by J. B. Turner
“Still no sign of our girl. Should have headed out eleven minutes ago. Chatter from her cell phone suggests her friend is at a meeting and running late, and that’s why they haven’t set off. Tell me, how are you getting on?”
“Just wanted to let you know that our guys are on their way. Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge as we speak. Traffic not great. We estimate you’re looking at half an hour ETA. But they will deal with the girl.”
“What about the NYPD golf carts they use in Central Park?”
“I have one already in place, waiting for our guys.”
“Good work,” Reznick said. “What about the translator?”
“The Special Forces girl?”
“Her name’s Andrea, if you must know,” Reznick said.
“Yeah, whatever, she’s all kitted up. Wired for sound.”
“She been briefed?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
Reznick ended the call. He stared up ahead at the building’s entrance. A handful of well-heeled people heading in and out. Maybe clients of the bank. Maybe employees taking a break for lunch. But still no sign of Catherine Jacobs. He scanned the iPad, which showed the messages being exchanged between Catherine Jacobs and her friend in real time.
Curt White sighed. “Where do you think these rich fucks swanning around get all their money from?”
“No idea.”
“You know what I think? They’re laundering their money through shell companies, offshore, Caymans . . . setting up businesses in New Jersey with ill-gotten gains and stolen property, and then shutting it down. That’s the way it is.”
Reznick didn’t answer.
“I mean, who the fuck would bank at some Russian investment bank or whatever in New York?”
“Russian émigrés, I guess.”
“Russian gangsters, more like. What’s wrong with American banks?”
“They’re corrupt like every other financial institution in this country. Bleeding us dry.”
“They ain’t all bad, Jon.”
“Yeah . . . could’ve fooled me. Let the fuckers go to the wall. They bet on poor people not being able to pay back house loans, and make a killing when the houses are foreclosed. It’s gangsterism, pure and simple. We’re being had.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Forty minutes later, down the block, Catherine Jacobs eventually emerged from the bank’s foyer with a female friend.
“What’ve we got here?” Reznick said, binoculars pressed tight to his face. “Yeah, we got a visual. That’s her.”
White nodded. “Cute.”
Reznick watched as Jacobs and her friend did a few stretches on the sidewalk. Then they ran west toward Fifth Avenue. “My guess is they’re headed for the park entrance at East 90th Street,” he said. He tapped the cell phone-tracking icon on the iPad and it showed their GPS coordinates. He watched their progress for a few minutes and then spoke. “OK, guys, this is for everyone. She’s already in the park on East Drive, now headed north.”
“We got a visual on her now, Mr. R.” The voice of Floyd Chester, ex-Delta Force operator who had been used by the Agency alongside Reznick, years back. Chester was kitted out in jogging gear, a Bluetooth earpiece concealed by his headphones. “Think they’re doing a loop of the reservoir. I got them.”
“Copy that,” Reznick said. “One hundred, no closer. But always maintain visual contact.”
“I’m on it, Mr. R. Relax.”
Reznick gave a wry smile. He’d lost count of the number of times that Chester had reassured Reznick while they were hunkered down in some shithole safe house in Falluja. Relax, Mr. R, he would say. Invariably there would be sniper fire fizzing off the concrete walls of the house. But always Chester would just be chewing his gum, eyes calm. “Just make sure you don’t lose them,” Reznick said.
White was looking around at everyone who passed. “Sure beats Somalia, right?” He began to laugh. “Man, did you hear what I said? Said it beats—”
“I heard.”
“Man, just passing time.”
Reznick couldn’t abide a lack of focus. He didn’t know Curt White and wouldn’t have chosen him as his first choice for anything. He was CIA, assigned to the FBI. But there was something about his cocky demeanor that bugged Reznick.
There followed a few awkward minutes of silence. Then Reznick heard Dave’s voice, from back at the facility.
“Our intervention guys are now in situ, Jon, about half a mile from you guys.”
“Good. What about part two? How is that progressing?”
“Part two is underway. Her realtor boyfriend is playing ball. He’s meeting our buyer at some swanky property in Sands Point, overlooking Long Island Sound.”
“What about connections between her phone and the boyfriend’s?”
“Relax. I’ve taken care of it. There will be no contact between them while this is ongoing.”
“So if he wants to speak to her, even though he’s showing some clients around, that wouldn’t be possible?”
“Precisely.”
“Speak soon.”
Thirty-Five
Vladimir Merkov stepped out into the lobby of his penthouse duplex in Tribeca and climbed the stairs to the upper level of the apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed wraparound views of the Hudson and East Rivers, Lower Manhattan, and One World Trade Center.
He went out onto the terrace and sat down on a cushioned wooden seat. Beside him was a table with bottle of Chablis in an ice bucket. One of his men poured him a glass and gave a small nod.
“That will be all just now,” Merkov said. “If you can go downstairs and make yourselves at home, I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Sir.” Another nod and the French doors were closed.
Merkov picked up the glass, closed his eyes, and smelled the delicate citrus bouquet. He took a long drink, enjoying the cool alcohol’s taste, then put down the glass and lit a Cuban cigar. His gaze took in the New Jersey skyline in the distance.
