Hard Vengeance (A Jon Reznick Thriller)

by J. B. Turner

  Besides, she was employed by the FBI, and Reznick needed to take that into account and perhaps be less confrontational. At least until he figured out who’d tried to kill them.

  Reznick and Lauren were shown into an SUV with diplomatic plates and whisked to a suite of offices in Palma Old Town overlooking a Gothic cathedral. The two guys in suits escorted them to a room at the back of the building.

  The door opened.

  Reznick looked around. Sitting at a table were FBI legal attaché Lionel Finsburg, who was cleaning his glasses with a cloth, and Todd Mavor from the State Department. A third man, a black guy, was sitting in the corner, eyeballing him. The guy wore dark jeans, a navy polo shirt, sneakers. He stared long and hard at Reznick, as if trying to unnerve him.

  Reznick had seen it all before. He and his daughter pulled up chairs beside each other, opposite Finsburg and Mavor. “So, you guys like my company so much you want to go on a double date or something? I mean, what is it with you guys?”

  The door slammed shut behind them.

  Mavor looked at Reznick and then Lauren. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, Miss Reznick. Really I am.”

  “It’s Ms. Reznick, thanks.”

  Mavor shifted uneasily in his seat. “Of course. How’s the head?”

  “Sore. But I’ll live.”

  Finsburg gave a weak smile. “Lauren, we know why you’re here. And legally speaking, you’re putting us in a very awkward position with the Spanish government.”

  Lauren said nothing, face impassive.

  “We believe you’re here on your vacation with your dad, which is fine, but your father’s investigation is not something we believe is in America’s national interests. He doesn’t work for the FBI in any capacity. We don’t want your position with the FBI to be jeopardized.”

  Lauren said, “That’s not too subtle, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “You need to consider where your priorities lie, Lauren.”

  Reznick’s protective instincts kicked in then. He was going to say something, but then Lauren spoke.

  “My priorities are very clear, sir. I have to be frank—I don’t appreciate the insinuations and veiled threats.”

  “I’m merely stating that it is important that you not intrude on matters that don’t concern you.”

  “Mr. Finsburg, with all due respect, you used the word jeopardized, implying a threat.”

  “I assure you, there was no threat intended. I just want you to be aware that your boss in New York might not look very kindly on this.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. And I’ll take that under advisement. But I’m on vacation with my dad.”

  Mavor cleared his throat. “You tell your daughter about the body you found, Jon, up in the hills?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “That wasn’t smart.”

  Reznick leaned forward. “Don’t ever tell me what I can or cannot say to my daughter. I don’t have secrets from her.”

  “Let’s cut the bull. Since you’ve been so openly talking about what you know or have unearthed, I’m going to get straight to the point. You are investigating the death of an American citizen—you know who I’m talking about.”

  “You know I do,” Reznick said.

  “You are becoming embroiled in matters that don’t concern you. National security matters.”

  Reznick shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “In addition, since you have arrived, you’ve found a body, made contact with an ex-British Special Forces soldier and his sister—a lawyer—and you seem to be convinced that the lawyer’s death wasn’t a tragic accident.”

  “Catherine McCafferty called me—check the records from the NSA—saying she couldn’t control her car.”

  “That happens, Jon.”

  “All the time. I know. But she was murdered. By a highly sophisticated operative who knew exactly what they were doing.”

  “Jon, you’re making connections that don’t exist.”

  Reznick shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that, Todd.”

  “Not content with dredging up all these spurious connections and conspiracies, you have also passed on photographic details to the FBI about a Spanish citizen who may be an American, who you are claiming might be involved in this whole affair.”

  “Have you guys identified him yet? If not, why not? Christ, you’re making it seem like I’m the bad guy here. I’m helping the FBI out.”

  Mavor shook his head. “No, you’re not. You’re following a personal agenda. A vendetta of sorts. Jon, look at it from our point of view. It’s like you’ve gone batshit crazy.”

