by J. B. Turner
But what if she had been killed? What if she was being tortured at that moment? What if…?
“Fuck!” he shouted to himself.
Reznick resisted the urge to put the foot on the gas. He passed through Key Largo and saw a small green mile marker sign indicating 102.5, the number of miles to the southernmost part of the Keys. He drove on ignoring the kitschy gift shops selling seashell necklaces, burger stands, dive shops, bait shacks and headed towards Islamorada.
The traffic seemed to slow with a slew of camper, rental convertibles and pickups hauling fishing boats, heading south.
Overhead pelicans swooped and then dived into the turquoise waters.
His mind flashed back to an old Special Forces friend, Frank Clements, who had sported a huge tattoo of a pelican on his back. The guy was a real family man who had four kids and was nuts on diving. He raved about the sports fishing on the Keys, although he also bemoaned the crappy restaurants and entertainment bars, which were springing up everywhere. When Reznick once asked out of curiosity why he’d got a pelican tattoo, Frank told him that in medieval Europe, the pelican was thought to be particularly attentive to her young, to the point of providing her own blood when no other food was available. The story always stuck with Reznick. He would do the same. He would gladly give up his own blood for his daughter. He would die for her. He would kill for her.
Reznick drove on. The sky seemed bigger and the hamlets smaller. He passed roadside stops with sandy beaches and long shallows. Then it was past Little Duck Key, a couple of locals fishing from a bridge. The sky became a deep blue, not a cloud in the sky. He felt drowsy, losing track of time, not having slept properly in two or three days.
He cracked open the window and felt the warm breeze from the Gulf waters. It reminded him of Elisabeth, before Lauren was born, when he was on R&R from Somalia. They decided to catch a flight down from New York to Miami and then drive down to Key West for a few days. They stayed at the Hyatt-Sunset Harbor, which was close to Sloppy Joe’s, where they kicked back most evenings. They walked the beaches, and he felt himself unwind from the flashbacks of atrocities he’d witnessed. They dived together. Elisabeth tanned easily and in her faded denim shorts and white vest, with her long legs and toned arms, she looked great.
It was hard to believe she’d been gone more than a decade. After a time he didn’t feel anything.
He sometimes wondered how he hadn’t gone under. Perhaps it was something to do with his Delta training. The desensitisation to trauma. The psychological profile that detaches at will. But then again, maybe it was because he was damaged. Maybe he didn’t realise how far gone he was.
A loud blast of a car horn snapped him out of his reverie.
Reznick looked in his rearview mirror and saw a dark blue Lincoln tailgating him, desperate to overtake. Further back, he noticed a black Suburban. There were no other cars following. He let the Lincoln pass him as the driver shook his head.
Up ahead, Reznick saw a sign for an outdoor seafood restaurant, Mangrove Mama’s, and decided to pull over, feeling empty inside. He parked the car and picked an outdoor table with a great view over the water.
He felt empty and realised he was famished. He ordered conch fritters followed by a crab sandwich, washed down by a large glass of Coke. The same kind of food his father liked. Afterwards, in the bathroom, he popped two Dexedrine, splashed cold water on his face, and was ready for anything.
He walked back to the car and turned the radio onto a rock station as he began the final leg of the journey.
Fifteen minutes later, he glanced again in his mirror and saw the same black Suburban as before. Same plates. Had they stopped in Sugarloaf Key when he did?
Reznick drove on. He looked again in his mirror. The black Suburban had dropped further back in traffic that was now building up as he approached Key West.
He drove down North Roosevelt Boulevard on his way into the historic ‘old town’, shrouded in tropical foliage and bone-dry palms. The pastel painted bungalows, wooden-framed mansions, the peaked metal roofs, louvered shutters, covered porches and wood lattice screens. The feel of Key West was always something that appealed to him. And it held such precious memories for him. Moments of peace.
Reznick followed the P signs for a parking garage at the corner of Grinnell and Caroline. He drove to the upper level where he parked the car and switched off the engine. Then he got out, popped open the trunk and lifted out a small rucksack containing all his ‘work’ gear. A couple of pistols, scope rifle, an electric stun gun and a selection of knives.
Reznick strapped on his rucksack, locked the car and strode towards the sign for the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black car edge towards him. He stole a quick glance and saw the same black Suburban again.
Keep on walking.
He sensed the car was slowing behind him. It pulled up and the car door opened and then slammed shut. Reznick reached inside his belt for his gun.
“You’re a long way from home, Jon,” a woman’s voice said.
Reznick stopped in his tracks. He was surprised to hear a female voice. He turned around and saw a strikingly attractive woman in her late thirties, wavy dark hair, standing beside the Suburban. She wore a dark blue suit, pale pink blouse underneath.
“I think you got the wrong guy, sorry,” he said.
Reznick turned to walk away.
“We can help each other, Jon.”
Reznick turned around again and moved towards her. Immediately, four dark suited guys stepped out of the Suburban in a casual manner and stared at him. He stared back at each one before he turned to the woman. “Look, you must’ve got me mixed up with some other guy, I get that a lot.”
