Hard Road (18 page)

Wesley sat down opposite Lance as the maître d' gave a respectful nod and handed him the menu.

“The waiter will be over to take your order in a few minutes, sir.”

“Very good,” Wesley said, as the maître d' disappeared into the melee of the restaurant.

Lance stopped speaking in mid-sentence and shot him a dirty look. “I'm sorry to cut short this conversation, Frank, but an old friend of mine has just turned up right this moment. Do you mind awfully if we catch up later today, is that OK?” He waited for a few moments and then said, “Frank, great idea. I'll see you then.” He ended the call and put down his cell phone beside the half-finished glass of white wine. Then he leaned forward and Wesley smelled the drink and smoke on his breath. “What in God's name do you think you're doing here? I thought I had made my position clear.”

Wesley smiled. “Good to see you too, Lance.”

“Who told you I'd be here? It sure as hell wouldn't be my staff.”

“Your itinerary on your phone laid out what you're doing for the next three months.”

“Have you hacked into my phone?”

Wesley sighed. “You weren't listening to me, so I knew I needed to speak to you face-to-face. So, here I am.”

An awkward silence opened up before a waiter approached their table and asked to take their orders. Wesley asked for a bottle of mineral water with two glasses, while Lance told the waiter that they weren't quite ready to order lunch and to come back in ten minutes.

When the waiter was out of earshot, Lance leaned forward. “I've a good mind to report you for this. You'd never work again. You'd be banged up for fucking years.”

“Lance, does Christine know about this lunch with one of your Harvard interns?”

Lance took a long sip of his wine and smiled. “Is that what this is about? You're blackmailing me?”

“Absolutely not. But I feel like I'm banging my head up against a brick wall time after time on this. This is too important.”

The waiter returned with two glasses and a large bottle of Evian. He poured the water into the two glasses and gave a respectful nod, before he left them to it.

“Look, I'm not interested in what you've got to say. Have you got that?”

Wesley shifted in his seat and his foot knocked into something. He looked under the table and saw it was Lance's briefcase. He took a sip of cool water. “Lance, how long have I known you?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Look, what does it matter how long I've known you?”

“It matters because you know that I do things right, and I always do the right thing. You wanna cut me some slack?”

“Look, I'm sorry what happened to you. Really I am. But I'm not the person who can help you with this. What it sounds like you've got is classified. We'd be breaking the law.”

Wesley reached under the table and out of sight, pulled the tiny blue i-Pod shuffle with white earpieces out of his jacket pocket. Then he opened up the briefcase and dropped it in.

“What did you do there?” Lance asked, glancing under the table.

“Check your bag. There's an iPod. Listen to track one.”

Lance shrugged. “You better take it out right now.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Do you hear me? If I listened to what you have obtained, that would mean–”

“Take it, and I'll be out of your face. I promise.”

Lance let out a long sigh and finished the rest of his glass of wine. “OK, let's for argument's sake say that I agree. What does it contain?”

“It lasts about three minutes. It's been cleaned up. Digitally remastered, if you like.”

“Why me?”

Wesley leaned forward, hands on table. “You have the clout. Pure and simple. I've tried and I got nowhere. I don't know where else I can turn.” He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “I think once you know the identities of the people on the conversation, you will call in the specialists at the NSA or FBI to try and decode the covert message it contains. On the surface, the message is undetectable. Which points to a highly sophisticated operation. And I'm convinced we're talking about an attack on America.”

“OK. Let's be clear on this. I'll listen to it. But I'm only doing this because what you're saying concerns me. I care passionately about this country.”

“And I respect that, Lance.”

“But I want to be clear that I can't guarantee anything. I will listen to this when I get back to my office, and then I'll call you.”

Wesley finished the rest of the water. “That's all I wanted, Lance. I appreciate that.”

The waiter returned and poured out more wine. Lance waited until the waiter had finished and was out of earshot. “Who else knows about this?”

“Me, you and an inspector general at the NSA.”

He went quiet for a few moments before looking towards the revolving doors and giving a small wave to a stunningly attractive twenty-something blonde intern. Then he fixed his gaze on Wesley. “Leave this with me and I'll get back to you. But if anyone asks, I don't know anything about it, OK?”

Wesley knew when it was time to leave. He stood up and patted Lance on the shoulder like old friends do. “Appreciate that.”

Then he walked past the young woman who flashed a pearly smile before he headed out of the revolving doors into the harsh glare of the early-afternoon sun, knowing his old friend wouldn't let him down.

SEVENTEEN

Dark thoughts were starting to crowd Reznick's mind. He drove south along Alton Road heading away from North Bay Road in a BMW 650i convertible he'd taken from Merceron's huge garage in a state of flux. He was no nearer finding out where his daughter was. He felt empty, almost bereft as his anxiety mounted as the minutes ticked down. He hadn't felt this sense of detachment since Elisabeth died.

The problems were myriad.

He didn't know if the people who were holding her, perhaps Merceron's men, would keep their promise to kill her if he didn't deliver Luntz. He had to assume they would. He wondered how long it would take them to find out that Reznick had visited Merceron's house. He figured not very long. He had tied up the maid to some piping, attached to the basement hatch. And she would talk. The woman, he knew, would be discovered sooner rather than later. But that was more than could be said for his daughter.

She was still being held. And he knew Merceron was the key. Was it associates of his that were holding her captive? Was he under the control of Brewling and Norton & Weiss?

Reznick knew he was running out of leads to pursue. He felt increasingly isolated and angry at the sequence of events. And to compound matters, he had dropped off Maddox's radar for forty-eight hours without checking in, as he fought what was fast turning into a personal war in south Florida.

He needed help. Any kind of help.

The more he thought of it the more he was inclined to believe that only Maddox could provide the logistical help he needed. He figured that going it alone had only got him so far. He knew Maddox would find a way to get to a man like Merceron. That's what he did. That's all he did.

Reznick thought about it for a few moments. It was weird. He had never met Maddox. His voice was all he knew. It was a slightly detached, educated drawl. Maybe Louisiana. Maybe Florida. But he trusted him with his life.
With his life
. He more than anyone knew what made Reznick tick. It was as if he intuitively knew what he needed at any particular moment.

They were bonded by a mutual trust. Maddox trusted Reznick to get the job done. He assumed he knew all about his time in Delta. Probably what got him the gig. His mind flashed to the first call he received from Maddox on his cellphone. He remembered he was walking the beach outside Rockland late one summer evening. After a long silence on the line, the man he had never met opened up with the words, “
You don't know who I am, and you probably never will, but that's of no importance. I'd like to talk about opportunities I may have for a man like you.”

The monotone delivery added to an unsettling effect. Reznick listened as Maddox went on to outline the critical job Reznick could do on
special
jobs. “
Off-piste”,
as he described it. Stuff that wasn't “
on the grid”
. He said he would be the point man. And everything would come through him. Then he gave Reznick twenty-four hours to think about it.

He mulled it over and considered his options. His life at that point was a mess. He was drinking way too much and was considering leaving Delta. But suddenly, a shadowy new world opened up to him. A world of false passports, false identities, fake IDs and synthetic suicides. A world of surveillance and shootings. The more he did the less he felt. He got a call, he did the job. No questions asked. And the money was great.

He worked it out that, on average, he had to wait six weeks for a job. In between he kept himself super-fit. He ran with rucksacks loaded down with stones, swam in the sea until he turned blue and kept himself in fighting shape. He read historical biographies, researched the American civil war and became fascinated by Gettysburg, but most of the time, he just sat and stared out to sea, thinking of the old days. He didn't sleep much, plagued by recurring nightmares. The one thing he looked forward to was keeping in touch with Lauren using FaceTime, a video calling software, which he used with his MacBook. It was reassuring to see her beautiful face, smiling back at him from the safety of her study bedroom at the school. It was only for a few minutes at a time, as he didn't want to intrude too much. He wanted to keep that distance. But sometimes, if he found himself at a loose end and with the dark moods returning, he more often than not headed into town where he drowned himself in whisky and beer, before walking back home alone. He usually drank alone. When he did bump into friends he once knew, it was awkward. They had become like strangers. Forced bonhomie. It was as if they sensed he wasn't all he said he was. As if they knew he wasn't opening up.

The sounds of loud hip-hop from a passing jazzed up pimp mobile snapped Reznick out of his reverie. He knew he had to make the call. He punched in Maddox's number from memory.

Maddox answered on the second ring. “Who is this?” He hadn't recognised the number.

“Who do you think?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Miami.”

“I don't believe this. I gave you a simple job. We now have five dead. The Feds are after you and the target is missing. Reznick, I know what this is about. I heard about Lauren and her grandmother. I'm sorry, Reznick, for that. But you have a job to do. You need to bring in the target in the next hour. Do you understand?”

“That might be tricky, Maddox. And it's six dead. I just shot a guy half an hour ago.”

“Reznick, we need to draw a line under the whole thing. Look, I'm glad you finally called. We can help you get Lauren. Make no mistake about that. But you need to bring in the target. We'll work this out.”

Reznick said nothing.

“There's something you need to know about the guy you were supposed to take down.”

“What about him?”

“Did some checking of my own. The IDF dog tag is bullshit. His name is not Luntz.”

“What?”

“We've been played. All of us. Our communication was compromised, you were right on that. But there is no such person as Luntz. He doesn't exist. He played you. He played us.”

Reznick's tired mind tried to keep up.

“This guy runs a private bank which deals exclusively with the rulers of Saudi Arabia. He has tried to conceal the financial trail for 9/11. He tried to cover the tracks of the hijackers. And that's why his number is up.”

Reznick felt as if an oncoming truck had hit him. His mind flashed images of the falling towers and the dust cloud. Free fall speed. “He came up with a credible story. How did you get this information?”

“I've said enough.”

He felt sick. How was this possible?

“We need to bring him in, Jon. There are other elements at work. We need closure on this today.”

“I need to think of my daughter. How does she fit into this?”

“Reznick, as far as we can ascertain, they have your daughter somewhere in south Florida, I'm hearing near Key West, but they just want to get this guy back and get him out the country. Those on high in a foreign government are protecting him. We can't allow them to succeed, Reznick. We need to get rid of this guy.”

Reznick pulled up at a red light, car idling. His mind was struggling to take it all in. He felt conflicted. He didn't know what to believe. “Key West?”

“Here's what I propose. Hand the scientist over, and I will negotiate with these guys, to get your daughter back.”

“Look, I don't know what the hell has gone down here, Maddox, but I feel like I'm closing in on them.”

“Reznick, you need to focus. You can't go out on a limb. You can't do this by yourself. Look, I've flown down to Miami. Do you know The Tides on Ocean Drive?”

“I've heard of it.”

“Let's meet up and we can run through our options. You call the shots how you think we go about getting your daughter back. But you need backup, Reznick, don't you see that? You need logistics. One man can't do this alone.”

Reznick was beset by doubts. He knew he was close. Merceron was the key. But the contradictory information Reznick had been dealt made him fear the worst for Lauren. He was bombing around Miami trying to get a lead. Now Maddox and his team seemed to have got Key West in their sights. Was it really possible that Luntz had pulled the wool over his eyes? Was Luntz really a shadowy banker who had concealed the 9/11 money trail? None of it made any sense.