by J. B. Turner
Wesley knew when it was time to leave. He stood up and patted Lance on the shoulder like old friends do. “Appreciate that.”
Then he walked past the young woman who flashed a pearly smile before he headed out of the revolving doors into the harsh glare of the early-afternoon sun, knowing his old friend wouldn’t let him down.
SEVENTEEN
Dark thoughts were starting to crowd Reznick’s mind. He drove south along Alton Road heading away from North Bay Road in a BMW 650i convertible he’d taken from Merceron’s huge garage in a state of flux. He was no nearer finding out where his daughter was. He felt empty, almost bereft as his anxiety mounted as the minutes ticked down. He hadn’t felt this sense of detachment since Elisabeth died.
The problems were myriad.
He didn’t know if the people who were holding her, perhaps Merceron’s men, would keep their promise to kill her if he didn’t deliver Luntz. He had to assume they would. He wondered how long it would take them to find out that Reznick had visited Merceron’s house. He figured not very long. He had tied up the maid to some piping, attached to the basement hatch. And she would talk. The woman, he knew, would be discovered sooner rather than later. But that was more than could be said for his daughter.
She was still being held. And he knew Merceron was the key. Was it associates of his that were holding her captive? Was he under the control of Brewling and Norton & Weiss?
Got to find that bastard.
Reznick knew he was running out of leads to pursue. He felt increasingly isolated and angry at the sequence of events. And to compound matters, he had dropped off Maddox’s radar for forty-eight hours without checking in, as he fought what was fast turning into a personal war in south Florida.
He needed help. Any kind of help.
The more he thought of it the more he was inclined to believe that only Maddox could provide the logistical help he needed. He figured that going it alone had only got him so far. He knew Maddox would find a way to get to a man like Merceron. That’s what he did. That’s all he did.
Reznick thought about it for a few moments. It was weird. He had never met Maddox. His voice was all he knew. It was a slightly detached, educated drawl. Maybe Louisiana. Maybe Florida. But he trusted him with his life. With his life. He more than anyone knew what made Reznick tick. It was as if he intuitively knew what he needed at any particular moment.
They were bonded by a mutual trust. Maddox trusted Reznick to get the job done. He assumed he knew all about his time in Delta. Probably what got him the gig. His mind flashed to the first call he received from Maddox on his cellphone. He remembered he was walking the beach outside Rockland late one summer evening. After a long silence on the line, the man he had never met opened up with the words, “You don’t know who I am, and you probably never will, but that’s of no importance. I’d like to talk about opportunities I may have for a man like you.”
The monotone delivery added to an unsettling effect. Reznick listened as Maddox went on to outline the critical job Reznick could do on special jobs. “Off-piste”, as he described it. Stuff that wasn’t “on the grid”. He said he would be the point man. And everything would come through him. Then he gave Reznick twenty-four hours to think about it.
He mulled it over and considered his options. His life at that point was a mess. He was drinking way too much and was considering leaving Delta. But suddenly, a shadowy new world opened up to him. A world of false passports, false identities, fake IDs and synthetic suicides. A world of surveillance and shootings. The more he did the less he felt. He got a call, he did the job. No questions asked. And the money was great.
He worked it out that, on average, he had to wait six weeks for a job. In between he kept himself super-fit. He ran with rucksacks loaded down with stones, swam in the sea until he turned blue and kept himself in fighting shape. He read historical biographies, researched the American civil war and became fascinated by Gettysburg, but most of the time, he just sat and stared out to sea, thinking of the old days. He didn’t sleep much, plagued by recurring nightmares. The one thing he looked forward to was keeping in touch with Lauren using FaceTime, a video calling software, which he used with his MacBook. It was reassuring to see her beautiful face, smiling back at him from the safety of her study bedroom at the school. It was only for a few minutes at a time, as he didn’t want to intrude too much. He wanted to keep that distance. But sometimes, if he found himself at a loose end and with the dark moods returning, he more often than not headed into town where he drowned himself in whisky and beer, before walking back home alone. He usually drank alone. When he did bump into friends he once knew, it was awkward. They had become like strangers. Forced bonhomie. It was as if they sensed he wasn’t all he said he was. As if they knew he wasn’t opening up.
The sounds of loud hip-hop from a passing jazzed up pimp mobile snapped Reznick out of his reverie. He knew he had to make the call. He punched in Maddox’s number from memory.
Maddox answered on the second ring. “Who is this?” He hadn’t recognised the number.
“Who do you think?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Miami.”
“I don’t believe this. I gave you a simple job. We now have five dead. The Feds are after you and the target is missing. Reznick, I know what this is about. I heard about Lauren and her grandmother. I’m sorry, Reznick, for that. But you have a job to do. You need to bring in the target in the next hour. Do you understand?”
“That might be tricky, Maddox. And it’s six dead. I just shot a guy half an hour ago.”
“Reznick, we need to draw a line under the whole thing. Look, I’m glad you finally called. We can help you get Lauren. Make no mistake about that. But you need to bring in the target. We’ll work this out.”
Reznick said nothing.
“There’s something you need to know about the guy you were supposed to take down.”
