by J. B. Turner
He scoured the rest of the suite: bathroom and bedroom, closets, under beds. Nothing. Just a fresh scent of pine and cleaning polish in the air. He headed back into the living room, switched off the penlight, and crawled across the carpet toward the windows.
The terrace was empty.
He got up and headed toward the door, pressing his ear against the wood. No sounds in the corridor, only the vibration from someone walking in suite 3203 above. Low humming, as if from a nearby air-conditioning unit.
Reznick quietly opened the door and gently pulled it shut after him. He looked straight ahead and headed down the hallway, then up the stairwell to the thirty-second floor. He stopped at the doors, cameras tracking his movements.
“I’m about to enter the thirty-second floor,” he whispered into his lapel mike. “Are we clear?”
A long pause. “Hold on.” The voice of Gritz.
Reznick stood and waited for a reply. He needed to move. What was taking so long?
A long sigh. “Finally clear, Jon. Go on.”
Reznick headed through the doors and saw suite 3203. He swiped the card and opened the door.
The suite was cloaked in semidarkness, with only the glow of the moon from the Manhattan sky giving any light. Sofas, ornate antique tables, the smell of beeswax polish. He took out his penlight and flashed it around the room. He headed down the hallway to a small bedroom.
Creaking from above, the sound of voices. Loud TV—a game show playing.
Reznick checked the bathroom, which had monogrammed towels and a hint of eucalyptus in the air. He looked in drawers, under the bed, in closets, but found nothing.
He went back into the living room, and opened the doors that led to the terrace. A warm breeze blew in, billowing the lace curtains, the lights of the city as far as the eye could see.
Reznick carefully shut and locked the terrace doors and headed out of the suite. He pressed his ear to the door. Just the vibrations from the nearby elevator. He opened the door.
Then he felt cold metal pressing against his neck.
Forty-Five
Meyerstein was pacing outside the side entrance to The Carlyle as the area went into full lockdown ahead of the motorcade. She thought of the threat they were facing, and wondered if she had made the right call. Even amid the din of distant sirens and agents talking loudly into cell phones, her doubts and lingering fears returned.
She moved her team into a nearby high-tech mobile command vehicle—which had just arrived—containing those involved in the forthcoming full sweep once the President was safely ensconced at The Surrey.
Meyerstein made a beeline for an FBI techie with headphones on, who was monitoring The Carlyle’s security cameras. She tapped him on the shoulder and the young agent pulled off the headset.
“What’s the latest?” she said.
“Don’t know. We seem to have lost his connection.”
“Goddamn. Gimme a break.”
“Reznick asked for a list of empty suites on the Madison Avenue side of The Carlyle, from the eighteenth floor up.”
Meyerstein saw Reznick’s logic. It made sense for Ford to hide out in an empty room with line of sight. He wouldn’t be heard if he was in radio communication with a handler.
“I want his connection back up and running. Fast! Do you hear me?”
The techie nodded. “I’m on it.”
Meyerstein turned to face the assembled, heavily armed Feds. She thought of Reznick alone, perhaps prowling the corridors of the upper floors, going from empty room to empty room. The not knowing what was going on and why the connection had been broken was unbearable.
She glanced at her watch, radios crackling in the background, monitors switched on to the same feed as the surveillance cameras inside the hotel and the residences they were about to search.
“I make it that we have a minute until the President arrives and is escorted inside The Surrey. Special Agent Gritz is in charge of search operations on the ground, and I’ll be coordinating with the technical and computer agents here in the mobile command vehicle.”
Matthew Suarez, director of security at The Carlyle, said, “Ma’am, I’ve got to say we have no indication that there has been any breach of security. Our cameras have detected no one who shouldn’t be here. Every guest and resident we know very well. Besides, we’ve been in lockdown for hours.”
“Mr. Suarez—firstly, I appreciate your cooperation. The surveillance cameras within The Carlyle and within a thirty-five-yard radius of where we believe Ford was situated blacked out, probably because of jamming. It lasted no more than ninety seconds. But we have to assume the worst.”
Suarez flushed a deep crimson. “I can assure you that—”
Meyerstein put up her hand to silence him. “Look, we’re going in. We have the authority.”
Suarez nodded his head, suitably chastised.
“OK, while we believe he will be higher up, we can’t take anything for granted. Therefore, first floor to seventeen, what are we talking?”
Suarez said, “It’s mixed. Some hotel rooms, some residences owned by the hotel.”
“What about above seventeen?”
“That’s the tower.”
“OK, what about access to each and every residence and room?”
“Each agent has a Carlyle uniform and a master card.”
Meyerstein turned to the search team and held up a glossy printout of Ford. “We’re behind the curve on this and have been from the get-go. I want to make this clear. He is very dangerous. He’s Special Forces-trained. A crack shot. Ferociously fit.”
Then Meyerstein’s attention switched to the surveillance footage outside The Surrey, as the first outrider appeared and the Secret Service crowded around the entrance like a protective shield. Her throat felt dry and her stomach knotted. A few moments later, the Beast, as the President’s limousine was called within Secret Service circles, swept into view. A huge Secret Service agent got out and opened the rear door of the presidential Cadillac. A female agent did the same on the opposite side of the vehicle, and a cordon of agents formed around the car.
