Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick sighed.

  “It’s nearly two days and nothing, am I right? The general, besides threatening to haul me off the program, is at a loss to understand this obsession with Ford.”

  “I’ll tell you why. There’s something about this guy. His actions are—”

  “What?”

  The cab hit a pothole and Reznick was jolted in the back seat. “He got up and headed down to a homeless shelter on Avenue D, in the East Village. Then he headed across to a soup kitchen.”

  “And? Are you saying that’s the sum of what you’ve got?”

  “Look, I’m not buying this Mother Theresa crock of shit. It doesn’t wash.”

  “Jon, this is a good guy. There are good people in the world.”

  “My gut instinct says that we need to keep an eye on him.”

  A long sigh. “Jon, listen to me. We’ve checked into this guy’s background. We’ve gone over it. There’s nothing to arouse suspicion. And what you say about helping out at homeless shelters and soup kitchens tallies with him working in Malawi for Unicef and in Haiti. He helped out down in New Orleans after Katrina. He’s worked on vaccination programs for the World Health Organization. Jon, the guy’s never had a ticket in his life. He’s clean.”

  “I think we’re missing something. What about the trip into the East Village in the middle of the night? Buying a new phone?”

  “Buying a new phone? Gimme a break. What if you’re just plain wrong?”

  “What if I’m not? I’m telling you, there’s a piece of the jigsaw that will pull this all together. But we’re still missing it. We’re not connecting the dots. I need to know for sure that this guy is legitimate.”

  Meyerstein sighed.

  “I’m convinced we’re missing something from his past. You’ve told me about the trips abroad. Are they accurate records?”

  “Jon, I think you’re reaching.”

  “Way I see it, we’ve made no breakthrough. He’s the only link, no matter how tenuous, to Lieber and therefore O’Grady. I don’t think we can dismiss him so readily.”

  “The problem is, Jon, no one on my team sees Ford as part of the jigsaw. Nothing about his past gives us any cause for concern. Counterterrorism did a separate trawl with the NSA, and it came back clean. You want me to go on? You’re out on a limb here.”

  It wouldn’t have been the first time in his career.

  “Are you still there, Jon?”

  “The guy is putting in some hours at a soup kitchen and a homeless shelter, while driving around in a car which could feed a hundred thousand people. Does that not strike you as out of place?”

  “People do their bit in different ways.”

  “Then there’s another scenario. Is it possible that these trips around town are a cover?”

  “A cover for what?”

  “Is he using a cutout?”

  Meyerstein went quiet.

  “Is he using an intermediary to pass or receive information?”

  “I know what the hell a cutout is.”

  “Well, if he is, the cutout is based in the East Village. Look, I’m telling you, we need to start connecting the dots with this guy.”

  The silence on the phone was deafening.

  Eleven

  The conversation with Reznick had bothered Meyerstein. It added to the lingering suspicions she herself was having about the DC surgeon. She hadn’t shared her thoughts with anyone on her team, not even Reznick. Her analysis was showing that Ford was clean. But the doubts Reznick had voiced mirrored her own, and they were beginning to gnaw away at her.

  Meyerstein walked over to the team of senior strategic analysts who looked at any threats, vulnerabilities, and gaps in the special access program’s knowledge. They sifted raw information from numerous sources and brought it all together. But nothing they had pointed to Ford.

  Meyerstein called the office two floors below and asked for Roy Stamper, her trusted deputy. A man whose counsel she valued.

  “Shut the door, Roy,” she said when he appeared.

  Stamper sank into the leather chair opposite and stretched out his arms and legs. He looked exhausted.

  “O’Grady dead. Caroline Lieber still missing, not a trace. We’re nowhere with this, Roy. Absolutely nowhere. What are your thoughts? And don’t sugarcoat it.”

  Stamper sighed. “There is a link between O’Grady and Lieber. The call tells us that. Counterintelligence is telling us Iran is in the picture, what with O’Grady’s area of expertise.”

  Meyerstein leaned back in her seat. She relayed the latest snippets of information Reznick had told her about Ford. “He thinks we need to focus more on our DC doctor. I’m wondering . . . What if . . . What if there’s a chance—a chance—that Reznick’s right and there is a connection with Ford? What if there’s a thread we’re missing?”

  “Not one shred of intel on that, Martha. Look, I’m going to level with you. I think Reznick is wrong. We’ve checked Ford out. It’s not possible that he’s connected.”

  Meyerstein said nothing.

  Stamper stared at her. “Can I be blunt?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not too sure having Reznick on this team is a good move. Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy. But he’s making us take our eyes off the ball.”

  “Reznick made me look more closely at Ford. I’ve just been reading some analysis from one of the best behavioral guys we have—did you see that?”

  Stamper nodded. “Malone? I thought that was a bit sketchy—part psychobabble, part pop psychology. It was all over the place.”

  “I agree, he can be out there, but he indicates there are personality traits he finds interesting in Ford. He thinks we shouldn’t ignore him completely.”

