by J. B. Turner
Mavor said, “I don’t believe in coincidences, Reznick.”
“Neither do I. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that the FBI and the State Department are out here on a Spanish island if you believe Martha Meyerstein’s death was an accident. This was murder.”
Finsburg showed his hands, as if trying to calm down the tense exchange. “Jon, there is no evidence of murder.”
“Bullshit. Do you really expect me to believe that her death here was an accident?”
Mavor shook his head. “It happens, Jon. Life is hard. And bad stuff happens.”
Reznick looked hard at Mavor. “‘Life is hard’? Is that your line? Let’s talk for a minute about why we’re all here. It’s not about that body I found. The State Department is getting twitchy. I can see it in your eyes, Mavor.”
Mavor stared at him.
“You know something. You’ve been given information, haven’t you? Let’s talk for a minute about McCafferty. Did you know his sister is dead? Did you arrange for her death because she knew about the circuit board Mac found with Arabic writing on it? Are you going to scribble that information down?”
Finsburg averted his gaze.
“Mac was being questioned after he handed over the pieces, and now his sister dies in a car crash. All within a week after an FBI assistant director and her friend are blown up on a yacht. Do you really expect me to believe this is all just a tragic series of accidents? Seriously?”
Mavor glared at Reznick.
“And now, there’s some unidentified body up in the hills? Guys, now that’s stretching credibility. I don’t believe for a minute that these are all accidents. So, please, do me a favor, and start talking some fucking sense and cut the lies and obfuscation.”
Finsburg said nothing.
“What do you say, Mavor?” Reznick said.
The State Department lackey tapped his hand against the table. “Who mentioned Arabic writing?”
“Catherine McCafferty. Her brother told her.”
Mavor checked his notes for a fleeting moment. “Are there any others she told?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” Reznick said. “She was smart. A lawyer.”
Mavor sighed. “You can’t talk about such things, do you understand me?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t talk about it, do you hear me? National security is involved.”
“You said I wasn’t working for the government. I can talk about whatever I like. I don’t report to you. I don’t report to anyone.”
Mavor stared at him. “This was a terrible accident, Jon. We’re all upset about this.”
“A lot of terrible accidents on such a small island. What do you think the odds are? So, have you got any more questions for me, Todd?”
Mavor leaned forward, face inches from Reznick’s. “You need to go home, Jon. I don’t want the Spanish police to think you’re hindering their investigation in any way.”
“No one is hindering anything.”
“Go home.”
“Am I free to leave?”
Mavor looked at Finsburg, who nodded, gaze once again averted to the floor. “Pack your bags, Jon. And get back to the States on the next flight.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Just get on the goddamn flight. Enough is enough.”
Twenty-Two
High up in the hills, nearly two miles as the crow flies from the bar in Cala San Vicente, Adam Ford was in his villa listening to the Spanish police on the scanner. He smiled as he heard the heads-up that the Americans had released Reznick. He was enjoying the game he was playing. A game that had become more complex. But that didn’t dim its fun. Quite the contrary. It only added to the growing excitement. The frisson of the chase. Fucking with Reznick was fun. Especially killing the Scottish lawyer. He enjoyed that immensely. She had told Reznick about the Arabic writing on the fragment her brother had found. He was surprised how easy it was to bug her cell phone. He could track her movements. Listen in to calls. Ford didn’t have to kill her. But having the power to kill at will was a high like no other. It made him feel good. He decided who would live or die. Omnipotent. It was her bad luck that Ford could see the value in killing the smart and beautiful Catherine McCafferty. It was also a great way to fuck with Reznick’s head. Classic psyops.
He had simply followed her in his pickup. And then he had remotely accessed her car, allowing him to control it with a simple Wi-Fi–enabled joystick. Slowly he had moved her car from side to side, watching her losing control. He let the fun continue for miles. Then when he was bored, he casually flicked a switch on the device, crashing her car into oncoming traffic. Now that was cold, even by his standards.
Ford picked up military-grade binoculars from the coffee table and went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He scanned the beachside bar. Tourists and a few locals eating lobster and fresh fish and drinking beer at the tables beside the road. He was tempted to head straight to the bar and wait for Reznick’s return. He knew Reznick was a creature of habit. Wired to enjoy repetition. The comfort of the familiar. Ford was a bit like that himself in some ways.
He wondered what it would be like to be so close to Reznick. Physically close. Close enough to touch him. Smell him. And eventually kill him.
He thought about what it would feel like to be in Reznick’s presence again. The growing excitement as Reznick sat close by. In a way, he was glad Reznick hadn’t drunk the poisoned scotch. It increased the challenge. He had to be careful now. Reznick was especially dangerous when wounded.
He allowed himself a minute to fantasize about the final moments of Reznick’s life. He imagined the agony. The slow, slow death. That would be the ideal scenario. But he wasn’t picky about how it happened. If anything, Ford was a pragmatist.
Maybe it would be a jab in the neck with a quick-acting anesthetic. Maybe a bullet in the head. Sniper rifle. Why not? He could do that. He’d been trained to do that. He might be a brilliant doctor. But he also had skills. Serious military skills. A bullet was a crude, unsophisticated response to Reznick, but it was important to be wide open to all possible endgame scenarios.
