by JB Turner
The hacker said, "What is it?"
Reznick read the passage in the report. "The microchip transceiver (picture 1.1) within a circuit board of the electronic control unit (picture 1.2) was a non-Mercedes part and produced by Frieveson Electronics in Arlington, Virginia." He looked at the pictures again.
The hacker said, "What the frig does that mean?"
Reznick knew what it meant. He realized something was wrong. The part may have been inserted to improve performance. But he knew there could be a more sinister explanation. He folded the print-outs and put them in his jacket pocket.
"Is that what you're looking for man?"
"Maybe. You want your money just now?"
The hacker nodded and Reznick handed over one thousand dollars in cash. "Nice doing business with you Jon."
"How did you know my name?"
The hacker grinned. "I make it my business to know things. By the way, you want any other favors, don't hesitate to contact me. Now I know you, you can reach me here." He handed over a card with a cellphone number. "Night or day. Take care."
He turned and faced the screen as Reznick headed to the elevator. Then he was escorted out of the warehouse and into the stifling Miami night.
FOUR
The sun was low in the sky when Mohsen Sazegara spotted Pete Dorfman getting into his car at the Four Seasons in Palm Beach. He was watching from the front passenger seat of a SUV in the same parking lot. The tracking device had already been fitted to Dorfman's car.
"Give him a minute's head start," he said to his brother Behzad before they pulled off. A short while later, they were headed south on I-95.
Mohsen checked the tracking device location on his iPad. "He's half a mile ahead. Let's just keep it nice and easy."
Behzad nodded and reduced the speed to a steady sixty.
Mohsen checked the GPS of Dorfman's car again and pointed to the Fort Lauderdale ramp. "Nice and easy."
His cell rang. "Yeah, who's this?"
"Just a courtesy call to see if you guys are okay." It was their handler.
"Couldn't be better."
"You have a good night's surveillance?"
"We're fine. Don't worry about us. What about the footage from the graveside?"
The handler said, "Very interesting."
"How so?"
"It's taken some time to analyze the whole footage. We're one hundred per cent certain that the guy you are following is the correct guy."
"Very much looking forward to acquainting ourselves with Mr. Dorfman."
"All in good time."
Behzad negotiated his way through the streets around an affluent Fort Lauderdale suburb. "Any intel on the target's house?"
"The father is in the house, alongwith a Staffordshire bull terrier."
Sazegara felt himself wince. He hated dogs. Especially vicious dogs. "We'll deal with the dog. How are you monitoring the father?"
"We've already activated his cellphone and listening in. He's watching some gameshow crap."
"How very American."
"Did the same with the target's car."
Sazegara smiled. He knew his handler would have remotely actively the target's SUV built-in emergency and tracking security so they could listen in. "So what's he's saying?"
"He's been called by his old friend, a certain Mr. R."
Sazegara knew he was talking about the number one target of the mission. Jon Reznick. "Do you think he was there yesterday?"
"We're still analyzing the cemetery footage, and there is one potential that fits the bill. Was wearing sunglasses and a dark suit, and he briefly chatted with Dorfman, but we didn't pick up the conversation."
"Not to worry. We'll get to him."
"Like I said. All in good time."
Sazegara ended the call. The car hung back until the SUV was nearly out of sight. Then they followed it as it negotiated the streets of downtown Fort Lauderdale and on to a sketchy area on the periphery.
Up ahead the SUV pulled up outside a modest townhouse.
"Pull over," he said to Behzad.
The car came to a stop.
Sazegara picked up the binoculars and watched as Dorfman got out of the SUV. "Okay, tell me about this guy's habits."
Behzad turned to face Sazegara and said, "He's doing some security consultancy for a rapper named Getto. We're not going to get too many chances with him."
Sazegara watched as Dorfman turned the keys of his house and lights went on inside. "Okay, target is now inside." He turned and looked at his brother. "What about girlfriends? Boyfriends?"
Behzad smiled. "Lives with his father. Divorce has hit him hard financially."