  “And that’s it? That’s what we’re going on? This is all we have—Reznick and Malone? Gimme a break.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “Roy, I don’t feel like I know this guy. I want you to set up a dedicated team to analyze all data on his dates and times abroad, and recheck everything we have. Friends, family, lovers, acquaintances. Are we missing something—that’s all I’m asking.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Stamper said nothing.

  “I want us in every area of his life on a minute basis. Childhood, education, college, work. Top to bottom. I want to see documentary proof of each stage of his life—where he was and under what authority. I want pictures of him. But what I also want is a trawl of all foreign intelligence on Ford. Do they have anything on him that we don’t? Any nugget at all.”

  Stamper blew out his cheeks. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think we’re wasting our time, that’s all.”

  “Maybe we are. Yes, you might very well be right. But I want to seal up every aspect of the investigation. I want Ford’s new cell number, with all calls and messages analyzed by the NSA. I also want to know about his old phone. And the one before that. Is he running more than one phone?”

  “Martha, I’ve got to say, I think you’re taking a big risk with this.”

  Meyerstein leaned forward. “That’s for me to worry about. Now listen, I’ve fed the info Reznick gave us into our system. He said Ford visited a place called the Yaffa Cafe just before four a.m. today, then the Bowery homeless shelter on Avenue D and a soup kitchen on East 11th Street. Find the volunteers—and all those who work there and have worked there—in the past two years . . . I want us to drill down into this guy and what he’s all about.”

  “I don’t understand your thinking on this.”

  Meyerstein felt anger tighten her stomach. “Roy, don’t sweat it. I’ll take the flack.”

  “I’m sorry, Martha, to appear so negative, but Reznick is barking up the wrong tree. The only thread holding it together is that O’Grady called Lieber shortly before they both disappeared, and Lieber was infatuated with a DC doctor. It doesn’t
stand up to the most basic bit of scrutiny.”

  “Look, the only thing we’ve got to lose is manpower.”

  “This is a dumb call, Martha—that’s all I’m saying. I can’t remember any dumb calls in all the time we’ve worked together. But this comes into that category.”

  Meyerstein was seething but she kept her cool on the surface.

  “Have you forgotten, Roy, that I am an assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I’m heading up this special access program? I won’t have my judgment questioned by subordinates.”

  Stamper shifted in his seat.

  “I’ve got to say, Roy, I thought I knew you better than that.”

  Stamper cleared his throat. “Look, I think we’re all under pressure on this. But I think it’s important that we can be frank with each other, Martha. I’m not the only one that thinks Reznick has no place on the team and is questioning why the hell we’re even listening to him.”

  Meyerstein felt her throat tighten.

  “Martha, the majority view from our analysts is clear. On the ground, we’re looking for Eastern Bloc mercenaries, not some candy-ass doctor. You’re giving too much credence to what Reznick is saying.”

  “That’s enough! I’ve heard your gripes but—you know what, Roy?—I’m going to ignore them. Someone is working on the ground, probably at the behest of the Iranians or other proxies.”

  “So where the hell does Ford fit into that?”

  “I don’t know. He might not fit into it. But I need to be sure.”

  Stamper shook his head, looking dismayed. “Look, I didn’t want to say this, but I’m going to.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “The guys on the team are busting their guts on this, and they don’t like their boss, one of the most senior agents in the FBI, being made to look a fool over a has-been Delta.”

  Meyerstein bristled at the criticism. “In what way, precisely, am I being made to look a fool?”

  Stamper’s silence said it all.

  “I don’t give a damn what people think. Jon Reznick was brought in to augment the capabilities of my team. He offers something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “He isn’t afraid to go out on a limb. He doesn’t take the safe path. He tells it like it is.”

  “And that’s just what I’m doing, Martha. What if he’s wrong? How are you going to explain how you wasted hundreds of man-hours on the say-so of Reznick? It seems the guy is answerable to no one.”

  “He’s answerable to me.”

  “So why didn’t he listen when you ordered us back to Washington?”

  Meyerstein remained silent.

  “What is it about this guy?”

  “Do not call Jon Reznick into question.”

  Stamper raised an eyebrow.

  “Now, you listen to me, Roy. We’ve worked together in harmony, as a team, for as long as I can remember. And I will not be spoken to like this by you, or by anyone. So here’s how it’s going to work. Do you want to be taken off this investigation and shipped back to HQ?”

  It was Stamper’s turn to flare. “I don’t believe this!”

  “Because that’s what’s going to happen if I hear one more word of insubordination. And that goes for everyone. You got a problem with that?”

  Stamper shook his head.

  “OK. You stay here and connect the goddamn dots. Updates, analysis feeds . . . I want it sent to me in real time.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to New York. I’m going to find out for myself what the hell is going on.”

  Stamper sat in silence, staring at the floor.

  “When you come to lead such an investigation, you can make whatever call you like. But while I’m in charge, we’re going to do this my way.”

  Twelve

  It was late in the evening when Reznick’s cell phone began to vibrate, as he hunkered down in his darkened room at The Lowell. A text message told him to make his way to The Fairfax, at East 69th Street and Third Avenue.

