by J. B. Turner
“It is what it is.”
The cop sighed. “Jon, you leave me with no alternative. You’re going to be charged for this. You’ve gotten lucky so far. But your time’s up.”
Twenty-Eight
Brutka was lying in a Bellevue hospital bed, waves of pain erupting on the right side of his head as he was being examined.
The doctor shone a penlight in his eyes.
“Do you mind?” Brutka said, wincing at the light.
“OK, relax.” The doctor switched off the light and conferred with his colleague. He checked the charts. Eventually, he looked down at Brutka. “Four missing teeth, loss of blood, but miraculously, no damage to the brain. Throat tender, not surprising. The CAT scans and MRI show no internal bleeding or other injuries. We were concerned about your jaw, but it’s just severe bruising.”
Brutka closed his eyes as the pain intensified. “When can I leave?”
“You need to stay overnight for observation.”
“Tomorrow morning I’m free to go?”
“All things being stable, yes.”
Brutka thanked the doctor. He was given some more pain relief, which took the edge off things. A few minutes later, the cops came and took a statement.
“We know who attacked you, Mr. Brutka,” a police officer said, “and we’re confident that we have the right man. It’s just a matter of getting your statement about what happened, and then we can go about filing charges.”
Brutka shook his head. “Officer, the NYPD have better things to do than chase down thugs like this. I don’t want you to waste your time.”
The cop looked at his colleague and then at Brutka. “Sir . . . I don’t think you understand. This was a serious assault. He choked you.”
Brutka swallowed hard as a nurse passed him a glass of water. He took a sip. It felt good. His throat was still sore and raw.
“The doctor said your vocal cords could have been permanently damaged.”
Brutka sighed. “They weren’t.”
The cop shook his head. “Sir, I would strongly recommend you press charges. You were attacked.”
“Officer, I’m a devout Orthodox Christian. And part of being a good Christian is forgiveness. I’ve already forgiven this man. I assume he has mental health issues, and for that we should offer prayers.”
The cop glanced at his partner again, then cleared his throat. “And that’s your final word?”
Brutka nodded, already beginning to plot his revenge against Reznick. A few minutes later, his cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. He picked up. It was a message from the private investigator. He had forgotten all about Tom Callaghan and the journalist’s interest in his grandfather up in Vermont.
Dossier complete. TC knows everything.
Twenty-Nine
The following morning, Reznick was roused from sleep in a Manhattan police cell by a cop pointing a nightstick at him.
“Jon, you got company. Shake a leg.”
Reznick got up and followed the policeman to an interview room. Inside, waiting for him was Meyerstein. He waited until the cop had shut the door behind them before he spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re in luck,” she said.
“How so?”
Meyerstein cocked her head. “You’re free to go.”
“On whose orders?”
“I pulled a few strings with the NYPD.”
Reznick had to sign some papers before he walked out of the precinct with Meyerstein and was shown into an SUV. He got in the back next to her and they were driven to the FBI’s office downtown. Once they were inside a corner office, she shut the door and pointed to the seat opposite her desk.
“This your place these days? Very minimalistic.”
“I’m working out of this office until further notice.”
Reznick slumped in the seat. “Damn.”
Meyerstein sat down behind her desk. “Not good, Jon, not good at all.”
“I appreciate the help.”
Meyerstein sighed. “Seriously, what the hell were you thinking? I’ve had the State Department screaming at me, my boss wondering if you should be put in a psychiatric unit, and all the while you’re acting as if you’ve gone rogue. It’s unacceptable. The only plus side is that Brutka isn’t pressing charges.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“The guy isn’t stupid. He doesn’t want this to go to court. And then have to divulge the hit-and-run that started all this.”
“Did you know that bastard called me? And that he sent my daughter, who he put in a coma, flowers?”
“It’s not illegal, Jon. Christ, this needs to stop. I did warn you where this would lead. You’ve already been hauled in by the NYPD. Twice. It needs to end!”
“This ends when he’s on a plane out of New York.”
Meyerstein began to pace the room before she stopped and faced him, hands on hips. “We’re at a crisis point, Jon, and I’m coming very close to just turning my back on you. I don’t want to. But you’re boxing me in. I want to help, but you’re just defying my every request to stay out of this.”
“It’s not in my nature to let this go. I can’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this is not over. My daughter is still hanging by a thread, and that fucker is walking around this city. And we don’t seem to be able to do anything about it.”
Meyerstein massaged her temples with her fingers. “I think we’re going around in circles, Jon.”
“I’m not going around in circles, Martha. It’s the American government that refuses to kick that fucker out of our country. They choose to do nothing. Why is that?”
Meyerstein sighed, head bowed. “I’m trying to help you, Jon. But you’re pushing me away. I can’t get close to you. You don’t seem to want to listen. It’s like you’re closed off. And it’s worrying me. I’m concerned. For you. For your daughter. About how this will all end.”
Reznick folded his arms and stared at the floor.
