by J. B. Turner
Reznick reached into his back pocket as if to give them a light. Instead, he pulled out a 9mm Beretta from his waistband and pressed it to the kid’s forehead. “No, I haven’t got a fucking light.”
The kid’s eyes went wide. “Man, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Disappear, you dumb fuck.”
They scrambled downstairs.
Reznick headed up to the ninth. It was deathly quiet. Up to ten and then toward eleven.
He was in the zone.
Each step, he was edging closer. But closer to what? The silence was bad. He sensed Morales was in trouble. He reached eleven and went into the hallway. His brain sent the signal but it short-circuited for a split second.
Lying sprawled on the floor inside the elevator door was a man, blood pouring from a wound to the neck. It was Morales.
Reznick shouted into his lapel microphone, “Man down, immediate assistance on eleven!” Then he rushed over to Morales and checked his pulse. Weak, but still alive. He ripped off his shirt and pressed it against the fallen Fed’s neck.
Morales tried to open his eyes as blood seeped through the light blue shirt, the top of which had already turned dark red.
“Don’t move, man,” Reznick said. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”
Morales opened his mouth to speak. “N . . . Ni . . .”
“What is it?”
“Nine.” The word came out gargled, thick with blood. “Ninth floor. White door. I tried to escape. Black guy. He’s the—”
A man ran past them and darted downstairs.
“I need help, eleventh floor!”
“We’re coming in, Jon.” Chisholm’s voice.
Reznick squeezed Morales’s hands. “Help’s on the way. I gotta go, man.” He didn’t want to leave.
Morales managed to nod, eyes glassy.
“Hang in there.”
Reznick headed down the stairs after the figure, two steps at a time. “I’m coming down, Chisholm. Suspect may be heading your way. Get a paramedic up to the eleventh, right fucking now!”
The sound of a gunshot.
Shouting. Screaming. The smashing of glass.
Reznick careened down to the first floor, where he carefully swept the area with his 9mm. He saw the body of a burly surveillance guy from Team One lying motionless beside an exit door, blood pouring from a neck wound.
Reznick didn’t have to check. He knew the guy was dead.
He ran out of the building just in time to see a man running toward the thundering traffic on the FDR, out of sight of Chisholm’s team.
His lungs were burning, his sinews nearly snapping.
The man was about fifty yards ahead of Reznick. He wore dark clothing. He turned around and saw Reznick gaining ground.
He hurdled concrete barriers and ran onto the freeway, cars screeching to a halt or swerving to avoid him. He climbed over a fence and was on the East River bike path.
Reznick’s mind was racing as fast as his heart. He had to catch this guy before he disappeared for good.
He hurdled the metal divider and narrowly avoided being hit by oncoming traffic. Then under the Williamsburg Bridge and hurtling toward the smokestacks in the distance.
He was now thirty yards behind.
Up ahead, on a green metal pedestrian bridge that spanned the FDR, four Feds were heading toward the bike path, blocking off an escape route.
They had him.
Reznick was closing in. The man glanced back at Reznick, desperation in his eyes. He knew Reznick was going to catch him.
Ten yards. Heart pumping blood.
Suddenly, the guy darted off to his right, vaulted back over the fence, and ran straight toward an oncoming truck.
The screeching of tires, the blare of horns, and screaming from bystanders as the man was crushed under the wheels of the massive truck.
Twenty
The seconds that followed seemed like a lifetime to Reznick. It was as if he were unable to wake up from a bad dream. The horrified faces of the motorists, snarled-up lines of cars, the truck driver being sick on his knees beside the twisted, partially limbless body still under the wheels of his truck. Blood spilling onto the freeway.
Reznick leaped over the fence and crawled underneath the truck. The smell of warm blood, gasoline, and oil. He rifled through the pockets of the man’s pants. He pulled out a wallet from the back pocket and looked inside. A driver’s license. Walter Irving. May 4, 1981.
