HARD WIRED

J.B. TURNER

Published by J.B. Turner

Copyright © J.B. Turner, 2015

e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

PRAISE FOR JB TURNER

"J.B. Turner knows how to put together a great thriller…‌a great addition to the thriller genre, with all the necessary ingredients required to deliver the goods: tension, drama, thrills and a cast of tough, no-nonsense characters."

Shots Magazine

"Turner has written a book which combines the paranoid conspiracy of Three Days of the Condor with the relentless action of the Reacher thrillers."

Crime Fiction Lover

“JB Turner has really done it…‌A sensational story.”

Tracey Lampley, Book Mistress

“Powerful mix of politics, corruption, soap opera, racism, terrorism and sexism.”

Eurocrime

“A high-octane tale of international intrigue.”

Daily Record

“This is a top class thriller – it ticks all the boxes of the genre: high-stakes plot, fast paced action, intriguing political conundrums – all of which combine to make it a real page turner.”

Mark Gartside, Author of What Will Survive

“This book pulls no punches. Every action or inaction adds to a chain of events that keeps on gathering pace. This is a hard-nosed investigative thriller that left me wanting more.”

Tony's Thoughts Book Blog

“Well plotted and paced, with an engaging cast thrust into believable circumstances…it looks to be a cracking series.”

Oz Noir

“The deeper you get into the story, the web of secrets, lies and cover ups and their reveals builds tension and adds drama…‌A great addition to any crime fiction fans bookshelves.”

Bookshelf Butterfly

ONE

The call came as night fell.

Jon Reznick was standing on the Rockland breakwater as the lighthouse swept over the dark waters of Penobscot Bay. The waves crashed off the granite breakwater slabs, sending cold spray into the air. He wondered who was calling at that time of the evening. His cellphone number was known to only a handful of people. When he finally answered, the voice on the line was a whisper. It had a sense of urgency about it.

“Who’s this?” Reznick said.

Deep breathing down the line.

Reznick was about to end the call. But then the voice rasped angrily to life.

“It’s Tiny, man…You getting this?”

Reznick’s blood ran cold. He recognized the voice as that of an old Delta buddy. Charles “Tiny” Burns.

“I’m checking out, Jon.”

Reznick could make out sirens in the background. “Checking out? What the hell’s happened?”

“I’m trapped.”

Reznick began to pace the breakwater. “Shit…Where?”

“Goddamn car…‌Miami.”

“Christ.”

“Bleedin’ out everywhere, man.”

Reznick closed his eyes. “I’ll call 911.”

“Paramedics are here.”

“You’re gonna hang in there, do you understand?”

Tiny moaned and gasped as if trying to catch his breath.

Reznick pressed the cell tight to his ear. “Goddamn Charles, do you hear me?”

“Jon…‌not gonna make it. I’m goin’ down.”

“Charles,” Reznick said, raising his voice, “you’re not checking out on us yet.”

The sirens grew louder down the line amid the gasps and sobs. “Goin’ cold. Real fucking cold, man.”

“Charles, where’s your wife?”

“Too late, man…”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s gone. Wife and my boy…‌Blood everywhere, man.” He began to sob hard down the line.

Reznick’s mind flashed up terrible images.

“Cold. So goddamn cold, Jon. Can’t feel anything, man.”

“You will not fucking die on me, do you hear me? You will not fucking die on me!”

“Listen Jon…‌you need to know.”

“Don’t talk.”

“I have to, man. You need to know…”

Reznick closed his eyes. “Need to know what?”

A beat. “They got me.”

“What?”

“Yeah…‌Be careful, man. They’re gonna kill us all…”

• • •

The last moments of Charles “Tiny” Burns’ life were played out in a mangled wreck on I-95 in downtown Miami amid the skyscrapers and residential towers. According to eyewitnesses, his car had flipped over after losing complete control. Paramedics arrived on the scene after two minutes. There was nothing they could do. Major trauma to the heart, lungs and liver, a broken spine and two broken legs. His wife in the passenger seat and kid in the back were both killed outright as the car careered into oncoming traffic, killing an elderly driver.

Within the hour, the story had made the Metro section of the Miami Herald website which described the crash in graphic details. They quoted unnamed police sources saying the driver might have fallen asleep at the wheel.

The following day, the Herald reported that officers close to the investigation cited the driver’s “mental health issues”, which may have contributed to this terrible crash.

The drip drip drip of stories continued for five consecutive days. And they covered everything there was to know about the former Ranger and Delta Force operator who was dubbed “a good guy, but troubled” by unnamed former colleagues.

The newspapers and local cable channels were building up a picture of a veteran who was having difficulties integrating back into society. They interviewed his neighbors in the low rent Overtown area, just north of downtown Miami. And they pieced together in gruesome detail the final moments of Tiny’s life.

They seemed to have the whole story. Everything, apart from the final call he had made to Jon Reznick.

• • •

A week after the crash, under a perfect blue Miami sky, Reznick stood on the periphery of the group of mourners at the Burns’ graveside, where the funeral of Tiny, his wife Lanelle and their eight-year-old son John was commencing. Tiny’s family and friends held each other tight for comfort and support. Tears spilled down the mourners faces as a few began to sob openly. It took six big guys to carry Tiny’s coffin, while there was a smaller coffin for his wife and a child-size coffin for his son.

The minister dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as the coffins were lowered into the three plots. Then he read some passages from the Bible and talked of the man who had fought for his country. He didn’t mention Tiny living in some shitty trailer in Delray after a temporary split from his wife. No one heard about working the doors of dangerous nightclubs and bars across Miami. The relentless grind of making ends meet. No one gave a damn about what happened after he returned home. That’s just the way it was.

The harsh sun beat down on the mourners. Reznick’s mind drifted. He replayed Tiny’s final call to him over and over in his head. The sound of his voice. The desperation. But most of all what did he mean by They’re gonna kill us all?

The words had plagued him. And he had thought of little else in the days following the crash. None of it made any sense.

His gaze wandered round the seventy or eighty mourners. Standing on the far side of the cemetery from Reznick was a fair-haired guy wearing a navy blue suit, sharp white shirt and black tie, eyes darting back and forth amongst the mourners.

Reznick recognized the profile as being that of Pete Dorfman, a Delta operator from way back.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister said.

Reznick stepped forward and stared into the grave as close family threw handfuls of earth onto the coffins. The minister brought the funeral service to an end. The mourners hung around, shaking hands and exchanging commiserations and hugs. Then as they drifted out of the cemetery, he caught the eye of Dorfman, who smiled.

“Long time no see, Jon,” he said.

Reznick shook Dorfman’s hand. “Yeah.”

“Think everyone’s heading down to the Deuce for a drink. In South Beach, where Tiny used to work. How does that sound?”

Reznick nodded. “Meet up in an hour?” he said.

• • •

The Deuce was a windowless dive. Inside was a horseshoe-shaped bar with a pink neon-lit sign flashing on and off. A Ramones song was playing full blast as Reznick and some of the others filed in. It was hardly a typical after-funeral function.

A few disheveled barflies looked up from their drinks. Some of the close family friends and relatives along with members of Tiny’s church were looking a bit bewildered to be in such a place. Reznick shook hands and was introduced to a few. He offered his condolences and was offered a Scotch from Tiny’s brother-in-law, an ex-Marine. He knocked it back, the warm liquid burning his insides. It felt good. He drifted away from the group.

Reznick noticed Dorfman sitting by himself in a corner near the pool table. He went to the bar and bought a couple of cold Heinekens, before he went over and joined him.

“Good to see you, man,” Dorfman said, taking the beer gratefully.

Reznick sat down and took a long gulp of the beer. He looked at Dorfman who had tears in his eyes. He clinked his bottle of Heineken against Dorfman’s. “You alright?”

Dorfman nodded. “Nothing some liquor won’t cure.”

Reznick smiled.

Dorfman nursed his bottle of beer for a few minutes before they began to talk. First small talk. The atrocious heatwave engulfing the south. They moved on to the old days. About the Delta crew they’d known and served with. But more than anything, they talked of Tiny.

“Goddamn, man,” Dorfman said, “why the hell didn’t we keep in touch?”

Reznick took another gulp of beer. “Never seem to find the time.”

Dorfman sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. “Tiny worked in here a lot of the time,” he said.

Reznick nodded.

“So, must be eight years, maybe more, Jon.”

Reznick finished his beer. “Yeah, must be. What you been doing?”

Dorfman edged closer. “Close protection, mostly. Consultancy.”

Reznick nodded.

“VIPs, that kind of stuff. Last one…‌some rapper asshole. Had to go on tour with the fuck for three straight months.”

Reznick leaned in close. “Lucky you.”

Dorfman gave a rueful smile. “Paid well and we stayed in fancy hotels across Europe. But the guy…” He shook his head. “Major league asshole.”

Reznick nodded.

“Spent half my time sitting at the next table as this guy and his dopey hangers on knocked back bottles of Krug and Grey Goose vodka, arms around some escort girls.”

Reznick ordered two more Heinekens from the barman who was wearing a Velvet Underground tee shirt. “Couldn’t imagine anything worse.”

“Yeah, pretty much what I was thinking about seven every morning when I got to my bed.”

Reznick paid for the beers and took a long gulp. “How did you hear about Tiny?”

“His cousin from New York called me.”

Reznick didn’t feel much like mentioning about the last call from Tiny. He looked over towards the other mourners, mixing with the hipsters, boozehounds, tourists, workmen and others filling up the bar. “Good turnout.”

Dorfman glanced round. “Yeah, popular guy.”

“Thought there might’ve been some more of the cadre.”

“We all went our separate ways, Jon. People lose touch.”

Reznick sipped some beer. “Yeah, I guess.”

Dorfman clenched his fist. “Good guy. Real good guy.”

Reznick drank the rest of his beer. “Damn straight.”

TWO

The sky had turned blood red when Reznick and Dorfman left the bar. They headed back to Reznick’s nearby hotel, went up to the Winter Haven’s roof terrace and kicked back with two more beers.

Reznick noticed a tremor in Dorfman’s hand as he gripped the bottle. They talked again of the Delta cadre. They talked of Mogadishu. They talked about the hellhole that was Iraq. Fallujah. Baquba. The Sunni Triangle. The whole mess. The deaths. The screaming widows. The sniper fire. Then they talked at length of Tiny.

The memories flooded back as they rolled back the years. As the evening wore on, Dorfman revealed he had served time in jail for a bar room brawl. Reznick wasn’t surprised. Anger boiling under the surface. He had been arrested numerous times for fighting in bars. Taking offence at imagined slights. Someone looking at him the wrong way.

Reznick listened as Dorfman talked. His wife Arlene had left him because of his drinking and he now lived with his eighty-year-old father in Fort Lauderdale. Dorfman got that faraway look in his eyes. He talked of flashbacks of ex-Delta operator Thomas Brading being mown down in Baghdad.

