by J. B. Turner
“Who messages you?”
“I have no idea.”
Reznick weighed up the information. He could see where the misdirection by Merkov and his men would have helped their aim of concealing Meyerstein’s location.
He called Grady and asked for any updates.
“Was just about to call you, Jon. Huge money transfer. From a company which we believe might be controlled by friends of Dimitri Merkov to an unknown account in Switzerland.”
“Get to the bottom of that. And keep the Director, and only him, in the loop.”
“OK.”
“Anything else?”
“He sent a message,” Grady said.
“Who sent a message?”
“Dimitri Merkov.”
“When?”
“When the ten million dollars was transferred, he sent a message which we’ve already decrypted.”
“What did it say?”
“My father sends his love and respect. And a further ten million dollars will be transferred to your Zurich account on delivery.”
“What do they mean, delivery?” asked Reznick.
“Could mean anything. Weapons? Money? Is that what this is about—just money? But for what purpose? Drugs?”
“Explain.”
“Merkov and his associates are involved in the trafficking of heroin, ecstasy, amphetamines, and just about every substance under the sun,” Grady said.
“Vladimir Merkov wouldn’t need his son on the outside to do that,” Reznick said. “Still doesn’t add up.”
“Drugs trafficking gives them unbelievable financial power and muscle.”
Reznick wondered what exactly the real purpose of the huge money transfer was, and how it connected to the release of Dimitri Merkov. It couldn’t just be drugs.
He thought of Vladimir Merkov. And he thought of Merkov’s son. “They kill for fun, right?”
“Oh yeah. That’s how they control the hundreds of enforcers and their gangs. People step out of line, they die.”
“But I’d imagine Vladimir would be able to order hits through a chain of command.” Reznick contemplated the Merkov empire, built on violence and sustained by money. “What if they were paying for a hit. But not an ordinary hit. A high-profile assassination.”
Grady was silent.
“Update the Director with that information. Do you hear me? Give him the bullet points of what we’ve learned. Got to go.”
A few minutes after ending the call, Reznick’s cell phone rang.
“Jon, it’s Director O’Donoghue.”
“Sir.”
“I have a team of analysts working on this information as we speak.”
“Excellent. Can I give you some advice, sir?”
“Shoot.”
“There have been complications. We’ve got a situation developing with the release of money by Dimitri Merkov.”
“We’ve already got a team working on hunting him down.”
“My main concern is Martha.”
“Mine too. So you believe North Brother Island is where she’s being kept?”
“Very possibly. But here’s the problem. The easiest thing in the world would be to go in with a twenty-man team and hunt her down. Choppers. Maybe a SWAT team or SEALs. But there are red flags all over this. We don’t have time to do field reconnaissance. Another complication is there are numerous buildings on the island. I’m also not convinced that Vladimir Merkov will still be on the island. And, leaving that aside, the men he’ll have looking after her will be on strict orders to kill her if there’s any rescue attempt.”
“That’s a pretty fair assessment.”
“Sir, our top priority is clearly to get Martha back. But we need to know she’s still alive.”
“What if we sent up a drone that was able to monitor cell phone conversations on the island?” O’Donoghue said.
“Phenomenal.”
“Leave that with me.”
“This could be the endgame. I can’t see how they’re going to release her. I think they planned to kill her all along, if they haven’t already. With Dimitri Merkov released and the money transferred, not to mention the activation of this delivery, I can only see one outcome.”
“Would it be worthwhile trying to make contact with Merkov or his associates again at this late hour?”
“They’ve pissed all over us. He might just want to tease us and do it all over again . . .”
O’Donoghue sighed. “That he has.”
“Sir, I know the FBI are well equipped to deal with this, but after everything that’s happened, I’d like to do this.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly. What do we know about this island?”
“Pretty sketchy. Old abandoned hospital.”
“Electricity?”
“Probably not,” O’Donoghue said. “But I’m guessing they’re not sitting around in candlelight. So I’d say there’s maybe a generator on site.”
Reznick’s mind ran ahead as he began to formulate a plan. It would need the cover of darkness. Night-vision goggles.
“Let’s get the drone up first and get a preliminary assessment,” said the Director.
“You better get a move on. We need to go tonight.”
Fifty-Eight
Martha Meyerstein tasted blood when she came to. She squinted as the tears spilled down her face. Terrible pain tore through her knee. She could just about make out some silhouetted figures at the far end of the room. Exposed wrought-iron pipes. Where the hell was she?
“You’re back with us,” said someone with a Russian accent. The smell of cigarette smoke.
Meyerstein was breathing hard.
“How are you today?”
Meyerstein closed her eyes. Images of her children flashed up in her mind. She imagined them sitting in a safe house, wondering where she was. Cindy would be doing her best to reassure Jacob. Her son might even have regressed to wetting the bed. She knew he was an anxious child. He needed her there. She knew the FBI would be doing everything in their power to get her released. But she also knew that the people she was dealing with were callous, murderous thugs, and wouldn’t think twice about torturing and killing her. The way they’d laughed in her face after kneecapping her lingered in her mind. Their leering, stupid faces. The smell of liquor on their breath. She knew the gunshot wound would be infected. Too much time had passed.
