by J. B. Turner
A nurse approached him. “Señor, can I help?”
“Jill Buchanan. I’m a friend.”
The nurse gave a sympathetic smile. “Are those for her?”
“Well, her room. I’m guessing she’s too poorly to receive visitors.”
The nurse nodded. “That’s right, señor. If you want, you can look at her through the window to her room. She can’t receive any visitors.”
Reznick followed the nurse down the corridor until she turned around, pointing through the window to Jill Buchanan’s room. Reznick looked inside—and his legs nearly gave way. Lying on the bed on starched white sheets, neck, arms, and legs swathed in bandages, pale face, bluish lips, cheeks red as if scorched, hands bone white, eyes closed, ventilator beeping away, was Martha Meyerstein. Still alive. Just. But it was unmistakably her.
Reznick’s throat tightened. He put down the flowers. He wanted to go into her room and kiss her. To tell her he was elated that she was alive. To tell her so many things. His mind was racing. He’d been sent on a mission to find out how Martha had died and who’d killed her. But he’d found her. Alive. Though barely.
He felt a mixture of shock and overwhelming joy. And so many questions.
Reznick took out his cell phone and snapped a few pictures.
The nurse swung by again and said, “Are you family?”
“I’m a friend of the family. Very close friend.”
“There are usually no visitors for patients at the ICU, señor. We are under strict instructions.”
“I understand.” Reznick walked down the hallway away from the ICU, then took out his cell phone and called Finsburg.
The number rang three times before it was answered. “Lionel Finsburg.” His voice was tentative. “Who’s this?”
“Jon Reznick, that’s who it is. Lionel, you got a problem.”
“Jon? Do you know that they’re looking for you?” he hissed. “What the hell is going on?”
“I was about to ask the same question. Listen, I want to talk about a lady in the hospital. You know exactly who I’m talking about?”
Finsburg was quiet for several long moments. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said finally.
“I think you do, Lionel. You’re using a British diplomat as a cutout on this. Gerald Essenden. I’m assuming it’s to pass medical updates on to the Americans without hospital staff being made aware of the true identity of this woman. Maybe find out when the woman will be fit to be flown back home. A woman who is definitely not Jill Buchanan.”
“Oh my God, Jon, have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you guys think you’re doing, but it stops now. I want the patient transferred back home to an American hospital, immediately.”
“Jon, I swear to God, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Find someone who does. I want this woman transferred back to American soil, and I want it done right fucking now or I’m going to explode. So help me God. I’m going to wait here until I’m satisfied that plans are being put in place. Don’t disappoint me, Lionel.”
Reznick ended the call. He texted a photo to Trevelle, then dialed his phone and relayed the news.
“Are you serious, Jon?”
Reznick was still reeling from the discovery. “That’s one hundred percent her.”
“What do you want me to do now? This is freaking me out.”
“I’ve got a feeling the State Department is going to be crawling all over this place soon. You need to let me deal with this now.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’ve done your bit. I don’t want you getting dragged into this.”
“It’s not a problem, Jon.”
“Trust me, it will become a problem. The Agency and the State Department don’t fuck around. I don’t want you facing charges. I don’t want them to close down your new operation in Iowa.”
Trevelle went quiet.
“My advice? Get on the next plane home. I’ll catch up with you when this is over. I owe you one, buddy. You found her. Amazing work.”
“I want to help.”
“I know you do. But you don’t want to get embroiled any further. We’ll speak soon.”
“Anytime, Mr. R.”
Reznick ended the call and headed back toward the ICU. The same nurse watched him approach, arms folded.
“It’s time to go, señor. We don’t allow visitors here.”
“Miss, I need two minutes with her. She’s a very dear friend.”
The nurse grabbed a passing doctor and they engaged in a heated discussion in Spanish.
The doctor stepped forward and sighed. “Two minutes, señor. And then you must go.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Reznick followed the nurse into the room after washing his hands with quick-drying antibacterial gel. He pulled up a chair beside Martha’s bed and reached out to hold her pale white hand. She was surprisingly warm to the touch. He leaned close, listening to the machines humming and clicking in the background. “Thank God you’re alive,” he said. “I thought we had lost you. We all did. I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But I just want you to know that I’m here. Right beside you. Martha, your family is missing you so, so much. You’ll be back home before you know it.”
The machines hummed.
“That’s all I wanted to say. Except . . . I’ve missed you. And I need you to fight your way back. I know you can do it, Martha. You’re not going to give up. That’s not you. You’re going to get better. And when you do, I want to take you up to Rockland for a long vacation. How does that sound? Clam chowder and beers, what do you say?”
The nurse, standing at the window, pointed to her watch.
“I love you.” Reznick kissed Martha’s forehead. “Till the next time.”
Reznick watched over Martha like a sentinel from outside the ICU until a group of guys in suits arrived with Finsburg. He took Reznick aside.
“What exactly do you know, Jon?”
“I know what you told me was a fucking lie. How long have you been keeping this a secret?”
“I don’t want to get into a discussion. Frankly, you don’t have clearance.”