The woman stood her ground, before she took a few steps towards him until they were standing face-to-face. She was a few inches shorter than him. Her eyes were cobalt blue and her makeup was subtle and soft. “FBI, Jon. I’m Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein.”
Reznick said nothing.
She reached into her jacket and held up a picture of Reznick and Elisabeth, arms wrapped around Lauren. The images seared into his head. His most prized possession. The last picture he had of her alive. The last picture he had of them as a family. Two weeks later she would be dead. He looked at his wife’s eyes, smiling, oblivious to the fate that was about to befall her. He felt his anger rise, but kept his emotions in check. “If you’re wondering, we got it from your screensaver. So let’s cut the bullshit. We know everything about you, Jon. We know about your wife, Elisabeth. We know about your father. We know he served his country, as have you. And we also know he brought you up when your mother died. You want me to go on?”
Reznick stared back at her. His mind flashed back to the day of his mother’s funeral. He was only four. His first memories. Snow was falling as they lowered her into the bone-hard ground. His father gripped his tiny hand throughout, as if scared he would be snatched away. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He learned later that she had scrubbed and cleaned holiday homes in Rockland in the mornings and at night, for extra money. She’d scrimped and saved all her life.
“You live in the same house your father built when he returned from Vietnam. He was in the Marines. He was the reason you joined up.”
Reznick said nothing.
“Look, there’s two ways we can do this. There’s the smart way and there’s the dumb way. The dumb way, there’s a fair chance you will be shot dead before you reach for that gun again. The smart way? Well, the smart way would be for us to talk.”
“Look, this is all very interesting, but I’ve got things to do.”
She looked him over with a steely gaze. “We know why you’re here in Key West, Jon. We know what you’ve been up to since you drove down from Washington. And I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“I want you to get your daughter back. But in return, you’ve got to help us out.”
The Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West’s harbor
walk overlooked a marina, scores of yachts and boats bobbing about in the swell. Dozens of people were drinking in and around the bar, knocking back lunchtime margaritas, beers and mojitos; country music playing loud.
Reznick headed to an empty upstairs deck and sat down under a huge umbrella. Meyerstein sat down opposite him and donned a pair of shades. He ordered a large Coke, she ordered an iced tea. The four suits sat at a table near the entrance with direct line of sight to Meyerstein and Reznick.
When the waitress was out of earshot, Meyerstein leaned over and spoke softly.
“OK, before we can get down to business, I need to get some answers,” she said, curling her hair behind her ear.
Reznick said nothing.
“Jon, you need to help us.”
“Look, let’s cut to the chase and say what you’ve got to say.”
“I want to help you get your daughter back. But we’ve got to trust each other, at least a little.”
“You’ve got two minutes to make your point.”
“Someone took your daughter. Why? Because you should have killed a government scientist. Now, I’m gonna level with you. Someone wants this scientist dead real bad. But we need him, Jon. And it’s no word of a lie to say this man is vital to America’s national security interests.”
Reznick listened as he wondered who he could trust. Meyerstein or Maddox. He’d never met this woman, but she didn’t seem like a bullshitter, much less a liar. He assumed she could lie if she had to. But something about her told him that she was giving it to him straight.
The waitress arrived with the drinks. “Enjoy!” she said cheerily.
Reznick looked away as Meyerstein gave a wan smile to the girl.
“Where is he, Jon? Where’s Luntz?”
“He’s safe.”
Meyerstein blew out a sigh of relief. She looked over to the four suits before she stared straight at him. “We’ve also got a big problem, Jon. An additional problem. We have a trail of bodies, some I don’t care about. But one of them was a Special Agent. We found him in a wardrobe. We saw the signs that he had been neutralised. Jon, do you know he was married? Had two young daughters. Now their daddy will never come home. They’ll never see him again.”
“Listen to me and listen good. That wasn’t me.”
“I want to believe you, Jon. But my colleagues beside the door–”
“This is bullshit.”
A long silence opened up before Meyerstein spoke, leaning forward. He smelled a light citrus perfume. “No, this is not bullshit, Jon. This is as real as it gets.”
Reznick jabbed his thumb into his chest. “I want my daughter back. She is a child. She’s out there. And she’ll be frightened out of her mind. On a fucking boat. Now are you gonna stop fucking me around or what?”
“I need answers, Jon. Did you kill Agent Connelly?”
Reznick said nothing.
“Your prints are all over the place.”
“Aren’t you listening? I didn’t kill him. Got that?”
“So who did?”
“Probably the same people who took my daughter.”
“OK, let’s say for a moment that I believe this. Let’s move to Luntz. Where is he?”
“I told you he’s safe.”
“Jon, here’s what we have. We’re up against the clock. You’re up against the clock. But what I’m going to propose can help us both. But you must trust me, like I want to trust you.”
Reznick knocked back his Coke and stared out again over the marina. “Can you help me get my daughter back? That’s all I’m interested in.”
“Yes, I can.” Meyerstein finished her iced tea and stood up. “Let’s walk as we converse.”