She began to shiver. She felt a draft on her face. She sensed she was slowly dying. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. She was bleeding out. The wound would be septic.
The more she thought of her kidnapping from a Bethesda road, the more she realized this wasn’t chance. They’d got help on the inside. Someone within the FBI. Perhaps someone on her team. She thought of the first day she’d joined the FBI with Roy Stamper, little knowing that he had already been a CIA operative for more than two years. Was this really the result of his actions? She felt sick at the betrayal. Were there others? She thought back to the original investigation into Vladimir Merkov. Notes going missing. Files incomplete.
Her mistake had been not to take the concerns she had—especially the photographic proof of Stamper and White at Langley—direct to O’Donoghue. But her thinking at the time had become clouded. She’d thought the Director was more likely to take Stamper’s side. Now, unbelievably, no one would know.
She heard disembodied voices in the cold November breeze. Russian voices. She knew they were talking about her.
“Hey!” one of them said, snapping her out of her semiconscious state.
Meyerstein struggled to open her eyes. She saw blurred faces in the harsh light. Then a cell phone was pressed to her face.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Martha Meyerstein, Assistant Director of the FBI. 10-45C. I repeat, 10-45C.”
The cell phone was taken from her.
More whispered conversations.
Then it all went black.
Fifty-Nine
Bill O’Donoghue stared a
t the large split screen on the wall of the conference room as he held an emergency briefing with Homeland Security and the CIA. On another screen was the still image of Martha Meyerstein. A third screen was showing night-vision drone footage of North Brother Island on the East River.
“So, Bill, this is looking pretty bleak,” the Secretary of Homeland Security said. “The footage shows her in a terrible condition. She’s been shot. Blood loss. Major trauma. And no medical treatment. The police code she gave, 10-45C, is telling us her medical condition is critical.”
“Tell me about the drone.”
“The first thing I would say is there is good news. North Brother Island is where she is being held, of that we’re sure.”
“We’re positive on that?”
“We’re monitoring cell phone conversations from those on the island. Three have already been picked up in the last hour, with GPS pinpointing North Brother Island as the location where the footage was sent from.”
“And this island has been deserted for decades?”
“It was. Not anymore. GPS analysis from the phones we’ve locked onto across the island shows she is there right now. The microphones on the cell phones have been remotely activated by the FBI and we’ve verified her voice. And we believe there might be four other people on the island.”
“So assuming we decide to go in . . . ?”
CIA Director Henry Cain signaled for a chance to speak. “Bill, from the outset, I just want to say the Central Intelligence Agency are conducting a high-level investigation into the events. I’m told that this was not authorized at any level within the CIA. Max Charles is retired. But I also want to believe there are a lot of lessons to be learned as regards information-sharing. I think we can all agree there has been some unfortunate overlap and misunderstandings in what has happened.”
O’Donoghue shifted in his seat. “There have been no misunderstandings on our side, Henry. And you know goddamn well you were playing your fucking games.”
Cain shook his head. “I don’t accept that, Bill.”
“Your guys were protecting a CIA asset, who is effectively Merkov’s private banker. And at the expense of an FBI assistant director? Quite despicable.” He didn’t mention anything about the suspicions Meyerstein had about Roy Stamper and Curt White. That was for further down the line.
“I don’t think that’s a fair assessment. I think there’s been a blurring of boundaries and objectives, no question. But I understand how you must feel.”
“Do you?”
“Listen, we all know, shit happens.”
“Are you saying this was a rogue operation?”
“We don’t know for sure. We’re working under that assumption. Max Charles, I’m led to believe, is a non-executive director of a North Carolina-based geopolitical security consultancy, Global Reach Solutions, with several former CIA operatives.”
“Sounds plausible. But I don’t buy it. I believe this was made to look like a rogue operation if the shit hit the fan.”
Cain said nothing.
“But that’s for the birds. At this moment I don’t give a damn about this asset Andrew Sparrow, or whatever the hell his name is.”
“I must interject here, Bill,” Cain said. “This is all about an American asset who has penetrated a web of companies that Russians and the Russian government have used for well over a decade. So before we get all high and mighty and go all gung-ho on this, we need to slow the hell down.”
O’Donoghue said, “Just so everyone knows, a CIA operator shot a man who was helping the FBI with this investigation.”
“Come, come, Director, why so coy?” Cain said. “The man in question was none other than Jon Reznick, was it not? Ex-Delta Force, trained assassin. Weren’t you the one who criticized his presence on Meyerstein’s task force a couple years back?”
“Reznick was shot by one of your guys. You need to rein these fuckers in.”
“Our guy was, I’m told, protecting a vital asset with national security intel.”
The Secretary of Homeland Security put up his hand as if calling for quiet. “This will get us nowhere. We shouldn’t conflate different issues. Bill, where is Andrew Sparrow at this moment?”