“I have all the clearance I need. But anyway, fuck your clearance. I want her protected and taken home to get the best care in the world.”
Finsburg nodded. “If you’d let me finish. We couldn’t risk moving her in this condition since it might leak to the press. So that’s why we kept her here. It was a national security issue. I didn’t want her true identity known to the doctors and nurses at this hospital. The explosion and the intended target, if the media got hold of the story, would have resulted in the biggest media coup for Islamists since 9/11. And that’s why we had to come up with this plan. The false identity. The British acting as go-betweens.”
Reznick sighed. “I want her moved. To an American hospital.”
“We had planned to move her in a week or so. But under the circumstances, you’re probably right.”
“Is she strong enough?”
“Her medical prognosis is better than it was twenty-four hours ago. She is now stable. I have authorization to put plans in place to transport her. American medical crews are waiting to fly her back. They’re at the airport. I’ve spoken to her doctor. He says there is a risk in moving her, but he also said there are always risks. He said as long as we had a full medical team on board, he’d sign off on it.”
“OK.”
“I want you to know that this is top secret. Highly, highly classified. We both know you don’t have the highest security clearance anymore. But I trust that you will treat this information as highly confidential, classified. You get the gist. I’m talking national security. Do you understand?”
“Get her home. Get her well. I want your word that what you’re saying is true.”
“You have my word. She’s flying home.”
“One last thing. Who knows about this?”
“
A handful of people. And I mean a handful. The President is being informed as we speak.”
“We’ll save the discussions about how this whole thing happened for another day. Can I assume your men are going to back off of me? And where’s my daughter?”
“She’s fine. She’s back in Cala San Vicente.” He smiled. “I think she’s a chip off the old block, Jon.”
Reznick turned and looked through the window at Martha before he fixed his gaze on Finsburg. “Are you traveling back on the plane?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m holding you personally responsible for her until she’s in an American hospital.”
“I can’t make any promises, Jon.”
“Make an exception for me, what do you say?”
Finsburg nodded. “OK. One final thing, Jon.” He handed him a business card embossed with the CIA seal. “Jeremiah Johnston is waiting for you.”
Thirty-Five
It was a short drive up the coast to a swanky townhouse in Puerto Pollensa, two blocks from the main drag.
Reznick followed an Agency guy called Ray into the townhouse and walked up a flight of stairs to a first-floor drawing room.
Jeremiah Johnston was sitting in an easy chair. He looked almost annoyed to see Reznick. He pointed to the sofa opposite.
Reznick sat down.
“You’re quite something, Jon,” he said. “Out of sight, actually.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve just finished a rather heated video conference call with the State Department people and Spanish intelligence.”
“That must’ve been fun.”
“Far from it. You know what they want to do with you?”
“I’ve got a good idea.”
“They want to grab you and get you on the next flight home. Physically remove you. You’re a problem. An irritant for them.” Johnston smirked. “I told them we tried that once already.”
Reznick said nothing.
“I’ve also spoken to my boss. He says to stick with you. Says you’re a means-to-an-end guy. That you’re a pain in the ass, but you’re also very creative about solving problems. Also said you’re a cold bastard.”
“Sounds like a bio from a dating website.”
Johnston gave a rueful smile.
“What’s your point, Jeremiah?”
“My point is we don’t want this turning into a war, Jon.”
“This is already a war. Except you guys at the Agency don’t realize it yet.”
“You have shared valuable, truly valuable, information with SIOC. I know you didn’t have to. But they in turn passed that on to us. So thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome. You want to get to the point?”
“I’m going to be honest. We’re still trying to get a handle on it. But we think we know who we’re facing.”
“Who?”
“Someone with a personal vendetta. Someone who wants blood. Your blood.”
Reznick stared at Johnston, wondering who the hell they were talking about.
“He wants you to suffer.”
Reznick realized Johnston was talking about the guy who’d broken into his hotel room. “The guy with the shades? You identified him?”
“We believe so. We believe he’s behind this whole goddamn thing.”
“Why are you telling me all this now?”
“We need you. You’re the ultimate target. And this guy wants you.” Johnston went over to the window and shut the blinds. He picked up a remote control on a table and switched on a huge TV on the wall. A surveillance photo appeared. It showed a good-looking, clean-cut white guy.
“Is this him?”
Johnston stared at the TV. “Just over five years ago, this guy, Adam Ford, a former Special Forces medic, and one of DC’s finest surgeons, hatched a plan to kill the President. You stopped him. Remember now?”
The memories came flooding back like a torrent. Flashing through his head like strobe lighting. The race to track down Ford, a long-range sniper who’d been chosen by a cabal to kill the previous president. But despite being under arrest and the plot having been foiled, Ford had managed to escape by the skin of his teeth.
Reznick had pursued him through the streets of New York on a motorcycle until Ford escaped into the waters off Jamaica, Queens, close to JFK.
“Yeah, I remember,” Reznick said.
“He’s still alive. And he wants to kill you. He wants to hurt you.”
