Hard Kill (Jon Reznick Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

  Chisholm said, “It makes sense.”

  Meyerstein said, “Remember, Jon, we got the last number O’Grady called—Caroline Lieber—and I asked you and Roy to chase it down, which you did, and this led us to Ford. But initially, I kept that information from the main members of the special access program.”

  Neither Reznick nor Chisholm said anything.

  “This is difficult to explain. But I’ve felt that . . . I’ve felt that we’re being second-guessed every step of the way. Something isn’t right . . . I was attacked, drugged, and left for dead in a goddamn State Department bathroom. I mean, how was that possible?”

  “Froch. He was compromised,” said Chisholm.

  Meyerstein smiled. “Yes. But I believe there’s someone not connected to Froch who’s playing us.”

  Chisholm ran a hand through his hair. “Whoa! What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know. But yesterday, I sent a secure message to McNair, who visited me in hospital.”

  Reznick and Chisholm looked across at McNair, who stood looking slightly embarrassed.

  “I asked McNair to help me out.”

  “In what way?” asked Chisholm.

  “I wanted to make sure that none of the rooms and offices we had were being bugged.”

  Reznick sat forward. “You kidding me, right?”

  Meyerstein shook her head. “You know what McNair found out? My office, which was allocated to me within the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, and yours, Sam—along with the conference room we meet in—were all bugged.”

  “Bullshit,” said Chisholm. “Those offices will be routinely swept for bugs.”

  “This is no bullshit, Sam. McNair? Do you want to jump in here?”

  McNair blew out his cheeks. “Absolutely. The listening devices are in the walls. Don’t know how long they’ve been there. But it’s a sophisticated job.”

  “And that’s why, gentlemen, I brought you here. Someone is keeping tabs on what we’re doing and why.”

  The revelation had come clear out of the blue, and Reznick’s mind was racing. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there was anyone around the special access program he could trust.

  McNair said nothing and looked at Meyerstein.

  She cleared her throat. “Sam, this bug doesn’t emit radio waves. That’s how high-end this operation is. We’d have to drill through the walls to retrieve the bug to identify it. That in turn would defeat the purpose, as we’d alert those listening in that we were aware of them.”

  Reznick looked at McNair. “What about General Black’s office?”

  McNair covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. “The tests were conclusive. Two covert listening devices in the walls of his office. This is something on a highly sophisticated level. Virtually undetectable with routine anti-bugging equipment.”

  Chisholm sighed, eyes closed.

  McNair continued, “As Assistant Director Meyerstein said, these devices don’t emit radio waves. Instead of transmitting conversations, they record the conversations within the room.” He paused for a moment. “We’ve got military-grade equipment that can look for magnetic fields, or electrical noise given out by computerized technology in digital tape recorders, but most offices have photocopiers and computers, so the background noise is very difficult to deal with. But what we did was sweep the rooms using thermal cameras, and we detected the residual heat of a bug or power supply concealed in the walls. Simply put, our devices located hot spots where the bugs were.”

  “And you’re certain of this?” Reznick said.

  “In my opinion, it’s one hundred percent conclusive.”

  “Covert ops, no question.” Chisholm said, turning to Reznick. “Where would you start in figuring out where these recording bugs came from, and how they carried out the placement?”

  “I think it could’ve been done by a two-man team—maybe three—in one night, under the cover of maintenance. I trained CIA guys in just such work. The whole place could be done . . . the plasterboard walls pulled off and drilled back into place with the bugs inside, then a lick of paint. But to answer your question—where they came from—you need to head back to the start of this investigation. The origin of the special access program, I mean.”

  Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “It began when I got a call.”

  “A call?” Reznick said. “From whom?”

  “A three-star general in the Pentagon. I’m not at liberty to divulge who. He just told me that a special access program was up and running, and I had been tasked to head up the investigation with General Black.”

  Reznick smiled. “So this is from the Pentagon. Christ, that doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  Chisholm sighed, as if weighed down with it all.

  Reznick looked at Meyerstein. “They’re assuming that we don’t know they’re listening in. So, I reckon we’ve got three options. Option number one: go straight to General Black and tell him what we know. The response? Who the hell knows? Option two: keep quiet and find out who is behind this. Problem is, that’s time-consuming and moves the focus away from possible security threats. Option three: keep quiet and concentrate on the investigation.”

  Meyerstein looked at McNair for a few moments. “I’m instructing you, Special Agent McNair, not to reveal what you know to anyone. We’ll deal with this. Do you understand?”

  McNair nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Head back to the Office of the Director of Intelligence and get back to work. You understand?”

  “Absolutely.”

  McNair left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Reznick let out a long sigh. “This whole thing is getting under my skin.”

  Meyerstein said, “Me too. Sam, where would you go from here?”

  “My feeling is that we should be up front. We have nothing to hide. We speak to General Black in private, letting him know and in the process also those who are listening in.”

  “Jon, what about you? What do you think we should do?”

