by J. B. Turner
After a few hundred yards, his earpiece crackled into life.
“Jon, you’re doing good,” said the voice of a Fed back on the shore. “You should be around one hundred and twenty yards from the beach of South Brother Island. I repeat, one hundred and twenty yards. Do you copy?”
Reznick could just make out sand in the distance. “Yeah, copy that, got it.”
He paddled hard through the choppy waters. Then he jumped out in the shallows and pulled the kayak up onto the beach.
Reznick took out the night-vision binoculars from his backpack. He saw a light in the algae-green tinge—just over three hundred yards away—on the supposedly deserted neighboring North Brother Island. Maybe a phone light, he couldn’t be sure.
He turned around and saw the oil terminal at Port Morris in the distance.
“Jon, do you hear me?” O’Donoghue’s voice in his earpiece.
“Sir, hearing you loud and clear.” He looked up and saw the drone, high up in the sky. “Any updates?”
“We are one hundred percent confident there are four people on the island, in addition to Martha. Her voice is faint but discernible in the background.”
Reznick knew the Feds had turned one of Merkov’s guys’ cell phones into a roving bug, activating the microphone to hear what was being said. “Where exactly are they?”
“There’s an overgrown road going north–south. On one side is an abandoned maintenance building. But across from that is what I’m told is the hospital’s old nurses’ residence. The generator has been hooked up in there.”
“What else? More details.”
“Four men, all Russian. One speaks very good English. He’s Merkov’s main man. Voice analysis is showing him as Martin Zhukov, infamous Moscow-born thug and enforcer. With him are three guys from his crew. From Staten Island. One of the three is periodically scanning the perimeter of the island. Like a lookout.”
“Which side of the island?”
“Opposite side from you.”
“Which would leave Zhukov and two of his guys somewhere in this nurses’ residence.”
“It’s exposed to the elements. We’re also picking up that they’re getting loaded.”
“On what?”
“What do you think? Vodka. Cocaine.”
“Sounds like a party.”
“So . . . pretty unpredictable elements at work.”
Reznick sighed.
“You OK?”
The sound of police sirens drifting across the stretch of water from the Bronx reminded Reznick how close they were to the shore. He looked over toward North Brother Island. No sign of movement.
“I’m good. I’ve got this.”
“Best of luck, Jon. We’re all rooting for you.”
Reznick put the night-vision binoculars in his backpack, which he placed back in the kayak. Then he dragged the kayak back into the water and pushed off. He began paddling across the East River to the overgrown, long-forgotten island.
Sixty-Two
Reznick pulled the kayak high onto the beach of North Brother Island, adjacent to the jetty. He picked up the backpack with his gear in it, hauled it across the sand, and hunkered down behind a stone wall. He unzipped his bag and pulled out his night-vision binoculars. He could hear voices, and even music. Through the foliage he saw buildings. Then he saw a figure nodding his head to the beat, smoking a cigarette and checking his cell phone.
Reznick reckoned the guy was about sixty yards away. He could head toward him. But the amount of broken trees, branches, and crumbling brickwork meant that he risked alerting the man to his presence.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out the rifle and the silencer. He clicked them into place, took aim, and flicked off the safety.
Reznick had the man in the crosshairs of the night-vision sight. He held his breath as the man kept on moving his head. He pulled the trigger. A muffled phut. The man collapsed into the undergrowth, music still playing on his cell phone. Birds scattered into the dark sky.
He put on the backpack, rifle still aimed at the lifeless body as he moved forward through the undergrowth. Senses switched on. The night vision was picking out birds in the trees, and the residual warmth from the corpse of the man he’d just killed. He bent down and picked up the dead guy’s cell phone, putting it in his jacket pocket.
Not far away, the sound of a man’s voice, barking instructions in Russian.
Reznick crouched down, only yards from the body of the lookout. He watched and waited. Heart pounding. He sensed the man’s presence.
“Sacha!” a man’s voice shouted. “Sacha!”
Slowly, into view from Reznick’s right, came a bear of a man holding a radio. It crackled into life. Indecipherable Russian voices.
“Sacha!” the man shouted, making his way to the beach.
The man stopped still, maybe six or seven yards away. He turned around and peered into the undergrowth, then trudged toward the body.
Reznick realized that shooting the man with the radio might alert his colleagues, who could be listening in. He took off his backpack and took the knife from the sheath on his belt. He crept up behind the man and hooked his right arm around the man’s neck. Then he plunged the knife deep into his throat. The man gargled for a second, then slumped to the ground.
Reznick pulled the knife out, wiped it clean, and re-sheathed it on his belt. He picked up the man’s radio, then rifled through the dead man’s pockets and pulled out a cell phone, which he put in his back pocket. Then he found a Glock in a shoulder holster. He moved over to where he’d left his backpack and put the Glock inside. He had taken two out of the game. Only two remained.
The radio crackled into life. “Vadim!”
Reznick didn’t answer.
“Vadim!”
Reznick switched the radio off and dropped it in the overgrown grass. Further down he spotted a faint glow of light. It was coming from the dilapidated nursing quarters.
