by J. B. Turner
“Can’t stand airports. Waiting in line. People coughing, spluttering, spreading their fucking germs. Their kids wheezing. TB in the air. Being in such close proximity to people. Disgusting.”
Charles smiled. The man was a notorious germophobe. He was also phobic about what he ate. Railed about chlorinated chicken in America. “I gather you didn’t bring me down here to discuss airport hygiene, important though that is.”
Fisk gave a rueful smile. “Do you know why I do what I do?”
“You care about this country.”
Fisk walked across to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out over his floodlit estate of tennis courts and a nine-hole golf course. “Absolutely correct. I care passionately about how we’re drifting away from the path that has brought us such exceptional success, progress, and preeminence in the world. I love this country. I’ve lived long. But I look around this land, Max, and all I see are people who don’t understand what it takes to keep this country where it needs to be. We lead the world. But we only lead the world because we control the world. We decide the rules.”
Charles smiled. “Correct. You know better than anyone, John. America’s military needs the freedom to protect this great nation, without oversight. People don’t need to know how they are protected. As long as they are protected and the nation’s interests are protected, the Pentagon and the CIA should be allowed to operate as they see fit. What the hell is it to politicians anyway?”
Fisk sat down in his seat and looked across at Charles. “How long have we known each other, Max?”
“Can’t be far off thirty-five years. Maybe more.”
“It’s nearly forty years. And I’ve come to value your judgment, your insights on my companies, and your counsel on national security matters. I respect and admire how the CIA operates. Your work over many years within the Agency continued the great work of men like Dulles.”
Charles nodded.
“Max, help me out here. I don’t understand what’s happened with this DCIS woman.”
“Rosalind Dyer?”
Fisk nodded. “Our plan seems to have morphed into something more disturbing. Visible on the surface. That’s not how we do things. I had expected the whole thing would have been settled long before now. I’ve got to be frank, Max, I expected her to be dead already. That’s what I had been led to believe.”
Charles sighed. “That was the plan. It’s a mess . . . A friend of mine in MI6 in London has a word for this: clusterfuck.”
Fisk stared at Charles. “How did this happen?”
“A memo authorizing the team we hired to neutralize her got out. We’ve spent the past few days chasing down anyone who might have seen it.”
“A memo that should only have been seen by your people?”
“Correct. When we were drawing up plans, I said that we shouldn’t leave a digital trail. Four people knew about the assignment, and it shouldn’t have gone beyond that.”
“Who drew up the protocol?”
“Brigadier General Felix Spalding. Special adviser at the Pentagon.”
“Did you speak to him ahead of the operation?”
“We’re both members of the same gym in New York. We talked it over. I thought it was settled. I stressed verbal authorization only. But I guess something got lost in translation. He sent a memo, encrypted, to one of my guys, laying it all out.”
Fisk tilted his head back for a few moments as if deep in thought. “He’s a weak link.”
“He’s a good man, but I agree, it didn’t have to be formalized.”
“What are we going to do about him?”
Charles felt the temperature in the room turn cold. He knew what Fisk meant.
“So we’ve got Spalding and three others who know about the plan to neutralize Dyer.”
Charles nodded. “Four people aside from us and the team we hired to carry it out.”
“What happens if this document makes it into the mainstream? What if this document is picked up by the Post or the Times? What happens then?”
“We would have a major problem on our hands.”
“That’s correct. Spalding could give evidence against you. And I can’t have that.”
Charles had known Spalding for years. He’d come out of Fort Bragg and worked Special Forces. Charles knew his family. His wife. They were good people. But a cold wind was blowing, chilling him to the bone. “I don’t think it’ll come to that.”
“But it might.”
Charles was quiet for a few moments, not wishing to initiate what he knew was going to come next.
“Dead men tell no tales, Max. You should know that better than anyone.”
Even for Charles, this was going to be a tough one to stomach. “Just so I’m clear, you want him taken care of?”
“Yeah, he’s got to be. Is that a problem?”
Charles sighed. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of it.”
“Soon. But for now, we need to focus on Rosalind Dyer first and then deal with him. How does that sound?”
Charles made a mental note. “Got it.”
“Dyer. You told me in our early discussions that she had heart palpitations five years ago. And we agreed, albeit informally, that this was a perfect way to point to the cause of death if we were going to induce her having a heart attack while in jail.”
“We didn’t envision the chain of events that have since unfolded. And that was before she had agreed to testify before the committee. I had expected her to be arrested within the last twenty-four hours—that’s the info I was given from inside the State Department. But the FBI have been dragging their heels, and we hadn’t foreseen that she would drop off the grid like this.”
“There’s a lot we haven’t foreseen. And now she’s running around with Mr. Reznick and some hacker? That’s careless on your part, Max, allowing this to develop.”
“I don’t dispute any of this. It’s a one-in-a-million series of events that have come together. We’ve also got the added problem of Assistant Director Meyerstein being in touch with Reznick. But I’ve got a plan in place to keep her quiet.”