  “I thought it interesting that in the meeting, Sam, you said that you thought we should bring Ford in. I would have taken what you had to say very seriously. But Black flat-out disagreed.” He looked at Meyerstein. “What would you do if you were in Black’s shoes?”

  “I’d haul in Ford. He has questions to answer. Yes, bringing in Ford would alert those within any cell that we’re on to them, but I still think we should pull him in.”

  Reznick smiled. “So, you both agree that Ford should be brought in. I agree. I also think Black’s option of wait and see is a risky strategy.”

  Meyerstein said, “So, how do we move forward in regard to the bugging of the offices? Do we speak directly to General Black?”

  “Absolutely,” said Chisholm.

  Reznick sighed. “I’d go one step further. I’d say this should be raised with everyone else. Put it right up front.”

  Meyerstein shook her head. “That would be like I’d ambushed him. I think it’s better to keep it restricted. But I’ll speak to him myself. Face to face.”

  Reznick shrugged. “Whatever works for you. I agree you need to bring it to Black’s attention, but there’s another reason why. And it’s this. He’ll either sit on that information and do nothing, or pass it on to someone higher up within the Pentagon.”

  Meyerstein picked up a pen and began playing with it for a few moments. “And how would we ascertain if that information has been passed on, and to whom?”

  “Track his calls and emails and messages. Electronic surveillance.”

  “Are you fucking crazy, Reznick?” Chisholm said.

  Reznick shook his head.

  Meyerstein said, “Are you seriously saying we should consider this?”

  “Your investigation has been compromised, perhaps from day one. You need to get to the bottom of this. And General Black may provide the answer.”

  Thirty-Three

  When they returned to the Office of the Director o
f National Intelligence in McLean, they went straight into the meeting with Lieutenant General Black and the other members of the special access program.

  As she sat down, her train of thought was interrupted by flashbacks of the face of the woman who had carried out the attack in the State Department restroom. Knots of anxiety washed over her as she shuffled her papers. She took a few moments to compose herself, knowing all eyes were on her.

  She began to think of how to broach the subject of the bugging with Black while she listened to three senior intelligence experts—from the FBI, the National Counterterrorism Center, and Homeland Security—confirming growing chatter about a real and growing threat, with New York as the target city. She wondered how Ford fitted into that.

  Although there was a convergence of views among the intelligence agencies warning of an impending yet unspecified threat, no one could agree what the target was and who would be carrying out the attack. The discussions became heated, not surprisingly. Black listened intently, scribbling on his notepad, as the debates raged.

  The President’s national security advisor said, “I’ve got to let you guys know that the President is increasingly concerned that we have not established the exact nature of the threat. I mean, what is actually going on?”

  Chisholm spoke up. “Like we’ve said again and again, there are numerous strands. The kidnapping, the attempted murder of Meyerstein, Froch, McGovern, and Jamal. Then Akhtar, who has decided to plead the Fifth, and the Chechens—and of course, let’s not forget Ford.”

  “So why the hell aren’t we bringing him in?”

  Black sidestepped the question. “My main concern is that the Chechens are the proxies for Iran or Syria, Sam.”

  A red light started flashing on the phone in front of Chisholm. He picked it up and listened for a few moments before he spoke. “When . . . ? Keep with him.” He put down the phone.

  “Surveillance teams are saying Ford is now on the move. He just jumped into a cab on the Upper East Side. We have three separate teams—one on a motorbike and two in cars—tracking his every move.”

  Meyerstein looked at Reznick. “Jon, I want you back in New York with Sam and his guys until this is over. I think we’re all agreed New York is the endgame target. You OK with that?”

  “What’s the brief?”

  “I want you on the ground as we continue the surveillance on Ford.”

  She looked across the table at Black. “General, I agree with Sam. We need to bring in Ford. Right now.”

  Black cut short the meeting. “Not an option. At least for now.”

  Half an hour later, Meyerstein was on a Gulfstream heading for New York, with Reznick and Chisholm a row in front, deep in conversation. She perused the latest analysis but her thoughts inevitably drifted to the bugging.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized Black was out of step with the other experts working on the investigation. But she pushed those thoughts aside as she began to focus again on the myriad strands of the frustrating and complex investigation.

  Why hadn’t Stamper yet filled in the blanks on Ford’s overseas work? But Stamper was meticulous and wouldn’t leave any stone unturned. He would get to the bottom of it. She knew that.

  Reznick sat down beside her and handed her a black coffee. “Drink it. You look like you need it.”

  Meyerstein smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Reznick looked at the papers covering the table in front of her. “You’re snowed under.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So where do you go from here?” he said.

  “I feel very conflicted. The investigation is paramount, and distractions are not good. But bugging the intelligence offices? Who did this? And why? How long have the bugs been there? Is this connected to the special access program? Have they been in place for years? The problem is, Jon, these questions are going to be almost impossible to find answers to.” She sighed. “What would you do?”

  “I’ve told you what I would do. I would find out what General Black is up to and work back from there.”