New York had been his refuge when he’d arrived in the early nineties. He’d be forever grateful. He had become almost a hermit over the last two decades in his attempt to keep out of sight of the FBI. But he loved the bustle. The din. The craziness. He still couldn’t help but marvel at how such a chaotic, frenzied, and mad city could function.
Merkov downed the rest of the chilled wine. A few moments later, his cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“I have some news.”
“Go on.”
“She’s lost consciousness. Losing blood. It isn’t good. If I’m being honest, she might not make it.”
Merkov contemplated his next move. He had nothing to lose. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be changing his strategy. If she died, that was their problem. “What about my son?”
“That’s the other reason I’m calling.”
“Spit it out.”
“Dimitri was released ten minutes ago.”
Merkov felt elated. “First bit of good news I’ve heard for a while. Where is he?”
“He’s safe. And en route.”
“Good.”
Merkov had engineered the double cross. He instructed a trusted associate with close links to Russian hackers to get them to send a fake email, on behalf of the Solicitor General to the Department of Justice, confirming Dimitri Merkov should be released with immediate effect as Meyerstein was now at an FBI safe house. He had his son. But they didn’t have Meyerstein. It was payback, Moscow-style.
“What do we do when the FBI figure out they’ve been had?”
“Fuck them. I’ve got other things to worry about.”
Thirty-Six
On the screen of his iPad, Reznick watched Catherine Jacobs jogging around the Central Park Reservoir with her coworker. She wore a gray marl hoodie and matching pants, and pink running shoes. The camera was a bit shaky, as it was attached to Floyd Chester, who was running about a hundred yards behind the pair.
Reznick spoke into the microphone on his lapel. “Dave, where are our operatives? Are they near the golf cart?”
“Bad traffic. They’ve just arrived this second at 90th Street. As has the cop car I requisitioned.”
“Current status?”
“Our guy is in the police vehicle. And our female operative is just headed off in the cart, up East Drive.”
“ETA?”
“From her GPS position and the speed of Catherine Jacobs and her friend, we estimate eight, maybe nine minutes.”
“Tell her to get a fucking move on.”
“Copy that.”
Reznick felt himself beginning to grind his teeth. He had known all the operatives he’d enlisted today for years. The female operative was a Special Forces surveillance expert who was once assigned to Delta Force.
He checked his watch and looked at the iPad. Then he spoke into his lapel microphone. “Chester, you’re doing great, buddy. How you feeling?”
“I love to get paid to jog in the park, man!”
Reznick smiled. “Let’s try and stay focused. Maybe even just drop back fifty yards or so. We have the GPS of her cell phone.”
“Copy that.”
The women started putting some serious distance between them and Chester. “Maintain visual at all times,” Reznick said. “ETA for the intervention is six, maybe seven minutes.”
Reznick turned to White. “You think she’ll play ball?”
“Female cop’s a nice touch. Less threatening.”
Reznick nodded.
“What’s the plan if she doesn’t play ball?” White asked.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“But if it does?”
“If it does . . . we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Silence for a few minutes, then suddenly Reznick heard a voice in his earpiece. “ETA one minute, max.”
“Copy that, Dave.”
The situation wasn’t ideal. Luring someone on a false pretext in full view of the public posed numerous difficulties and challenges. But as it stood, they didn’t have any other choice.
White looked toward the entrance to the bank, farther down the street. “Do you mind me asking why we’re parked up here?”
“It’s the backup plan.”
“Which entails?”
“If she doesn’t go willingly, and if circumstances dictate that we can’t remove her from the park—which might be difficult if she’s with a coworker—she’ll come back to the bank. We’ll flash our police IDs and tell the coworker we need to speak to Jacobs in private. And when the coworker disappears inside, we tell Jacobs she has to come with us.”
“And if she refuses?”
“We put her under arrest. And take her away.”
White stared straight ahead and sighed. “You think doing this will get her back?”
“We’ll just have to wait and see.”
The footage from Chester’s camera showed the NYPD golf cart had overtaken Catherine Jacobs. The female operative in the buggy flagged down the two joggers. The images from her own camera were pin-sharp, and Reznick could see Jacobs in high definition, sweat beading on her forehead.
“Which one of you ladies is Catherine Jacobs?” the female operative asked.
“I am,” came the reply. “What is it?”
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Janice Mullins from Central Park NYPD. The receptionist at the bank said I’d find you jogging on the East Road about now.”
“Is there a problem, officer?”
“Ma’am, do you know a Richard Gruber?”
A look of concern crossed the woman’s face. “Yeah, sure. He’s my fiancé. Is he OK?”
“Ma’am, we believe he’s been in an accident. You might want to come with me. We’ve got a car waiting to take you downtown.”
Jacobs went pale. “Oh my God, is he OK?”
“I can’t say any more, ma’am. Details are sketchy. If you want to jump in the back and I’ll get you to the hospital.”
She stood in stunned silence as her coworker hugged her.
“Catherine,” her friend said. “Get to the hospital. Right now!”
