by J. B. Turner
What a fucking mess.
Reznick dropped the Ducati off at the bar, thanked the owner, and walked up to the overlook, staring out at the buoy bobbing in the water. The marker for where Martha and her friend had died. He closed his eyes and thought first of Martha. Then of Catherine McCafferty. She was the one who had told him about the Arabic inscription her brother had found. And someone wanted to silence her. Someone had gotten to her. Was it the guy who’d called her? The American? The car crash had all the hallmarks of a special ops hit, but it could just as easily be a Spanish operation. Maybe military intelligence. Was this their response to Reznick humiliating one of their guys? Or else it was the American government. Taking out a person who could have leaked the information to the press.
On and on the questions bounced around his head. And he was no closer to knowing who’d been responsible for the explosion—Islamist terrorists or someone else.
Reznick looked out across the water. A police boat came into view, once again circling the area. His thoughts turned again to Catherine McCafferty. She’d been en route to a meeting in Palma with a British diplomat. A military attaché.
He took out his cell phone and pulled up a number. The number of a trusted friend.
It rang five times before it was answered.
“This better be fucking good at three in the morning,” said the voice of Trevelle Williams, a reclusive computer genius and former NSA contractor.
“How you enjoying your new abode?”
“Hey, Mr. R., long time no hear.”
“So how are the cornfields and all that stuff?”
“Gimme a break. Actually I love it. How are things where you are?”
“Not good, my friend. Trevelle, I need to lay my cards on the table. After what happened previously, you might not want to help out.” Not long ago, Trevelle had asked for Reznick’s help alerting a government whistleblower who had been targeted for assassination. The hacker’s fortresslike base in Miami had been breached, and he had subsequently set up from scratch in rural Iowa. Reznick hesitated. He didn’t think it was the right time to tell Trevelle about what had happened to Martha.
“I’ll always help you out, Jon, not a problem. Don’t ever think it is.”
“Appreciate that.”
“So I can see from your phone’s GPS signal that you’re not in America. Spain? What the hell is going on there?”
“Long story. I hope you can come through for me on this. I need help. Real bad.”
“What do you need?”
Reznick sighed, relieved to be getting some technical assistance. “I want you to find out everything you can about Gerald Essenden. I believe he’s British, a diplomat based in Madrid. I want to know more about him. A lot more.”
“Why?”
Reznick smiled. “You ask a lot of questions, Trevelle.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“He’s a person of interest. That’s all I can say.”
“Leave it to me. When do you need info on this guy?”
“Yesterday would be good.”
“No pressure. Back at you soon.”
Reznick ended the call. The hacker was a specialist at fast turnarounds. He could get his hands on classified information and have it to you within the hour. He wouldn’t take long. Reznick needed to find Essenden, but he wasn’t ready to speak to him face-to-face. He wanted to track his movements first. The man knew something. Of that Reznick was sure.
His gaze turned to the turquoise waters off Cala Molins beach. A picture-postcard scene. His mind was racing again. Part exhaustion, part amphetamines still in his blood. He needed to pull all the strands of what he knew or had so far uncovered and try to spot the less obvious links.
Reznick was standing on the spot that tied so many threads together. Where it all began. Where the RV had been seen. Driven by the guy who had rented a villa on the outskirts of town. An American. Who looked like the guy who had broken into his hotel room. Had to be the same guy.
Reznick turned and squinted against the glare of the midmorning sun, edging higher up into the sunbaked hills.
He took a few moments as he focused on the skyline. Far away in the distance, he could just make out little white dots on the mountainside. Like small whitewashed cottages. Holiday homes, perhaps. He had always looked down on the bay. But not up at the mountain.
He wondered why he hadn’t turned around and looked up high into the mountain range.
Who lived there? Maybe locals in low-rent old cottages, tending the dusty land. Maybe tending goats. He’d seen a few scrawny animals wandering wild through the town.
Reznick felt his curiosity get the better of him as he contemplated his next move. He could just sit tight and do nothing until he heard back from Trevelle. But that wasn’t in his nature. He needed to do something. Anything to keep his mind from going around and around.
A sixth sense, a gut reaction, began to kick in. He was curious about those sun-bleached hills.
Reznick considered what he needed to head up there. He needed some basic provisions. The first thing he did was return to his hotel room. He picked up his backpack, popped in half a dozen bottles of water, and headed to the overlook.
He had a feeling the guy who was behind this, the guy in the RV, wasn’t far. Maybe the guy was closer than he thought. Living in plain sight. He had no proof of it. He just sensed it. He felt it in his guts. The bastard was still around. Maybe watching and waiting at this moment. Waiting to make his next move.
Reznick poured some water over his head, cooling him down. Then he gulped down the rest of the bottle and took a few steps onto a dusty trail. He began to climb. A steep climb. The trail meandered as it crisscrossed the barren mountainside. He strode on under a blazing sun along the winding, dusty path. A few hundred yards later it led to a dirt path, goats aimlessly heading up to even higher, rockier ground.