“With the FBI.”
“I’m happy with that at present. But at some time in the near future, we need the asset back under the auspices of the CIA.”
“That can be arranged, once Martha is back safe and sound.”
The Secretary of Homeland Security leaned back in his seat. “Bill, this isn’t up for discussion.”
“You’re damn right it’s not. Here’s how it’s going to work. We get Martha Meyerstein back, with each and every agency focused on that task, pooling and sharing everything we have.”
“Bill, this can’t be conditional.”
“Listen, first we get Martha back. And once she’s been retrieved, hopefully still alive, you get the asset. Also, it’s worth mentioning here that there is also a live operation afoot. Did you know about that, Henry? Did the CIA know about that?”
Cain stared out from the screen. “What are you talking about?”
“The FBI has evidence that an assassin, a Serb, financed by the Russian mob—perhaps with the full knowledge of elements within the CIA—has been hired for an assassination. Andrej Dragović is his name. Has links with the Merkovs, going back years.”
Cain was quiet.
“I have a team focused on finding Dragović. I’ll keep you updated throughout the day. But as it stands, my number-one goal is getting Martha Meyerstein back. Once this is all over, and you want to discuss national interests, offshore companies, and Russian influence in America—fine, but as of now, there must unanimous focus on bringing Martha Meyerstein back home.”
Nods on the screen.
“And what about the whereabouts of Vladimir Merkov?” O’Donoghue said. “The analysis we have is that he is not on the island. It’s just his thugs, along with Meyerstein. So where the hell is he? Also, Henry, you wanna enlighten us as to how the Russian consulate are dealing with one of their guys being iced? Military attaché Sokolov. Murdered. Was this at the behest of Merkov senior?”
Cain shifted in his seat. “Things are somewhat fraught, as you can imagine.”
“First things first. We get Martha Meyerstein back. Now, if that’s all, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do.”
Sixty
As the night wore on, the aerial drone’s reconnaissance photos of North Brother Island were pinned to a wall in the Director’s office in Lower Manhattan.
“Jon, to attempt an operation to rescue her, without any planning, is madness. That’s what everyone says. They say, sure they could get in—take one, maybe two, perhaps even three down—but the risk to Martha would be too high.”
“That’s bullshit, sir, with respect. Of course there are risks. If we become so risk-averse, we’ll do nothing.”
“Jon, my best analysts said it would be a kamikaze mission, without any guarantee of success.”
“I’m telling you that is incorrect analysis. We need to act. And we need to do it right fucking now.”
“Jon, we got this. But it’ll take time.”
“We haven’t got time. We need to go in.”
“My gut is telling me the same thing, Jon. But my head says otherwise. We need to do this right. This is on a whole new level. The problem? There’d be ninety percent chance of Martha getting killed if this was undertaken. They’ve suggested a Navy SEAL team for this. But it’ll take twelve hours to get them in place.”
“We’re clean out of time. I’ll do this myself.”
“Whoa . . . Hang on, Jon. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ll do this. Just me. And with backup on shore.”
“That’s not going to happen. That’s insane.”
“Sir, I got this. Trust me.”
O’Donoghue turned and stared at the night-vision photos of the island taken from the drone.
“She’s there, sir. She’s there now
.”
The Director sighed. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Sir, look at me.”
O’Donoghue turned around and looked at Reznick.
“What do you see?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I asked, what do you see?”
“I see a guy. Special ops. I think you’re borderline crazy.”
“Maybe I am. But I will find her. I swear to God, I’ll bring her back. SWAT teams, SEAL teams, they take time to arrive, prepare . . . You’re right on that point. Sometimes too many moving parts. But I’m here. And I will fucking guarantee I am the best opportunity for getting her back safe and sound. Twelve hours’ time, she’ll be dead.”
O’Donoghue ran his hand through his hair. “I need to think this over.”
“Did this breakthrough come through diligence and FBI procedures, sir?”
“No, it did not.”
“We’ve fought and scraped to get this far. And we haven’t played by the rules and regulations bullshit. We’re still in the game. But for how much longer?”
The Director sighed. “What do you need?”
“I need you to get me into position.”
“What else?”
“I need backup on shore. I need night-vision goggles. And I need a 9mm Berretta with silencer, a rifle with night-vision sights, and a good knife. Also a first-aid kit with morphine and bandages.”
“How are you going to do this?”
Reznick’s mind was racing ahead. His years in Delta had prepared him for the most dangerous missions, including high-risk hostage rescue. He thought of Meyerstein, cowering and alone on the island. But he was already beginning to formulate a plan to get her back. “Leave that to me.”
Sixty-One
Just after midnight, and after being provided with pain relief and Dexedrine by an FBI doctor, Reznick pushed off from the Bronx shoreline in the kayak. In the distance he could see the lights of Rikers Island. He paddled toward his first stop, South Brother Island, in the inky darkness. He had a backpack with all the essentials he would need. His heart was racing with the exertion but also an adrenaline rush, knowing what lay ahead. Slowly, his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness.