by J. B. Turner
“Don’t be alarmed, Rosalind. You don’t know me. But we really need to talk. Urgently.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“My name’s Reznick. Jon Reznick. I think you’re in danger, ma’am. We need to talk.”
The woman looked around as if she sensed she was being watched. “Are you the creep that’s been calling me in the middle of the night? Is that how you get your kicks?”
“Definitely not. Now you need to listen to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rosalind, you need to listen to me right now. This is not a game. I’m the guy who wants to save your life. So listen to what I have to say.”
“No, you listen. Don’t think you can intimidate me. It won’t work. So I’m going to hang up and call the cops.”
“Do not hang up. You hang up, I can’t help you. We believe you are at risk.”
Rosalind was looking around. “You said we . . . who is ‘we’? Who are you, for that matter? Is this some sort of joke?”
“This is no joke. Do you see the black Chevy across the street? Turn around, ninety degrees clockwise.”
The woman turned and stared across the street toward the car.
“Do you see it? Do you see us?”
“Yes.”
“White guy and black guy. I’m the white guy. The guy beside me is a computer-whiz kid who was passed sensitive information. It’s related to you. We know everything about you. And we want to help. But you need to trust us.”
The woman looked dazed.
“I know who you are, Mrs. Dyer. We know who you work for. And I want to get you and the computer nerd with me to safety.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I told you. My name is Jon Reznick. And I believe you’re in danger. That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you insane? What if you’re just trying to lure me into your car so you can murder me?”
“Rosalind, I’ve worked special operations around the world. So, no, I’m not insane. The kid here has worked with me before. He’s ex-NSA.”
“Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
“Think about this, Rosalind. If I intended to cause you harm, would I have called to warn you?”
The woman stayed silent for a few moments. The wind blew her hair into her face, and she smoothed it down behind her left ear.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. But we need to talk.”
“So talk.”
“I work on a consultancy basis for the FBI. But they are not involved in this. At least not so far. Where do you want to meet? And we’ll be there. A place of your choosing.”
“To say what, exactly?”
“I’ll tell you everything we know.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
Reznick sighed. “There are people who want to assassinate you.”
From across the distance, Rosalind Dyer’s eyes met his. “I know.”
Ten
Later that night, Max Charles sat quietly as the three men took their seats in his office. He looked across the shiny mahogany table at his director of operations, Steve Lopez. Sitting on either side of Lopez were the firm’s associates, Carl Franklin and Don Darcy—both former Special Forces operatives who advised on such matters.
Charles glanced at the summary of recent events in front of him before fixing his gaze on Lopez. The man had been a close adviser since Charles had left the Agency. Lopez wore a dark-gray suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He had crew-cut brown hair and unfathomable black eyes that always made it seem as if he was lost in his own thoughts.
“Today, Steve,” Charles said, “I will get answers. I will not shout. And I will not scream. But I will get answers.”
Next to Lopez, Franklin and Darcy shifted in their seats.
“I’ve never known a chain of events to spiral out of control like this, let alone one that brings potential heat from the Feds or the cops. Something has gone very wrong. So, my first question to you, Steve, is, am I right?”
Lopez cleared his throat. “Things have gone very wrong.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s complicated. But we’re on it.”
“I didn’t ask if you were on it, Steve. I asked you if I am right that this is going very wrong.”
“It’s not a great situation, I agree.”
“It’s a fucking mess. I don’t like mess. You know that, right?”
Lopez nodded, face impassive.
“I like tidy. We had a plan. But the plan went to shit, and I need to know why.”
Lopez said, “Max, we are confident we will get on top of this.”
Charles stared at him. “Our clients at the Pentagon and the Agency always get what they want. No questions asked. They’re not interested in whether we’re encountering problems. It’s our job to predict and handle the unforeseen stuff. That’s why we get paid so well.”
Lopez nodded but stayed quiet this time.
“I distinctly remember I asked for this problem to be shut down. To be taken care of. And yet, here we are, playing catch-up.” He looked at Franklin and Darcy. “Maybe I just don’t seem to understand the intricacies of this particular operation. Maybe I’m getting too fucking old. Someone speak to me!”
Lopez sighed as his gaze fixed on Charles. “First, yes, it’s an ongoing problem, but we will deal with this, Max. Second, I’m taking full responsibility.”
Charles sat forward and gripped the armrests of his chair. “How did this file—this classified file—get into the fucking cloud at some facility in Rotterdam, when it was supposed to be locked down on our dedicated server upstate?”
Darcy said, “Our systems guy, who I know very well, said the access occurred via Tor, which, as you know, anonymously routes internet traffic. Nevertheless, our guys were able to trace the breach to a group of hackers that operates in Europe—Germany and the Netherlands, mostly. They accessed it but didn’t decrypt it, and they passed it on to a guy down in the Village.”
Charles spread his hands. “So how did it get from our secure server to Tor? How did it go from our dedicated server to the cloud and to Europe? I’m assuming that we’re using military-grade advanced firewalls and systems?”
Darcy nodded and winced. “This is where it gets fucking unbelievable.”