Reznick had seen countless Delta guys going the same way. The descent into darkness, struggling to contain the demons that had been unleashed by warfare. Withdrawing into themselves. Shutting themselves away from the outside world. Closing themselves off from loved ones.

Dorfman gazed off across the art deco rooftops towards the ocean. “Bad thoughts, all the time. Trouble sleeping.”

Reznick nodded.

“What can I say? Just the way it is. So, what about you?”

Reznick shrugged. “What about me?”

“What do you do?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Dorfman took a long hard look at him before he gulped down some more beer. “Man, you never change.”

Darkness fell over the beach and a gentle breeze blew in. Dorfman was getting drunk fast as the sound of bass-heavy music pumped out of cars headed along Ocean Drive below.

Dorfman glanced at his watch and looked at Reznick. “I better be hauling my ass back to Fort fucking Lauderdale.”

“Why not get a room here?”

Dorfman shook his head. “I’ll grab a cab. Stuff to do tomorrow.” He got unsteadily to his feet and hugged Reznick tight. “Good seeing you again, bro.”

“And you Pete.”

“Keep in touch. Only one Dorfman in Fort Lauderdale. Not difficult to find.”

Reznick watched from the roof terrace as Dorfman hailed a passing cab on Ocean Drive and was gone.

• • •

Reznick snatched a few hours sleep and was up just after four. He showered, got changed and caught a cab to the airport. He sat in the departure lounge ahead of the American Airlines red eye to New York, gulping down his second black coffee of the day. His mouth felt dry after the booze, but he was neither up nor down after the drinks with Dorfman. He always knew when to call it a night. But it was clear his old friend had been hitting the liquor hard for years. The tremor in the hand, the way he finished the beers in three or four gulps. He had seen it all before. Dorfman was a functioning alcoholic.

His thoughts turned to the visit to New York. He knew his daughter was staying in the city as part of a trip round the museums and galleries in Manhattan. And he was looking forward to surprising her by turning up unannounced at the Guggenheim and taking her for dinner.

His cellphone rang and he checked the caller ID. It was Dorfman.

“Jon,” Dorfman said, “sorry to bother you so early.”

“You okay?”

“No I’m not okay.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Where are you?”

“Airport. Why?”

“You need to get a copy of the Miami Herald, Jon.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

The line went dead and Reznick wondered what had gotten into Dorfman. He sounded even more agitated than he had the previous night. Reznick walked across to a News Express stand and bought a copy of that day’s Miami Herald.

Reznick stared at the photo on the front page long and hard. Staring back at him was a huge photo of Tiny, alongside his dead wife and child, with the headline:

Miami Death Crash Driver Drunk at Wheel.

It took a few moments to sink in. Then he began to feel angry. It began to build from deep within him. Raw anger until his head was swimming. He read the headline again.

Reznick shook his head. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. Tiny was barely in his grave. And they were already accusing him, the day after he was buried alongside his wife and kids, as being responsible for killing them.

His cellphone rang and he headed out of the shop.

“Jon,” Dorfman said, “you seen it?”

Reznick ran a hand through his hair as he glanced again at the front page. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“Jon, this doesn’t make any sense.”

Reznick closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”

“So what’s going on, man? It’s a flat out lie. No way. No fucking way.”

Reznick said nothing.

“On the once a year when we hang out, he’s on club soda or Diet Coke or some such shit. The guy did not drink. So what the hell are they writing a story like that for?”

Reznick knew that was correct. He tried to block out the loudspeaker announcement that his flight was boarding.

“I mean…‌what the fuck, Jon? How can they write that?”

Reznick speed-read the story for a third time. “Look, I need to catch a flight.”

Dorfman sighed.

Reznick felt as though his insides had been ripped out. And he knew Dorfman felt the same. He sensed his pain on the line.

“Tiny was a straight edge kind of guy.”

The second loudspeaker announcement.

“They’re not getting away with this.”

Reznick was silent.

“Jon, we need to sort this out.”

“I agree.”

Reznick focused again on the facts. He knew that Tiny had been teetotal. His father was a drinker. And that’s why he never touched the stuff. He thought of all the times Tiny had stood by his side during firefights. Hunkered down in back alleys. It was then that an idea began to form. “Tiny never left anyone behind. He was one of us to the end.”

“I know, Jon…‌I know.” Dorfman sighed down the line. “So what do you suggest? What can we do apart from call up the cops and tell them they’ve got it wrong?”

Reznick said nothing.

“Jon, don’t go on one of those silent things again, man. You know how much I hate that.”

Reznick picked up the paper and looked again at Tiny. He remembered the look in his eyes when they had to escape from Fallujah in the dead of night. “We deal with this the way we always deal with things, Pete, right?”

“So how do we do that in this case, huh?”

“We keep it in-house.”

Dorfman said nothing.

“Do you know what I’m saying?”

“Jon, where you headed with this?”

“I want you to do me a favor, Pete.”

Dorfman sighed long and hard. “What?”

“You know any guys who could access certain information?”

“You looking for a computer guy?”

“Yeah, a guy that knows how to gain entry to systems and networks.” Reznick closed his eyes for a moment as the plan began to formulate in his head. He thought of the story. There had been a police investigation. He needed to find out what they knew. All of it.

“Sure, I know people that have that skill set…‌absolutely. But I’ve got to say…”

“So are you going to help me?”

“Help you do what?”

Reznick went quiet for a few moments as a noisy family rushed past. He waited until they were out of earshot. “I want someone to hack into the Miami-Dade police computer system.”

Dorfman sighed long and hard down the line. “Leave this with me.”

Then he hung up.

THREE

Twenty minutes later, Dorfman was back on the line.

“This is how it’s gonna work. A friend of a friend uses him. He’s a private investigator and is fanatical about his security. And this investigator, he vouches for this guy. Cyber security expert, apparently. One of the best in America.”

“I need to know more about him.”

A long sigh. “This is what I know. This guy is ex-NSA.”

“Ex? As in fired?”

“As in, I can’t stand working for peanuts anymore and I want to earn some real money.”

“And he works out of Miami?”

Dorfman lowered his voice. “Here’s the thing. This guy is using technology that’s not even on the market. It’s not even at the research and development stage. He’s kinda out there, if you know what I mean.”

“Is he good?”

“Good? Are you kidding me?”

“What I mean is, can he gain entry to highly encrypted computers, without leaving a trace?”

“Jon, listen to me. This guy will get you anything you want. He’s dropped out of sight of the government. Likes to stay on the move.”

“So how do I call this guy?”

“You don’t.”

“What do you mean I don’t?”

“I mean you’ve got to speak to him in person.”

Reznick didn’t like the sound of the set-up. What kind of hacker wanted to meet in person? “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do I have to speak in person?”

“He doesn’t know you. And he’ll want to know that you’re serious about wanting this information and not some time waster.”

Reznick ignored the last call for the flight to New York. He should have been boarding that plane and meeting up with his daughter. But then he thought again of his old Delta buddy and his last words, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he needed to know more. He couldn’t let it lie as it stood.

“So I have to meet this guy in person?”

“The guy’s holding all the cards, man.”

“Okay, set it up.”

Dorfman sighed. “Sit tight. I’ll pass on your info to my intermediary, and then we can see what happens.”

• • •

The decision to change his plans at such short notice didn’t sit well with Reznick. He hated having to cancel a trip to see his daughter. He hadn’t seen her in months and he knew she missed him. But he also knew she was smart, resourceful and resilient and could cope with just about anything. He could see in her eyes the same steely determination he saw in her mother, his late wife. She seemed to internalize her doubts though, like Reznick himself.

He didn’t show himself to the world. That came from his father. He couldn’t abide histrionics. Reznick’s father thought a person was unhinged if they flapped about being late or forgetting items things from a shopping list. No one died, so what’s the problem? His father had hated the latter part of his life working in a soul-destroying job in a fish packing plant in Rockland. But he didn’t bitch about it. He just put on that same impassive face and got on with it.

His father had seen death close up in Vietnam. His friends with limbs blown off, dying in agony, screaming for their wives or sisters or mothers. So why the hell would he bleat about how crap his salary was, how shit his supervisor was? That was all bullshit. Reznick could remember his father philosophizing with him, when he was growing up. You suck it up, his father had said, and you move on. Deal with it. If you don’t like it, shut the fuck up, or have the balls to leave your job.

But his father couldn’t leave his job even though he wanted to. He needed to provide for Reznick. He needed to put food on the table. And he did. He brought up Reznick when his mother died, and Reznick had absorbed his mannerisms and matter-of-fact detachment from life. It made him ideal for Delta. He could switch off his emotions almost at will and focus on the task in hand.

The sound of a loudspeaker announcing that the gate was closing for the red eye to New York snapped him out of his brief reverie.

Reznick knew his daughter would be just fine in New York. And he liked that.

His thoughts turned to the mysterious hacker.

Reznick wanted to believe Tiny was innocent. He wanted to believe he wasn’t a drunk driver. Everything he knew told him his instincts were correct. But it couldn’t stop a nagging doubt that maybe he was getting himself involved in something he didn’t have to be a part of.

His father always told him only to get involved in a fight you knew you could win. But in this case, he didn’t know where the hell it would end up.

His thoughts darkened as he headed back into Miami and booked into a room at The Tides on Ocean Drive, just down from the Marriott. He booked in for a night, dropped his bag in the room and changed into a tee shirt, shorts and his running shoes. He took a bottle of water from the mini-bar and set out on a morning run.

Around the streets. Along the boardwalk, further away from South Beach, past the hotels and towers fringing the beach that headed away from the heart of the art deco district. He passed other runners and walkers, many of them middle-aged fat guys, red in the face, bathed in sweat. He took a long drink of the cool water.

The endorphins began to kick in and they washed through his body. He felt lighter. Sharper. Fitter. And happier.

On and on he ran as the sun burned his neck, listening to the sound of himself breathing in the sticky air.

Reznick returned to the hotel a couple of hours later after doing some cool down exercises on the beach. He retired to his room, showered and put on fresh clothes. Gray tee shirt, jeans and Rockports.

He lay back on the bed and felt himself drift away. He heard the sea and he was floating on cool blue waters. He was back in Maine, down in the cove, his daughter and his late wife splashing beside him. He tried to freeze the image in his head. But almost as soon as it was formed, it dissolved to tiny fragments, blown away in the breeze, replaced by Tiny’s voice. It echoed round the space. It seemed to bounce off the clouds. He thought again of the hopelessness in Tiny’s voice as if he had accepted his fate. The words played over and over. And reverberated in the darkest recesses of his mind.

He wondered what Tiny was getting at. Who was gonna kill us all? What made him say those particular words?

The beeping of his cellphone snapped him out of his deep sleep. Reznick took a few moments to come to. His room was dark. He checked his watch. 10:42 pm.

Then he leaned over and picked up his cellphone. He opened the message. Was this from the hacker? It read: People’s Bar BQ, Overtown, Miami. Ask for Barbara. Be alone. And no phone.