Reznick kept climbing, scrabbling through the bone-hard dirt and scree, clouds of dust getting kicked up in his midst. His throat felt badly parched, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin. He took out another bottle of water from his backpack and gulped it down. He had endured the hell that was Delta training. This was nothing in comparison. It was like a walk in the park. After sleep deprivation, physical and mental exhaustion, eating rancid food, being blindfolded, taking pain and piling on more pain, and then piling on stressful situations. In particular, SERE—survival, evasion, resistance, and escape—taught Delta warriors what it would take to have the guile, guts, and sheer stubbornness to come out on top. But the endgame was being able to make the right decisions when tired, hungry, and in need of sleep. Critical thinking at times of acute stress was tough. Measured thinking. Being able to detach from the emotional situation unfolding amid death. Killings. He needed to stay remote to win.
Reznick could do that. He had done that. Time and time again. A little hike up a steep mountainside in blazing heat was nothing to him. He would find the person responsible for Martha’s death, the same person responsible for Catherine McCafferty’s, even if indirectly. Somehow.
He turned and shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. Reznick looked down at the town. The whitewashed villas, the turquoise waters. The line of sight was still good. Very good indeed.
Reznick could see the attraction of the area on multiple levels. He turned around and continued on with the climb, not really knowing what it was he was hoping to achieve. His curiosity was getting the better of him. Perhaps he was being pulled by unknown forces. It was as if he sensed that something in his surroundings might provide a clue to what had happened. But then again, maybe he was just clutching at straws, determined to explore every avenue, every line of sight. Maybe that was it. He just couldn’t give up hope that the clues to who had killed Martha were hidden, far higher, up above the town and out of sight from sea level.
He traipsed upward, calves tightening as the broiling heat beat down.
The temperature reminded him a little of his time in Fallujah. Unrelent
ing, brutal heat. He didn’t care. He felt in a perverse way as if he deserved to be punished. Punished for not being able to protect Martha. Punished for not finding the clues to her killer.
More than once, he wondered what the hell he had become involved in. But he also knew that, come what may, he would get to the bottom of the killing. Maybe die trying.
Twenty minutes later, almost blinded by heat and the sun, Reznick stopped and screwed up his eyes toward something on the horizon. He squinted and saw, through the haze, what looked like an abandoned hut. It appeared to be an old shepherd’s hut. A broken-down place of rest for shepherds tending their goats. Cracked windows in the side, a dilapidated broken-down look.
The incessant sound of cicadas in olive trees buzzed the air. Getting louder. More shrill.
Reznick wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He approached the hut. The bone-dry front door had been blasted for decades by the sun. It was slightly ajar. Flies were buzzing around. He pushed open the door.
The smell of decay hit him. Overpowering, cloying in his throat.
Reznick felt the urge to retch and had to wait until it passed. He stepped into the hut, and his foot went through the rotten floorboards, exposing dry earth. He extricated his foot and looked down at the splintered and broken floor. Slowly he knelt. The floorboards were loose, not nailed down.
A putrid smell permeated the airless hut. A vile, rotten aroma. A dead animal?
He took a pocketknife from his back pocket, flipped open the blade, and pried up a few more of the floorboards. Dust particles hung in the still air. He brushed away the dry earth beneath. Despite the heat, his blood turned to ice. He could see hair, black hair, sticking out through the earth. He brushed away more of the dirt.
It was then he saw waxy human flesh.
Twenty-One
Reznick called it in from his cell phone and sat and waited outside the hut in the blazing sun, knees up to his chin. It seemed like hours before he saw anyone. Eventually, he spotted police and forensic technicians climbing up the scorched dirt of the hillside to join him. A chopper dropped off more police, whipping up the dusty earth as it took off.
Reznick answered questions from one Spanish cop and then another before he was allowed off the mountainside. He was escorted by four Spanish cops until they reached the road. A car was waiting, and Reznick was driven to a small police station on the other side of the island. Forensic samples were taken from his fingernails and sneakers before he was allowed a shower at the station. Then he was shown to a windowless room, where he was given water, coffee, and sandwiches and told to wait.
The hours dragged. Now would be a good time for Trevelle to call, but he still hadn’t heard from him.
Reznick sat alone with his thoughts. He felt ill. Drained. He knew the cops were keeping him there while they tried to build up a picture of what had happened. They would also be trying to find out more about him. But the basic point was to let him stew alone. They wanted to get inside his head. Make him scared. Uncertainty bred fear. Reznick knew the psychology behind it. It gave the police interviewers the psychological advantage. The upper hand.
Eventually, two cops arrived.
“You need to move, señor,” one of them said.
Reznick was escorted to a stark interview room, metal grilles on the window, air-conditioning unit growling low. Two men were already there, sitting on one side of the desk.
He was shown to the chair on the other side and slumped down.
The two men stared at him for what seemed like a lifetime but might have only been a few seconds.
“Jon Reznick?” drawled the older of the two. To Reznick’s surprise, he had an American accent. The guy wore a white shirt, navy tie, and dark pants.
“Who are you?” Reznick said.