When he crawled back out, blood on his hands, a passing jogger screamed.
Reznick vaulted back over the fence and headed in the direction of the surveillance van. He held his lapel mike to his mouth. “Chisholm, he’s dead. Got his ID—Walter Irving.”
Chisholm sighed. “What the fuck happened?”
“I found Morales on eleven. Heard the guy make a run for it and went after him. Where’s Akhtar?”
“We got him. Hiding in an apartment on the ninth.”
“How’s Morales?”
“Touch and go. Special Agent Tim Mallory from Team One didn’t make it.”
“Fuck.”
“You better get the hell out of there before the news choppers catch you on the scene. We’ll take it from here.”
Less than an hour later, Reznick was back at The Fairfax, and had showered and changed into new clothes. The blood-soaked clothes he’d been wearing had been bagged for forensics.
When he went through to the hub of the apartment, Meyerstein was pacing the room on the phone. “Call me back when you have anything, Roy. We’re on the right track.”
She ended the call and stood, hands on hips.
“What the hell happened out there?” she asked.
Reznick went through the story again.
“What a fuck-up.”
“It is what it is.”
Meyerstein said nothing, eyes hooded. She looked like she was close to physical collapse. But she also had a determination etched on her face he hadn’t seen before.
“Look, I know we lost a man and Morales is fighting for his life. These things happen.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I knew both of them. Good men.” She sighed. “We’re hoping Morales pulls through.”
Reznick slumped onto a chair, head in hands. “Goddamn . . .”
“I think we’re all hurting.”
He looked up. “A guy like Morales doesn’t want sympathy. He’d want us to hunt down these bastards.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I know that.”
“OK, tell me about this guy that was living on the ninth floor.”
“We’ve got a laptop, which we’re analyzing as we speak.”
“What about Akhtar?”
“Not a word. He wants a lawyer, that’s all he’s said. No explanation of why he was at the apartment. Was that man a friend? What was his real name?”
Reznick nodded. “We’re peeling this back.”
“We have nothing. We have a dead guy with a false name, a Laundromat Muslim, and—” Her cell phone rang. She listened to the call, expressionless. Then she screwed up her face. “Are we sure about that?” She nodded. “Good work. But I don’t want any delays. Get it to me ASAP.”
She ended the call and Reznick said, “Who was that?”
“Forensics lab. Fingerprints were taken at the scene. They could have a result in less than an hour.” She shook her head. “This is just a mess.”
Reznick sighed. “There was a link, and it had to be chased down.”
“Couldn’t he have been taken down before he reached the freeway?”
“I didn’t foresee the fucker running straight into oncoming traffic.”
Meyerstein closed her eyes. “Tell me about Morales.”
“Knife wound to the throat.”
She stared back at him, glassy-eyed. There was a haunted quality to her look, as if the whole investigation was bearing down on her. Morales fighting for his life seemed to have been the final straw.
“He has a wife and four kids. His superior
has just visited them in Brooklyn to give them the news. I can only imagine what they’re going through.”
Reznick was silent.
“Just doing his job.” She threw the pen she was holding down on the table. “Just doing his goddamn job!”
“Take it easy.”
“No, I won’t take it easy, Jon. He’s a highly decorated special agent. I know him. I worked with him shortly after I joined the Bureau. He was always there when the deal went down. Always.”
Half an hour later, her cell phone rang. She answered on the third ring.
“Meyerstein. Talk to me.” She nodded a few times. “Are we certain? I mean, one hundred percent certain?”
She hung up and blew out her cheeks. “We got something. The lab has a preliminary result. It’s not conclusive at this stage, as they still have to do more tests. But there’s a high probability it’s who we’re looking for.”
“Who is he?”
“You were right, Jon. You were right all along.”
“Who?”
“Jamal Ali. The older brother of Chantelle McGovern.”
A buzz spread around the room. Meyerstein clapped her hands together and brought the room to order.