Jacobs, looking shocked, hopped in the back of the buggy.
“Ma’am, hold on tight,” the operative said, making a sharp U-turn.
A few minutes later, Jacobs was in the back of the requisitioned cop car.
Reznick watched her face. It was etched with concern, tears in her eyes. So far, so good, he thought.
“You must be able to tell me where he is?” She stared blankly at the woman dressed as a cop. Then what looked like nasal spray came into view, held by the operative, who squirted it twice into Jacobs’s right ear.
Catherine Jacobs’s eyes rolled back. Within a few seconds, she was out of it.
Thirty-Seven
Bill O’Donoghue was on a Gulfstream jet headed to Washington, DC, reading a briefing ahead of an emergency meeting with the President’s national security advisers, when the phone on his armrest rang.
“Sir.” It was Stamper, his voice strained. “We need to talk.”
“Roy, this isn’t the time.”
“Sir, this is critical.”
O’Donoghue sighed. “What is it? And make it brief.”
“They’ve sent another clip. It’s not good.”
“The plan was to have her released by now.”
“That’s one of the other reasons I’m calling. I’m hearing that the Department of Justice might’ve just been duped into releasing Dimitri Merkov.”
“What?”
Stamper relayed the embarrassing story about the fake email, purporting to come from the Solicitor General, authorizing the Department of Justice to release Dimitri Merkov, claiming Meyerstein had already been released into FBI custody.
“Jesus Christ. This is going from bad to worse. Tell me about this footage.”
“It’s being analyzed as we speak. Forensics is going over it. But I’ll send over the clip.”
“So Dimitri Merkov is free and Martha is not?”
“Nightmare, I know.”
“Who was overseeing this shambles?”
“We’re looking into it, sir.”
“Look, I don’t think I can stomach any more bad news, Roy. I need to go.”
“Sir, there’s one final thing.”
“What the hell is it now?”
Stamper sighed. “I’m hearing you gave Jon Reznick the go-ahead to run a parallel operation. I only found out about this from, of all people, the CIA operative on the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Roy, I can’t confirm or deny such details at this stage.”
“Sir, are you kidding me? I’m heading this investigation and busting my guts, along with hundreds of other agents, to find Martha. And it’s OK to keep me in the dark on this?”
“Listen to me and listen good. The limited progress we’ve made has come from the interventions of Jon Reznick.”
“This is ridiculous, sir.”
“This whole mess is ridiculous. And you know what? We deserve everything that’s thrown at us for failing to find her so far.”
He ended the call.
A few seconds later, there was a ping on his iPhone. He tapped the screen and it opened a video of Martha Meyerstein, sitting strapped to a chair, a pool of blood around her.
O’Donoghue felt his throat tighten. Waves of revulsion and anger coursed through his veins. She was one of the most admired among the highest echelons of the FBI.
He watched it again. What he saw was nothing like the woman he knew. The woman who had trailblazed through the ranks of the FBI. Her team was fiercely loyal to her, and she worked them hard. She worked them to the limit. Sometimes she pushed them beyond, for days at a time, to get a result. And she also wasn’t averse to sailing close to the wind, most notably by using Jon Reznick during several sensitive investiga
tions.
His mind flashed to Meyerstein’s father, the Chicago lawyer he knew from years gone by. A tough, intelligent, no-nonsense man. A man who didn’t give an inch in the courtroom. A feared litigator.
She was cut from the same cloth. It was tearing O’Donoghue to pieces to see what had happened to her.
He ran through the possible scenarios in his head one more time. It wasn’t just the fact that Meyerstein’s life was at grave risk. What was also at stake was the possible leaking of this clip or others to PressTV in Tehran or Russia Today’s office in DC, who would be delighted to show this kind of stuff.
It would be a diplomatic disaster for America.
A few minutes later, he saw the lights of DC and the dark waters of the Potomac below.
O’Donoghue knew his fate was tied up with Meyerstein’s. Intrinsically linked. He stared at his cell phone. Meyerstein’s pathetic, bloodied body, trussed up like some animal. Then he thought of Reznick. He had given Jon Reznick carte blanche to do whatever he thought he could to find her and save her, no questions asked.
Had he damned himself by violating every oath he’d taken as a federal agent?
O’Donoghue closed his eyes for a few moments. He heard his heart beating hard as the engines buzzed in the background. His ears began to pop as they started their final approach.
It was then, as they descended through the darkening Washington sky, that a sense of foreboding washed over him like he’d never felt before.
Thirty-Eight
Reznick stared straight through the one-way mirror and into the beige room made to resemble a hospital room. Inside, an operative wearing a doctor’s coat with a stethoscope around his neck hooked up an unconscious Catherine Jacobs to a special drip. Soothing classical music played in the background.
“OK,” the operative said. “Time to wake up, Catherine. We think you must have fainted on the way to the hospital.”
Jacobs didn’t stir.
“OK, Catherine, you feeling better now?” Louder now.
Her eyelids flickered and gradually she blinked in the harsh light. “What’s going on?”
“Just relax. You fainted, that’s all.”