• • •

Reznick went through to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He took the SIM out of his cellphone and placed it alongside the phone in the hotel safe, alongside his gun. Then he went downstairs and hailed a yellow cab on Ocean Drive. The driver, a white guy wearing a Guns N’ Roses tee shirt, glanced in his rear-view mirror. “Where to, bro?”

“Overtown. You know it?”

The guy winced. “Overtown? Are you sure?” He smirked and shook his head. “You ever been there?”

“No.”

He pulled away. “Bro, you better be careful. Are you sure it’s Overtown?”

“People’s Bar BQ.”

“Yeah, that’s in Overtown. It’s a shithole, bro. Twenty-four carat shithole. Garbage dump for poor niggers. You know that?”

“You wanna just drive?”

The driver nodded. “Not a problem, bro. A lot of the guys wouldn’t take you there. But I ain’t afraid of those fucks.”

Reznick said nothing.

“You going for some late-night food or something else?”

“Just drive and we’re gonna get along just fine.”

“Got to warn you, bro, those fucks don’t value shit. Once dropped off a white kid who wanted to score some dope. Read about him in the papers three days later. Shot him in the head and dumped him in an alley. Overtown, man.”

The driver turned onto the MacArthur Causeway and drove fast across the bridge that linked South Beach with Miami. He didn’t say a word after Reznick didn’t engage in conversation.

Ten minutes later, the roads became more potholed; overgrown front yards, vacant lots, and darker streets. Streetlights broken. A few black kids shuffling around on the sidewalks.

The driver pulled up outside the People’s Bar BQ. He glanced around at the surrounding streets. “You want me to hang around, bro?”

“I’ll be fine. How much do I owe you?

“Thirty okay?”

The driver took the money and shook his head. “Be careful man. They’re fucking animals.”

Reznick stepped out of the cab and walked into the restaurant. The smell of spicy cooking and barbecued meats filled the smoky air. He sensed everyone in the restaurant was looking at him. He met each of their stares and everyone looked away, a few muttering under their breath.

A waitress came up to him. “Hey honey, you wanna take a seat?”

“I’m looking for Barbara.”

The girl smiled, curling some hair behind her ear. “Not a problem, honey. Just go through the back.”

Reznick headed through an alcove and into a side room. A small black twenty-something kid wearing a bandana was sitting on a ripped couch in the tiny staff room at the back of the restaurant. “You Barbara?”

“Only on the weekends, man.”

Reznick said nothing.

The kid cocked his head for them to go outside. Reznick followed him out a fire escape door and into a shithole alley. He said, “You’re not far. Three blocks from here, on the south-west corner of North-west Eighth Street and North-west Sixth Avenue, you’ll find what looks like an abandoned warehouse.”

“Who do I ask for?”

“That’s all I know. Take care. And I mean take care, man.”

The kid held out his hand and Reznick handed over a fifty-dollar bill. He winked and went back inside, leaving Reznick in the alley, trying to get his bearings.

He walked back down the alley and crossed over the street and headed away from the restaurant. He sensed he was being watched. Low-rise apartment blocks, an old black woman staring down at him from her open window. He looked up. The woman smiled down. “God be with you, son,” she said, as she shut her window.

Deeper into Overtown, past abandoned lots, boarded up shops. A car slowed down and a black guy shouted, “You want some coke, man?”

Reznick ignored him and kept on walking as the driver did a sharp turn in the street and blocked his path. The passenger jumped out and walked up to Reznick.

“I don’t like people ignoring me, do you understand?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Reznick saw the driver grinning.

The passenger pressed his face in Reznick’s. His breath smelled of liquor.

Reznick brushed past the guy and walked on.

“What the fuck you doing, man?” he shouted.

Reznick walked on. The passenger caught up with him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a knife. He swiveled round, pushed the knife arm away and kicked the kid hard in the balls. He fell face first onto the ground.

Reznick picked up the knife and threw it into an overgrown yard. He then kicked the guy hard in the head. He was out cold. He turned away as the driver skidded away at high speed.

Reznick left the man lying unconscious on the ground and walked the remaining two blocks to the warehouse.

He turned into a badly lit street, broken glass and rubbish strewn on the sidewalk. Up ahead in front of the warehouse, the lights from a car flashed three times. He walked towards the car. A young white man stepped out with an airport-style wand scanner and ran it over Reznick’s arms, legs and torso.

“Clean,” he said, into a two-way metal radio.

The kid took out a key out of his pocket and opened a box attached to the wall. He pressed his thumb against a fingerprint identification scanner and an outer door of the warehouse opened. “Come with me,” he said.

Reznick followed the guy inside as the door slammed shut. Fluorescent blue lights came on automatically. Into a metal cage elevator and up four flights to the top floor. The elevator stopped and the kid pulled back the metal door. He nodded for Reznick to leave the elevator and shut the metal door after him.

Reznick’s gaze wandered round the space. As far as the eye could see was a loft-style apartment. Hardwood floors, white plasterboard walls, air-con ducts, jumbo TV screens showing CNN and Fox News. But right at the far end, at a huge desk overlooking the Miami River through tinted glass windows, was a thirty-something black guy wearing shorts, a white polo shirt and sneakers. An Apple computer sat on a pale wood desk in front of him.

He turned round and stared across at Reznick.

“What is this place?” said Reznick.

“My office.”

Reznick looked around.

“Bought it for twenty thousand dollars at auction. One of the benefits of rampant foreclosures.”

Reznick said nothing.

“You made it here in one piece. I’m impressed.”

“So you’re the guy I need to speak to?”

“Could be.”

Reznick walked over to him. “You mind me asking what you do for a living?”

“I’m in the information business for a price. I provide information to individuals, companies and voluntary groups, pro bono so to speak, if I like what they’re all about.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Nobody bothers me down here. Who the hell wants to hang out in Overtown?”

“You do.”

“Trust me, it’s shit. I grew up here. But the nice thing about it is, you’re left alone.”

“What about the gang bangers? Just encountered a couple a few minutes ago.”

“They’re pretty harmless. Went to school with them. They don’t bother me.”

“What about the cops or FBI?”

“What about them?”

“Can’t they trace your calls and stuff?”

“NSA recruited me straight out of MIT. I know how to mask what I’m doing. This warehouse doesn’t appear on any Google map. It officially doesn’t exist. Signal is jammed one hundred yards in all directions. Satellites can’t pick it up. Encryption I use will be getting used by the military in five years time, if they’re lucky.”

Reznick nodded.

The hacker pointed to a sofa adjacent to his desk. “Take a seat.”

Reznick walked over and sat down.

“Okay, I hear this is about a former Special Forces friend of yours. Sorry to hear about his accident. Read about it earlier. Said he was drunk as a skunk, right?”

“I don’t believe a word of it. That’s why I need your help.”

The guy cleared his throat. “What kind of help? I need you to be more specific.”

“I need original toxicology, traffic accident and forensics reports on the death of Charles Burns.”

The guy nodded. “Interesting.”

Reznick remembered a name from the Herald article. “Sergeant Francis O’Brien. He’s the chief investigator for traffic accidents at Miami-Dade.”

The hacker swiveled round in his seat and faced the huge screen. He tapped some keys and within a few seconds, lines of indecipherable programming code were displayed. Ten minutes later, the Miami-Dade Police computer had been accessed. “Voila.”

He tapped a few more keys and scanned the names on the monitor.

“Got the toxicology report from the police lab.”

Reznick got up from the sofa and stared at the screen. “Son of a bitch.”

The hacker printed it out and handed it over to Reznick.

Reznick scanned it double quick time. “I don’t understand. It says his alcohol count is three times the legal limit. That doesn’t square with what I know about my friend.”

The guy tapped some more keys. “I’ll see what else we can find.” A few minutes later. “Something else concerning your former friend. Two items.”

Reznick leaned forward and stared at the screen.

“Looks like the main report from the investigating officer,” said the hacker. “And another from Rheinhart Traffic Forensics.”

“You got that already?” said Reznick.

The hacker continued tapping keys and the printer on his desk began to print O’Brien’s report. Moments later, he handed over the nine pages.

Reznick sat back down and read the report from O’Brien. It concluded that it was “reasonable to assume” that Charles Burns had been distracted or had in some way contributed to this traffic accident because of his intoxication, hence no skid marks.

Reznick felt sick. His buddy was getting blamed for his own death and that of his wife and kid. It stuck in his throat.

The hacker printed off the full forensics report on the car. It gave the Mercedes a clean bill of health.

Reznick shook his head. “Is that everything?”

The hacker gulped some coffee from a Dolphins mug. “One final thing. It’s an addendum to the report.”

“But not in the forensics report?”

“Not as such. But it’s here on their files.” The hacker printed off the addendum to the report and Reznick looked through it. On the final page there was a picture of a circuit board and a close-up of a one and a half inch part which drew his attention. The implications took a few moments to sink in.

“What is it?” asked the hacker.

Reznick read the passage in the report. “The microchip transceiver (picture 1.1) within a circuit board of the electronic control unit (picture 1.2) was a non-Mercedes part and produced by Frieveson Electronics in Arlington, Virginia.” He looked at the pictures again.

“What the frig does that mean?”

Reznick knew what it meant. Something was wrong. The part may have been inserted to improve performance. But he knew there could be a more sinister explanation. He folded the printouts and put them in his jacket pocket.

“Is that what you’re looking for man?”

“Maybe. You want your money just now?”

The hacker nodded and Reznick handed over one thousand dollars in cash. “Nice doing business with you Jon.”

“How did you know my name?”

The hacker grinned. “I make it my business to know things. By the way, you want any other favors, don’t hesitate to contact me. Now I know you, you can reach me here.” He handed over a card with a cellphone number. “Night or day. Take care.”

With that, the hacker turned and faced the screen. Reznick headed to the elevator. Then he was escorted out of the warehouse and back into the stifling Miami night.

FOUR

The sun was low in the sky when Mohsen Sazegara spotted Pete Dorfman getting into his car at the Four Seasons in Palm Beach. He was watching from the front passenger seat of a SUV in the same parking lot. The tracking device had already been fitted to Dorfman’s car.

“Give him a minute’s head start,” he said to his brother Behzad before they pulled off.

A short while later, they were headed south on I-95. Mohsen checked the tracking device location on his iPad. “He’s half a mile ahead. Let’s just keep it nice and easy.”

Behzad nodded and reduced the speed to a steady sixty.

Mohsen checked the GPS of Dorfman’s car again and pointed to the Fort Lauderdale ramp. “Nice and easy.”

His cell rang. “Yeah, who’s this?”

“Just a courtesy call to see if you guys are okay.” It was their handler.

“Couldn’t be better.”

“You have a good night’s surveillance?”

“We’re fine. Don’t worry about us. What about the footage from the graveside?”

“Very interesting,” said the handler.

“How so?”

“It’s taken some time to analyze the whole footage. We’re one hundred per cent certain that the guy you are following is the correct guy.”

“Very much looking forward to acquainting ourselves with Mr. Dorfman.”

“All in good time.”