A few moments’ delay, and the President got out and headed toward the canopy as his wife and kids were ushered inside, out of sight. They were visible for barely five seconds as the huge entourage followed them into the hotel. Time seemed to stop.
Forty-Six
Reznick’s hands were raised and the gun was pressed to the side of his neck. He felt the man’s warm breath on his face.
“Are you lost, Mr. Simpson? This isn’t your room, is it?”
Reznick said nothing.
“Who are you, sir?”
Reznick counted down in his head. Three, two, one.
He swiped his arm back as if swatting a fly and grabbed the gun, redirecting the weapon away from his body. Then he elbowed the guy with a ferocious jolt to the side of the neck. The man collapsed in a heap as if hit by a sniper.
He tucked the gun into his waistband, swiped the keycard to open the door to the empty suite, and dragged the unconscious man inside and into the bathroom.
Reznick tore up the bedroom’s Egyptian cotton sheets and tied the man to the toilet, his mouth gagged and his hands bound behind his back. He rifled through the man’s inside pockets and pulled out an ID. He scanned it. Jeff Renoz. Secret Service.
Shit.
He tapped his earpiece and whispered, “Why no heads-up?”
“Cameras have all gone down, Jon.”
“Shit.”
“The search is focusing on occupied residences. You’re checking the handful of empty ones.”
“Got that.” He then relayed what had happened.
A long sigh. “OK, got that, Jon.”
“I’m heading to the next floor.”
“You gotta be careful. The Secret Service guy you bumped into must’ve been part of their presidential protection detail. They’ve got a suite on the thirty-third.”
“Which one?”
“Thirty-three ze
ro five, which has perfect line of sight, apparently.”
“I’ve still got thirty-three zero one and thirty-three zero three to go.”
“Both empty. And both leased by a Hong Kong guy for when he’s in New York on business.”
“Ford must be in one of them.”
“Take care, Jon.”
A few moments later, just as he was about to leave the suite, his earpiece buzzed again.
“Jon.” The voice of Meyerstein was soft, almost a whisper. “Where are you?”
“Thirty-second. Nothing so far. What about the others?”
“Negative. Look, the red and blue teams are going room to room. There’s only the floor above the one you’re on. Those are duplexes, on two levels. So they reach the top, the thirty-fourth, although entry is only from the thirty-third.”
Reznick said, “Copy that.”
“If he’s anywhere, he’ll be there.”
“What about the stairwells and elevators?”
“Cameras are down. Still trying to get them up again . . . Hang on.”
A long silence opened up.
Reznick said, “You still there?”
“Hold on, Jon. Just been messaged by Agent Bryan Simon.”
“I’m listening.”
“Jon, hold on, we’re just checking this. Something about the President’s itinerary.” The silence lasted for nearly a minute. Eventually, she came on the line again. “I don’t believe this.”
“What is it?”
“Jon, we’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“No. Another problem. In exactly seventeen minutes, the President is meeting the families of nine eleven victims.”
“How’s that a problem? He’s out of sight.”
“Negative. The reception is on the rooftop terrace at The Surrey.”
“No fucking way.”
“It’s all been arranged. There’s going to be a string quartet playing . . . No one knows about it. The details aren’t out there.”
“Well, someone knows about it. And I’ll bet that someone is Adam Ford, and the people directing this operation.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“Look, while we have Ford on the loose, surely it would be safest for the President to be kept away from prying eyes? It’s a no-brainer.”
“I know, Jon, but this is out of my hands. I spoke with Steel but he brushed aside my concerns. Jon, I feel sick. I think this is when it’s going to happen.”
“No question—this operation is a green light. I bet Ford has been hunkered down up there since he got in, right under the noses of the Secret Service snipers.”
“Jon, there are seven rooms on the thirty-third. We’ve got to find this guy. No ifs, ands, or buts. You must get this guy, at any cost.”
“On it.”
Reznick headed up the stairwell to the thirty-third floor. The final floor to sweep. There were only a few more suites to check. He whispered into his lapel mike, “I’m about to enter the thirty-third. Contact the counter-sniper team and let them know I’m on their floor.”
“Gimme a minute.”
Less than sixty seconds later, Meyerstein’s voice was back in the earpiece. “The message has been passed on.”
“I’m going in.”
He crouched down and cracked open the door to the thirty-third floor. No sign of life in the narrow corridor.
Reznick pushed open the door and got to his feet. He headed down the hallway, got to the first empty suite, and pressed his ear to the door. A faint sound of water in an old lead pipe, maybe underneath the floor. He swiped the card and peered into the darkness of the huge suite. Then he edged inside and shut the door quietly behind him.
He didn’t move as he got his bearings.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. The military mantra he still used.
Reznick took his penlight from his jacket and searched the room. Piano in the corner, antique walnut furnishings, just like the other empty suites. But his senses were cranked to the max.
He felt something. He just didn’t know what.