“I thought he might’ve drowned.”
“No drowning. This is him.”
Reznick struggled to wrap his head around the whole thing. A ghost from the past. His past. “Why?”
“The Feds and a special team at Quantico, alongside our guys at Langley, are trying to figure it out. We believe Ford blames you for stopping him from achieving what he craved. Immortality. He wanted to be remembered for killing the President.”
“Bullshit.”
Johnston shook his head. “But first, he wanted to get to you by getting to someone you care about. Martha Meyerstein.”
Reznick sat in silence, numb, maybe even in shock.
“NSA has unearthed messages between Ford and a kid in Morocco. He groomed him.”
“Groomed in the sexual sense?”
“Perhaps. But mostly grooming him to help pull off his plan. Two years ago Ford made contact with this kid. Persuaded him that he was an Islamist too. Duped the kid into believing he wanted to kill infidels.”
“Seriously?”
Johnston nodded. “The guy is very charismatic, apparently.”
“So what was the kid’s involvement?”
“We think he swam underwater, then planted the bomb underneath the yacht.”
Reznick ran his hands through his hair. “In the name of Christ, how did we miss this?”
“False flag operation. Ford’s a very, very smart guy. He knew we’d bite on the Islamist link, and he used this kid to carry out the attack to reinforce that and conceal his identity. The body you discovered up in the hills? That was the Moroccan boy. He’d been decapitated.”
“Why would the sick fuck do that?”
“It’s probably Ford covering his tracks. We have now formally identified the boy and tracked his movements into Spain, possibly linking him with Ford. Ford’s a psychopath. A hugely intelligent psychopath. IQ off the scale, apparently.”
Reznick nodded. “That figures.”
“And he’s been outsmarting us all. It’s all been too fucking easy for him.”
“It fits with what he said on the phone. He knew me, knew Martha. And he bragged about the murders. This guy’s something else—”
Lauren. He’d also known Lauren.
“If this guy’s still on the island, my daughter—”
Johnston held up a hand. “We’ve got people watching her. She’s safe.”
“She’d better stay that way,” Reznick growled. “So where the hell is this guy?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Yeah, well, whatever you’re doing, you need to come up with a new plan fast.”
Johnston walked across to a framed picture hanging on the wall and lifted it up, revealing a wall safe. He entered a five-digit number, pulled open the safe, and brought out a cell phone. The CIA operative shut the safe, making sure to put the painting back in place. Then he handed Reznick the cell phone.
“Why are you giving me this? I’ve got a phone.”
“You were saying we should get a new plan. Well, this is it. This is a specially modified phone. Calls to your daughter’s FBI number will reroute here.”
Reznick stared at Johnston.
“You know what I’m talking about?”
“You want to use me as bait to get Ford, right?”
“Nothing personal, Jon. It’s business, right?”
Thirty-Six
It was dark when Ford checked into the junior suite. The room was located on the top floor of a small boutique hotel in the upscale town of Port de Sóller, nestled
on the north coast of Mallorca. The hotel was one block from the sea. And it was quiet. The whole town was quiet. Perfect.
Ford had sensed it was time to move from the villa. He had been listening in to Civil Guard radio frequencies on his scanner as they scoured the area only a mile or so away. He could see it was a dragnet, and the Spanish cops had begun to throw resources at uncovering where he lived.
He had anticipated all this. His contingency plan was already in place. After his hour-long drive from his hideaway in the mountains, Ford pulled up outside his new hotel and headed inside. He showed a fake American passport at the reception desk. The guy checked the details, entered them in the computer, and welcomed him to the hotel. It was almost too easy. He poured himself a glass of chilled white wine and picked up his laptop from his bag.
Ford stepped out onto the terrace. He sat down on a leather chair and placed the glass of Chablis on the table.
He opened up the laptop and logged on to an encrypted website that allowed him to remotely watch everything in the villa he’d just left, no matter where he was. The motion sensors, with night vision capabilities, would be activated if anyone approached or breached the property. He checked the garage, the bathroom, dozens of cameras. Even the car outside his garage was rigged to sense movement.
Ford picked up the wine and took a long sip. He smiled and put down the glass. His gaze was drawn to the hotel’s underwater-lit outdoor pool, where a British family was enjoying some family fun. Laughing. Splashing. Throwing each other around. He thought of his own mother and father. His father was a lawyer. Solid. The sacrifices he had made so Ford could attend medical school at Yale were astronomical. The punishing hours his father had worked so his son could get the very best education, from elite private schools to the Ivy League college. His father had been proud of the accolades Ford had earned working at the Red Cross in war zones across the world. Of his time as a Special Forces medic in Afghanistan and Iraq. And then, the plaudits as he became a renowned surgeon.
To Ford, none of it meant a damn. He didn’t want to be respected. He didn’t want a family. He hated family life. He enjoyed solitude. Listening to his own breathing. Thinking of his own concerns. Not having to accommodate anyone or anything. He only wanted people to remember him for a long, long time. He wanted immortality. But Reznick had stolen that from him.