Behzad negotiated his way through the streets around an affluent Fort Lauderdale suburb. “Any intel on the target’s house?”

“The father is in the house, along with a Staffordshire bull terrier.”

Mohsen felt himself wince. He hated dogs. Especially vicious dogs. “We’ll deal with the dog. How are you monitoring the father?”

“We’ve already activated his cellphone and listening in. He’s watching some game show crap.”

“How very American.”

“Did the same with the target’s car.”

Mohsen smiled. He knew his handler would have remotely actively the built-in emergency and tracking security in the target’s SUV so they could listen in. “So what’s he’s saying?”

“He’s been called by his old friend, a certain Mr. R.”

Mohsen knew the handler was talking about the number one target of the mission. Jon Reznick. “Do you think he was there yesterday?”

“We’re still analyzing the cemetery footage, and there is one potential that fits the bill. He wore sunglasses and a dark suit, and he briefly chatted with Dorfman, but we didn’t pick up the conversation.”

“Not to worry. We’ll get to him.”

“Like I said. All in good time.”

Mohsen ended the call. The car hung back until the SUV was nearly out of sight. Then they followed it as it negotiated the streets of downtown Fort Lauderdale and on to a sketchy area on the periphery.

Up ahead the SUV pulled up outside a modest townhouse.

“Pull over,” he said to Behzad.

The car came to a stop.

Mohsen picked up the binoculars and watched as Dorfman got out of the SUV. “Okay, tell me about this guy’s habits.”

Behzad turned to face Mohsen and said, “He’s doing some security consultancy for a rapper named Getto. We’re not going to get too many chances with him.”

Mohsen watched as Dorfman turned the keys of his house and lights went on inside. “Okay, target is now inside.” He turned and looked at his brother. “What about girlfriends? Boyfriends?”

Behzad smiled. “Lives with his father. Divorce has hit him hard financially.”

Mohsen said nothing.

Behzad said, “Either way, the sooner he dies the better.”

FIVE

Reznick returned to his room at The Tides and slept for three hours. He awoke at 5:30 a.m. from a dream he couldn’t remember. He showered, then had room service bring up a breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee. He began to ponder the two pieces of information the hacker had managed to glean about Tiny’s death.

He had a toxicology report that showed his old Delta buddy was over the drunk-driving limit. He still didn’t believe that was possible. But the most troubling piece of information was the microchip transceiver that hadn’t been fitted by Mercedes.

He thought it over and wondered why the police didn’t include this in the final report, since the forensics company took the time to point it out. Instead, the chief investigator had focused on the alcohol count.

It was a red flag. At least for him. He was sure he knew what it meant.

He lay back on the bed for a few moments but his mind was racing.

Reznick looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. “Goddamn.” He sighed and punched in the number. He wanted to let Dorfman know. It rang three times before transferring to voicemail. “Hey Pete,” he said, “you wanna gimme a call? Speak later.”

His thoughts turned to Tiny and their time in Fallujah. Chaotic. Manic. Heightened senses. Adrenaline. Then suddenly, they were back home. Everyone getting hammered. Apart from Tiny. He didn’t like the taste, he said, to much mockery. He had confided in Reznick that his uncle used to force him to drink to show how tough and manly a boy he was. Tiny was only eleven. And from that moment, Tiny couldn’t drink, even if he wanted to.

Reznick had ended up having a fistfight with a fellow operator, Dan Murphy, who was making fun of Tiny for being sober. He remembered it as if it were yesterday.

Shaking his head, he got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Then he got a bottle of chilled water from the mini-bar and gulped it down, followed by a can of Coke. He felt better.

He headed round to a diner on 11th Street, diagonally opposite to the Miami Beach PD, and had a strong black coffee. He wondered if he shouldn’t have just headed up to New York. As if on cue, his cellphone vibrated. He checked the caller ID and saw it was his daughter.

“Hey honey,” Reznick said, “how are you?”

“Hi Dad, just thought I’d give you a call to see how you are.”

“I’m fine. More importantly, how are you?”

“I miss you.”

Reznick sighed. He felt bad for changing his plans. “I’ll visit soon, I promise. How’s school?”

She groaned. “Gimme a break, dad. Calculus. Geometry. What is that all about?”

“Who the hell knows? But I want you to work hard, got that?” Reznick was grateful that his daughter was lucky enough to be enjoying an excellent education at an all-girl’s boarding school in upstate New York. He had read her reports. She was a straight-A student for sure. And her teachers said she showed promise in science.

“Where are you?” she asked.

Reznick knew his cellphone had been encrypted so his location couldn’t be known to anyone but him and probably the NSA, but still. “Never you mind. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be out of range for a few days. But I’ll be back in touch by the weekend.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Love you honey. Gotta go.”

Reznick finished his coffee and went back to his hotel room, waiting for Dorfman to call back. He lay back on the bed and felt himself fall asleep.

• • •

It was night when Reznick came to in his darkened room. He got up and looked down to the neon-lit strip of Ocean Drive. Pimp mobiles, tourists, clubbers and the thumping bass of passing cars, filtering up to his room. In the distance, the moon shimmered on the black Atlantic Ocean.

He popped a couple of Dexedrine, opened a window and breathed in the warm night air. Heard the sound of breakers crashing over on the beach. He thought again of Tiny’s funeral. And he thought of Tiny being buried in the rock hard soil of a Miami graveyard, beside his wife and child.

The drugs were coursing through his veins.

He began to pace the room.

Reznick thought again of Tiny’s words. He felt frustrated knowing that something was not right. He began to weigh up options. He wondered why Dorfman hadn’t called. He called his number again. But there was no reply, just the voicemail.

So what now?

He switched on his TV to CNN, which was showing a car bombing in Peshawar. He looked at the mangled wreck on the TV, thinking of Tiny’s car crash.

At that moment an idea began to form.

Reznick picked up his cellphone and pulled up the number for Miami-Dade Police HQ on the Internet. He called the switchboard. “Looking for the address for the vehicle impoundments lot for traffic accidents for Miami-Dade, please. Got a parts delivery.”

“Who’s calling?” a woman asked.

“Broward Tow Trucks.”

“Try tomorrow morning, that’ll be your best option.”

“No can do. Need to get it across to them right now.”

A long sigh down the line. “Okay what have we here…‌you’re looking for NW Seventh Street between NW Third Avenue and NW Third Court.”

Reznick made a mental note and ended the call. He pulled up the Google map of the area and studied them, including the street view images. He wondered when he should make his move.

He found a late-night hardware store on nearby Alton Road. He bought wire cutters, field glasses, screwdriver, a knife and a knapsack.

Just after 1:40 a.m. he caught a cab at 14th Street and headed across town, a plan now in place.

Reznick got the Haitian cab driver – who’d spent the ride speaking non-stop into his cellphone – to stop outside a Publix all-night food mart and pharmacy in downtown Miami. He went into the shop and bought a Dolphins baseball cap and latex gloves, and put them in his knapsack. He got back in the cab and asked to be dropped off two blocks from the impoundment lot. He handed the driver fifty and told him to keep the change. The Haitian guy just shrugged, continued on with his phone conversation and drove away.

Reznick surveyed the scene. He saw the chain link fence surrounding the back of the building and low-rise apartments in a sketchy area near a busy road. He put on his baseball cap, pulled it down low and pulled on his gloves. As he approached, he could see cameras were strafing a huge floodlit lot with damaged and burned-out cars.

He scanned the area and didn’t see any foot patrols. He crept around the periphery for twenty yards. Then he saw it, at the far end of the lot – Tiny’s partially mangled car. He recognized it from his previous trip to Miami. The car’s front end, trunk and roof were all heavily caved in, blackened by smoke and fire.

Reznick figured he was about fifty yards from the vehicle, shrouded by foliage from palms and some oaks. He kneeled down, unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the wire cutters. He cut a yard-long vertical line in the wire and pulled open the chain link fence to make a bigger hole. Satisfied he had enough space to squeeze through, he put the wire cutters back in his bag and pulled out a screwdriver and his cellphone.

He scanned the area. The cameras were stationery. His current position was a blind spot. But he knew that by going through the fence and approaching the car, at least two of the cameras would spot him.

The sound of the nearby traffic was masking all noise.

Reznick crouched down low, squeezed through the gap and headed for the car. He pulled the screwdriver out of his knapsack and prized open the front passenger door. He switched on a penlight and pointed it around the interior. The smell of charred leather filled his nostrils.

He quietly shut the door and prized open the hood with a screwdriver.

He shone his penlight around the engine. His gaze fixed on a plastic fuse box on the driver’s side. He leaned across and pulled off the box’s cover. Then he unplugged the ECU connectors, unscrewed the bracket and removed the electronic control unit revealing a complex circuit board.

He saw a transreceiver lodged into one of the ports. He got out his cell and photographed it from different angles, getting the consignment number – THR4870303 – and serial number – 03938369504837498. He peered close and saw the name Frieveson Electronics, Arlington, Virginia, as confirmed in the forensics report.

Had Tiny placed this in his vehicle to boost performance? Or was there another reason?

The smell of cigarette smoke in the night air snapped Reznick out of his thoughts. Moments later, the sound of two men talking.

He let down the hood slowly and gently. He then crouched down and held his breath. He weighed his options and placed the penlight, cellphone and screwdriver in his knapsack. It was always better to get out while you could.

Reznick sucked some air into his lungs and padded across the lot, knapsack in hand. He squeezed through the gap in the chain link fence and disappeared into the night.

SIX

The sun flooded through the wooden blinds of FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein’s fifth floor office as she studied a terrorism briefing paper ahead of a closed intelligence session on Capitol Hill. When her desktop phone rang, she groaned and picked it up. She hated getting disturbed in the middle of work.

“Martha, you see what just dropped into our lap?” The voice on the line was that of her right-hand man, Special Agent Roy Stamper.

“This better be good, Roy, I’m up to my eyes in it.”

“You should brace yourself.”

“Why?”

“Reznick is back in business.”

Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and sighed. “What?”

“A break-in at a Miami-Dade impoundment lot in the middle of the night. And they have footage of him.”

“Are we sure about this?”

“Face recognition pulled out his image. Because of his past connection to us, it sent out a red flag in our system. I’ve just emailed the file over.”

Meyerstein pulled up the surveillance images on her laptop. Baseball cap pulled low, a knapsack on his back. It was Reznick. She could tell by the profile alone. “How long ago was this?”

“Five hours.”

“What do we know?”

“He left The Tides on Ocean Drive at 1:47 a.m. Then he caught a cab. Got photos of him buying wire cutters and a knife in a South Beach hardware store.”

“Why’s he in town?”

“Friend of his died. Delta operator for many years.”

“Name?”

“Charles Burns. Goes by the name Tiny.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment. “Give me a rundown. Salient facts only, please.”

“Charles Burns and his family were killed. He was DUI. Car was impounded after the fatal accident. Now we have Reznick breaking in. That’s the connection.”

“But why?”

“I’ve read the forensic and police reports myself. Slam dunk. Wife and kid killed in the car crash, as was he.”

