by J. B. Turner
Reznick didn’t kill lightly. Nevertheless, he wanted to honor Martha’s memory and find out what really happened. At the very least.
He looked across the street, beyond the beach, and stared out at the sparkling blue waters glistening like a million diamonds. A place of tranquility. It was hard to believe the carnage that had happened in the waters around this sleepy little tourist town.
Reznick sighed. He had nothing to go on. He didn’t have an inside track with the FBI. Not now, with Martha gone. Her boss, Bill O’Donoghue, had always felt uncomfortable with a man like Reznick working in the shadows with the FBI. Reznick understood perfectly well that O’Donoghue and the senior executive team within the FBI had long wanted to cut the cord with him. And Martha’s death, assuming the Feds already knew about it, would give them the perfect opportunity. So that avenue of logistical backup had been blocked off. He didn’t have a scrap of hard information. He didn’t even have the GPS coordinates of where the yacht had exploded.
The bar owner returned with his food.
Reznick thanked him and wolfed down the food, washed down with his chilled water. It was the sort of place he had once imagined visiting with Martha. The kind of place where they could disappear. Be themselves.
The guy picked up his empty plate. “You enjoy?”
“Very nice, thank you.”
“You American? I can detect your accent, I think.”
Reznick nodded.
“Nice to have you here, my friend. You here on holiday?”
The guy was asking more questions than Reznick was comfortable with. His senses switched on. “It’s a bit of business and vacation.”
“You want anything, you just let me know.”
“Thank you.” Reznick sipped his cold water and surveyed the cliffs in the distance. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. He saw kids jumping off the rocks into the water. Tombstoning. He finished his drink, left a tip, picked up his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder.
He got up and headed across the street to a sidewalk. He strolled along and up a winding cliffside road. It opened out to reveal dramatic views over another bay at the far side of the small town. More kids tombstoning from the cliffs.
He climbed up a rocky outcrop and looked out over the water.
Reznick scanned the sea and spotted three red buoys in the distance. A Civil Guard patrol boat was sweeping the area beyond that, as if keeping sightseers at bay.
He wondered if that was where Martha and her friend had met their terrible fate.
Reznick sat down on the rocky outcrop beside a metal weather vane that creaked in the balmy offshore breeze. He’d seen his share of gruesome deaths during his time as an operator with Delta Force. He thought about Martha being blasted out of the yacht, perhaps losing a limb. Catching fire. Screaming. Then throwing herself in the water for respite. But there would be no respite. Whatever had happened, she’d died in agony.
The burns and shrapnel from the explosion would have been too extensive to survive.
Gas explosions were not uncommon. But they usually only happened in badly maintained or very old yachts or boats. Virtually unheard of in the high-end yachts, which would be serviced and repaired frequently. Cost wouldn’t be a barrier to the owners of such vessels.
And where was the wreckage? There had to be wreckage. And from that wreckage, the investigators could glean numerous clues. And the bodies. Where were they?
Reznick’s mind was seared with images from Iraq. Twisted, bloody, burning limbs, screaming soldiers, roadside bombs, flames, booby-trapped dogs, abandoned cars detonated remotely.
He turned the phrase detonated remotely over and over again in his mind. He wondered if that’s what had happened here. If the explosion hadn’t been an accident. That was the most likely scenario. A device could be rigged to trigger with a simple call from a cell phone. But that would have required planning. Perhaps military expertise. And inside knowledge of the yacht’s movements and operation.
Reznick’s mind flipped back to a terrifying night in Iraq. He’d been all alone. In Fallujah. An alley. Radio not working. Backup on the way. These dark whispers from his past were never far. They echoed down the years. He’d still sometimes wake up screaming. In a cold sweat.
He forced the memories to one side and reached into his backpack.
Reznick took out his binoculars and trained them on the Civil Guard patrol boat. He could see two divers on deck, putting on wet suits and oxygen tanks, preparing to dive. He watched as they sat down and pulled on their flippers. Then they carefully walked to the side and stepped off the boat, splashing down into the water.
The divers surfaced thirty minutes later. Pieces of metal and wood were hauled onto the boat. Was this wreckage from the yacht? Perhaps the Civil Guard was taking it in for closer forensic examination, looking for clues. Other bits of the wreckage might have washed ashore with the tide. Maybe farther up the coast.
Reznick felt bereft. He was certain now that this was the spot where Martha had met her end. In the beautiful, clear blue waters half a mile, maybe more, from dry land. Slowly, he began to imagine a scenario.
He realized that the rocky overlook, beside a rusting weather vane, jutting out above the sea, provided a perfect line of sight to the area where the yacht had been. It would make sense for someone to set up here to get a visual of Martha on the yacht. But was it really a remote detonation that had caused the explosion?
He looked around. No security cameras in sight as far as he could see. Tourists huffed and puffed in the blistering morning sun as they walked up the winding, steep incline, and cars and buses negotiated the narrow, twisting road. The road had likely been carved out of the mountainside decades earlier to open up the town as mass tourism grew in the 1960s and 1970s.