  “Are you finished?”

  Mavor leaned back in his seat. “I’m just getting started.”

  “Well, how about you start by telling me why we were both nearly killed last night?”

  Mavor said nothing as Finsburg scribbled notes on a legal pad.

  “Some nutcase,” Reznick said, “deliberately rammed us off the sidewalk. We nearly drowned in a goddamn drainage channel. Lauren had to spend the night in the hospital. You want to talk about that? Is that me just making shit up again? Was that just a bad fucking dream? Well, was it?”

  Mavor averted his gaze for a moment.

  “Your silence speaks volumes.”

  Mavor pointed his finger at Reznick. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re an American citizen on Spanish soil. We are helping the Spanish authorities with various sensitive national security issues. Your presence is only complicating matters. Do you know what they’re saying?”

  “What?”

  “You’re unstable. You’re a crazy person.”

  “You guys need to wake the fuck up. I’m not going to have the wool pulled over my eyes. Your bullshit does not wash with me. Got it?”

  Finsburg cleared his throat. “Jon, no one’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes.”

  “Lionel, let’s just forget about the explosion on the yacht for just a moment. Are you seriously saying the death of Catherine McCafferty, the body up on the hillside, and my daughter and me getting rammed into a drainage canal is just a sequence of bad luck?”

  “It is very, very troubling. I’ll give you that, Jon.”

  “Very troubling? Is that what you call it?”

  “But we can’t take the law into our own hands.”

  “You’ve got a problem. The reality is—and let’s cut this bullshit once and for all—something stinks. You know it. I know it. There’s a cover-up in place.”

  Finsburg put his finger to his lips. “Let’s try and keep this civil. Jon, I think what Todd is saying is that there are aspects of the yacht explosion we can’t discuss. I’m sure you’ll understand, with your background.”

  “I understand there may be an Islamist link. I understand why you wouldn’t want that to come out. I get that. But I’m wondering if that’s just a red herring. The Islamist kid a perfect cover to get the blame. A false flag. It’s brilliant. It’s elaborate. And it was lethal.”

  Finsburg scribbled more notes on the legal pad.

  Reznick looked over at the guy in the corner, who was staring back. “What’s your name, pal? What’s your position?”

  Finsburg leaned closer. “He works for the government. Our government.”

  The man got slowly to his feet and pulled up his chair beside Finsburg and sat down. He leaned over and shook Reznick’s hand. “Jeremiah Johnston. Nice to meet you, Jon. I work for the CIA.”

  Reznick leaned back in his seat. “This just got a bit more interesting. So we’ve got the Agency involved too.”

  Finsburg smiled as he looked across at Lauren. “The FBI, as you will no doubt be aware, requires uncompromising personal integrity. But they also expect you to accept responsibility for your actions and your decisions.”

  Lauren nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “I’m quite prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt in the circumstances, knowing you were mentored by the Assistant Directo
r,” Finsburg said. “But what happened last night has changed matters, so you’re going to have a choice to make. Either you head back home and continue your recuperation in the States, or there may, at a future date, be disciplinary actions against you. I’m just laying it all on the line.”

  Reznick shook his head. “You turning the squeeze on a young FBI rookie? My daughter? Really?”

  Finsburg looked at Johnston before fixing his gaze on Lauren. “No one is turning the squeeze on any rookie. We are simply reminding Lauren that she has responsibilities. So we’re giving you forty-eight hours before you head home. A day to recover. And the day after to get to the airport and arrange a flight home.”

  Reznick said, “This is bullshit.”

  “Jon, the individual who entered your hotel room, whose passport you passed on to the FBI . . . We’re concerned that you’re becoming involved in things you don’t understand,” Johnston said. “We believe you might be confusing and conflating different strands of our investigation.”

  “Are you protecting a CIA asset? Is that what’s happening?”

  Johnston stared at him. “Don’t fuck with me, Jon.”