“Where’s Reznick now?”

“He’s disappeared.”

Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and sighed. “What about cellphone tracking?”

“Nothing.”

Meyerstein stared at the image long and hard. What was Reznick up to?

“There’s more,” Stamper said snapping her back to the moment.

“Cut to the chase.”

“This is where it gets interesting. Miami-Dade is saying, strictly to FBI computer techs, that there was also a successful penetration of their network systems in the previous twenty-four hours.”

“Someone hacked the Miami-Dade Police Department?”

“Precisely.”

“You saying they’re linked?”

“This is Reznick we’re talking about.”

“What was accessed?”

“Forensic and investigator’s reports into the death of Charles Burns, Reznick’s buddy.”

Meyerstein felt a headache coming on. “What is Miami-Dade saying?”

“They’re not happy. It makes them look like fools. And they know that Reznick and the FBI are tight. They’re going to think he’s working for us.”

“Use your contacts. Smooth things over, Roy.”

“What about Reznick?”

“Find him. We need to know what this is all about. I can’t have people breaking into police impoundment lots, no matter who they are,. And I don’t care what help he’s given us. I won’t allow personal vendettas or obsessions.”

“Miami cops may think he’s gone rogue.”

Meyerstein stared out of her seventh floor window and sighed. “Maybe he has.”

Stamper said nothing.

Meyerstein’s cellphone rang. “Roy, I got someone else wanting to speak to me. Keep me in the loop.” She ended the call and picked up her iPhone, not recognizing the caller ID.

A long silence down the line. She sensed someone was there. “Who’s this?” she said.

“We need to talk.” It was Reznick.

Meyerstein got up from her seat, phone pressed tight to her ear. “Damn right we do. What the hell is going on?”

“You guys work fast.”

“Knock it off, Jon. What are you playing at?”

“Friend of mine died.”

“I know.”

“They said he was drunk.”

“And he was.”

Reznick sighed long and hard. “That is a lie.”

“Jon, you know how it works. The FBI can’t be getting involved in personal things that concern you. You might not like the findings, but they are what they are. I’m sorry, it’s just the way it is.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Listen to me. I appreciate you are feeling very sore and angry. That’s natural. Your friend was drunk whilst in charge of his vehicle, and killed his wife and kid. But what I can’t have is you, someone I call on from time to time, actively engaged in illegal activities. Breaking into an impoundment lot, hacking computers – I mean, what are you thinking? I’m assuming you were responsible for that network breach?”

“You done?”

“Yes, I’m done.”

“Two things. My friend did not drink. A drop did not pass his lips as an adult. He hated the stuff.”

“Stamper read over the police and forensic reports. Your friend was DUI.”

“It’s a lie.”

“Look Jon, you’re taking this personal.”

“Damn right I am. I believe that he was murdered…”

“Jon…‌please.”

“His car was tampered with. I need you to find out who Frieveson Electronics in Arlington are.”

“I can’t do that, Jon.”

“I need a favor. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Jon, I’m not going to do that. We have an arrangement.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“But it doesn’t involve personal obsessions.”

“Okay, I get the message. You don’t want to know.”

The line went dead.

SEVEN

Reznick’s mood was darkening just like the sky above Jacksonville in north Florida. He headed off I-95and found a diner nearby. He sat down in a corner booth overlooking the parking lot and ordered a coffee with pancakes smothered in maple syrup. He wolfed it down as he pondered his options. He felt pangs of anger after his chat with Meyerstein. He had been convinced she would help him.

Reznick gulped the rest of his coffee, enjoying the caffeine fix. He began to feel more focused.

The waitress went by and refilled his cup.

“Thank you,” he said.

“My pleasure, sir,” she said. “You just stopping by?”

“More or less.”

“You have a nice day,” she said, flashing him a pearly smile before she served the next table.

Reznick reached into his jacket pocket for some money to pay for the check and pulled out the business card the hacker in Overtown had given him. He quickly put it away and left a twenty dollar bill.

He went out into the parking lot and looked again at the card. Then he called the number. Three rings and the hacker answered.

“Don’t recognize this number, but I’m guessing I must know you.”

“I need a favor,” said Reznick.

“I don’t do favors. But I recognize that voice from yesterday, Jon.”

“I need your help again.”

“Cost you.”

The glare from the sun was fierce. Reznick shielded his eyes. “One thousand dollars cover it?”

“Maybe. But first…‌you need to transfer the money to my account.”

“Not a problem.”

“Man, I love your attitude. It’s so fucking refreshing. I need to get me some of what you’re taking, right?”

Reznick said nothing.

“What do you want?”

“I need everything you can on Frieveson Electronics in Arlington, Virginia. I also want you to try and trace the following consignment number and serial number on a transreceiver part.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Microchip used in a car’s computer.”

“We’re talking about your friend’s crash again, aren’t we?”

“Can you help me?”

“I like you, Jon. You’re clean nuts, that’s for sure. But I like you.”

Reznick gave the consignment and serial number.

“Gimme an hour. But before you get it, you transfer the money, right?”

A soft click signaled the end of their conversation.

A minute later Reznick received a message with the hacker’s bank details.

He headed inside to the diner’s bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him. Stubble on his face. He had always had an aversion to being unshaven, apart from when it was necessary for a job. But the look reminded him so much of his father, when drinking had taken hold. The same malevolent stare. The look that said he couldn’t give a shit if he lived or died.

He pulled out his cellphone, logged into his online banking and transferred the thousand dollars to the hacker’s account.

He left the diner, got in the rental car and headed north.

Just over an hour later, as he crossed into Georgia, his cell rang.

“Got something for you,” the hacker said.

“Yeah, what’ve you got?”

“A couple of interesting things.”

“Shoot.”

“The microchip in his car was part of a consignment of one thousand transreceivers which had to get special documentation and clearance from the State Department before they were exported.”

Reznick’s senses were all switched on. “I need more details about the shipment.”

“I’m going to find this out. But it’ll take another hour and another thousand.”

“You hustling me?”

“Gotta make a living, man. Do you want the information or not?”

“I’ll wire another thousand but that’s it. And I better get the information I’m looking for.”

“Wire the thousand and I’ll get your information by the close of business.”

EIGHT

Meyerstein stared out at the storm clouds rolling across the sky outside her seventh floor office in the Hoover building in DC, still troubled by the earlier call from Reznick. She had been trying to finish reading an update on the disappearance of a Doomsday Cult member but her thoughts were drifting back to the incident in Miami.

Her phone rang.

“Meyerstein,” she said, expecting to hear Roy Stamper on the other end.

“Martha, you wanna pop through?” The voice was that of the FBI’s Director.

Meyerstein’s heart sank. She knew what it would be about. “I’ll be right there, sir.”

She freshened up her make-up and fixed her hair before she left her office. As soon as she arrived at the Director’s office, his long-serving secretary ushered her in.

O’Donoghue was sitting behind a large teak desk. “Take a seat, Martha.”

Meyerstein sat down and smiled across at him.

“I don’t like surprises, you know,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite follow.”

“I just got off the phone from Senator Santos from Miami, and that was after a rather terse conference call with the Chief of Miami-Dade Police.”

Meyerstein inwardly braced herself, knowing what he was going to say.

“What the hell is going on down there, Martha? They’re thinking the FBI sent Reznick to break into their impoundment lot.”

Meyerstein knew that inter-agency rivalries meant that Reznick’s connection with the FBI would be used to score points. “Sir, I’d like to reassure you that…”

“I don’t want reassurances, Martha. I want answers. I want to know what the hell is going on. Is that asking too much?”

Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “This is what we know. A former Delta operator who’d served alongside Reznick, a guy called Charles ‘Tiny’ Burns, was killed in a car crash down in Miami. Wife and kid killed too. Accident investigation by Miami-Dade police showed he was DUI.” She sighed. “Reznick believes the car was tampered with and he broke into the impoundment lot. He called me…”

“He called you? Where the hell is he?”

“I don’t know. I told him he was being irrational. Upset at his friend’s death.”

“Questions are being asked, Martha. And I’m going to have to answer to this.”

“Sir, I’ll take the flak, if that’s what’s required.”

O’Donoghue sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll deal with that side of things. As of now, you need to focus on finding Reznick. I can’t have this guy careening around goddamn Miami or wherever he is. Miami-Dade has an APB out on Reznick. I want us to deliver him.”

Meyerstein nodded. “I’ll get a team together. We’ll work it out as we usually do.”

“What’s his next move?”

“This is Jon Reznick we’re talking about. Take your pick.”

“What’s he been doing the last few months?”

“Reznick?” Meyerstein shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on him.”

“Well you should. We need to know these things. If we have a relationship with him, Martha, we need to keep him in our back pocket.”

“I’ll find him. We’ve done it before. With Luntz in Miami.”

“Just find him. Dismissed.”

NINE

Reznick was sitting in a newly stolen car in a motel parking lot in North Carolina – just off I-95 – when his phone rang. The caller display was one he recognized.

“Mr. R, howya doin’?”

Reznick took a few moments to place the voice. “Overtown, right?”

“You got it. Listen, I wanted to give you a heads-up, man.”

“A heads-up on what?”

“Lot of radio chatter.”

“What?”

“People talking about you. Cops, Feds, you name it. They say you’re wanted.”

Reznick said nothing.

“They really got the hots for you.”

“No kidding.”

The hacker laughed. “Listen, don’t sweat it. But I think it’s only a matter of time before they get to you, man.”

“We’ll see.”

“Listen, I got something. Consignment details.”

“And?”

“Took a lot of digging around the State Department. But I got it.”

Reznick was getting impatient. “What?”

“You wanna know where the parts were destined for?”

“Look son, cut to the chase.”

“The chips were destined for Tehran.”

Reznick knew exactly what it meant. His mind began to race. “Are you sure?”

“A car factory in Tehran.”

Reznick could see it now. In that fleeting moment, he believed he knew what had happened and why. “Interesting.”

“You’re goddamn right it’s interesting. So how the hell did it get into your dead friend’s car?”

“Listen to me. You don’t mention this to anyone.”

“I got it.”

“Tell no one.”

“I hear you.”

“That’s us all square.”

“Pleasure doing business, man.”

“Wait.”

“You need anything else?”

Reznick said, “Maybe. But it would involve something that might attract heat on you.”

“I can look after myself. So what do you want?”

“I want you to find someone.”

“I’ll need five grand before I can move on anything else.”

“I’ll transfer three now and two when you deliver.”

“Cool. So who are you looking to find?”

“I want you to pinpoint someone but without leaving any electronic footprints.”

“I can do that.”

“This is sensitive. The person I need to speak to won’t be listed anywhere.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward.”

“She works for the FBI.”

A long silence opened up down the line. “This just got a helluva lot more interesting, Mr. R.”

“I’ve got a cellphone number,” said Reznick. “Now this number, I don’t want you to store the details anywhere. Can I trust you on that?”

“You’re the client. You get what you want. I’ve got a photographic memory anyway, which comes in helpful.”