“Lionel Finsburg, FBI legal attaché.”
Reznick nodded. “Yes, I’m Jon Reznick.”
The second guy cleared his throat. “Why are you in Mallorca, Jon? You’re a long, long way from home.”
“You FBI too?”
The man shook his head. “State Department. Todd Mavor.”
“I bumped into one of your guys yesterday, I think. Not very friendly.”
“Jon, let’s cut the bull. We know why you’re here.”
“You do? And why is that what I’m being questioned about when I’ve just uncovered some human remains up a goddamn mountainside?”
Mavor shifted in his seat as Finsburg scribbled some notes on a legal pad.
“Is the State Department leading on this investigation?” Reznick asked. “At least that’s what I was told. Are you liaising with Spanish military intelligence? Are they helping you out on this?”
“Let’s leave those questions till later. You’re here, on this island, because of an explosion, right?”
“You’re being rather coy, Todd. What do you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this isn’t about an accidental explosion. It’s about an FBI assistant director being assassinated. That’s why we’re all here.”
Mavor stared back at Reznick. “I’m not at liberty to talk about such matters.”
“So you’re over here in beautiful Mallorca for what purpose, Todd? Working on your tan? I knew Washington spending was out of control, but that’s ridiculous.”
Mavor pointed a finger at him. “Listen to me, Reznick, I don’t give a shit about your reputation. You need to know that you are an American citizen, and you have no jurisdiction out here. You no longer work for the FBI.”
Reznick shook his head. “Whatever.”
“On whose behalf are you operating?”
Reznick said nothing.
“You seem to have made friends quickly. The Scottish gentleman, McCafferty. He’s an interesting character. I’m not surprised you gravitated toward him.”
“Where is he? Is he even still alive?”
“He’s a British citizen. They’re dealing with that.”
Reznick made a mental note. He now had confirmation that backed up what Catherine McCafferty had been told. “Tell me about the body I found up in the hills. You want to talk about that? You identified that person?”
Finsburg intervened. “Jon, what Todd was getting at is that your presence here isn’t helping matters.”
“I asked about the body I found up in the hills.”
“That’s a matter for the local police.”
“Is that right, Lionel? So why am I not being interviewed by them?”
Finsburg flushed. “Jon, we all know what this is about.”
Reznick stared at him.
“I knew Martha very well. And I know she spoke highly of you. But we’re concerned that there are aspects of this one-man investigation of yours that could impinge on national security.”
Reznick nodded. “I appreciate your candor. Now tell me about the body.”
“I’m getting to that. We believe it was a young man.”
“Who is he? And is this linked to Martha’s death?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“I just want answers. Is the body up there linked in some way to Martha Meyerstein’s death?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sorry. But we’re grateful that you have somehow managed to find this person.”
Mavor pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m curious, Reznick. How did you find this site where the body was? Was it just a wild, crazy guess?”
“You tell me.”
“You didn’t kill this person and cover it all up by claiming to have found him?”
“What an imagination. Do all you State Department guys have such vivid imaginations?”
Mavor fixed his gaze on Reznick. “If it wasn’t you, tell me straight. How did you find the body?”
Reznick shrugged. “Just walking around, looking at the lines of sight to where the yacht was blown to pieces.”
Mavor made a few notes, as did Finsburg. “Line of sight. Just walking around, huh? Do yo
u really expect me to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you want, Mavor. It began with me trying to find a line of sight. Curiosity. That’s where it led me. And yeah, I did stumble upon the body, somewhat.”
“You really expect me to believe that, Reznick?”
“Like I said, believe what you want. Since I’ve arrived, I’ve discovered a few interesting things. This whole thing doesn’t add up. You’re spinning a line. It’s bullshit.”
Mavor scribbled some more notes. “OK, let’s just back up for a moment. Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that I believe you, Jon.”
Reznick nodded.
“So when you say line of sight, do you want to explain what you mean? Line of sight from where to where? Give me context. Your thought processes.”
“I mean where I believe someone might have been observing the yacht and remotely detonated an explosion. Perhaps via cell phone. And I took it from there, working my way up the mountainside. It was an aspect I hadn’t considered. I had been thinking line of sight from land to sea. But then I started thinking that higher elevations might have views of the town. And certainly the sea. The place where the explosion happened.”
Finsburg flushed and stared at Reznick. “Jon, there has been no chatter detected that this tragic accident was anything but. There is no intelligence pointing to an explosive device.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Finsburg’s face flushed a deeper scarlet. “Let’s get back to talking about your finding this body. I want to retrace your steps on this, if you don’t mind.”
Reznick felt himself getting exasperated. He wondered if he was being deliberately tied up speaking to these two while . . . while what? “I found out where the yacht’s last position was and looked for suitable locations to observe. The weather vane.”
“Which overlooks the bay?” Mavor said.
Reznick nodded. “Correct. A little rocky outcrop with the weather vane beside it. But then I looked around and climbed higher and higher and higher, and I somehow stumbled on the hut, and the remains of that person. It was a fluke. A coincidence.”