Reznick put the binoculars away and slung the backpack over his shoulders. He watched the kids on the rocks a little ways below, some jumping into the water, some just watching. They looked like local kids with Mediterranean complexions.
He climbed down the rocky outcrop beside the weather vane to the jumping-off point. “Any of you guys speak English?”
The group turned around and shrugged. Apart from one kid.
The muscular teenage boy walked up to him and shook his hand. “Yeah, I speak English. You American?”
Reznick nodded. He pointed to the Civil Guard patrol boat. “Can you tell me what’s going on there?”
“Big explosion. Expensive yacht.”
“Were any of you guys here when it happened?”
The boy shook his head. “Friend of mine, he was here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He was interviewed by police.”
“Your friend was interviewed by the police?”
The boy nodded.
“And you don’t know where he is?”
The boy shrugged. “I asked his parents, but they just said the police are still speaking to him. That’s all.”
Reznick took a twenty-euro bill out of his pocket, along with a scrap of paper on which he scribbled his cell phone number. “I’m a friend of one of the two American women who died.” The longer he thought about the circumstances, the more convinced he became that Martha had been targeted—not her friend or the friend’s husband. He thought about the friend’s distraught family. A family who’d likely been told a lie, who would be oblivious to the fact that their loved one had probably become collateral damage in the assassination of Martha Meyerstein. “I’d like to speak to your friend. Do you understand?”
The boy took the money and number. “I don’t want your money.”
“Keep it.”
The boy shrugged. “Whatever, señor. So you want me to call you when I see my friend?”
“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”
“So, who was the person who died?”
“Just a friend. A close friend.”
Reznick walked back into town and headed to the small beach. He found an empty beach hut,
changed into some trunks, and swam in the sea to cool off. The cliffs loomed all around. He swam out farther. A lot farther than anyone else.
The police boat was circling and spotted him. A cop on board shook his head, pointing back to the shore. “No mas, señor.”
Reznick recognized from his rudimentary Spanish that the cop had said, No farther, sir. He turned around and swam all the way back to shore. He lay on the beach, drying off in the blazing midday sun. He felt himself drifting off in the heat, the jet lag and exhaustion kicking in.
He sensed he was floating. On the water. The sound of soft whispers in his ear.
The sound of a child crying roused him from a nap.
Reznick turned and saw a boy being scolded by his parents. Reznick picked up his things and headed back to his room. He shut the blinds and showered again, glad to get all the sand and sunscreen off his skin. He lay down on the bed and slept in the cool, air-conditioned room until six.
He had been drained. Exhausted.
The sleep had revived him.
Reznick felt like himself again. He put on a fresh linen shirt, jeans, and sneakers and headed back to the bar overlooking the beach.
“You back again, my friend?” the bar owner said.
“Best view in town.”
The bar owner smiled. “You know, my father bought this bar thirty years ago. I’m continuing the family business. He said it was a little slice of paradise.”
“It’s a lovely spot.”
“What can I get you this evening?”
“Cold beer, steak, and fries. Lots of them.”
“Wow, you’re hungry, right?”
Reznick nodded. “You have no idea.”
“You got it.”
The guy returned with a cold beer as Reznick surveyed the locals and tourists still occupying the sand or swimming in the sea. He handed the owner a fifty-euro bill. It was amazing what hard cash could do when you needed to pry information out of someone. He’d seen it in Afghanistan. Afghan lawmakers, tribal elders, local power brokers, maliks, and Taliban commanders were on the payroll. It bought support. Some were given hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars. Some a lot more. Some passed on information. Tidbits, sometimes. Scraps. Maybe a favor. But occasionally, it was enough to find out the whereabouts of a high-value target.
“Thank you, señor.”
Reznick felt the sweat stick to his shirt. He stared out at the picture-perfect scene. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, long shadows slowly forming. It provided much-needed shade from the oppressive heat.
He took a long gulp of the chilled Spanish beer. It certainly quenched his thirst. Reznick’s gaze was drawn to a tattooed white guy, shirtless, shaven head, running hard up the hill.
The guy was clearly superfit. Lean. Not an ounce of fat.
The bar owner returned with the plate of food. “Hope you enjoy this,” he said.
Reznick glanced at the food. “Looks great.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, señor, but you said you were American, right?”
Reznick picked up his napkin. “That’s right.”
The owner leaned closer, hands on the table. “You’re not FBI or working with the local police, are you?”
Reznick’s senses sparked for the second time with this guy. The specificity of the question meant he knew something. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that we’ve had a few Americans in. Since we had an accident out there. I was wondering if you were with them.”
“No. But one of the people in the accident? She was a friend of mine. One of the people on board.”
The color drained from the guy’s face. “I’m so sorry, señor. I had no idea.”
“Relax, you couldn’t have known. So, you’re saying some FBI were in here?” Interesting that they were in the loop despite what the State Department had told Jerry Meyerstein. At least the team over here was. It was common for the FBI to have legal attachés on foreign soil to help coordinate investigations that were of interest to both countries.