“Okay, listen to me. This number…‌It’s DC, I’m sure of it. I want you to trace where the person that has this phone, resides.”

A long silence opened up before the hacker spoke. “You’re not gonna kill this person are you?”

“Shut up and listen.” Reznick gave the cellphone number he had imprinted on his brain.

“We’re rolling.”

“How long?”

“With normal technology it would only take a few minutes. But this is configured in a different way. It might take some time. Leave it with me.”

The kid hung up.

The first thing Reznick did was transfer the three thousand dollars to the hacker’s account.

Thirty minutes later, Reznick was headed north. He considered perhaps calling the hacker from a gas station further up the freeway to make sure he had got the money. But the kid might not like being disturbed.

He decided to keep on the move. He drove on in the stolen car for thirty miles before ditching the wheels and stealing a Nissan pick-up in a quiet residential street just off the freeway. It wouldn’t be until dawn that the owner discovered it missing.

Ten minutes later as he continued north along I-95, his cell rang.

Reznick said, “Yeah?”

“I’ve got the address.”

“Give it to me. Remember I don’t want this recorded anywhere.”

The hacker talked slowly as he gave the address to Reznick. “Hasn’t moved in three hours. Must be in the house. Residential area.”

“Good work.”

“Take care, man.”

TEN

The first tinges of a tangerine dawn appeared on the horizon as Reznick pulled up one block from the house in a tree-lined Bethesda street. He switched off the car’s lights and engine. Tiredness washed over him after the huge drive through the night. He stretched and popped a Dexedrine, washing it down with a can of warm Coke he’d picked up at an all-night diner en route.

His gaze wandered round the neighborhood. Large comfortable homes in one of Washington DC’s smartest suburbs. In the distance, he saw a pre-dawn jogger, head down, going in the opposite direction.

Over the years, Reznick had visited Bethesda more times than he cared to remember. And it was always to the same place. The Walter Reed National Military Center, which he knew as the Bethesda Naval Hospital.

He had lost count of the number of visits to Delta buddies who had been injured and were recuperating at the hospital. He remembered looking into the eyes of a guy he had served with. Jimmy ‘Mac’ McCulloch had lost his legs after an IED detonated on the outskirts of Fallujah. Tears had welled in Mac’s eyes when he saw Reznick again. They hadn’t talked for a few minutes. Reznick had just sat at his bedside, held his hand and said a silent prayer. It was as if both of them had known words were pointless. Empty.

There were others. Delta guys who had been shot up bad, bullets piercing necks, cheeks and God knows where. But each and every one of them faced their personal hell with a quiet courage. No histrionics.

The relatives and loved ones and wives and girlfriends were another matter entirely. He understood why. The man they’d married, the brother they’d grown up with, the son they’d raised – that person was gone. The gut-wrenching emotion spilled out each and every time they visited the hospital. The anguish. The pain. The personal hell and private suffering they bore.

Reznick had been one of the lucky ones. He had returned in one piece, no limbs missing. But something else was absent. Something that couldn’t be seen. Somewhere deep inside him, a part of his soul had died. Destroyed in the carnage and blood and filth and dirt of Iraq. He’d lost too many friends.

Reznick’s father had been the same. His war, Vietnam. Before, he had been outgoing liked a beer, and to fish and hunt at weekends. But when he returned, everyone noticed. The long silences. The days on end when he didn’t leave his bedroom. The days when he disappeared and drank himself unconscious. The time he pressed a gun to his mother’s head when she’d told him off for his drinking. It wasn’t his father. Not the father he knew. He had returned home broken, consumed by guilt at living when his friends had died. But time began to heal, and his father landed a job at a fish packing plant in Rockland. He hated the work. The drudgery. The shit money. The insecurity. But he did it because he had to.

Reznick admired him more for that than anything else. As a boy he had watched from his bedroom window as his father returned home from working overtime after a fourteen hour day, driving up the dirt road to their home. The car pulling to a halt, the tired look up at his son waiting for his return.

Even after his mother died, Reznick’s father didn’t buckle. He came close. But he never did. He took the pain, the emptiness and channeled it into his shitty job. When he had time, it was fishing and hunting with his son. Learning to gut rabbits. Hunt deer. Fish. Shoot. Reznick learned it all from his father. What it meant to be an honorable man.

The sound of a door slamming shut at the house across the street snapped Reznick out of his reverie. He watched as FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein emerged carrying a brown satchel and handbag.

She opened the passenger seat of her black SUV and put her bags in before walking around to open the driver’s door.

Reznick got out of the car and jogged down the street, slowing down to walk up to her as she opened her door.

Meyerstein spun round and clutched her chest in fright. “What the hell?”

Reznick couldn’t resist a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Meyerstein shut her door and stared at him. She clearly wasn’t amused. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“You don’t just turn up on someone’s doorstep. How the hell do you know where I live?”

“I need your help.”

Meyerstein gave a rueful smile. “You need my help? Jon Reznick needs my help? Do you know that the FBI are looking for you?”

“Well they found me.”

Meyerstein rolled her eyes. “Jon, I don’t know what is going on with you…”

“I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on with me. I need your help.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Jon…‌you’re not making this easy for me.”

“Listen. This is the second time I’ve asked for your help. I will not ask a third time, do you understand?”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“You needed my help before. Your scientist and the missing diplomat. I answered your call both times.”

“Are you saying I’m obligated to you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“That’s not the way it works between us Jon.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“You know damn well it doesn’t.”

Reznick looked away and shook his head. He had expected better from Meyerstein.

“Look, this matter with…”

Reznick turned round to face Meyerstein. “His name was Charles Burns, if you must know. I fought with him. I knew him as well as anyone. And I need your goddamn help.”

Meyerstein’s gaze fixed on him for a few moments. “I don’t think talking this over in the middle of a goddamn Bethesda street at the crack of dawn is the time or place, Jon, do you?”

“You wanna suggest somewhere else?”

Meyerstein sighed and looked at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the Director at nine and I need to prepare.”

Reznick took a long deep breath. “You know what? I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget it.” He turned and began to walk away towards the stolen car.

“Wait!” Meyerstein said.

Reznick stopped and turned around. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it from here.”

Meyerstein walked toward him. “I just don’t get you, Jon. Breaking into a secure police compound. Now you’re outside my home. My own house, where I live with my family. This is not good, Jon. You know there’s an APB out on you?”

“So arrest me.”

“I don’t want to arrest you.”

“Help me then.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment before she fixed her gaze on him. “You’ve got two minutes before I need to leave. And you’re on the clock. In the SUV now.”

Reznick followed Meyerstein to the SUV and got in the passenger seat. He turned to face Meyerstein. “Two main problems. Firstly, the car was going more than one hundred miles per hour and there was no skid marks.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“Secondly, I told you there was a transreceiver placed into the Mercedes car my friend drove before he died. I asked you to find out more about. But you refused. Right?”

Meyerstein nodded.

“Things have moved on. I’ve found they were to be used on a strict license for export.”

Meyerstein glanced at her watch. “One minute.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you the part was part of a batch destined exclusively for a foreign country?”

“So?”

“So, what if I said this foreign country was Iran?”

“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

“Here’s the thing. The transreceiver is the car’s brain if you like. And it is used in all cars. But sometimes they can be modified…‌”

“Modified in what way?”

“This part was one of a thousand perfectly legally exported to Tehran. Probably to be fitted on Iranian made cars. But I’ve inspected this one up close. It’s been modified.”

“Modified for what?”

“Modified for remote control assassinations involving cars.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Boston Brakes. Heard of it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“Radio controlled assassination. High end. Almost always by order from a government.”

ELEVEN

Just after midnight, on the West Coast, high up in the Hollywood Hills, Jerry Morlach stood beside his pool, smoking a Cuban cigar. He stared out over the lights of L.A. as the cars snaked along the freeway. He dragged heavily on the Cohiba, exhaling the smoke through his nose.

Morlach never tired of the vista. The relentless buzz of the city, day and night. A city in permanent flux. Incomers. Outsiders. Immigrants. Hustlers. Workers. Mexicans. Latinos. And the destitute. The poor. The gangs. The drive-bys. The shootings. The deaths. The constant movement. The fear that stopping still would render a person obsolete. The uber-rich on Rodeo Drive. The flash cars. West Hollywood. The bars. The clubs. The strip joints. Sunset. The paparazzi. The cool. The wannabes. The cops. The creeps.

He thought back to his early days in the city. In the country. Living hand to mouth. It was the late 1970s. He had nearly starved. By rights he should have curled up in a ball and just let the dogs chew on his bones. But he never did. He worked. Hard. He washed dishes at a shitty South Central diner. He hustled for dimes in the Valley. He washed cars. He washed windows. He was a valet. Then he got a job in the kitchens of the Beverley Hills Hilton. He washed more dishes. He worked his ass off. It was the American way. He got tips. He spoke perfect English. He went to night school to study accountancy. He was smart. And he learned quick. He learned that if you want to get on, you have to be prepared to step over people on the way up. Don’t stop to admire the view. Because it might not be there in the morning.

He had grown to love the city. The money helped. The house. The upscale neighbors. The privacy. The luxuries only wealth could buy.

The smart private schools for his children and grandchildren, the foreign holidays to Italy, skiing in the Alps, the chalet in Gstaad, the jet set friends. What was not to like?

But in truth, whilst the material wealth allowed him to enjoy his life, cocooned in luxury away from the smell of the streets – the sweat from immigrant labor, the stinking trash-strewn alleys – he felt empty. Bereft.

The emptiness had never left him. The soul couldn’t be nourished by money. Sure, it made things bearable. Pleasant even. But it never made him feel whole. He remembered the first time he could afford to bring his father over, three years before he’d died. His father had been afraid of the oppressive noise, the hustlers on the street.

His cellphone rang. Morlach expected it to be a producer looking for the green light for a new sci-fi blockbuster. But the caller ID was not one he recognized.

“Jerry,” the voice on the line said, “we’ve got an urgent financing request from people I’ve never met before.” The last five words were a signal he hadn’t heard for years.

Morlach took a few moments before he answered. “Do you require my signature?”

“Not at this stage. But we need you to look over the paperwork before it’s issued.”

Morlach dragged heavily on the cigar as the smoke filled his lungs. He knew exactly what they had in mind and his role. “When can I expect the documentation?”

“Within the next 24 hours.”

“Why the hurry?”

A long sigh. “We just want to ensure that we don’t have any last minute hitches and that everything is in place.”

Morlach said nothing.

“So if that seems like a realistic timescale, I’ll get the papers FedExed to you.”

“Make it my home address.”

“Very well.”

“And make sure the red wax seal is on it. Is that clear?”

“Got it.”

Then the caller hung up.

TWELVE

Reznick and Meyerstein were seated around a small table in a secure room at an FBI satellite office on the outskirts of DC, with two of Meyerstein’s most trusted Joint Terrorism Task Force analysts.