“You don’t have anything else to say?”
“I look out for my family. You know that. My daughter is my only family. Brutka left her in a coma. And no one seems to give a damn.”
“Not true.”
“It’s all protocol, diplomatic immunity, and some such other bullshit.”
“The FBI recommended that Brutka leave the country.”
Reznick rubbed his face as a wave of tiredness washed over him. “I’m very pleased to hear that. But why not the State Department? Are they protecting this fucker?”
“I’ve heard enough. You’ve crossed the line. I’m sorry, Jon, but you cannot continue to be part of the FBI after this.”
“So be it.”
“This didn’t have to happen, Jon.”
“If he had left the country, I would have been able to move on. But I can’t with him lurking in the background. I’m telling you, he is a risk. A serious risk.”
“Knocking his teeth out and choking him is not a rational response. It’s an emotional response, Jon.”
“Damn right it was.”
“You should look after your daughter.”
“I will. But you need to get a message to that bastard. He needs to watch his back.”
Thirty
Just over an hour later, Meyerstein joined a high-level video conference with the FBI Director, Bill O’Donoghue, and the undersecretary of state for political affairs, Pat Sheen. She was alone in the New York conference room looking up at the big screens. She sensed that the meeting, arranged on short notice by Sheen, the highest-ranking member of the Foreign Service, was not going to go well.
She had run into Sheen at a security conference at Quantico a couple of years back. At the time, he was the manager of overall regional and bilateral policy issues, as well as overseeing bureaus around the world. He was hugely intelligent, unsurprisingly, and was known as an adherent of the realism school of international relations. Which was a fancy way of saying neoconservative. Basically,
he believed in realpolitik whereby a nation is motivated by what is in its interests. It was a pragmatic approach to diplomacy and international relations. An approach where the personal infidelities of individual diplomats or politicians were not the be-all and end-all. Diplomacy was simply about what was in a nation’s best interests. And Meyerstein knew that Sheen’s viewpoint was that countries from the old Soviet Union, especially Ukraine, were in effect America’s watchdog in Russia’s backyard. Vital for American national security, both economically and politically.
Meyerstein took a deep breath before she switched on her microphone. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Just wanted to give you an update on the situation in New York.”
Sheen put up his hand. “Hi, Martha, glad we can hook up on this issue. It’s causing me sleepless nights, let me tell you. I’m getting a lot of grief on this. From the White House and from the Ukrainians.”
O’Donoghue said, “Martha, do you want to kick things off? It’ll have to be quick.”
“Sure thing,” Meyerstein said, glancing at her notes. “Jon Reznick is, as you are both aware, the father of Lauren Reznick, and she is in a medically induced coma. Her condition is still cause for concern. But that aside, I’ve been quite clear with Jon that his actions are absolutely unacceptable, illegal, and have no place in our work. Accordingly, I have relieved him of any FBI duties with immediate effect.”
Sheen said, “Martha, his behavior is quite disgraceful. And I think we should be considering having him prosecuted.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I don’t disagree with your assessment, but I think it’s clear that Reznick’s actions were a deliberate ploy on his part to provoke a response from Brutka. Unfortunately, it’s gotten out of hand. Way out of hand.”
Sheen said, “Aleksander Brutka is a respected and much-admired United Nations diplomat, a close friend of the United States. I’ve known him and his father for nearly a decade. I’m truly at a loss as to how this got ‘out of hand.’ We need to look at the big picture instead of getting fixated on what Brutka is alleged to have done in New York City.”
O’Donoghue said, “Pat, what we’re concerned about, and I’ve already raised this with a couple of your guys, is that Aleksander Brutka has not been deemed persona non grata by the State Department. I haven’t received a satisfactory explanation of this decision. I believe if he is removed from the country, the whole dynamic changes. I’m referring to the hit-and-run on Reznick’s daughter.”
Sheen said, “They’re allegations. We have no proof he was driving. Ordinarily, we would have thrown the book at him. But that’s not possible in this case at this time.”
Meyerstein said, “Why not?”
Sheen sighed and shook his head. “It’s complicated. There are multiple factors we have to consider; you know how it works.”
Meyerstein said, “Like his father being the President of Ukraine?”
O’Donoghue intervened sharply. “That’s quite enough, Martha.”
Sheen said, “No, it’s fine, Bill. It’s good to be up-front. And I’ve known both of you guys for a long time. A frank exchange of views is very important in my line of work. So here’s where I’m at. I agree, Yegor Brutka has a blind spot with regard to his son. But you guys know that there are national interests at stake that we don’t want to jeopardize. Ukraine is a valued and important partner in a very sensitive part of the world.”