  “I need a judge to sign a warrant.”

  “Then get him to sign it.”

  “Might be a bit tricky, considering it’s an unacknowledged special access program. Its very existence isn’t acknowledged, so it’s a catch-22.”

  “Then be more creative. Put him under surveillance without authorization.”

  Meyerstein closed her eyes. “I don’t know. Where does that end?”

  “It ends when you learn who authorized the bugging. Listen to me . . . all this smoke and mirrors—Froch, the murder of a diplomat, a missing student, Islamists—I’m telling you, this is not a cell-like operation by one terrorist group. There’s something else at work.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing is what it seems.”

  “Jon, you’re getting pretty obtuse, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Sometimes, just sometimes, the story you see is not the whole story. It’s not even the real story.”

  “What the hell is this, Jon—some philosophical discussion?”

  “Maybe.”

  The phone on Meyerstein’s armrest rang and she picked it up. She listened intently, nodding a couple of times. “You kidding me?” She closed her eyes. “Superb work, Roy. Send it over to me. Right now.” She ended the call.

  “Development?” Reznick said.

  Meyerstein pressed a button on her laptop and checked her inbox. “You could say that.” She clicked on the newest email from Roy Stamper and opened the attachment.

  It was a grainy color picture showing bearded, battle-hardened Islamists wearing army fatigues. Reznick stared at the image, focusing on each and every face. Meyerstein took a pencil and pointed to the beautiful brown-eyed woman standing with them. “Kristina Umarov, the Chechen shot dead by her brother.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s not all.” She pointed with the pencil at a ruggedly good-looking, bearded Caucasian guy in the middle. “Take a closer look.”

  Reznick leaned forward. Cold blue eyes. Handsome face. Mid-twenties, perhaps. “Son of a bitch.”

  Meyerstein looked at the picture. “Dr. Adam Ford just outside Grozny, Chechnya.”

  Thirty-Four

  It took a few moments for Reznick to get his head around it. “How the hell did we get this?”

  Meyerstein sipped her coffee. “Russian security services raided the homes of Chechen leaders and their associates, as well as relatives of the Umarovs, in the last forty-eight hours. We’d circulated an image of Ford a few days ago. And they found this in an old FSB filing cabinet: Kristina Umarov in the same photo as Adam Ford. One of my team, Special Agent Brian Martin, has gone over it ten thousand times with the latest facial recognition software. It’s a perfect match for both. One hundred percent.”

  “What was his cover?”

  “Russians think he slipped into the country while working for an American medical charity which is now defunct—American Medical Aid across Frontiers.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Neither have I. But in the time he said he was working for the Red Cross in Somalia, he was with them.”

  Reznick stared at the image. “Adam Ford . . . Who the hell is this guy?”

  Meyerstein shrugged.

  Reznick looked out of the window as the plane descended through the clouds into perfect blue skies, as they began their approach to New York. His mind was racing. “We definitely have to bring him in.”

  A shudder from turbulence. Meyerstein said, “No. I want you to shadow him. I think there’s a bigger picture here, and we use Ford to get to it. But we keep tight on him to make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.”

  Reznick sighed but said nothing.

  “The picture changes everything, Sam. But we’ll keep this to ourselves. See where Ford takes us.”

  “What do you mean, keep it to ourselves?”

  “I don’t want Black to know about this deve
lopment.”

  “Why the hell not, Martha?”

  “When I met with him earlier, he said he’d get on to the White House about the bugging of the offices. McNair is monitoring Black’s phones. The only call he’s made is to an unlisted number at the Pentagon.”

  Chisholm crushed his empty Styrofoam coffee cup and threw it on the floor. “This is getting crazier by the second.”

  “It is what it is,” Reznick said.

  Chisholm let out a long sigh. “OK, leave it with me.”

  Meyerstein leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Sam.”

  The phone on her armrest rang again. “Meyerstein,” she answered. Then she nodded. “Are you sure?” A beat. “Shit. Keep on it. We’ll be landing in less than five minutes.”

  She hung up. “That was surveillance on Ford. He’s been dropped off in Queens and he’s walking.”

  Reznick rubbed his eyes. “Walking? Walking where?”

  “In the direction of Flushing Meadows. The US Open tennis.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got him covered. He’ll get a priority search.”

  “That’s irrelevant. There could be others inside. How the hell have we missed this?”

  “The focus was on forthcoming nine eleven commemorations.”

  Meyerstein felt a headache coming on, drilling deep into her head. “Look, we’re landing at LaGuardia. Virtually on top of Flushing Meadows. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Jon, I want you inside with Phil Gritz and the red team.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “You watch and wait. If he makes a move, you shoot to kill.”

  Thirty-Five

  Crowds surged all around Flushing Meadows Park. They pulled up half a mile from the larger stadium and stepped out into the early-evening heat.

  Reznick felt the sweat run down his back.

  Gritz put on his shades. “Weapons concealed at all times. We’ll be waved through by security, OK?”