“What about him?”
“Did some checking of my own. The IDF dog tag is bullshit. His name is not Luntz.”
“What?”
“We’ve been played. All of us. Our communication was compromised, you were right on that. But there is no such person as Luntz. He doesn’t exist. He played you. He played us.”
Reznick’s tired mind tried to keep up.
“This guy runs a private bank which deals exclusively with the rulers of Saudi Arabia. He has tried to conceal the financial trail for 9/11. He tried to cover the tracks of the hijackers. And that’s why his number is up.”
Reznick felt as if an oncoming truck had hit him. His mind flashed images of the falling towers and the dust cloud. Free fall speed. “He came up with a credible story. How did you get this information?”
“I’ve said enough.”
He felt sick. How was this possible?
“We need to bring him in, Jon. There are other elements at work. We need closure on this today.”
“I need to think of my daughter. How does she fit into this?”
“Reznick, as far as we can ascertain, they have your daughter somewhere in south Florida, I’m hearing near Key West, but they just want to get this guy back and get him out the country. Those on high in a foreign government are protecting him. We can’t allow them to succeed, Reznick. We need to get rid of this guy.”
Reznick pulled up at a red light, car idling. His mind was struggling to take it all in. He felt conflicted. He didn’t know what to believe. “Key West?”
“Here’s what I propose. Hand the scientist over, and I will negotiate with these guys, to get your daughter back.”
“Look, I don’t know what the hell has gone down here, Maddox, but I feel like I’m closing in on them.”
“Reznick, you need to focus. You can’t go out on a limb. You can’t do this by yourself. Look, I’ve flown down to Miami. Do you know The Tides on Ocean Drive?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Let’s meet up and we can run through our options. You call the sh
ots how you think we go about getting your daughter back. But you need backup, Reznick, don’t you see that? You need logistics. One man can’t do this alone.”
Reznick was beset by doubts. He knew he was close. Merceron was the key. But the contradictory information Reznick had been dealt made him fear the worst for Lauren. He was bombing around Miami trying to get a lead. Now Maddox and his team seemed to have got Key West in their sights. Was it really possible that Luntz had pulled the wool over his eyes? Was Luntz really a shadowy banker who had concealed the 9/11 money trail? None of it made any sense.
“Reznick, are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God. I thought I’d lost you again. Right, first things first. Is the target somewhere safe?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We’re in business. Bring him to The Tides within the hour. He’ll be taken care of. Then our priority will be Lauren.”
His mind raced as he turned onto Washington Avenue and headed south. Deep down in his soul something about Maddox’s story didn’t make sense. It wasn’t because the explanation he gave was complex. The fact was that it just didn’t feel right. But what if his own reading of the situation was wrong and Maddox was indeed right. Where would that leave him? And to compound matters, he had information that pointed to Lauren being held in Key West.
The more he thought of it the more Reznick didn’t know who to trust and what to believe.
He thought of his daughter. All he wanted was her back. He didn’t know for sure if she was even alive. But if she was, she couldn’t be used as a bargaining chip. She was first, last and everything to him. She was all he had.
“Reznick, are you still there, goddamit?”
He saw a sign for Cybr Caffee, an Internet café, dark green awnings partially shading the sidewalk. His mouth felt dry and his stomach growled. “Maddox, I need more time on this. I’ve got to think this through.”
“Reznick, you’re out of time.”
“Perhaps. Look, I’ll call you.”
“Wait. You need–”
“Speak to you later, Maddox.”
Reznick ended the call and drove around for a couple of minutes until he found a deserted alley, garbage bins overflowing from nearby restaurants and hotels. His mind flashed back to what Maddox had said. Was the guy Tiny had really a 9/11 financier and had he been duped? Doubts were still lingering and his nerve ends jangling. He needed to focus. He needed to get back in the game. He locked the car and headed back round to the café. It was all whitewashed walls, modernist black and chrome chairs and circular glass tables, three computers per table. The place was nearly empty, some electronic music playing low in the background.
He ordered a bottle of still water, a double espresso and a large toasted cheese and tomato sandwich. He handed the girl wearing a Motorhead T-shirt in the cafe a twenty-dollar bill and asked her to keep the change, which brought a smile to her face. Probably just earning some money to pay her way through college. He had such high hopes for his own daughter despite not going on to college himself. It was something he regretted. He felt like he had missed out on something. He was a big reader, just like his dad. He envisaged Lauren attending an Ivy League college. Despite only being eleven, she talked about Princeton, the same school as her mother.
He thought back to when Lauren was just a baby. Elisabeth holding her tight, leafing over tax papers whilst breastfeeding their daughter. Reznick popped out for some Chinese food. And they would eat. Then Lauren would fall fast asleep. And he’d carry her to the cot, lay her on her back and gaze down at his beautiful little girl, sleeping like an angel.
But all that seemed so very far away just now, embroiled in a race against time with some crazy kidnappers. It might already be too late for all he knew.
He snapped back to reality.
