by J. B. Turner
“Eight? Are you sure?”
Callaghan nodded. “Nine if you include what Acosta said about the girl in East Harlem.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“How is this allowed to go on?”
“You wouldn’t believe half of it.”
“So are these New York girls?”
“They live here. But no. From abroad. Ukraine. He abuses them, I mean rapes. He also supplies drugs to them. They end up addicts. Terrible state of affairs.”
Reznick was struggling to get his head around the magnitude of Brutka’s crimes. “Detective Acosta mentioned just this one girl. Maybe some drug possession.”
“That’s only the girl she knows. I’m talking different areas of the city. Some out in New Jersey. Some in the East Village. Harlem. A couple in the Bronx. And not just drugs. This goes way beyond drugs.”
Reznick sighed. “My main concern is my daughter. Acosta said your investigation was back on track at the highest levels within your paper.”
“Absolutely. I’ve had guarantees, but the more case studies of this guy’s criminality and abuse of power, the better. The public needs to know about this guy.”
Reznick leaned in close. “The FBI wants him out of the country. So does the NYPD.”
“It’s the State Department protecting him.”
“Have you ever heard of a case like this?”
“Never.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Callaghan gulped the rest of his beer. “Geopolitics. Ukraine is, as you know, part of the former Soviet Union. And what happened there in 2014, the Euromaidan Revolution, was the overthrow of a Russia-friendly democracy. A coup. And guess who was pulling the strings.”
“I can take a guess.”
Callaghan nodded. “Ukraine has a lot of natural resources, and the CIA wants them to be less reliant on Russia, but there’s also the possibility of opening up US military bases, effectively right on the Russian border. It’s the Cold War take two.”
“I’m guessing the fact that Aleksander’s father is the president changes things quite a bit.”
“There’s kickbacks among contractors. Hundreds of millions in kickbacks throughout the government. Think tanks in DC. Lobbyists. PR companies. Greasing the wheels. He has threatened to withdraw everything if his son is punished.”
Reznick nodded. “And you’ve got proof of that?”
Callaghan nodded. “Most certainly.” He lowered his voice. “Jon, I’ve been told you’re a former Delta operator.”
“Don’t identify me as such.”
“How will I describe you?”
“Security consultant. Nice and generic.”
“I hear you consult for the Feds, among others.”
“I can’t comment on that. And don’t insinuate anything.”
“Not a problem. What you know is only scraping the surface, Jon. Only the surface.”
“What else have you found out?”
“A lot. It’s not just abuse and drug use. He’s involved in human smuggling. Drug trafficking. I have been told by three separate sources about cocaine and heroin shipments flown in from South America by a private jet he owns, and that the drugs were all labeled as diplomatic luggage. Couldn’t be touched. Customs and the DEA reported that their sources told them that Aleksander personally oversaw this.”
Reznick rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ. The scale of this is mind-blowing. What a fucking mess.”
“Your little run-in with the State Department tells you that this relationship—economic, political, and diplomatic—takes precedence.”
“When did you first become aware of this guy?”
“About five years back. Within six months of him taking up his post.”
Reznick was starting to see the big picture. “So, they have mineral wealth and military leverage, right?”
“Ukraine is strategic to US interests. America wants them admitted to NATO. Russia doesn’t want a Western alliance on its doorstep. With the rise of China, the reemergence of Russia, and also Iran, America is looking to consolidate its influence. They’ve got military bases across Europe. And this, in turn, is part of their geopolitical games with Russia.”
“And Brutka just happens to be a Ukrainian diplomat with a penchant for sadism and drugs?”
“Tip of the iceberg. There are other girls being abused in the most terrible, systematic way. Brutka’s role allows him to issue ten-year US visas for those girls he has handpicked.”
Reznick closed his eyes and sighed as the scale of the criminality became even more apparent. “Let me make sure I understand. If we hadn’t been turning a blind eye to Brutka . . .”
Callaghan leaned in closer. “He would’ve been sent home years ago.”
“So he should have been back in Ukraine already?”
“Correct. Your coming forward gives me an opportunity to reveal this ongoing criminal behavior. And I’m very grateful for it.”
“If it gets Brutka out of the country, then I’ll be happy.”
Callaghan sighed. “You’ve been very forthcoming. And I want you to know that I give you my word that this story will come out. Because it is far, far bigger than just Brutka.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something we have been working on. It’s powerful stuff. A separate investigation. A parallel investigation, so to speak.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“I can’t really.”
Reznick leaned closer. “Tom, I’m sharing information with you. I hope you can reveal what you know.”
“Jon, I’m a journalist, and when we’re working on a story we don’t want anyone else to catch wind of it. We want to get in first. Exclusive.”
“Whatever you tell me is not going to be shared with other newspapers or TV channels, trust me. That’s your story, fine. But at least share a bit of what you know. Quid pro quo.”
Callaghan showed his hands. “OK, but seriously, this is just for you. I’m trusting you.”
Reznick nodded.