They walked down the boardwalk past a line of shops, restaurants and bars, and on the other side yachts, catamaran, ferries and dive boats, vying for business. Then over to Mallory Square, a huge plaza on the waterfront, where jugglers, clowns, jewelry vendors, face painters and tourists mingled. A cruise ship was heading out of the port.
Reznick was aware of the Feds in suits walking about twenty yards behind them. Meyerstein led them over towards the big red building – Key West Museum of Art & History – and sat down on an empty bench.
Satisfied there was no one within earshot, Reznick leaned forward and spoke first. “You mentioned about a national security threat to America. What kind of threat?”
“We’re talking mass casualties. A possible bio-terrorist attack. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Reznick took a few moments for the information to sink in. This was totally at odds with what Maddox had told him. He wondered if he shouldn’t just turn and walk away. But something deep within him sensed not only that she was telling the truth, but that she could be trusted. “That’s not the information I have.”
“Trust me, this guy is indeed a scientist. I don’t know if your handler, or whatever you call him, is in control of this situation. He won’t save you or your daughter. Only we can.”
“OK, let’s say for a minute that what you’re saying is correct. So, how does the scientist fit into this?”
It was Meyerstein’s turn to go quiet.
“Listen, we’re either going to level with each other, or you better speak to someone else.”
Meyerstein cleared her throat and sighed. “You’ve not got clearance for this.”
“Fuck clearance. You either deal me in or I walk.”
Meyerstein pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. “We believe, we’re not one hundred per cent sure, but we believe that the guy you were supposed to kill had concerns over a fellow scientist. That scientist has disappeared. Bottom line? Luntz is America’s leading authority on this threat, and is close to coming up with ways to neutralise it.”
Reznick held his head in his hands and said nothing.
“Jon, we need this scientist. Just like you need your daughter.”
“So, what do you propose?”
“Before I run this by you, I need to know why you didn’t kill Luntz.”
Reznick looked down at his hands. He didn’t want to elaborate.
“Look, if I’m putting my cards on the table, I want you to do the same. Don’t shut me out.”
“Let’s just say there was a discrepancy.”
Meyerstein sat in silence waiting for him to speak.
He sighed. “I had been given another name. The scientist was wearing an Israeli dog tag written in Hebrew.”
“What?”
“Exactly my response. The tag was his son’s. He worked for the IDF. It showed the name Luntz. Also had a picture of his son around his neck. But there was no ID to corroborate that. It had already been cleared out.”
“Who by?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps by the crew who did your colleague?”
Meyerstein blew out her cheeks and shook her head. “Are you saying this might have been compartmentalised into two separate jobs?”
“Think about it. Everything is compartmentalised in the military. Same with the government. You’re given an order and that order – whatever it is – is carried out. It’s operational level. But you don’t know the big picture. What’s really happening? This is how it’s done on major jobs. You only know one piece of the jigsaw. The people higher up the chain know how it all fits together. Need to know, and all that jazz. The person or people who did the job on your colleague, were possibly staying in the same hotel as me, who knows?”
“OK, let’s assume that what you’re saying is correct. Then what?”
“I received instructions…”
“From whom?”
“I’m not going there.”
“Why not?”
Reznick just shrugged, eyes dead.
“Oh…you got instructions. To do what?”
Reznick told her everything that had happened and how he had got down to Miami via Fort Lauderdale.
Meyerstein listened before she turned and stole a quick glance at the agents twenty yards away. Then she faced Reznick. �
��OK, this is how it’s gonna work.”
Reznick said nothing.
“You’ve opened up to me, just like I’ve opened up to you. We both want different things, though. Now, listen closely. Do you know where your daughter is being held?”
“I’ve got a fair idea.”
“But do you know whose yacht it is?”
Reznick nodded. “Wife of a Haitian diplomat goon.”
“As you can imagine, that poses us problems.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying this is tricky.”
“Listen, am I wasting my time? Are you or are you not going to help me get my daughter back? She is an American in American waters.”
Meyerstein sighed. “We can help you, but not directly.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Diplomatic immunity. Under the Vienna Convention, the diplomat and his immediate family is accorded full protection under international law. They’re out of bounds.”
“Oh, you’re not gonna pull that bullshit are you?”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s the law. Whether we like it or not.”
“Don’t throw that crap at me. International law? This is America. I don’t give a shit about international law.”
“Well I do. And here’s what I propose. You tell me where the scientist is, and I will give you free reign to get your daughter and provide any assistance required. No questions asked.”
Reznick felt a burning anger inside as uncertainty reigned. He wondered if he could really trust her. He knew it would be the easiest thing in the world for the FBI to promise something but then renege on that. It was only business. He tried to size her up. She wasn’t flustered or blustering or blabbering on. She was serious and it was direct. But he also got the impression that she wasn’t fazed by him or what he did. “And then what?”
“We can come to that obstacle later. As of now, you either play ball, or it becomes a lose-lose situation.”
“OK, let’s say I agree to this. What guarantees are there?”
“There are no guarantees.”
“So, if I manage to make it out of there and get my daughter, then what?”