Meyerstein was taking notes and taking occasional sips of her coffee. It was going to be a long session.

The bull-necked man with a bushy mustache who identified himself as Neil Slattery from the Department of Homeland Security picked up an enlarged color photo of the transreceiver. “Okay, let’s get this thing rolling. Let’s assume for a minute, this part did come from a consignment for Iran.”

“Haven’t you established that yet for yourself?” said Reznick.

The man turned crimson. “Things take time, Jon. Firstly, I’d like to know how you know that these were shipped to Iran. And secondly how you know this one’s been modified.”

“Courtesy of the State Department. Plus a little expert knowledge from my previous profession.”

The man shifted in his seat. “Hang on, what do you mean courtesy of the State Department?”

“That’s all I’m prepared to say.”

“Are we talking hacking?”

Reznick said nothing.

Meyerstein sighed. “We’re going out on a limb for you here, Jon. We need to work together on this.”

Reznick shrugged. “Fine.”

Slattery cleared his throat. “We need to know who did this hack, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing.

“We need a name.”

“You’re not getting one.”

Slattery sighed. “Let’s move on. For now.”

Reznick nodded. “Whatever.”

“Suffice to say, any hint of Tehran is a red flag for us in intelligence. But what I’m unclear about is how this part could be used for malign purposes? This is a new one to me.”

Reznick looked around the table for a few moments. “Look, I need to know that what I say stays within these walls.”

“That’s a given, Jon,” said Meyerstein.

Reznick stared at her. “I also want a guarantee.”

“What sort of guarantee?”

“If I’m going to tell you a little bit about what I know and what I’ve done, you need to know that some of these operations were highly classified. Unacknowledged to this day. So I can’t go into details.”

“Jon,” said Meyerstein, “I trust everyone around this table, including you.”

Reznick nodded. “This is how I see it. My friend Charles Burns was assassinated. By remote control. Made to look like an accident. For you guys who work behind a desk, I’ll explain.

“The Boston Brakes method. It was devised by the CIA in Boston way back in the 1970s and has become more sophisticated over the years as technology has developed. It’s used by intelligence agencies across the world as a way of assassinating someone without leaving a trace. So on the surface it’s made to look like an accident. A blood test then shows the person was drunk. Just like Tiny.”

“How did you get hold of the police and forensic reports for Tiny’s accident?” asked Meyerstein.

“The same way I got hold of the State Department intel.”

“Have you carried out any Boston Brakes jobs?” said Slattery.

“Several. One in the UK, one in Brussels, one in Jerusalem, one in Libya.”

Meyerstein sighed.

“I’m not going to go over things I did for this country. This is not about me. This is about Charles Burns. It was a Brakes job. The transreceivers sent to Iran – a few would’ve been diverted, clearly against the export license, and modified for assassination. The transreceiver is fitted to the target’s car. When the target is driving, the transreceiver is activated and someone remotely takes control of the car. Crashes it at top speed and the target is killed. Autopsy report is falsified, perhaps by hackers. Everything points to a drunken and needless tragic death.”

Slattery blew out his cheeks. “That’s some story, Jon.”

Reznick threw the police report across the table to Slattery. “No mention of skid marks, and the photos afterwards don’t show any skid marks. Yet estimated speed at time of impact was over a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Tiny was teetotal. The non-Mercedes part fitted to the car. It all adds up to a remote controlled assassination.”

Meyerstein leaned over, picked up the report and flicked through it. “If someone, even if they are wrecked with alcohol, is trying to stop, there would be a skid mark as they tried to control things.”

A silence opened up around the table as everyone else stared at Meyerstein reading the report.

A nervous cough came from Special Agent Lionel Berryman, the FBI’s top Iranian expert and analyst, who had remained silent until now. “I encountered one such case a few years back,” he said. “We pinpointed a military link to the suspect.”

Reznick nodded. “That’s where this will come from – Special Forces. Elite. Very secretive.”

Lionel said, “But, if I can play devil’s advocate, there is no proof that this is what actually happened. If we are to run with this and take things further, we need more than what we have.”

“Okay,” said Meyerstein, “let’s kick some hypotheticals into play, Jon. Let’s just say for a minute that part of a consignment for Iran was modified by the intelligence services within Iran, and then diverted to their operatives in America for an assassination. Question is, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why Charles Burns?”

Reznick felt uncomfortable for the first time as the gazes of those around the table focused on him. “I’ve thought about that. There is a link.”

Meyerstein said, “Jon, I trust everyone in this room. No one is taking notes of what you’re saying. You’re free to say whatever you want.”

“I believe Charles was targeted. And yes, by Iranian operatives.”

“But why?”

Reznick felt ill at ease. He wondered how much he could say. Or even if he should say what he knew.

Meyerstein stared across at him. “Jon, we’re going out on a limb for you. You must trust that we will respect areas you would rather not dip into. But I think I speak for everyone round the table when I say that we would appreciate if you could open up for us. If you feel you have information that might be useful.”

Reznick sighed. “I think this is revenge.”

“Revenge? Revenge for what?”

Reznick took a good look at the faces round the table. Intense expressions from Meyerstein and the two analysts. But there were things Reznick knew that they didn’t. The sort of things that Pentagon generals knew, but were concealed from those lower down the chain. Compartmentalization. “Do you know the last time there was a successful Iranian assassination plot on American soil?”

Meyerstein said, “Yes I do. Early 1980s.”

“Absolutely. July 22, 1980 to be precise. An Iranian dissident Ali Akbar Tabatabai was gunned down.”

“Your friend wasn’t a dissident though,” said Meyerstein. “Why would they target him?”

Reznick took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “I believe this is retaliation…‌for an operation Charles Burns was part of, carried out six years ago.”

Meyerstein put down her pen. “Go on.”

“Charles ‘Tiny’ Burns was part of a team who tracked down and killed Iranian nuclear scientists.”

A silence opened up round the table.

Slattery asked, “How do you know that?”

“Because I was there. I led Charles and several other operators on these missions.”

THIRTEEN

Everyone went quiet as Meyerstein looked around the room. She fixed her gaze on Berryman. “Lionel, I don’t know anyone who knows more about Iranian machinations than you, you want to jump in here?”

Berryman scratched his chin with his thumbnail. “I think we’ve got to be careful that we don’t misinterpret things.”

Reznick said, “Misinterpret what?”

“What I mean is that we don’t add one plus one and make five. Just because this consignment went to Iran, it doesn’t mean Iranian Intelligence is involved. It could be a proxy.”

“True,” said Meyerstein. “It’s not the first time a government has been set up to look like the bad guy. False flag operations, you know the drill.”

Berryman nodded. “Absolutely. It’s important to keep an open mind.”

“Let’s look at the worst case scenario and work back from there,” continued Meyerstein. “Let’s say this was Iranian intelligence. Give me some analysis that I can work with.”

“Well, that would mean it’d come through the VEVAK, their Ministry of Intelligence and National Security. In the Shah’s day, they had the SAVAK. After the Revolution it was the SAVAMA. Both horrendous in their own ways. And we played no small part in training the SAVAK torturers who become SAVAMA torturers.”

Reznick said nothing.

Berryman gave a sideways glance at Reznick and sighed. “Let’s be clear. They are here. We all know Iranian intelligence agents live in our midst. People who emigrated here after the revolution, claiming asylum, but were in fact Iranian agents. And then we have those of Iranian descent who are sympathetic to the Shia cause. But whether they had anything to do with this, well, we’re a long way from establishing that.”

“But it’s possible?” asked Meyerstein.

“Yes. If this is a sanctioned operation by Tehran, we’ve got a major problem on our hands. The hypothesis that this could be a tit for tat thing after the assassination of Iranian nuclear scientists should unnerve anyone. If the public got to find out about this, God knows what would happen.”

Meyerstein looked across at Reznick. “You said there were six of you based in Tehran, including Charles Burns.”

“Yes, in and around Tehran. Three groups of two.”

“I don’t understand how they could know who was on that mission?” said Meyerstein. “Wouldn’t they…‌?”

Berryman said, “That’s where this theory starts running onto the rocks. There’s no way they’d know that.”

“Why wouldn’t they know that?” said Reznick.

“Well, for Chrissakes, it would require them accessing top secret Pentagon files. NSA files perhaps, on you guys.”

Meyerstein shook her head in disagreement. “I think your own theory has just ran onto the rocks, Lionel. If Edward Snowden can access top-secret files, perhaps there are other Snowdens out there. People not in the limelight. People that have not yet been caught.”

Berryman said nothing.

“If I’m correct,” said Reznick, “there are five others on their list, including me.”

“These things don’t usually come out of thin air,” said Meyerstein. “From my experience, there is chatter. Either electronic via smartphones or through landlines, encrypted messaging.” She looked at Berryman again. “Any signs?”

“Over the last six months, we have seen an uplift in messaging to various Iranians under electronic surveillance. NSA estimates a 43 per cent increase in electronic chatter for those we are keeping tabs on. Not insignificant. But the messages are encrypted and appear to be banal.”

“Has that been fed into ongoing National Counterterrorism analysis?” asked Meyerstein.

“They’re aware of the figure. A routine report was published just over a month ago, did you see it?”

Meyerstein rolled her eyes. “Do you know how many reports come across my desk every day? If I read every report ever produced, I wouldn’t have time for sleep.”

“Point taken. Well, the report, which was fed out to our intelligence agencies, concluded that whilst it appears significant, there was nothing to suggest anything untoward in the short term. They did extensive analysis decrypting the messages, and they mostly related to Syria and Hezbollah; they also concerned geopolitical machinations with regards to us and Saudi Arabia for control of oil in the Middle East.”

Meyerstein said, “And that was it?”

“Pretty much.”

“When you say ‘pretty much’, was there anything else which was causing concern?”

“It just had everyone scratching their heads trying to figure out why so much information. Some of us thought it could be disinformation.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Let’s get back on track.” She looked across at Reznick. “Tell me about the four others.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s important that we assess any potential threat.”

“Sure, but we need to keep this low key.”

Berryman said, “I don’t think we’re ready to equate this man’s death with a possible Iranian hit squad. That’s my opinion. This could be a disproportionate response at this stage.”

Meyerstein looked around the group. “Maybe so. But I’d rather be safe than sorry. We need to assess any potential threat. And quick.”

FOURTEEN

Mohsen Sazegara yawned as he peered through field glasses from behind the tinted glass of a UPS truck, parked down the street from Pete Dorfman’s father’s house. He was running on empty after an hour’s sleep. They’d had to abandon the plan to neutralize Dorfman twenty-four hours earlier after some cop cars began cruising the neighborhood, following reports of a missing child. But that was only a temporary blip.

He checked his watch. 9.01 a.m. He adjusted his specially modified Bluetooth headset. “Still no sign of life,” he said.

Couple of beeps in his ear. “Copy that.”

Mohsen smiled. He had all the time in the world. He had been waiting for this moment for the last eighteen months, since his team had been assembled and given the mission. He had studied the life of Peter Dorfman. He had watched him from afar. The assassination had been aborted on three separate occasions. Each time the abort signal had been like a dagger through his heart. He had grown to detest Dorfman.