“This is more than Brutka, the diplomat.” Callaghan’s voice was now a whisper. “Here’s the thing. His father, Yegor Brutka, the President, hates Russia with a passion. Pathological. And I’ve been digging into his past. No official documents available. But about a year ago I managed to find out something interesting. All journalists have contacts they build up over time. Some very good contacts. And what I’ve found out shocked me and sickened me.”
Reznick nodded.
“This is all going to come out when we publish. Brutka’s father, who was a boy at the time, and the grandfather were smuggled out of Ukraine at the end of the Second World War.”
“Refugees?”
Callaghan shook his head. “Try again.”
“Not a clue.”
“Brutka’s grandfather, it turns out, headed up a Ukrainian paramilitary unit in 1941. He was believed to have been part of a group, along with the Waffen-SS, who carried out a massacre in Lviv, which was then in Poland, of thousands of Jews. Beat them in the street. Killed people with sticks, clubs, bare hands. Women stripped naked and paraded through the town.”
Reznick felt sick in the pit of his stomach. “How do you know this?”
“Scores of eyewitness accounts and also American records. The Simon Wiesenthal Center unearthed corroborative evidence. Witness statements identifying the grandfather.”
“So how the hell did they get into America?”
“Turns out we helped him disappear after the Second World War to the US.”
Reznick shook his head. “And Brutka’s grandfather was part of that intake?”
“That was only part of the story. Not only Nazi scientists who had experimented on Jews but also hundreds, maybe thousands, of Waffen-SS, Ukrainian, and Lithuanian collaborators immigrated here. No one knows the true numbers. People with blood on their hands. People that had carried out pogroms. Like John Demjanjuk.”
“I remember that name.”
“Demjanjuk was an autoworker, Cleveland. He had become a naturalized citizen. He was stripped of his citizenship and deported to Israel. It was said he was the guard known as Ivan the Terrible. Subsequently found guilty of genocide. Then cleared on appeal. Regained his US citizenship, then more allegations surfaced. This time in Germany. He stood trial a second time in Germany. His family said he was a Ukrainian prisoner of war in Germany. SS identity card.”
“Tell me the rest.” He pointed to his head. “This is just for me. I’m not recording this.”
“Fair.” Callaghan sipped his beer. “Brutka’s grandfather, Ilad Brutka, used the name Bud Smith as his cover in the States. He was smuggled here in 1945 by the OSS, the predecessor of the CIA. Wound up running a small hotel in fucking Vermont. Cold War spy for America among the Ukrainian community in the States. Made money, bought more hotels. Became wealthy. His son, Brutka’s father, returned to Ukraine. Became a lawyer.”
“And we allowed that?”
“There’s more. A lot more.”
“Like what?”
“Tons of stuff. The father, currently the President of Ukraine, is backed by the far-right radical group Right Sector.”
Reznick nodded. “They were the guys behind the coup in 2014?”
“Right. Anti-Semites, fascist to the core, part of the tradition that can be traced back to the Second World War. Very active in the eastern part of Ukraine, an area which wants to break away and be part of Russia.”
“Let me get this straight. So the grandfather was a Nazi collaborator?”
Callaghan nodded. “He was there.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Callaghan reached into his jacket pocket and handed over a grainy black-and-white photo. It showed a crowd, with a grinning twentysomething man in the foreground, pointing a rifle at a naked, terrified woman in the street. “Ilad Brutka, July first, 1941.”
Reznick held the photo and stared at the woman’s eyes, which seemed to be pleading for mercy. She was alone. At the mercy of a baying mob. He handed the photo back to Callaghan, who put it back in his pocket. “And you’ve verified that it’s him?”
“We’ve had three forensic experts confirm that it’s the same guy. The grandfather. Old passport photos, military ID photographs. That’s him. He’s a fucking animal. As is his father. And his grandson.”
Reznick cleared his throat. “How has this not come out?”
“It will. You have my word. Very soon. The reason it hasn’t come out yet is that the CIA, Justice Department, and the State Department have all been covering up the presence of Nazis and Nazi collaborators in our midst since the Second World War. And the paper came under immense pressure about my investigation. But the new editor isn’t taking any prisoners. This story will run. And your testimony about what happened to your daughter and what actions you’ve taken has helped that. So thank you.”
Reznick’s head was swimming with the revelations. “You have to promise me. You have to get this published, whatever it takes. This is far bigger than just a hit-and-run.”
“I know. The paper is behind me on this. But they want this story watertight.”
Reznick gulped some of his late-morning beer. “I don’t know if what I’ve told you will be of any use.”
Callaghan shook his head. “Jon, this could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I want to see this bastard hung up to dry. Your daughter, a young American student, in a coma because of this guy? This will cause an uproar. But the story of the grandfather overshadows even that.”
“How long till you publish?”
“A week max.”
Thirty-Four
Meyerstein was enjoying a sandwich at her desk when her phone rang. She had been expecting the call from Steve Kelinski, of the State Department.
“Assistant Director, apologies for the delay,” he said. “I want to give you a heads-up on Jon Reznick.”
Meyerstein put down the sandwich. “What about him?”
“We’ve issued him an ultimatum. He’s crossed a line. And harassing UN diplomats is totally unacceptable. He also grabbed me by the throat, just so you know. Not a smart move.”