“I’m listening.”
“It was a bit of social engineering—”
“In plain English!”
“Basically, our head of cybersecurity at the Ithaca facility was approached by a girl in a bar. She stole his cell phone.”
Charles shook his head. “Are you kidding me? What a dumb fuck.”
Darcy shrugged. “He must have said just enough to make her think his job was interesting. We’re pretty certain she knows the guys in Europe. The phone gave them access to a limited number of files and passwords, and the sequence of events spiraled from there. The good news is that, thanks to a few back doors established by the NSA, we were able to get in and remotely delete every copy of the file from their cloud server and local systems.”
Charles got up from his seat and began to pace the room. This crisis had resulted in not only an operation being compromised but also the threat of the problem expanding beyond their control. They needed to get a firm grip on the situation. “Have we retrieved everything from the guy’s apartment in the Village?”
Franklin cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s been taken care of. I’m satisfied the New York side of things has been shut down. But this Miami kid . . .”
“The NSA guy?”
“Ex-NSA. Trevelle Williams. We briefly had a bead on him when he stopped by the hacker’s place downtown. But he’s on the run again. And guess what?”
Charles looked at him.
“Reznick is with the kid.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Jon Reznick? Fuck.”
Franklin nodded. “NYPD have eyewitnesses who saw Reznick climbing into the hacker’s apartment.”
Charles shook his he
ad. He knew all about Jon Reznick. He knew he had worked on CIA black ops a decade earlier. The guy’s reputation was legendary. But it was Reznick’s more recent contacts with the FBI that worried him. Charlies needed to think about that side of things.
“Reznick must’ve seen the body,” Franklin said. “He’s not stupid. He’ll know what’s really going on.”
Charles poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the table. He gulped it down, sating his thirst. “Where are they now?”
Darcy glanced at Franklin, and they both nodded. “We believe DC.”
Charles threw the glass against the wall. It shattered, dripping water onto the carpet. His men didn’t flinch until he roared, “I’ve heard enough! Find them. Now!”
Eleven
The red-brick house was located on a tree-lined street adjacent to the Bethesda Presbyterian Church.
Reznick and Trevelle walked up the path and knocked on the front door. Reznick turned and looked at the kid. “You OK?” he said.
Trevelle just shrugged. “I’m OK. Maybe a bit nervous.”
“You’re gonna be fine.”
The door opened, and a ruddy-faced fiftysomething man ushered them in, smiling broadly.
Reznick introduced himself, then said, “We’re here to speak to Rosalind Dyer.”
“She’s inside waiting for you,” he said. “I’m her pastor.”
Reznick shook hands with him, as did Trevelle. “Appreciate you being so accommodating, sir. I hope we’re not putting you out at this late hour.”
“Not at all. I’m all about bringing people together. All I ask is that we treat each other with respect and civility in my house.”
Reznick nodded. “Won’t be a problem.”
They followed the pastor down a hallway and into a softly lit drawing room. Pencil etchings of the church and some watercolors of DC hung on the walls.
Rosalind Dyer was sitting at a table by the window.
The pastor said, “Gentlemen, Rosalind reached out to me. She is a member of our church. And she wanted to meet you gentlemen in a place of sanctuary so she would feel comfortable.”
Reznick smiled. “That’s perfectly understandable, sir. I appreciate you facilitating this meeting.”
The pastor said, “You gentlemen need some sandwiches? Coffee?”
Trevelle said, “That would be great, thank you.”
Reznick nodded. “If you don’t mind. I’m starving.”
The pastor pointed to seats opposite where Dyer was sitting. “Take a load off. And I’ll get the food and drinks.”
Reznick stepped forward first and approached Dyer. He reached out and shook her hand. “Very nice to meet you, though I’m sorry about the circumstances.”
“Hi.”
Reznick introduced Trevelle, and they both sat down at the table across from her. “If it makes you feel better, Trevelle is struggling to take all this in too. A lot of stuff is going on.”
Dyer shifted in her seat as if uneasy and untrusting as she looked at Reznick. “This is all very strange,” she said.
Reznick nodded. “Yeah, you can say that again.”
“So,” she said, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to start again, face-to-face. What’s your name?”
“My name is Jon Reznick.”
“And who do you work with?”
“I’m a former Delta operator, subsequently employed by the US government on intelligence operations at home and abroad, but recently I’ve found myself in a consultant role at the FBI. On a case-by-case basis.”
Dyer fixed her gaze on him as if scrutinizing his motives. “Case-by-case basis, huh?”
Reznick shifted in his seat.
“Your name is familiar to me. I’ve done some checking of my own.”
“You have?”
Dyer nodded. “I remember reading a report about you being involved in finding Martha Meyerstein after she was abducted.”
“That’s correct. I was involved in that.”
“I think you were more than involved. You rescued her.”
“A lot of people were involved.”
The pastor returned with a tray of sandwiches and iced tea and placed it in the center of the table. “It’s a bit hectic today. Wife’s out of town.”
“Thank you very much,” Reznick said.