  Reznick pulled out the SIM card from his cell and flushed it down the toilet, disposing of the battery in the trash on his way out of the hotel. He headed the six blocks to The Fairfax—a pre-war brick building—walked through the doors under the metal awning, and into a spacious wood-paneled lobby.

  The guy on reception wore a dark suit and tie. He smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Jake Smith. I’m visiting number eight zero nine.”

  “Very good, sir.” He picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Reception here, sir. A Mr. Smith for you.” A long pause. “Very good, sir. I’ll send him up.”

  The guy pointed to the elevators. “Eighth floor. Right at the end of the corridor, sir.”

  Reznick rode the elevator to eight and headed along the carpeted corridor to 809. He knocked on the door. A few moments later, a heavyset man in a dark-gray suit ushered him inside.

  The place had oak floors and high ceilings. He followed the man down a hallway and up some wrought-iron stairs. A duplex. On the next level, it all became clear.

  It was a spacious, open-plan living area, like a converted loft. The smell of coffee permeated the room. Sitting at a table was FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein, with a cell phone and MacBook Pro in front of her. At the other end was a middle-aged guy with a goatee, Ramones T-shirt, and jeans and sneakers, tapping away with one hand on an iPad.

  “Good evening, Jon,” she said.

  Reznick wondered what was going on. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  She pointed to the other man. “Dr. Henry Malone. Behavioral analyst with the FBI.”

  Malone nodded, face impassive.

  Reznick nodded back. “You mind me asking what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, Jon, is that I’ve decided to have a closer look at Ford.”

  Reznick smiled. “You kidding me?”

  “No. I’ll explain in a few moments. As of now, this will be your base in New York, along with four other members of a surveillance team attached to this program. Electronic monitoring has been set up in the bedroom.”

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s a safe house, of sorts. Used to be the FBI HQ in New York until 1980, when it was converted into apartments. We decided to keep a couple of apartments to use for special operations.”

  He looked around. “Interesting.”

  “The walls are soundproofed, and anti-jamming equipment and countersurveillance equipment is in place, so the place is clean.”

  “So where are we going with this?”

  “I’m staying in an apartment down the hall while Ford is in town. I want to see for myself where he goes and what we have.”

  Reznick stifled a yawn.

  Meyerstein looked him over. “You look like shit, by the way, Jon.”

  “I feel like shit, too, for what it’s worth. So to what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I got a call from a counterterrorism specialist assigned to the team. He said something interesting. There was chatter on some Jihad Internet boards—encrypted—pointing to New York. Talking about something special.”

  Reznick went across to the window and stared out at the city, his back to Meyerstein. “We all know New York is everyone’s top target. The economic power of Wall Street, media empires, the symbolism of Manhattan, all that stuff. Nothing new about that.”

  “Ford is in New York.”

  Reznick turned and faced her. “What else? I assume you’re doing some digging on this guy.”

  “As we speak. I’ve ordered a comprehensive review of all the material we have on him. We’ve also spoken to Caroline Lieber’s parents, but they’ve never heard her mention his name. So he means nothing to them.”

  “When this group was brought together, you said its objective was to find O’Grady. Well, O’Grady’s been found—dead. And Caroline Lieber’s still missing. Now you’re talking about something going down in New York. And Ford’s in the middle of
this, I know it.”

  “We’re rolling with this, Reznick. Bearing in mind O’Grady’s work . . .” She looked at Malone. “Henry, you want to explain to Jon where we are and how you fit into this?”

  Malone nodded. “I head up Behavioral Analysis Unit One focusing on counterterrorism and threat assessment. And I specialize in anticipated or active crisis situations.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “OK, I’ve got to be honest—they all think I’m heading in the wrong direction wanting to look closer into Ford.”

  “So what’s got you interested in Ford?” Reznick asked.

  “A few aspects have piqued my interest. First, Ford’s college and hospital assessments. He was clearly a brilliant student and resident. But when it came to what he was like as a person, common phrases that were used were surface to a fault, glib, cocky and very arrogant. Strong words for professionals to use about a brilliant student and doctor.

  “In my work, we’re trying to assess psychological constructs—you know, like cognitive and emotional functioning. The technical term, if you are interested, is psychometrics.”

  “Yeah, but I’m interested in how this relates to Ford,” Meyerstein interjected.

  Malone sighed. “There’s a book I always found fascinating.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The Art of War by Sun Tzu.”

  Meyerstein shrugged. “I’m more a Patricia Cornwell fan myself.”

  Malone cleared his throat. “What you said reminded me of a line. Subtle and insubstantial, the expert leaves no trace; divinely mysterious, he is inaudible. Thus he is master of his enemy’s fate.”

  “What are you saying?” said Meyerstein. “That Ford fits that description?”

  “Perhaps. Know what Sun Tzu also said?”

  Meyerstein shook her head.

  “All warfare is based on deception.”

  “I think you might be looking into this too much.”

  Malone bit his lower lip and looked at Reznick. “Maybe not. OK, let’s see where we are. Psychologically?”

  Meyerstein shrugged. “He seems, on the surface, to have it all. A very privileged background.”