it is believed that you work occasionally for the FBI. Some of the information seems to be redacted by the FBI and Homeland Security. You mind expanding on what that means?”
“I can’t comment.”
“I’m assuming the Feds don’t know about this?”
“They will soon enough.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Reznick shrugged. “Do you know anything about Aleksander Brutka?”
“You’re the one that has to answer for your actions.”
“He ran down my daughter, and still he’s allowed to be accredited as a diplomat. How is that even possible?”
“You might want to take that up with the State Department.”
Reznick folded his arms. “Might just do that.”
“In the meantime, what are we going to do with you? You’re turning into quite a nuisance.”
Reznick sighed. “Listen, I’ve got no problem with the police. I’m just trying to get this fucker out of my daughter’s life. No one seems to be able to do anything about him. He swans around as if he owns this city.”
“He’s not swanning around now, Jon. He’s in the hospital.”
“Good.”
“That attitude isn’t helping your case.”
“You know what’s going to happen?”
“What?”
“Brutka won’t press charges. You know why not? Because it would mean he would get embroiled in a court case, and the hit-and-run story would all come out. He doesn’t want that.”
The cop shook his head. “You’re killing me, man. This is crazy. You’re a smart guy. But you can’t be going around kicking the shit out of diplomats, no matter how appalling they are. What do you say? I don’t hear any contrition.”