Meyerstein had figured as much. “I’m assuming you mean bilateral military exercises, intelligence sharing on Russian oil contracts, military deals, that kind of thing.”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal specifics. But this is where we’ve got to see the big picture, Martha. I’m going to be honest with you. The government of Ukraine wants to become energy independent in the next few years. And they are working with several American corporations to advise them. But not only that, they want to diversify their energy supply. Not be dependent on Russia. We estimate that Ukraine has around nine hundred billion cubic meters of proven reserves of natural gas. And we are doing everything in our power to ensure Ukraine not only stays independent but thrives in the twenty-first century. It is absolutely in American interests to support them.”
Meyerstein sighed. “While I understand the rationale, it’s not a good look allowing this guy to get away with serious criminal behavior.”
“Martha, I make no apology for putting these strategic aims ahead of what is clearly reckless and criminal behavior.”
Meyerstein shifted in her seat, getting more and more irate. “So let me get this straight. We’re prepared to turn a blind eye to what this guy did—leaving a young girl in a coma—because American national interests are at stake? So if he goes out, gets in his car, and kills an innocent bystander tonight or tomorrow or the day after, that’s just the way it is? Really?”
“I understand your anger.”
“The thing is, Pat, if it was a country with little economic clout or one where we had no national interests to protect, we would have thrown him out already.”
Sheen smiled down from the screen. “Quite possibly. It’s a very good assessment. It’s a tough call, I accept that. Jon Reznick is a fine man. But I am responsible for doing what’s right for this country, which takes precedence over one man’s bad behavior. So, you’re right. We are willing to turn a blind eye to this one serious offence which Mr. Brutka is alleged to have committed.”
“For how long?”
O’Donoghue interjected, “That’s a good question, Pat. The State Department must have a time frame for how long this could be tolerated.”
“For how long, Pat?” Meyerstein snapped.
“For as long as it takes. It’s not ideal. Far from it. But American geopolitical interests come first, last, and always.”
Thirty-One
The SUV was crawling along Fifth Avenue. Reznick had been aware of it for a couple of blocks. He wondered if it was more of Brutka’s goons, spoiling for a fight. He walked on, trying to figure out his next move. He didn’t know who these guys were. But they clearly knew him.
His cell phone rang.
Reznick answered. “Yeah?”
“Jon . . . don’t be alarmed. We don’t mean you any harm. But we need to speak to you.”
“Who’s this?”
“We’re in the big Jeep on your tail.”
Reznick stopped and looked across Fifth Avenue. The vehicle had stopped in the traffic outside a townhouse being renovated, workmen toiling in the blazing heat. A cabdriver was screaming out his window at the SUV. Reznick crossed the busy street, jogging past the cab, which screeched to a halt.
“Hey, buddy,” the taxi driver said, “tell your friend to get a fucking move on.”
Reznick ignored the guy and knocked on the front passenger window of the SUV. Slowly it wound down. A guy wearing sunglasses and sporting a navy suit sat inside. He flashed a government ID.
“Steve Kelinski, State Department.”
“You want a date or something, Steve?”
Kelinski grinned. “Smart-ass, huh? You wanna hop in?”
“Not really.”
“Two minutes of your time.”
Reznick looked around. “What’s it about?”
“Got an ultimatum for you.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“You wanna jump in?”
Reznick opened the back door and slid in, slamming the door shut behind him.
The SUV pulled away slowly.
Kelinski took off his shades and turned around. “Jon, sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”
“You want to get to the point?”
“This can’t go on. We’ve kept our distance until now. But that’s over.”
“If you say so.”
“Listen. Brutka is an important man, Jon, and you pulling that stunt at the UN, that’s not cool. What the fuck was that all about?”
“It’s about defending my family.”
“There are rules, Jon. And you are not above them. I don’t care wh
o you work for.”
“Fuck your rules. And the same rules that apply to your diplomat friend.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Isn’t he?”
Kelinski sighed and pointed his finger close to Reznick’s face. “We have global responsibilities.”
“Good for you.”
“He’s an important man. His country is vital to our national interests.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m trying to be nice here, Jon.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed with this bullshit? My daughter is in a fucking coma, and I’m supposed to care about the virtues of this shitbag diplomat?”
“Let me spell it out. Really nice and easy. The diplomat’s country is vital to our interests. And we can’t allow your behavior to spoil our relationship with his country.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. My only interest is my daughter and her well-being.”
Kelinski shook his head. “Reznick, this little game of yours is up. We can’t tolerate this any longer. And I’m going to lay it on the line so you can understand. You need to leave New York.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You need to understand that you don’t have the power in this situation, Jon. You might think you do, but you don’t. We don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. Just some guidance.”
“Listen to me, pal. The only people hurt, apart from my daughter, are the diplomat, who’s missing some teeth, and a couple of his goons, who attacked me. They’re the ones who got hurt.”
“This is not going to end well. So we’re telling you nice and clear it’s time to get out of the city.”
“Really? So let me get this straight. Is the State Department now subcontracted to the Ukraine? Is that what you’re telling me? Is that who’s pulling the strings?”
Kelinski cleared his throat.
“You like running errands, Kelinski?”
“Are you trying to provoke me, Reznick?”