Meyerstein closed her eyes, wondering what Reznick thought he was going to achieve with such tactics.
“We’ve tried to be understanding, but Reznick’s actions have ruled that out.”
“Steven, do you want to get to the point?”
“The point is, we’ve had enough. And we wanted to let you know that his daughter is being moved to a hospital in Maine, closer to Reznick’s home.”
Meyerstein took a few seconds to process the information. “His daughter? Are you serious? She’s in a goddamn coma.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who signed off on this?”
“Pat Sheen. It’s from the top.”
“I should have guessed. Is the State Department planning to ignore the concerns of the NYPD and the FBI, Steve? Seriously, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s not our problem. Lauren Reznick is being moved. This is not up for discussion. But we thought it was common courtesy to let you know.”
“Well that’s damn decent of you.”
Meyerstein got up from her seat, walked to the window, and stared out over lower Manhattan. “In all my years at the FBI I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not only to allow the criminal act of this diplomat to go unchecked, but to then move the victim simply to comply with the outrageous demands of that dirtbag Brutka and his father.”
“Those are unsubstantiated assertions and you know it.”
“Oh come off it, Steve. Do you really expect me to believe this bullshit isn’t because of who Brutka is and who he knows and how important geopolitically his country is to us?”
“We’re going over old ground. I’m not going to get locked into a discussion about this. It’s happening. She is being moved.”
Meyerstein stood and stared at the skyline, the Freedom Tower glistening in the sun. “When will she be moved?”
“It’s happening now. As we speak.”
Thirty-Five
When Reznick got back from the late-morning meeting with Callaghan and arrived at the hospital, his daughter was in a bed being carefully pushed down a corridor to an elevator. She was still connected to tubes and the machine.
“What the hell’s going on?”
The doctor in charge shook Reznick’s hand. He took him aside into his office and explained the situation. “I just want to let you know that I did not authorize this. No way.”
“Who? Was this the State Department? I need to know.”
“I can’t say. I just know that the medical director sent me an email. The decision was made for him. When I tried to contact him, he just told me to get it done. I didn’t have a choice.”
Reznick felt pangs of guilt. He had left her bedside. “Maybe if I had been here I could’ve stopped it.”
“Mr. Reznick, don’t beat yourself up over this. Nothing could’ve stopped this happening. This is high level. The wheels are in motion.”
“Where is she being taken?”
“I believe they’re taking her to Maine.”
Reznick was struggling to process what was happening. “I can’t believe they’re actually going ahead with this. This has got to be unethical.”
“We didn’t recommend this. All I know is that the State Department signed a medical waiver, and she’s in their care until she gets to the hospital in Maine.”
“I need to be with her.”
“There’s still time. The ambulance will be leaving soon, though.”
Reznick thanked the doctor for all his efforts and his honesty. He took the elevator down to the ground floor and saw his daughter lying on the bed—accompanied by two nurses, two doctors, and an anesthetist—being lifted into the back of an ambulance with the ventilator. He showed his ID and hopped in with her.
The ambulance was headed out of Manhattan to East Farming
dale, Long Island. Small airfield.
Then they were transferred to a fresh crew on an air ambulance.
The whole time Reznick sat beside his daughter, still being artificially kept alive. He kissed her forehead before takeoff. “I’m sorry, darling.”
The doctor sitting beside her, monitoring her condition, turned to Reznick and smiled. “Sir, I promise, while this situation is not ideal, she’s going to another great hospital. She’s in good hands.”
Reznick patted the doctor on the back. “Appreciate that, thank you.”
The flight to Bangor took just under two hours.
When the plane landed, Reznick helped the nurses and doctors lift the gurney and load it on to another waiting ambulance. Lauren was transferred to the ICU at Eastern Maine Medical Center. A short handover from the mobile team of medics, then the Bangor team of specialists got to work and started fresh tests.
Reznick sat down at her bedside and began talking softly to his comatose daughter.
A nurse joined him. “We’ll look after her, Mr. Reznick.”
Reznick nodded. He knew Lauren was getting the best treatment possible. But he also felt hollow inside, believing he had let his daughter down. “I know you will.”
Thirty-Six
The days that followed were a blur for Reznick. He felt empty. He lost track of time as he sat at his daughter’s bedside. Every waking hour he now watched over her like a hawk. He wondered if she would ever get better. When a doctor entered her room, Reznick looked for signs in the doctor’s eyes. He was looking for a glimmer of hope. And he also prayed. Not outwardly. Silent prayers. Sitting by her bed, eyes closed, feeling as if his heart was being ripped out, beseeching a greater power—God, anyone—to save her. To help. To pull her through.
On the fourth day, the lead doctor on the case asked to speak to Reznick in private.
The doctor led him to a small sitting room. Reznick felt his stomach tighten, wondering what he was going to say.
“Take a seat,” the doctor said.
Reznick sat down, privately steeling himself for a bad prognosis.
“I have some news.”
Reznick stared at the doctor, part of him not wanting to hear what he was about to say.