“People!” she said, raising her voice. “Time to refocus. There are clear Islamic links, but still nothing to tie Ford in. So, let’s recap what we have. O’Grady, Lieber, Ford. Then McGovern, Akhtar, and Jamal Ali. What’s their game? And why did Ali decide to take his own life?”
Reznick was handed a coffee by Malone. “Thanks. Almost certainly indicates a radicalized mindset, perhaps part of a group about to target New York. And he’d have been trained to die, rather than be captured and give up any secrets or information.” He looked at Malone. “What’s your take on this? You’ve gone all quiet.”
Malone sat down at a desk. “I’m interested in this thread from Ford to McGovern to Akhtar and Jamal.”
“Give me some odds on what you know,” said Meyerstein.
Malone blew out his cheeks. “I’m not a betting man, as you know. But if I was, I’d say that the odds are we have a sleeper cell, and perhaps O’Grady woke them up, either by accident or design.”
“We need Akhtar to talk.”
Reznick moved to Meyerstein’s side. “Let me try.”
She was tempted. “We’re in New York, not Guantanamo, Jon. Let’s bring in his wife and two eldest sons. See if that shakes him up.” She looked across at Malone. “What do you think?”
Malone nodded. “Depends on the state of mind of the individual. Sometimes, if the detainee believes their loved ones are under duress or suffering, they’ll tell us what we want to know.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware of that, Malone,” Meyerstein snapped.
“What about McGovern?” Reznick asked. “We need to bring her in? Confront her with Jamal’s death?”
Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. “Let’s not rush things. We have a media blackout on this. Let’s see what her next move is.”
Malone smiled. “Makes sense.”
Meyerstein looked at her watch. “Look, I need to bring everyone back at the National Counterterrorism Center, including General Black, up to speed. Jon, I want you to sit in on this.”
Reznick shrugged. “Fair enough.”
They went through to the adjoining room and sat down in front of the screen as Meyerstein tapped in the encrypted videoconference code to link with the team in McLean.
She outlined the recent developments in a cool and rational manner. They listened. This time, there were no threats to take her off the investigation. An Islamic link was emerging. The big problem was still Ford.
Black didn’t mention Reznick’s presence at all, but he belabored the point about Ford. “On what we have so far,” he said, “it could strictly be a coincidence that Ford had contact with McGovern.”
Meyerstein avoided responding to the general’s concerns. “Gentlemen, we have work to do. I will update you at eighteen hundred hours. Thank you.”
As she was disconnecting the videoconference call, the desk phone rang. She switched it to speaker mode.
“Martha, it’s Roy. It’s all happening.”
Meyerstein grimaced. “What’s up, Roy?”
“Something’s cooking.”
“Tell me, for Chrissakes.” She looked at Reznick and shook her head, as if she were used to Stamper being long-winded.
“I’ve just been told by the team looking into Ford’s history, personal, and employment, that there is, in their words, a ‘discrepancy.’”
“What kind of discrepancy?”
“All I know is that the timelines don’t appear to be accurate.”
“In what way?”
Stamper let out a long sigh. “That’s all I know. They’re still piecing it together. But it’s his time working for the Red Cross that doesn’t tally. Perhaps it’s an administrative error, perhaps a wrong date given by him . . . we just don’t know.”
“When will they be able to confirm?”
“They’re working flat-out on this.”
“How long?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
“I’m updating General Black and the rest of the team at eighteen hundred hours, Roy. So I want to know everything there is to know about this discrepancy by seventeen thirty at the latest. Understood?”
There was no response. Stamper had already hung up.
Twenty-One
It was dark and the air was like a steam bath as Ford stood on the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park. He was partially concealed by the canopy of leaves from the overhanging trees beside the pond.
He took a few moments to drink in the scene. The New York skyscrapers towering in the distance. He marveled at the city—this place where America met the world. It felt great to be cloaked in a pleasing darkness in the beating heart of America.