“I’m not worried about her. I’m worried that Dyer is going to testify. And this could jeopardize the military-industrial nexus. We have plans in place with friendly nations abroad. Plans for foreign wars. Regime changes around the globe. Color revolutions in Africa. Plans years in the making that could all be jeopardized if the Pentagon gets drawn into this. Not to mention Rosalind Dyer seems to have made a few inquiries about the unexplained deaths of Pentagon auditors. The optics are not good. You know what I’m talking about?”
Charles nodded. He understood what Fisk was saying. “She is proving to be a serious threat to our clients, our friends, and their companies. But I know what you expect, John.”
“She cannot testify, Max. I can’t stress this enough. But we need a plan. Plan A seems to have blown up.”
“I’ve got a plan B, don’t worry.”
“You do?”
“I have people working on this as we speak. Trust me. There’s more than one way to neutralize someone.”
Seventeen
Reznick and Kazinsky were nursing another single malt each as they talked some more into the wee hours. The log fire was crackling, the smell of burning woodchips and shavings filling the house.
“You miss Delta, Jon?”
“I think about it.”
“But do you miss it?”
“Not so much. I miss the people. I think about the guys I was with. The friendship. It’s a brotherhood. Of course, I’m going to miss that. It was tight-knit. Real tight. Yeah, I miss that, I guess. What about you?”
Kazinsky took a sip of his scotch and shook his head. “Seems like a long time ago, that’s for sure.”
“That it was.”
“I kinda went downhill when I left. I couldn’t sleep. Flashbacks. I forgot who I was. I got meaner. Deniable operations making me wake up in the night. It went on for years.”
“I’ve been there. I know
. It takes its toll.”
“No one else knows what it’s like. Not a goddamn soul.” He scrunched up his face.
“You find it tough, still?”
Kazinsky nodded.
“There’s stuff we see and do that you don’t want to ever think about. But we have to try and keep it somewhere deep in the mind, locked away.”
“I can’t do that. I’ve tried to. Sometimes I close my eyes and I see the eyes of an Afghan farmer, an old, old guy, skeletal thin, pleading for his life, before I killed him. Remember Kandahar?”
“Hard to forget.”
“I thought he was going for his gun. Then I remember the blood on the walls of the home. A family lived there.”
Reznick nodded.
“No one knows what it’s like unless you’re there. In hundred and ten heat, blinded by thirst, anger, I went out of my mind for days, weeks, I don’t know.”
Reznick said nothing. He knew those same feelings. The alienation. The loathing. The rage.
“Best friend Ron Farley, SEAL Team Six for a few years, then he began working for the Agency in Baghdad. You know what he did when he got home?”
Reznick shook his head.
“He went to his neighborhood bar in Jackson. He drank himself crazy. Then he went home and killed his wife and dog before turning the gun on himself.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m no angel. I know what I am. What I’ve done. And when I came home, for a while, I went a bit wild. I’m not proud of what I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know . . . had a spell inside a correctional facility.”
“What for?”
“Held a gun to a guy’s head in a bowling alley. He owed a friend of mine money.”
Reznick grimaced.
“Worked for the mob at one point. I was screwed up. Hung out with a Hell’s Angels crew. They were nuts. I was nuts. I was drinking. I went off the rails for about five years.”
“Looks like you’re back on your feet now. Beautiful house. How did you get all this?”
Kazinsky gave a rueful smile. “No one to enjoy it with.”
“You’ll be OK.” Reznick looked around the living room. “High ceilings. Big space.”
“Massive basement too. You should see the wine cellar. You wouldn’t fucking believe it. You believe that? A kid from the shit end of Pensacola, with a house like this?”
Reznick nodded.
“But I’m cash poor.”
“Still a nice house, man.”
“You know how I got it? Well, part of it. The rest, as I said, is owned by the fucking bank and my ex-wife. But I’ll get it back in full. Anyway, interesting story. Once I got myself straightened out, I was providing security advice for a Wall Street guy and his family. Started off as personal protection. And then it evolved into advising him on protecting his business interests. At home and abroad. Scouting locations. And he paid very well, and he also gave me some handy stock market hints. Bought some high-tech start-up stocks in Silicon Valley for a few dollars a pop. And within three years, their price had blown up to a hundred and forty dollars a share. It was crazy. And I made more than a couple million bucks like that. But it’s all gone with the divorce.”
Reznick looked around the huge room. “So you still working for the Wall Street guy?”
“Off and on. He actually put me in touch with a guy he knows, used to be a Navy SEAL, and he got me a gig with a security firm in New York. Consulting work.”
“Interesting.”
“They’re very demanding. But it’s putting my kids through college.”
Reznick was keen to get Kazinsky on to a lighter subject. “So how are your kids?”
“My oldest, Jimmy, is at Boston College, studying drama.”
“He’s going to be an actor? You’re kidding me.”
Kazinsky grinned. “Who fucking knew? He’s talented. And he hates guns.”
Reznick nodded. “Good for him.”
“What about your daughter? Lauren, isn’t it?”
“She’s finishing up at college in Vermont, but she’s talking about working for the FBI.”
“Wow, now that’s interesting.”
“I do some stuff for them, off and on.”
Kazinsky’s brows rose. “You advise them? The FBI?”
“On one or two issues or investigations. Happened purely by accident.”