Reznick was a strong adversary, but the shadowy operative from Maine was in the dark on this one. Reznick didn’t know that Ford had been waiting all these years for just this opportunity. He had been watching Reznick for a long, long time.
When Reznick was drinking in the Rockland Tavern, Ford had been watching. Sometimes from a distance, maybe in a rental car, sometimes up close.
A pair of shades and a beard concealed most people. Baseball hat. Glasses. He could hide in plain sight. Sometimes he was mere yards from Reznick. He often had to calm himself down, knowing Reznick was within striking distance. He’d sometimes fantasized in such moments what it would be like to kill Reznick in cold blood. But ultimately, Ford had bided his time. He had waited.
Ford peered through the binoculars and scanned the bar area one more time. Still no sign of his prey. Not long, though. He knew Reznick would return to the familiar.
Meyerstein had become one of the familiar things in Reznick’s life.
Ford had fantasized about killing Reznick for years. He had nursed his grievance to the point of mania. But it was only in the last couple of years that he had realized the power of killing Meyerstein first. That’s when his plan took root. He saw how it would work. Not only the gut-wrenching emotional pain it would inflict, but also how Reznick would respond. He would have to. It was in his nature.
Reznick would investigate. He would pursue her killer. He wouldn’t believe it was an accident. Ford figured Reznick would see the explosion for what it was: a cold-blooded assassination. Maybe by a terrorist group.
Ford had been counting on all that. He had set the trap. And Reznick had taken the bait. A well-laid plan was a joy to behold.
He felt his mood peaking. Spiraling. It was as if he could not get any higher. Euphoric. His heightened mood always turned his thoughts to retribution. He felt strong and invincibl
e. And he would strike.
Ford was like Reznick in many ways. He could compartmentalize. He would keep his feelings to himself. He worked hard to stay fit. Keep sharp. Keep vital. Maintain muscle definition. Strength. Exercise was a way of dealing with the mental stress that came with his line of work.
Reznick was the same.
But whereas Reznick lived a relatively spartan existence, Ford enjoyed the finer things in life. The little luxuries. Music. Travel. Reznick could sustain himself, if required, with the bare minimum. Reznick was trained to survive in any terrain. Trained to survive on scraps. Reznick could kill rats and mice and cook them and eat them if required. Ford was fascinated by that. A shadowy American assassin who could have been the guy next door. A nobody.
Ford was different. He had taste. Refinement. He was a man of discernment. He liked nice clothes. Bespoke suits. He liked visiting art galleries. He spent hours perusing the grand masters at the Met when he was in New York. And the Museum of Modern Art. The Jackson Pollocks. And of course Roy Lichtenstein, one of the godfathers of Pop Art. Ford was fascinated by creativity. Creating something, art, out of nothing was, in many respects, genius. But like everything, there was a sliding scale. Ford loved beauty in art. Monet. Renoir. He abhorred the banality of unmade bed as modern art bullshit masquerading as groundbreaking. Ford was discerning. He had a keen eye for the brilliant. He was sure Reznick liked none of that. In fact, Reznick would probably sneer at the very thought of modern art.
Ford snapped out of his thoughts, back to the glorious present. He felt the need to get back in the zone. He wanted to feel pin sharp. He headed to his bedroom and took off his clothes. Standing naked in front of the mirror, admiring his physique. He changed into swimming shorts—his initials, AF, stitched in fine gold thread beside the pocket. He headed out into the blazing sunshine and dove into the pool. He swam fifty lengths, showered, and changed into Valentino cargo shorts, Tom Ford sneakers, and a pale blue Valentino T-shirt. He poured himself a glass of Chateau Lafite and savored the fine Bordeaux.
He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared once again through the superpowerful binoculars, perched on a tripod, which had replaced the telescope he’d smashed.
Ford scanned the bar and saw Reznick was finally there. And he was chatting with a beautiful young woman. “Well, well, well,” he said, “what have we here?”
It took him a few moments to recognize exactly who it was.
Well, this was interesting. Very interesting. Reznick’s daughter, Lauren, was sitting beside her father.
Twenty-Three
Reznick took a few moments to wrap his head around the fact that Lauren was stepping out of a cab. He got up from his seat in the bar and hugged his daughter, kissing her on the cheek. He looked at her with a mixture of shock and wonder. “What on earth are you doing here? Actually, first, how did you know I was here?”
Lauren pulled up a seat beside him.
Reznick slumped back down in his chair. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him knowing Lauren was putting herself, inadvertently, in the line of fire. “This is not what I was expecting. I’m serious, I’m working. This is not a vacation.”
“Well, that’s a nice way to greet your daughter. So, are you going to buy me a drink or not?”
Reznick worked alone. He could work as part of a team. But his daughter, despite being eager to help him out, was not in his plans on this particular investigation. He signaled the waiter and ordered a couple of bottles of Heineken, then leaned closer. “What the heck do you think you’re doing, Lauren? This is not a goddamn game.”
“I want to help you.”
“Help me? What are you taking about?”