The park was still busy: night joggers, tourists, and people taking photographs of their friends with their cell phones.
Ford took off his backpack and reached inside for his Nikon camera, which sported a huge paparazzi-sized telephoto lens. He took off the lens cap and pressed his eye against the viewfinder, focusing on a terrace high up at The Plaza. He brought it into sharp focus. The infrared night vision showed two loungers, a dark table bathed in a warm light from the penthouse, and no drapes or blinds to block the view. Inside, he could make out the edge of a white sofa, and flowers in a vase on a bookshelf. He couldn’t believe his luck. This was a perfect spot. Would this be the one?
The more he thought of what lay ahead, the more a raw energy surged through his body like an electric current. Something primeval.
He thought of the headlines to come. He could see his name in bold black print. He could see his picture. They would remember him. But, more than that, they would remember what he stood for.
He carefully replaced the lens cap and put the camera back in his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked off deeper into the park. He sensed people were watching him. But nothing more than that. He hadn’t actually seen any tails. He’d been too careful.
His cell phone rang.
“Your first trip to the drop zone awaits.”
“Are we all set?”
“It’s all been taken care of. We just want you to go there, acquaint yourself with the surroundings and people.” A silence opened up for a few moments. “How are you enjoying New York?”
Ford smelled the cut grass and the moisture in the air. The blossoms from the trees. And the smell of hot dogs, drifting across the park. “Not a city in the world like it. What a place.”
“It just feels so right, doesn’t it? You’re a very lucky man.”
Ford took a deep breath, and felt his heart swell with pride. “I know.”
“Some of your backup team had some useful target practice with that panhandler from the East Village. He won’t be clogging up any more soup kitchens.”
Ford smiled but said nothing.
“OK, this is the one word you need in
the drop zone.”
“Shoot.”
“The city of your birth.”
Washington. “Got it.”
“We’re going to keep mixing things up but will reach you whichever way we have to.”
Ford smiled, and looked back at the lights of The Plaza in the distance. He knew what that meant.
“Whatever it takes, I will not fail you. I will not fail America.”
“We’re counting on it. Till the next time, my friend. Stay safe.”
Twenty-Two
Reznick was floating on a black sea, an inky sky overhead. He heard ringing and wondered where it was coming from. He opened his eyes and realized he was in The Fairfax, and it was dark outside. The ringing had stopped.
He sat up in bed and heard voices outside his room. Meyerstein was talking in hushed tones. But there was also the gruff voice of counterterrorism expert Sam Chisholm, his voice slightly raised.
He splashed cold water on his face, cleaned his teeth, showered and shaved, and pulled on a clean set of clothes the Feds had provided. Chinos, black T-shirt, and his Rockport shoes. He put on his watch. It showed 10:42 p.m.
He went through to the main room and poured himself a coffee.
Chisholm nodded at him. “Hey, Jon, how you doing?”
“Felt better. What’s the latest?”
Chisholm looked across at Meyerstein, who was sitting beside Malone, eyes scanning her laptop. Then he stared at Reznick. “What happened this morning has changed a lot of our thinking . . .”
“In what way?”
“Our guys are working around the clock on this. And we’re beginning to see a threat. O’Grady’s call to Caroline Lieber, her disappearance, and her friendship with Ford. We just couldn’t figure it out. But after what happened earlier, things are becoming a bit clearer.”
“You wanna explain?”
Chisholm scratched his clean-shaven chin and looked across at Meyerstein. “Am I OK to give this out?”
Meyerstein nodded. “Jon is part of this team.”
Chisholm pulled up a seat and sat down. “Ford was assigned as a junior doctor to the UN’s Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs in April 2005. He worked in Rwanda, Albania, Angola, Burundi, Eritrea, Sudan . . . you name it. The guy is considered to be a great humanitarian as well as a brilliant surgeon and doctor. Saved children’s limbs. Saved countless lives. We have plenty of photographic and documentary evidence to back up that he was there at the time he said.”