He knew the easiest thing to do would be to head straight there. Instead, he double-backed. A bird flew out of a tree and brushed his face. He grimaced, teeth clenched. He began to run through some scenarios in his head. He could see how it was going to pan out.
He circumnavigated the ruined shell of the nurses’ quarters. The glow of the light became brighter.
Reznick saw he was nearing what appeared to be the rear of the building. There was a space where a door had been. Particles of dust drifting in the eerie darkness caught in his throat. He pressed his ear against the stone wall. The muffled sound of whispers.
He held his breath and craned his neck around the opening. Wooden stairs. The light was coming from upstairs.
Suddenly, raised voices.
“Fuck you!”
Then a creaking as someone descended the wooden stairs. Reznick pulled back and crouched out of sight. He knew what he was going to do. He waited until the man exited the building and went in the direction of the beach, a gun in one hand, a radio in the other.
Reznick headed in. And up the stairs, two at a time.
A voice from upstairs shouted, “Sacha, is that you, you lazy son of a bitch?”
Reznick got to the second-floor landing. The light was coming from a room farther down the hall.
“Sacha!”
“Da?” Reznick said. The butt of the scoped rifle was firmly pressed against the pocket of his right shoulder. He took a step forward and saw a man sitting in a chair. Reznick shot him twice in the head. He let off a third shot. But it jammed.
Fuck.
He headed into an adjoining room. Empty.
Fuck. Where the hell is she?
He put down the rifle and pulled on the night-vision goggles. He spread-eagled himself on the floor and took the Beretta from his waistband.
A few seconds later, he heard footsteps running up the stairs.
Reznick saw the man’s terrified look. He aimed for the thigh. Then he squeezed the trigger. The man screamed, clutching his leg, and collapsed on the ground.
Reznick didn’t move. He saw the man was still clutching a gun. So Reznick shot his hand, taking off two fingers, finally releasing the man’s grip. The screaming became an anguished moan.
He scrambled over to the man, kicked the gun away, and pressed the Beretta to his forehead. “Where is she? Answer and you live.”
The man had tears in his eyes. He stared, as if unbelieving.
Reznick pressed the gun tighter to the man’s temple. “I’ll count to three. And then you’ll die.”
He began the count.
“One . . . two . . . thr—”
“Stop! Cellar. Basement.”
“Where’s the entrance?”
“Under the stairs, there’s a door. Steps lead down into the basement.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Please . . . I beg you.” The man was shaking, in deep shock. Bleeding out. “Please, get me help?”
Reznick went through the man’s pockets, pulled out a gun, and kicked it across the room. He knew that the Feds could interview him later and find out exactly what he knew. He was part of the Merkov crew. And that could be invaluable.
Reznick took off the man’s belt and hauled him over to an old radiator. Then he tied him tight to it. The man was unable to move, blood spilling from his hand. But to make sure, he ripped off the Russian’s shirt and tied his arms to the radiator, too. “Are you lying?”
“I swear . . . please get me help.”
Reznick turned away as the man began to scream once more. The night-vision goggles highlighted more dust particles as he headed down the old stairs. He saw the small door and opened it, climbing down into the pitch-black cellar. In the corner, tied to a chair, was Martha Meyerstein.
Her head was slumped forward, blood congealing at her ankles, knee shot to pieces.
Reznick took off his goggles and backpack. He pulled out the medical kit. He first cleaned up her wound, and popped two soluble morphine tablets in her mouth. He untied her from the chair. Then he slung her over his shoulder.
He picked up the backpack and slung it over his other shoulder. She whispered, “Jon?” as he climbed back up the stairs and headed out of the doorway. The man’s screaming from upstairs was echoing around the old brick walls.
Reznick carried Meyerstein through the undergrowth, skirting the bodies of the men he’d killed.
Then back down to the beach.
Reznick laid her on the sand. He felt her pulse. Very faint. He put down the backpack and took out a flare. Then he fired it high into the sky above the East River. He heard a frantic voice in his earpiece.
“Reznick! Reznick! Gimme the code!”
“It’s code 4231. I repeat, code 4231. Chopper. Paramedics needed.”
“Hang in there.”
“She’s slipping in and out of consciousness. Not responding as we speak.”
The seconds dragged into minutes.
Reznick cradled her head. “Martha! Martha, you need to wake up!”
Still nothing.
“Goddamn it, Martha, you will wake the fuck up!” He slapped her sharply on the cheek. “Do you hear me?”
Eventually, lights from an NYPD launch pulled up. Four cops on board. Two jumped into the water, waist deep. “Jesus Christ, Jon,” one shouted. “You OK?”
Reznick picked up Meyerstein and walked down the beach. He waded in and handed her over to the cops, who got her on board. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Get her to hospital right fucking now!”
The launch turned and pulled away, headed back to the mainland.
Sixty-Three
Bill O’Donoghue was stood alone in a windowless conference room as dawn broke, watching Fox News images of police choppers over North Brother Island. Forensics were scouring a wooded area on the deserted island. The anchors spoke of off-the-record briefings, indicating it was a falling-out related to a bitter feud among the Russian mob on the East Coast. The steer had been given by the Feds to the NYPD after details of the operation had begun to leak. And they, in turn, had fed the story to the media.