“The Feds? Jesus.”
“A bit of this and that.”
“I heard you were working for the Agency at one point.”
Reznick shrugged. “I’ve worked for a few people.”
Kazinsky lowered his voice to a whisper. “So what’s the story with the woman and the kid? You helping them out?”
Reznick took a couple of minutes to lay it out. He concluded by saying, “This is confidential. I trust you, Ed. That goes without saying.”
Kazinsky knocked back his drink and put his glass down on the coffee table in front of him. “Jon, you’ve got to trust. If you haven’t got trust, what have you got?”
“I just wanted you to understand this is a delicate situation. And we’ll be out of your face within the next twenty-four hours, probably less.”
“Stay as long as you need. I know how stuff works. It’s messy.”
“Appreciate that.”
Kazinsky stared into his half-empty glass.
“You want me to call in some favors and get some work for you?”
“If I don’t know them, I don’t want to know, Jon.”
“Perfectly understandable.” Reznick stifled a yawn. “Need some shut-eye,” he said. “You mind if I crash out?”
“Not at all. I think the hacker dude is sound asleep. And Rosalind is in the adjacent room. And don’t worry, I showed her the key to lock her door.”
Reznick got up and hugged his old buddy tight. “Ed, I owe you one.”
“If you need me, I’ll be at my computer here, just buying and selling shares.”
Reznick shook his head. “I never would’ve figured you for a Wall Street guy, Ed.”
“Neither would I! I’m from fucking Pensacola. The only person to do anything with their life from Pensacola that I knew was Weegie Thompson, who ended up playing for the Steelers.”
“Now that was a seriously good player.”
“Damn straight, bro. Good to see you again. And get some sleep. You look like shit!”
The log fire in the bedroom was crackling, the orange glow bathing the bedroom. Reznick was curled up in a sleeping bag on one side of the room, eschewing the comfort of the bed; Trevelle was wrapped up in blankets in front of the fire. Reznick felt himself drifting away. Eyes getting heavier. He felt himself floating. Drifting on dark, oily waters. The sound of breathing. Deep breathing. Growing shallower. Whispers in the breeze. He sensed he was being watched from the shore. Shadows moving. He felt himself moving. And then he realized the river was taking him downstream. He tried to move, but nothing. Tried to grab a branch by the shore. He just floated by. Only the rustle of the palm leaves in the desert wind. The dust, sticking in his throat like grit.
Then a blinding sun. Sun-bleached shacks. Sounds of screaming. The sound of a bullet fizzing past. He sensed he was back. Back in Fallujah. The stench of death in his nostrils. Decomposing corpses being eaten by rabid dogs. Children playing in the ruins of the city. Snipers taking potshots at them. Tortured bodies in ditches. Eyes drilled out by psychotic gangs. The midday sun blinding. Unbearable heat. One hundred and twenty degrees in the shade. Merciless. Bloated bodies floating in the Euphrates. Downstream. He watched as if in a dream.
He turned and saw a faceless American soldier floating past, eyes dead. Someone’s son.
Dark whispers were carried on the wind. Like a night terror. Someone was there.
Reznick woke bolt upright, Trevelle’s cell phone light in his face. “What the—”
Trevelle pressed his finger to his mouth for Reznick to be quiet. He whispered, “Your friend just sent a message.”
“What?”
Trevelle showed him the WhatsApp message sent three minutes before. Reznick scanned the message. It read: You interested in the whereabouts of Rosalind Dyer? I can tell you where she is for $250k, no questions asked.
It took a few moments for Reznick’s head to clear away the whiskey fuzziness. The reply read: Money in your account, friend. Where is target?
The response read: My home address, sound asleep. I’ve deactivated the alarms.
Reznick rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. “How the hell did you do that?”
“A spyware I’m developing. Downloaded remotely to his phone without him knowing, then anytime he messages or calls, I see it. In my business, it’s important to know who you’re dealing with. Now I know. The people he’s communicating with are in Denmark. But they’re clearly using a VPN to mask their true location.”
Reznick took a few moments to get his bearings. “I can’t believe that. Never in a million years.”
“What are you going to do?” Trevelle whispered.
Reznick grabbed his gun and headed for the bedroom door.
Eighteen
Reznick crept downstairs and into the living room. He saw Kazinsky sitting at his desk with his back to the room, computer on. A strange blue glow from the monitor bathed the room in an ethereal glow. He walked up behind Kazinsky and pressed the 9mm Beretta to the back of Kazinsky’s head. “Not a fucking move.”
Kazinsky sat still. “Man, what’s going on?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Who did you contact?”
“What are you talking about? I’m emailing my ex-wife.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ed. I saw the message you sent.”
Kazinsky stared at the screen.
“You need to start talking or it’s over. Right here and now, man.”
“Jon, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I let you into my house. And this is how you repay me?”
“Cut the bullshit. The kid with me is a computer genius. And he just intercepted your message selling us out. You want me to show you?”
Kazinsky went quiet.
Reznick pressed the gun tight into his scalp. “You feel that cold metal on your skin? Well, do you? I don’t fuck around. You know I don’t make idle threats.”