  “You didn’t like that, did you? Why is that? Did I hit a little close to the mark? Why has this guy been able to operate with impunity? No one seems to be able to lay a glove on him.”

  “Go home, Jon. And your daughter too.”

  “Or what? We’re gonna be disappeared? Like David McCafferty?”

  “I’ve heard just about enough.”

  “Likewise. I’m not going anywhere. And my daughter will be with me.”

  Johnston said, “Jon, I have no beef with you or your daughter. But you need to heed this warning.”

  “Why?”

  “Just get the fuck off the island. That’s your final warning.”

  Twenty-Seven

  The first thing Reznick did when he returned to Cala San Vicente was check into a new hotel with his daughter. It was only a hundred yards along the coast, overlooking a rocky promontory by the sea. The guests seemed mostly to be young Europeans, predominantly German, Dutch, and Scandinavian tourists. Laid-back, tanned, largely blond. Most were Lauren’s age. But there were also a few young Englishmen, heavily inked and noticeable in their polyester mesh soccer shirts.

  Reznick requested an adjoining room to his daughter’s and took her to a pizza restaurant across the street. He had a mineral water, as did Lauren, still feeling woozy after the hit-and-run the previous day.

  When she had finished her meal, she wiped her mouth with the napkin. “I haven’t thanked you, Dad,” she said.

  “You have nothing to thank me for. A father looks after his children. Those are the rules.”

  “You’re always saving people. But what about you?”

  “What about me?” Reznick said.

  “No one’s looking out for you.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “You need saving too.”

  “From who? Myself?”

  Lauren smiled. “I’m serious.”

  “Martha, in her own way, always looked out for me.”

  “I know you’re hurting. I can tell.”

  She’d touched a raw nerve. It was true. He didn’t like to show it. But he missed Martha so much it hurt. He felt like he had fallen into a swamp or quicksand and was slowly being sucked under, unable to escape or call for help. Maybe that’s why he was so stubbornly refusing to leave the investigation to the Feds. Except, as he reminded himself, he had his last remaining reason to live sitting right in front of him. “I’m OK if you’re OK.”

  “Dad, you mentioned the guy who broke into your hotel room. The guy wearing sunglasses?”

  Reznick nodded. “Sure, what about him?”

  “I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “Join the club.”

  “The thing I don’t get is, what’s the connection between that guy, who we believe is an American, and the fragment of the bomb with Arabic writing? Could he be an Islamist convert? Radicalized?”

  Reznick nodded. “His travel companion was a younger guy from Morocco. They both had passport stamps for Melilla. It’s a Spanish port city on the northwest coast of Africa. Near Morocco. A country with a large Islamic population.”

  “Tell you what, I’m interested in that angle. I read, quite recently, a report—not classified—that said that while Islamic converts are a tiny proportion of the Muslim faith, extremists and terrorists are disproportionately represented.”

  “Hmm. We can’t discount that with this guy. Then again, there’s an angle we might be overlooking as we try and connect the dots.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A false trail.”

  “You’re saying this American guy is laying a false trail? Why? Why so elaborate?”

  “To conceal the real threat.”

  “Dad, seriously?”

  “The only reason I got the image of him is because I installed a fake smoke detector in my hotel room. I got lucky. And I saw him stocking the minibar with substitute booze bottles. This guy is very smart. He knows me, I think.”

  “You think this is about you?”

  Reznick shrugged.

  “So you think you are the target?”

  Reznick nodded. “I do. It’s crazy, I know.”

  “And you think he was also the guy behind killing Martha?”

  “Maybe. Maybe the same guy that was in my hotel room was also the same guy who mowed us down last night.”

  “The same person?”

  “I don’t know. But what I do know is finding that man is the key.”

  “So who is he? A guy from your past, perhaps?”

  Reznick nodded. He had been wondering the same thing. “It’s a possibility.”