“If you need anything, I’ll be next door,” the pastor said, then quietly closed the door behind him.
Dyer still stared at Reznick long and hard, then her gaze lingered on Trevelle. “I’m a very good judge of character,” she said. “The fact that I’m sitting down with two strangers in my pastor’s front room at nearly midnight should tell you that I trust you. But I wanted to meet in a neutral environment, without prying eyes and ears. The pastor is someone I trust. He’s a good man.”
“Do you mind if we get down to business?” Reznick asked. “We’ve got something to show you.”
“Sure.”
Trevelle took his laptop out of his backpack and placed it on the table. He booted it up and logged on to a virtual private network in Iceland. He pulled up the encrypted document, typed in a couple of passwords, and the document appeared, fully decrypted, on the screen.
“This was sent to me,” Trevelle said. “I used to work for the NSA.” He glanced at Reznick. “I’ve also worked with Jon on a couple of investigations. Anyway, this document was passed to me by a friend in New York, who received it from hacktivists in Europe.” He turned the screen so Rosalind could read it for herself.
Dyer scanned the memo quickly. Then she reread it. The color seemed to drain from her face. “That’s my name.”
Trevelle nodded, giving her time to digest the information.
“They’re really going to kill me?”
Reznick picked up a ham sandwich and wolfed it down.
“This might be fake,” she said. “Have you considered that?”
Reznick nodded. “But here’s the thing. I don’t believe it is.”
“You want to give me your rationale?”
“I’m going to lay out how this started, first of all. That alright?”
“Go right ahead,” Dyer said.
“Trevelle is a very, very talented cybersecurity expert. He’s a hacker these days, and he’s helped me out on various things in the past. I trust him. But anyway, he contacted me, saying he was scared. I’d never heard him like that before. Something spooked him. Bad.”
Trevelle leaned over, turned the laptop toward him, and tapped on the keys. Then he turned the laptop toward Rosalind again. “This is why I contacted Jon in the first place. I must warn you, this is seriously disturbing.”
Dyer stared at the video footage as the masked men with flashlights looked around the warehouse in Miami.
“That is my home,” Trevelle said. “I was watching this remotely in real time from a diner about five miles away. I’m a creature of habit. Somehow these men knew that I usually get up at three in the morning and head down to South Beach. They knew I’d be gone. And they were waiting for me to come back. At the same time this was happening, I got a message from a friend of mine in New York. It was a reminder. Asking me to decrypt a classified file he didn’t have time to look over.”
Dyer watched the video until the summary execution. To her credit, she didn’t flinch or look away. “That’s disgusting. Who’s the guy they killed?”
“A friend of mine who was visiting. I don’t think these guys knew he would be there.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dyer said.
“There’s more,” Reznick said. “They also killed the guy who sent him the file.”
Dyer closed her eyes.
Reznick pointed to the screen. “That document we showed you names you. You just watched masked men enter Trevelle’s home after he received the document and kill someone, and the guy who sent him the document ended up on the end of a noose. All of that tells me the chances are high not only that the document is authentic but that you are in grave danger.”
Dy
er rubbed her hands over her face as if she wanted to wake up from a bad dream. “This is horrible. Sickening.”
“I know,” Trevelle said. “But I think you have a right to know what we know. So you can make an informed decision about what you want to do.”
Dyer said, “And you guys came all this way to warn me?”
Reznick leaned forward. “Correct. Now, Rosalind, we need to focus. It’s clear to me that both you and Trevelle are in real danger. I’m probably on their radar, too, by now. My advice would be for both of you to contact the FBI. You mentioned Martha Meyerstein earlier. I report to her. And she will protect you and Trevelle, I give you my word.”
“Jon, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
Reznick watched her. “What do you mean?”
“There’s an . . . investigation I’ve been working on. I think the events you’ve described . . . the . . . the hit—put out on me—are all because of my work.”
Reznick and Trevelle glanced at each other. “You work for the Defense Criminal Investigative Service, right?”
Dyer nodded.
“Tell me a bit, if you can, about this investigation. We’ve shared what we know, after all.”
Dyer sighed and closed her eyes tight, as if wanting it all to go away. “Look, I’m glad you’ve brought this to my attention. But I have a pretty good idea what this is all about. I’m not going to drag someone else into this.”
Reznick sat forward. “Rosalind, we’re already in it. We’re too far along not to get dragged in further. Listen, you need to realize that this is no drill. No bullshit. Someone wants to take you out. And soon.”
Dyer’s gaze lingered on him for a few moments. “They want to intimidate me.”
Trevelle glanced nervously at Reznick. “You know these people?”
Dyer was quiet as she mulled something over. She eventually spoke, her voice a whisper. “There has been a campaign against me. There have been calls to my house. Silent calls in the middle of the night. Threats made to my lawyer.”
“What about?” Trevelle asked.
Dyer shook her head. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m numb.”
“It would be helpful if you could tell us what this is about,” Reznick said. “That way I can better advise you. I’m guessing you know something. Something important. Maybe to do with national security.”