“Yes, wanting to know things. A lot of questions for a lot of people. They were here in town the morning after the accident, asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
The bar owner shrugged. “Let me think . . . Did I see anything suspicious on the day of the accident? Any unusual activity in my bar or people in the bar? But there was nothing. This is a peaceful, beautiful place. I heard it was an accident. A tragic accident.”
“Did you hear how the accident happened?”
“I heard a spark from a stove ignited gas in the galley on the yacht, down below. That’s what I heard. But who knows, right?”
“Who told you that’s what happened?”
“That’s what people are saying. That’s all I know.”
Reznick looked at the bar owner and smiled. “Well, just so you know, I’m not with the FBI or anyone. Like I said, one of the people who died was a friend of mine.”
“Sincere condolences. If there is anything I can do, just ask. I’m a father as well as a husband. I love my family.”
“I appreciate that, thank you. Look, I’m just trying to piece together how such a tragic accident happened. Maybe hoping to speak to someone who saw it happen. Maybe knows something. That kind of thing.”
The bar owner’s gaze was drawn to a family signaling to be served. “Nice talking to you, señor. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Excuse me just now.”
Reznick sipped some beer and dug into his steak and fries. He finished the rest of the San Miguel and ordered another from a young waiter. His table was cleared, and he was handed another cold beer. “Gracias, señor,” he said. He stared out over the waters, families and tourists leaving the beach. Towels over their shoulders, children in their arms. A place to unwind. That should have been what Martha was doing right now.
He watched the people drift away from the beach as the light began to fade. Some headed to their cars in the parking lot behind the bar. Some headed to the bars and the restaurant overlooking the cove. Some headed into the same beachfront hotel Reznick was staying at. Others sat on a small stone wall, watching the world go by. Some just sat, doing what he was doing, staring at the waters as if transfixed by the beauty of the place. It was that kind of scene.
Reznick closed his eyes, but it seemed like every time he did, he began to imagine Martha’s final moments. The split second before she was killed. He hoped and prayed that she’d felt no pain. He’d had so much to talk to her about. A lot between them had gone unsaid. His regrets clawed away at him. A terrible reminder of what might have been.
He grew more morose the more he thought about it.
Reznick snapped back to the present. He gulped some more beer, hoping to numb the pain. He felt it deep. Gnawing the darkest recesses of his soul. A place where he tried to push all the terrible things he had seen and done. The deaths. The suffering. The bullets. The firepower. The endless screaming. The ghostly whispers in his head as he tried to fall asleep. Haunted by the spectral figures, nebulous in form. Ghosts of the past. And now, it was almost too much to stomach, to bear. Not Martha. Anyone but her.
The bar owner approached his table. He looked over and smiled at Reznick as he busied himself wiping down an adjacent table. “I was just speaking to my son,” he said softly. “He works in the kitchen. He says there is someone who might be able to help. With trying to find out what happened to your friend. The man, he is, how do you like to say . . . a tough nut.”
Reznick took a long sip of his beer. “You have any idea where this guy is?”
The bar owner pointed across the street to the sidewalk beside the beach.
Reznick saw the tattooed, shaven guy was doing another grueling lap in the boiling heat. “The guy without the shirt?”
“That’s him.”
“Who is he?”
“He comes in here most nights. Usually when it’s dark. A word of warning: you don’t want to mess with him, huh?”
“Why
?”
“It’s best to stay clear of him. He’s always very respectful and quiet. But not the sort of guy you want to cross.”
“Why does your son think this guy might help me?”
The bar owner crouched down beside Reznick. “They arrested him the day after the explosion,” he whispered. “They arrested him here at this bar. Right here. I wasn’t here at the time.”
“And he comes in here for a drink?”
“Every night. When it’s dark, you might see him.”
Reznick tipped the guy another fifty euros. “Thank you. And your son.”
The bar owner leaned in close. “Be careful. That’s all I say.”
Seven
The line of sight from the sprawling modern villa, perched high up in the hills overlooking the village of Cala San Vicente, was comforting for Adam Ford. It was one of the prime reasons he’d rented the property from a billionaire Spanish real estate tycoon. It had everything he desired. Privacy. Secrecy. Seclusion. And most important of all, that crucial line of sight.
The 4,500-square-foot rental house, shrouded in trees, could not be seen from the nearest road, half a mile away. But the small gap he had carved out by chainsaw, carefully cutting down a young olive tree, allowed him to observe what was going on in the town.
Ford peered through the telescope, out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room as he scanned the town’s beachside bar, adjacent to the Cala Molins cove. A sheltered haven. He felt his pulse quicken. The profile of the man nursing a beer was unmistakable. He was looking at none other than Jon Reznick.
Ford smiled. His gamble had paid off. Just as he’d known it would. He had calculated that Reznick would show up. He knew the type of man Reznick was. A guy like that couldn’t just sit by the phone at home and accept that the explosion had been an accident. He wouldn’t trust his own country’s intelligence organizations to figure it out—or if they did, not to cover it up in their own interests.
Ford could have drawn Reznick here by broadcasting that he was involved. But it was much more fun to conceal that he was pulling the strings.