Reznick drank his bottle of water and wolfed down the sandwich. He picked up his espresso and headed over to a table with no other users and sat down, back to the wall. He logged onto the Internet and Googled the name Claude Merceron. It pulled up six hundred and thirty-two entries. He double clicked the top entry and it showed Merceron’s short biography, alongside a picture.
He moved the cursor to the images of Merceron and double-clicked. Twenty-five separate images were pulled up.
Reznick scrolled through them. They showed Merceron sitting at his desk in the Haitian consulate in downtown Miami in front of the distinctive Haitian flag, two horizontal blue and red rectangles and the coat of arms in a white panel in the center.
Shit, the guy really was a diplomat. This meant diplomatic immunity. Untouchable.
Four pictures showed him handing over a one million dollar check raised from the Haitian community in Miami for the disaster relief appeal.
He studied his profile. He looked around mid-fifties, short cropped hair with a peppering of grey. Those black eyes again. He was physically imposing and was obviously well-nourished.
He exuded quiet authority, perhaps even menace.
He thought back to the basement in North Bay Road. The voodoo symbols. The blood and bones. The smell of rotting flesh.
Reznick clicked back to open up a few of the articles written about Merceron. He read about his charity work and business interests. Then blogs from Haitian exiles came up, speaking about the fundraising efforts for under privileged children in Little Haiti.
The more he read the more he wondered if he had the wrong guy. But Reznick knew that charity work didn’t mean shit.
Thirty minutes later, as Reznick felt increasingly jaded staring at the computer screen, he came across an interesting article. It was a Miami Herald article about Merceron’s vision for Haiti following the January 2010 earthquake. He was pictured sitting on a roof terrace.
Reznick scanned the tagline on the roof terrace photo that just said “Consulate General Claude Merceron’s birthday party, March 7, 2010, in Florida”. But no indication of the location.
He stared long and hard at the image and wondered if the party was held at the Consulate in Miami. Was that where he could be found? Then he remembered a high-tech device that could help him.
He searched for the website for specialist software and tried to down the program Opanda IExif, which would perhaps help him find the location. But he wasn’t in luck. Almost immediately an error message came up on the screen saying Incompatible Extension.
His heart sank. “Goddamn,” he said, before he even had time to keep his emotions in check.
“You got a problem, sir?” He turned and saw it was the girl who had served him coffee.
“It’s OK, I’ll figure it out.”
Reznick could feel her looking over his shoulder.
“The firewalls and security measures on all our computers will stop any new installations. And that includes the exchangeable image file format reader.”
“I appreciate your help, thanks.”
Reznick turned and stared back at the error message on the screen.
“Why don’t you just download it to your cell phone?”
He leaned back in his seat and turned again to face the young woman. “Unfortunately, my phone is used for work purposes, and has been configured in a certain way. I know for a fact it won’t accept that.”
She smiled and shrugged her bony shoulders. “That’s too bad.”
Reznick groaned and shook his head. “I’ll figure it out. Do you mind if I have another espresso and some of that carrot cake?” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “Appreciate your help. Keep the change.”
“Thanks. You mind me asking what you need that program for? Not gonna case some joint through geotagging, are you?”
Reznick showed his palms, as in mock surrender. “You got me. Am I that transparent?”
She laughed.
“No, actually, I’m wondering where a picture was taken. I’m a location scout. Just curious where it is.”
“You kidding? You in films?”
Reznick nodded.
She flushed
crimson. “Oh wow, how cool is that?” She handed him her iPhone. “Hey listen, you’re in luck. Download the program to my phone if you want.”
Reznick smiled graciously. “Very kind, thanks. Are you sure?”
“Go right ahead.”
For a split second, Reznick felt bad for spinning such a line. But what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, Merceron was hiding his daughter, he was sure of it. And all bets were off.
He downloaded the program. Then he Googled the name Claude Merceron again, moved the cursor icon toward the image tab and then clicked enter. Then he scrolled through the images until he got to the one with Merceron being interviewed on the roof terrace.
Reznick opened the image. His heart hiked up a notch. Please gimme a break, he thought. Almost immediately the GPS longitude and latitude references and the time stamp came up. Then he opened a tab that said ‘Locate Spot on Map by GPS’.
A Google map appeared before him with a red dot at South Ocean Boulevard, Palm Beach. The tag read The Palm Beach Club.
Reznick kept his feelings in check. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. It didn’t mean a goddamn thing if Merceron wasn’t there. But he sensed he was getting closer. A lot closer.
The website showed a liveried door man wearing a dark blue suit with gold braid, smiling outside a sprawling five-story white-washed mansion, its marble entrance shrouded by palms. It was founded in 1959 and drew its clients from wealthy businessmen and political leaders who had ‘made Palm Beach their home’, including Florida Senator Jimmy Labrecq and Governor Collins and a smattering of retired hedge fund head honchos from Manhattan. The website showed the dark mahogany interior, the forty thousand dollars per annum fees, the health club, the cigar bar, the roof terrace, the three restaurants and the butterfly-shaped swimming pool.
He added the club’s main number to his cell phone.
The girl arrived with his espresso and carrot cake and Reznick finished it in seconds.
“Appreciate your help,” he said again.
“You got everything you were looking for?” she asked.