He reached for his Beretta, and took it from the belt strapped to his chest. He felt his finger on the cold trigger. His heart was beating hard as he began to scour the three-bedroom suite. He headed up the duplex’s stairs, the lights of the city below, partially illuminating the room. The glass doors to the balcony were open, and the curtains were billowing in the breeze.
Reznick slowly approached the open door. As the curtain blew in, he noticed black boots sticking out from below. He crouched down and inched forward. The curtains billowed again, and he saw the crumpled bodies of two counter-snipers with a bullet to the forehead each.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows to Reznick’s right. He dived to the floor and shot twice at the figure’s head. A flash of light from the gun, and a muffled phut from the silenced 9mm. The figure crashed to the floor, face first through a glass coffee table. He wasn’t moving.
Reznick edged closer. He was in the kill zone. He turned the body over and stared at the bloody face. It wasn’t Ford.
His earpiece crackled into life. “What the hell is going on?” Meyerstein shouted.
“I’ve just taken out a trigger man. It means Ford isn’t alone. It also means Ford is still on the loose.”
A few seconds later, he heard Meyerstein’s voice again. “Jon, we’ve lost radio contact with the counter-sniper team. The line of sight from terraces and balconies on that floor to the President is wide open. You have to act now!”
Reznick said, “I’m heading straight there.”
“Jon, the President is on the roof terrace. I can see him on our monitor. There are scores of people around him. There’s a Plexiglas shield that’s been erected all around the terrace . . .”
“That won’t stop Ford!” Reznick hissed.
He knew that someone like Ford would have access to military-grade bullets that could tear through the best Plexiglas.
Reznick bounded down the stairs of the darkened duplex, opened the door, and crouched down as he headed along the corridor to suite 3304.
He pressed himself against the wall as he moved closer. He swiped the card and pushed open the door, knowing he was a sitting duck. He ducked through and shut the door as quietly as he could with a soft, metallic clicking sound. He thought of the suite layout he’d just seen a few moments earlier.
The smell of cordite. Sweat. The faint sound of traffic seeping into the room.
His eyes adjusted. Too slowly.
It was happening. Here and now.
Reznick kept low and crawled through the living room, past a table. Breathing hard, the sound of his heartbeat the only noise. He knew he couldn’t afford one false move. He had to get this right. His gut reaction was to storm through the suite. But that wasn’t the smart way.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
He stayed in a crouch as he headed for the duplex’s stairs. He took the first step. A second. And the rest in a matter of seconds.
Reznick got down lower and crawled through the upper living area, past a table.
From his right, the sound of traffic. The French windows to the balcony were open, the same as in the last suite. Drapes billowed from the open windows at the far side of the room.
He was within six yards.
Then he saw something crouched at the far end of the huge terrace. A spectral figure in black. A rifle on a tripod. The figure seemed oblivious to Reznick closing in. He was peering through the night-vision scope and adjusting the eyepiece. Reznick saw the green LED indicating that the scope was on.
Then the man’s head turned, and he stared at Reznick.
Reznick was already in the zone. He didn’t hesitate for one second. He pointed the handgun and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled it again. An empty click.
His 9mm had jammed.
Fuck.
The world seemed to slow down.
Reznick’s brain switched gears. He lay down so he was f
lat on his stomach. The man stood up, but Reznick had already pulled the Secret Service agent’s Belgian-made FN Five-seven pistol out of the back of his waistband. He aimed the gun and squeezed twice.
Two shots rang out.
A flash of light exploded, temporarily illuminating the room; a sharp recoil and a deafening noise.
The masked figure stumbled back as if in slow motion before collapsing in a heap on the balcony. Writhing in agony, he knocked over the rifle and tripod.
Reznick scrambled to his feet and jumped on the man’s chest, ripping off his mask. Staring back at him, eyes blazing, was Adam Ford. Fine-boned, a strong jawline. Reznick gripped his face and squeezed tight on his jaw. “Who else?”
Ford’s eyes were open wide as he grinned up at Reznick.
Reznick smashed his fist into Ford’s nose. The sound of a bone cracking, and blood spurted onto his face. “Who sent you?”
Ford stared up, bleeding, face impassive. His eyes began to roll around in his head. Then he slipped away.
Forty-Seven
The moments that followed were a blizzard of activity. Secret Service agents sporting semiautomatic weapons, and a fully armed SWAT team stormed in, tied the unconscious man’s hands behind his back with zip ties, and dragged him out to the waiting paramedics. The rest of the Feds conducted a thorough sweep of the suite and the one opposite. They found the two dead counter-snipers—bound, gagged, and shot in the head. They were already cold.
Reznick relayed the information to Meyerstein.
“Goddamn.”
Reznick felt numb as he was hustled out and crammed into the elevator with three Secret Service guys. No words were spoken as they descended to the lobby.
When the doors opened, Meyerstein was waiting, cell phone pressed to her ear. She held up a finger to indicate she didn’t want to be disturbed. “Yeah, it’s over, we got him. Being transferred as we speak to a safe facility. Speak to you later.”
Meyerstein was expressionless. She cocked her head in the direction of the mobile command center. “Very well done.” Then she smiled.
Reznick said nothing.
“You OK?”
“I’m OK.”