The Director felt his heart beating hard. Palpitations kicking in. The news from the hospital was not good. Meyerstein had lost a lot of blood. She was critical, still fighting for her life.
His cell phone rang. It was Grady.
“Sir, is it OK to speak?”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve been reaching out to agencies across the world. Mossad has shared some photos with us, taken a few weeks before Dimitri Merkov was jailed.”
“I’m listening.”
“He was on vacation in Mexico. Paid a little trip to Tijuana.”
“And?”
“Met up with a Serb. I’ll send the photos across.”
Almost immediately, the surveillance shots appeared on O’Donoghue’s screen.
“And this is definitely them?” he said.
“One hundred percent, sir,” Grady said. “The money was transferred with the biometric authorization of Merkov junior to the account of a man known as Dragović. A Serb. Assassin for hire. Political assassinations a specialty.”
“Tell me, how did this come up?”
“Reznick . . .”
“Reznick? In what way?”
“Reznick asked me a little while ago to get into the account, and track where the money ended up. Face recognition has picked Dragović up in Brooklyn. We believe this is going to go down in New York. Something is afoot.”
“When?”
“Imminent.”
“Where exactly?”
“Not a clue.”
Things were far from over.
Sixty-Four
Just after 8:00 a.m., Reznick was cheered and clapped into the FBI’s New York field office by ecstatic colleagues of Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein, who were all relieved to have her found, albeit barely alive.
“Way to go, Jon,” a female Fed shouted.
Reznick was mentally exhausted. He forced a smile. He felt uneasy being the center of attention. He much preferred being left to get on with his work. He didn’t want thanks. Not even recognition. He just did it because that’s what he did. That’s what he’d been trained to do.
O’Donoghue took Reznick into his office. He shut the door behind him. “Very good work, Jon.”
“It was a close call, let me tell you.”
O’Donoghue sighed. “Jon, this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
Reznick blew out his cheeks. “Merkov junior, right?”
“Most certainly.” The FBI Director explained what he now knew. The rationale behind Meyerstein’s kidnapping, to pressure the Feds to release Dimitri Merkov. The international links to the Russian mob with a known assassin—Andrej Dragović—believed to be on American soil, in New York.
“What else do we know?” Reznick asked.
“They think it’s imminent,” O’Donoghue said. “We have specialists interviewing Curt White and Brent Schofield, but they claim to be none the wiser . . .”
“It would make sense. Compartmentalize the operation. What was the name of the fuck Schofield was taking orders from?”
“Max Charles.”
“Yeah, Max Charles . . . Where is he?”
“No one seems to know. Hasn’t been home for days. Family vacationing in Florida. But they don’t know where he is.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
“Charles is ex-CIA, right?” Reznick asked.
“Retired just before the failed Turkish coup.”
“Was he linked with that?”
“A few Pentagon neocons, a handful of retired US generals, and a smattering of CIA operatives, yes.”
“And we believe this fucker’s fingerprints are all over this whole thing?”
O’Donoghue nodded. “We’ll find him.”
“What is Langley saying to this?”
“Nothing to do with them, apparently.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m only repeating what they said.
But I’d take what they say concerning this operation with a large pinch of salt.”
“Absolutely. This might very well be a shadow operation, run by off-the-books CIA types, non-attributable to Langley. No blowback.”
“Perhaps it is . . . That doesn’t take away the fact that we have a problem, Jon.”
“What about that flash drive of Meyerstein’s?”
“We’ve looked over it. It’s very damning. It might merely be guilt by association. But I’ll be calling in the investigations division. Stamper withheld that he was CIA. And that is a grave matter.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstate penitentiary still. But when he returns, he’ll be investigated and his case will be referred to the Inspector General of the Department of Justice, make no mistake. We need to establish his role in this matter. We’ll get to the bottom of this, believe me. But, in the meantime, we have an assassin either in or around New York, preparing to strike.” O’Donoghue pressed a key on his laptop, and up on the big screen appeared a picture of the Serb with Dimitri Merkov. “Tijuana. A few weeks before Merkov was arrested.”
“Now that’s interesting.”
“We need to find him. And quick.”
Reznick shrugged. “You want me to help?”
“You up for it?”
“Damn right I am. I want to finish this once and for all. Tell me, what do I need to know?”
“This is a whole new ball game, Jon. And you’ll play by our rules.”
“I can live with that.”
“We’re hoping that, as we know Dragović is in town, the thousands of surveillance cameras across the city will pick him out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Why not?”
“That assumes that assassins look up at surveillance cameras smiling. They know there are cameras everywhere. And they take precautions.”
O’Donoghue nodded.
“This fucker—Dragović or whatever his name is—will be well prepared.”
“Disguised?”
“Count on it.”
Sixty-Five
Vladimir Merkov was sitting on the terrace of his Tribeca duplex, nursing a tumbler of Scotch. Despite the morphine, the cancer was causing him insufferable pain. His life was ebbing away.