Sazegara said nothing.
Behzad said, "Either way, the sooner he dies the better."
FIVE
Reznick returned to his room at The Tides and slept for three hours. He awoke at 5:30am. From a dream he couldn't remember. He showered before he had room service bring up a breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee. He began to ponder the two pieces of information the hacker had managed to gleam about Tiny's death.
He had a toxicology report that showed his old Delta buddy was over the drunk-driving limit. He still didn't believe that it was possible. But the most troubling piece of information was the microchip transceiver that hadn't been fitted by Mercedes.
He thought it over and wondered why the police didn't include this in the final report, since the forensics company took the time to point it out. Instead, the chief investigator had focused on the alcohol count.
It was a red flag. At least for him. He was sure he knew what it meant.
He lay back on the bed for a few moments but his mind was racing.
Reznick looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock. "Goddamn." He sighed and punched in the number. He wanted to let Dorfman know. It rang three times before it transferred to voicemail. "Hey Pete, you wanna gimme a call? Speak later."
His thoughts turned to Tiny and their time in Fallujah. Chaotic. Manic. Heightened senses. Adrenaline. Then suddenly, they were back home.
Everyone was getting hammered. Apart from Tiny. He didn't like the taste, he said, to much mockery. He had confided in Reznick that his uncle used to force him to drink to show how tough and manly a boy he was. Tiny was only eleven. And from that moment, Tiny couldn't drink, even if he wanted to.
Reznick had to end up having a fistfight with a fellow operator, Dan Murphy, who was making fun of Tiny for being sober. He remembered it as if it were yesterday.
Shaking his head, he got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Then he got a bottle of chilled water from the mini-bar and gulped it down, followed by a can of Coke. He felt better.
He headed round to a diner on 11thStreet diagonally opposite to the Miami Beach PD and had a strong black coffee. He wondered if he shouldn't have just headed up to New York. As if on cue, his cellphone vibrated. He checked the caller ID and saw it was his daughter.
"Hey honey," Reznick said, "how are you?"
"Hi Dad, just thought I'd give you a call to see how you are."
"I'm fine. More importantly, how are you?"
"I miss you."
Reznick sighed. He felt bad for changing his plans for a surprise visit. "I'll visit soon, I promise. How's school?"
She groaned. "Gimme a break, dad. Calculus. Geometry. What is that all about?"
"Who the hell knows? But I want you to work hard, got that?" Reznick was grateful that his daughter was lucky enough to be enjoying an excellent education at an all-girl's boarding school in upstate New York. He had read her reports. She was a straight A student for sure. And her teachers said she showed promise in science.
"Where are you?" she asked.
Reznick knew his cellphone had been encrypted so his location couldn't be known to anyone but him and probably the NSA, but still. "Never you mind. Listen, I've got to go. I'm going to be out of range for a few days. But I'll be back in touch by the weekend."
&n
bsp; "Promise?"
"Promise. Love you honey. Gotta go."
Reznick finished his coffee and went back to his room, waiting for Dorfman to call back. He lay back on the bed and felt himself fall asleep.
It was night when Reznick came to in his darkened room. He got up and looked down to the neon-lit strip of Ocean Drive. Pimp mobiles, tourists, clubbers and the thumping bass of passing cars, filtering up to his room. In the distance, the moon shimmered on the black Atlantic Ocean.
He popped a couple of Dexedrine, opened a window and breathed in the warm night air. The sound of breakers crashing over on the beach. He thought again of Tiny's funeral. And he thought of Tiny being buried in the rock hard soil of a Miami graveyard, beside his wife and child.
The drugs were coursing through his veins.
He began to pace the room. The couple above him was really at it, their TV now blaring as much as their lovemaking.
Reznick thought again of Tiny's words. He felt frustrated knowing that something was not right. He began to weigh up options. He wondered why Dorfman hadn't called. He called his number again. But there was no reply, just the voicemail.
So what now?
He switched on his TV to CNN, which was showing a car bombing in Peshawar. He looked at the mangled wreck on the TV, thinking of Tiny's car crash.
It was at that moment when an idea began to form.
Reznick picked up his cellphone and pulled up the number for Miami-Dade Police HQ on the Internet and called the switchboard. "Looking for the address for the vehicle impoundments lot for traffic accidents for Miami-Dade, please. Got a parts delivery."
"Who's calling?" a woman asked.
"Broward Tow Trucks."
"Try tomorrow morning, that'll be your best option."
"No can do. Need to get it across to them right now."
A long sigh down the line. "Okay what have we here . . . you're looking for NW Seventh Street between NW Third Avenue and NW Third Court."
Reznick made a mental note and ended the call. He pulled up the Google map of the area and studied them, including the street view images. He wondered when he should make his move. He found a late-night hardware store on nearby Alton Road. He bought wirecutters, field glasses, screwdriver, a knife and a knapsack. Just after 1:40am. he caught a cab at 14thStreet and headed across town, a plan now in place.
Reznick got the Haitian cab driver - speaking non-stop into his cellphone– to stop outside a Publix all-night food and pharmacy in downtown Miami. He went into the shop and bought a Dolphins baseball cap and latex gloves, and put them in his knapsack. He got back in the cab and asked to be dropped off two blocks from the impoundment lot. He handed the guy fifty and told him to keep the change. The guy just shrugged, continued on with his conversation and drove away.
Reznick surveyed the scene. He saw the chain link fence surrounding the back of the building and low-rise apartments in a sketchy area near a busy road. He put on his baseball cap, pulled it down low and pulled on his gloves. As he approached, he could see cameras were strafing a huge floodlit-lot with damaged and burned-out cars.
He scanned the area and didn't see any foot patrols. He crept around the periphery for twenty yards. At the far end of the compound, Tiny's partially mangled car. He recognized it from his previous trip to Miami when Tiny did him a huge favor. The car's front end, trunk and roof were all heavily caved in, blackened by smoke and fire.
Reznick figured he was about fifty yards from the vehicle, shrouded by foliage from palms and some oaks. He kneeled down and unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the wirecutters. He cut a yard-long vertical line in the wire and pulled open the chain link fence to make a bigger hole. Satisfied he had enough space to squeeze through, he put the wirecutters back in his bag and pulled out a screwdriver and his cellphone.
He scanned the area. The cameras were stationery. His current position was a blind spot. But he knew that by going through the fence and approaching the car at least two of the cameras would spot him.
The sound of the nearby traffic was masking all noise.
Reznick crouched down low, squeezed through the gap and headed for the car. He pulled the screwdriver out of his knapsack and prized open the front passenger door. He switched on a penlight and pointed it around the interior. The smell of charred leather filled his nostrils.
He quietly shut the door and prized open the hood with a screwdriver.
He shone his penlight around the engine and his gaze fixed on the driver's side plastic fuse box. He leaned across and pulled off the cover. Then he unplugged the ECU connectors, unscrewed the bracket and removed the electronic control unit revealing a complex circuit word.
He saw a transreceiver lodged into one of the ports. He got out his cell and photographed it from different angles, getting the consignment number – THR4870303 - and serial number 03938369504837498. He peered close and saw the name Frieveson Electronics, Arlington, Virginia as confirmed in the forensics report.
Had Tiny placed this in his vehicle to boost performance? Or was there another reason?
The sound of two men talking and smell of cigarette smoke in the night air snapped Reznick out of his thoughts.
He let down the hood slowly and gently. He then crouched down and held his breath. He weighed his options and placed the penlight, cellphone and screwdriver in his knapsack. It was always better to get out while you could.
Reznick sucked some air into his lungs and padded across the lot, knapsack in hand. He squeezed through the gap in the chain link fence and disappeared into the night.
SIX
The sun flooded through the wooden blinds of FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein's fifth floor office as she studied a terrorism briefing paper ahead of a closed intelligence session on Capitol Hill. When her desktop phone rang, she groaned, hating getting disturbed in the middle of work.
She picked it up.
"Martha, you see what just dropped into our lap?" The voice was that of her right-hand man, Special Agent Roy Stamper.
"This better be good, Roy, I'm up to my eyes in it."
"You better brace yourself."
"Why?"
"Reznick is back in business."
Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and sighed. "What?"
"A break-in at a Miami-Dade impoundment lot in the middle of the night. And they have footage of him."
"Are we sure about this?"
"Face recognition pulled out his image and because of his past connection to us, it sent out a red flag in our system. I've just emailed the file over."
Meyerstein maneuvered the computer mouse and pulled up the surveillance images on her laptop. Baseball cap pulled low, a knapsack on his back. It was Reznick. She could tell by the profile alone. "How long ago was this?"
"Five hours."
"What do we know?"
"Left The Tides on Ocean Drive, at 1:47am. Then he caught a cab. Got photos of him buying wirecutters and a knife in a South Beach hardware store."
"Why's he in town?"
"Friend of his died. Delta operator for many years."
"Name?"
"Charles Burns. Goes by the name Tiny. The guy Reznick used when we tracked down Luntz and Burns was hiding him, remember?"
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment. "Give me a rundown. Salient facts only, please."
"Charles Burns and his family were killed. He was DUI. Car was impounded after the fatal accident. Now we have Reznick breaking in. That's the connection."
"But why?"
"I've read the forensic and police reports myself. Slam dunk. Wife and kid killed in the car crash, as was he."
"Where's Reznick now?"
"He's disappeared."
Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and sighed. "What about cellphone tracking?"
"Nothing."
Meyerstein stared at the image long and hard. What are you up to Reznick?
"There's more," Stamper said snapping her back to the moment.
"Cut to the ch
ase."
"Miami-Dade is saying, strictly to FBI computer techs, that there was also, and this is where it gets interesting, a successful penetration of their network systems in the previous twenty-four hours."
"Someone hacked the Miami-Dade Police Department?"
"Precisely."
"You saying they're linked?"
"This is Reznick we're talking about."
"What was accessed?"
"Forensic and investigator's reports into the death of Charles Burns, Reznick's buddy."
Meyerstein felt a headache coming on. "What is Miami-Dade saying?"
"They're not happy. It makes them look like fools. And they know that Reznick and the FBI are tight. They're going to think he's working for us."
"Use your contacts. Smooth things over, Roy."
"What about Reznick?"
"Find him. We need to know what this is all about. I can't have people, no matter who they are, breaking into police impoundment lots. And I don't care what help he's given us. I won't allow personal vendettas or obsessions."
"Miami cops may think he's gone rogue."
Meyerstein stared out of her 7th floor window and sighed. "Maybe he has."
Stamper said nothing.
Meyerstein's cellphone rang. "Roy, I got someone else wanting to speak to me. Keep me in the loop." She ended the call and picked up her iPhone not recognizing the caller ID.
A long silence down the line. She sensed someone was there. "Who's this?" she said.
"We need to talk." It was Reznick.
Meyerstein got up from her seat, phone pressed tight to her ear. "Damn right we do. What the hell is going on?"
"You guys work fast."
"Knock it off, Jon. What are you playing at?"
"Friend of mine died."
"I know."
"They said he was drunk."
"And he was."
Reznick sighed long and hard. "That is a lie."
"Jon, you know how it works. The FBI can't be getting involved in personal things that concern you. You might not like the findings, but they are what they are. I'm sorry, it's just the way it is."
"That's bullshit."
"Listen to me. I appreciate you are feeling very sore and angry. That's natural. Your friend was drunk whilst in charge of his vehicle, and killed his wife and kid. But what I can't have is you, someone I call on from time to time, actively engaged in illegal activities. Breaking into an impoundment lot, hacking computers, I mean, what are you thinking? I'm assuming you were responsible for that network breach?"