  Lauren sipped her drink. “The State Department guy was really interested in getting us both out of the way.”

  “It’s understandable.”

  She tilted her head. “So the killing of Martha Meyerstein? How does that fit into this guy being after you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

  Lauren’s cell phone rang. She rifled in her handbag and took it out. “Yeah?”

  Reznick watched his daughter grimace as she listened. She looked confused.

  Lauren screwed up her face. “I’m sorry, who are you? You want to speak to him? Who are you?” She put her hand over the microphone. “That’s weird. A guy who wants to talk to you. Said he’s from the State Department. But didn’t give his name.”

  Reznick took the cell phone. “Yeah, who’s this?”

  There was a brief silence. “Jon, what a pleasure it is to hear your voice after all these years.”

  Reznick sensed it was him. His blood ran cold. Like ice in his veins. He looked at his daughter before his gaze wandered around, scanning the street and down the road. No one but a smattering of tourists. “Who am I talking to?”

  The man laughed. “You’re a long, long way from home, Jon.”

  “You must have the wrong number.”

  “Lovely voice Lauren has.”

  Reznick felt his stomach tighten, blood surging. “Who is this?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute, Jon. You don’t mind me calling you Jon, do you? I feel like I know you so well. Intimately, almost.”

  Reznick knew this was him, the guy they had just been talking about. He reached into her bag, took out a pen, and scribbled on a napkin, It’s him.

  Lauren nodded.

  “You’ve gone so very quiet on me, Mr. Reznick. You don’t strike me as the shy type. Quite the opposite. Your psychological profile shows you as outgoing, assertive, confident, and cold-blooded. Not exactly a wallflower, are you?”

  “You finished?”

  “Not even getting started. I know so much about you, Jon, it hurts. And your daughter. A credit to you and that late, lamented wife of yours. Elisabeth, isn’t it?”

  “You listen to me . . .”

  “Temper, temper, Jon. I’m in the dr
iver’s seat. You just don’t realize it. Speaking of, a most unfortunate incident last night. How very careless of that driver.”

  Reznick said, “Give me a time and place, and I’ll meet up with you and we’ll sort this out.”

  The man laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? All in good time, Jon. Always quick on the draw, weren’t you?”

  Reznick leaned over and whispered the gist of the conversation to Lauren.

  “Don’t whisper too loudly now. I hope her head isn’t too sore, Jon.”

  Reznick sat back. “I want to know who you are. Let’s talk about it.”

  “The time for talking is over. You and Lauren had a close call, but sadly, it wasn’t a close call for the lovely Martha Meyerstein, previously of the FBI, or so I heard. Bang! Bang! That’s how it went. How does that make you feel? Do you want me to describe how it made me feel? So alive! What a night that was.”

  “You sick fuck! When I find you, I will finish you. And I will bury you.”

  “Talking of finding, you’ve been a very busy boy since you landed in Mallorca. Finding bodies up in the hills.”

  Reznick sensed he’d been watched since the moment he landed. The caller seemed to know just about everything he’d done since he had arrived.

  “And spending time with that very attractive Scottish lady, a lawyer, I believe, who had a nasty accident.”

  Reznick closed his eyes, nursing a silent fury.

  “She had excellent bone structure, Jon. Quite a looker. A bit younger than Martha, if you catch my meaning.”

  Reznick felt himself wanting to lash out at the needling. He had to steady his breathing.

  “Or maybe older women are your type. A little birdie told me you met up with a kindly old Spanish lady. Rented the house next door to an American, she said.”

  Reznick felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

  “Do you want to know where she is now, Jon?”

  Dread washed over him. “You better not have touched that woman or I swear to God, you’re going to pay.”

  The caller laughed. “Touched a raw nerve, Jon? A man of honor, a patriotic American . . . That’s you, isn’t it? But for what? You think your country loves you? What’s in it for you, all this sacrifice, and the killings? What’s it all been for?”