“You’re not the only one with contacts. I heard about the accident.”
“People within the Hoover Building?”
“I work for the FBI, in case you forgot. Assistant Director Meyerstein mentored me. I was bound to hear something, don’t you think?”
Reznick stared at her as she met his gaze, unflinching. Much as he loved his headstrong daughter, so like her mother in that regard, he didn’t want her involved in his investigation. Especially this investigation. The dangers were only too apparent. “What really happened is not widely known, even within the FBI.”
Lauren shrugged, unconcerned or unaware of the danger she was in.
“What do you know?” he said. “And how do you know?”
“Someone said she’d been involved in an accident. That’s what they called it. Very vague.”
“An accident?”
Lauren nodded.
“I tried reaching the Assistant Director.” She frowned. “I called the cell phone number she gave me when she told me to reach out to her if I needed anything. But there was no answer. Then I made another call.”
“A call to who?”
“Her father.”
“Jerry Meyerstein?”
“Yes, Jerry Meyerstein. I got his number. And then he told me, in confidence, the news. That’s why I’m here.”
“Jerry told you?”
Lauren nodded.
Reznick sighed. The waiter put down the two bottles of chilled beer and gave a respectful nod to Lauren. When he was out of earshot, Reznick said, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I knew what your response would be.”
“I want you out of here. You have no idea what’s happened. It’s not a fucking game.”
“Don’t swear at me.”
“I want you home.”
“Dad, I understand you’re hurting. I am too. But don’t shut me out.”
Reznick gulped some of his beer. “You’re killing me, Lauren. Absolutely killing me.”
“Dad, the FBI’s working assumption is it was just an accident. At least that’s what they’re saying.”
Reznick closed his eyes.
“I don’t believe them. Neither do you.”
“What in the world were you thinking, Lauren? I mean, you flew all the way here to do what?”
“I want answers. I want to help. I want to do something. That’s what you always taught me: don’t be afraid to do the right thing. Didn’t you?”
“You’re a goddamn child.”
“Don’t patronize me, Dad.”
“Well, you are!”
“No, I am not. What is wrong with you? I’m a college graduate working for the FBI.”
“You’re a goddamn rookie. You don’t know the first thing about what’s going on here.”
“Have any other objections?”
“Yes, I goddamn do. Have you thought about how this could affect your career?”
“I have.” Lauren had the same defiant look in her eyes that her mother had often had. A combination of high intelligence and bullheaded stubbornness.
“And do you think the FBI will look kindly on this?”
“I don’t try to second-guess what my employer thinks. Besides, I’m taking vacation time.”
“You think that’s how they’re going to see it? They’re not completely stupid, Lauren. When they know that you’re in Mallorca, that you joined me here, trust me, that won’t look good for you. Not good at all.”
Lauren took a small sip of her beer. “Why don’t you trust me, Dad? Why is that?”
“It’s not about trust, Lauren.”
“Isn’t it? Then what is it about?”
“It’s about knowing when and when not to get involved. This isn’t your domain.”
“I disagree. I’m FBI. You want to see my ID?”
“You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
“Neither do you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This is personal.”
“It’s personal for me too.”
“Do you have the first goddamn idea of what exactly is going on?”
Lauren sighed and said nothing, waiting for him to enlighten her.
“Martha is dead. An accidental explosion. That’s what Jerry Meyerstein was told. That’s all we know.”
&n
bsp; “You know more than that, Dad. A lot more. I know you. I know you keep your cards close to your chest.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Lauren shrugged.
“It’s because I don’t want you involved in this. You’ve got a bright future in front of you. Don’t screw it up.”
“I know how to shoot. I know how to fight. I know how to think.”
“And that’s all great. But there’s a lot you don’t know.”
“About what?”
“About my world. It’s not pretty, let me tell you. And the law doesn’t apply.”
“You forget, I’ve seen your world. And I still want to help.”
Reznick stared at his daughter.
“You know what I see when I look into your eyes?” she asked.
Reznick said nothing.
“I see a father who loves his daughter. A father who wants to protect his daughter. I love that about you. But please don’t push me away. I’m not your little girl anymore. And I sure as hell haven’t come all this way just to be lied to.”
“I don’t lie to you. My job is to protect you.”
“Dad, I’m a goddamn full-grown woman. An adult.”
Reznick closed his eyes and sighed. “I swear, the last thing I need is you getting hurt.”
“Why would I get hurt? Wasn’t this just an accident, after all?”
Reznick gave a rueful smile. She was smart. Very smart. And her analytical brain had just picked apart his argument that Martha’s death had been an accident. “I really want you to focus on your work in the FBI.”
“So do I. But this is a vacation.”
“This might jeopardize your career before it even starts. You would be clearly intruding on an investigation in a foreign country, accident or otherwise, which has nothing to do with you. Even if the FBI were inclined to give you a pass, the State Department is involved. They have a lot of pull.”
“Martha was my friend. She mentored me. I could talk to her. Do you understand? Mom isn’t around anymore. And I miss her. Every day. But when I wanted to talk about things, what’s on my mind, I could talk to Martha about stuff.”