Mohsen had followed Dorfman across Europe and now to America, observing his decadent western lifestyle. But he sensed today was going to be the day. He could imagine Dorfman’s last gasp. The look on his face for a split second as he realized how it was going to end. Dorfman wouldn’t know who was responsible, why it was happening. And that in itself was rather pleasing.

“Stand by,” the voice said in his ear.

Mohsen glanced in his side view mirror as a jogger kneeled down to tie his shoelaces. The minutes dragged.

Dorfman’s father had left the home over thirty minutes ago for his morning exercise with the dog. His route was the same every day, a four and a half mile power walk around the sidewalks of his quiet community.

A beep in his headset. “One and a half miles from the house.”

“ETA?”

“He’s stopped for a rest. You’ve got fifteen minutes, twenty max. It’s a green light. I repeat, this is green.”

Mohsen took a moment to compose himself. He knew this was as good as it was going to get. “Copy that.” His stomach knotted. Game on.

He started up the truck, headed further down the tree-lined street and parked directly outside Dorfman Snr.’s house, blocking the view of neighbors opposite.

Mohsen put on his shades and baseball cap. He pulled back the slide of his Glock, fitted the silencer and put the gun in the back of his pants. He took a deep breath, picked up the large parcel in the passenger seat and opened his door.

His heart was beating hard as he walked down the garden path. He felt self-conscious wearing the brown shorts, matching shirt.

Mohsen pressed the buzzer and the bell rang. Inside, padded footsteps headed down the hall. The door opened and the familiar face was staring back at him, eyes bloodshot. In a bizarre way, he wanted the moment to last. The frisson of anticipation.

“Peter Dorfman?” said Mohsen, giving a broad smile.

Dorfman rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah. What’s this?”

Mohsen pulled out the silenced gun and pressed it to Dorfman’s forehead. He pulled the trigger twice drilling two bullets point blank into the man’s head. Blood splattered across Mohsen’s face and UPS outfit. He thought he tasted blood. The adrenaline surged through his body as Dorfman collapsed back into the hall.

Mohsen stepped inside, put on his forensic gloves and shut the door. He kneeled down beside Dorfman and fired off the rest of his magazine into his face.

Mohsen took out his iPhone and took six shots of the corpse. Then he sent the photos to his handler thousands of miles away.

Mohsen headed upstairs. He retrieved a cellphone beside a bed and a MacBook Pro in an adjacent study.

Then he headed downstairs and took one last look around.

A voice in his ear said, “Five minutes.”

Mohsen cleared his throat. “We’re going home,” he said, issuing the code words once he was ready to leave.

He took one more look at Dorfman. Then he shut the door and headed out into the harsh Florida sunshine, climbed in the UPS truck and drove away.

A glance in the rearview mirror, and Mohsen saw he was smiling.

FIFTEEN

Meyerstein had ordered in Chinese take-out. In the secure room, she ate in silence along with Reznick and the two analysts as they stared at the five names on the wall. The names were written in marker pen on a whiteboard, a red asterisk marked beside Charles Burns.

Meyerstein said, “Jimmy Rosen, Blaine Vicenza, Pete Dorfman, Albert Rain. Tell us about them, Jon.”

Reznick stared at her. “Dorfman lives in Fort Lauderdale, I know that. And Albert lives in Burlington, Vermont. I’ve lost touch with Jimmy and Blaine.”

“We need to work through the list.” Meyerstein looked at Reznick and smiled. “I’m sorry for being so curt on the phone earlier.”

The two analysts pretended not to listen.

“Maybe I deserved it,” said Reznick.

“What makes you say that?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have contacted you out of the blue like that.”

“Forget it.”

Meyerstein looked across at Reznick. “Follow me. Let’s take a walk.”

They took the elevator to the lobby level of the office block and headed out into a courtyard with a fountain, benches and ivy on the walls.

Meyerstein sat down as Reznick remained standing, hands in pocket. “I usually do my best thinking when I’ve got some time and space to breathe,” she said and smiled.

“You get much chance these days?”

“I’m a slave to my day planner. If it’s not in there, forget it. Meetings, strategy, briefings, interviews, discussions. We have a lot of stuff on the go, let me tell you.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Tell me about Charles Burns. What was he like?”

“What can I say? He was as tough as they came. Huge guy. But gentle with his wife and kid. Very respected. Didn’t say a whole lot. Didn’t have to. We knew him as Tiny. But he was the bravest in Delta.”

“I read that you extracted him from a situation in Fallujah when you were in Iraq.”

“Let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty. But yeah, that happened. He was shot up bad. They were closing in. And we know how that would’ve ended.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“Didn’t have much luck on leaving Delta. Living in a goddamn trailer in Delray Beach for a while.”

Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments. “I think you’ve spooked a lot of the guys in there today. Any sign of Iran operating with impunity on American soil certainly stirs things up.”

“I have to call it as I see it.”

“What was it like?”

“What was what like?” he said.

“Tehran?”

“Shithole.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment as if de-stressing. Her cellphone rang and she picked up. “Meyerstein.” A long pause. “I need it ASAP, do you hear me Roy?”

Meyerstein ended the call and looked at Reznick.

“Problem?”

“The initial assessment into what we are facing, be it Iranians or whatever, will be with us within the hour.”

“How’s it shaping up?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

• • •

Slattery and Berryman had been working flat out to track down the four other Delta operators, with limited success. They only had a confirmed address for Dorfman in Florida.

Reznick wasn’t surprised. But the lack of progress only added to a sense of anxiety in Meyerstein.

Reznick said, “I spoke to Dorfman at the funeral and afterwards. He said he was planning to be in Fort Lauderdale with his father for the next few weeks.”

“The Special Agent in Charge of Miami will be sending an agent to visit Dorfman,” said Meyerstein, “if he’s not already done so. We should hear something soon.”

Reznick nodded. “What about Blaine? He’s the most routine and grounded of them all.”

“The FBI’s LA field office couldn’t trace him. Anywhere. Did you know Blaine outside Delta?”

“Yeah, I knew Blaine. But haven’t seen him in over two years. Last I knew he worked as a security consultant in Hollywood. Personal security for VIPs, stars, directors, producers.”

“Well, we’ve tried tracing him, but nothing so far. He has two estranged daughters and they haven’t seen him in ages.”

Reznick said, “Chelsea and Lana.”

“You know them?”

“Blaine appointed me their godfather to look after them if something happened to him. All grown up now.”

“So why are they now estranged?”

“Blaine could never settle after leaving Delta. Wife left him, daughters sided with her.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Some people never get a break.” Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Roy, finally, what’s the latest?” She closed her eyes. “When?” A long silence. She ended the call and turned to face Reznick. He could tell something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked.

Meyerstein looked at him straight in the eyes. “Jon, I’m sorry.”

“What is it?”

“The agent in Miami. She turned up at Dorfman’s address in Fort Lauderdale and was met by a crime scene. Dorfman was shot during an apparent home invasion. He’s dead.”

Reznick closed his eyes. “Motherfucker.” He could say nothing more as he absorbed the news.

Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. “Charles Burns in a road smash. Pete Dorfman gunned down. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Reznick felt sick. He felt an anger beginning to build inside him.

“They’re here. And they’re going to kill us all. Those were Tiny’s last words.”

Meyerstein stared long and hard at Reznick. “What do you mean?”

“Just before he died, Tiny called me from the car wreck. At first I didn’t understand. Now I do.”

Reznick turned and looked at the list of names on the board. Dark thoughts began to cloud his head.

SIXTEEN

Meyerstein had that familiar feeling of dread in her stomach. The same feeling she felt if an investigation was running into trouble. But this was worse. She had ignored a warning from Reznick. A red flag. Would Dorfman still be alive if she had acted sooner?

Damn.

She pushed that thought from her mind.

She felt herself begin to grind her teeth. That told its own tale. It was a sign she was stressed. But she didn’t want to show it. Ever.

Satisfied she had enough evidence, Meyerstein had decided to make this official and call on all the resources available to her. Eyebrows would be raised that Reznick was back on the scene, but she could handle that.

She sipped some fresh coffee and stared at the faces on the huge split screen beaming back from the National Counterterrorism Center. There were currently four people from various locations on videoconference. She had listened impassively to the confirmed updates on the two sudden deaths of the ex-Delta operators.

Meyerstein gathered her thoughts for a few moments, glanced at the papers in front of her before she spoke. “There is no doubt in my mind that an Iranian plot is being played out in the country as we speak.”

Assistant Director Andrew Nuffield, in charge of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Unit, said, “Martha, I agree. This is part of a concerted attack on America. But we’ve been blindsided. Where the hell did this come from?”

Meyerstein looked up to the screen. “Andrew, we don’t know if this is the Iranian government or a rogue operation. What’s clear is that we’d be none the wiser but for Reznick’s persistence. I didn’t take his concerns seriously at first. I was wrong.”

Nuffield nodded. “We need to focus on Reznick as a priority. I think he should be taken to a safe house until we deal with this. The last thing we need is for a guy like this to be running around, giving us more headaches than we’ve already got.”

“Andrew,” Meyerstein said, “we’d be making a mistake by cutting Reznick out. I’ve used him in the past…”

“I’m well aware of that, Martha. But he’s a wild card.”

Meyerstein said, “We’ll come back to Reznick. What about the other three? What have the Strategic Assessment and Analysis Unit come up with?”

“We’ll have an update in less than two hours.”

Meyerstein sighed heavily. “Meanwhile the three ex-Delta operators who were in Tehran are at high risk.” She sipped some more coffee. The caffeine jolt felt good. “We’re behind the curve, and that’s not a good place to be.”

“Our resources and assets are being utilized to the max, Martha.”

Meyerstein looked at her briefing paper on Jimmy Rosen. “Is this right? It says here that Rosen is a White Supremacist in Arizona.”

“That is correct. Militia nut. Loosely linked with the Hell’s Angels, his name has also been given as supplying methamphetamine.”

Up on the split screen, a man cleared his throat. He had short gray hair and wore a starched white shirt and dark tie. “Can I cut in here, ma’am?”

Meyerstein said, “Of course, go right ahead.”

The man let out a long sigh. His blue piercing eyes stared from the screen at her. “Colonel James Seeberg, CIA, attached to the Counterterrorism Center. There is an element to this that we need to be very much aware of.”

“And what’s that Colonel?”

“The rationale we believe for this Iranian action, if it is indeed Iranian action, is to avenge the nuclear scientists deleted by Delta operatives, am I correct?”

“If by delete you mean assassination, then, yes, that is the rationale and linkage we are working with,” said Meyerstein.

“Firstly, I think we’ve got to be real careful about placing too much store by what Reznick asserts is true.”

Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “Which part Colonel? That his ex-Delta buddies have been assassinated? Or the operation carried out in Tehran?”

A patronizing smile from the Colonel. “I think it’s easy to interpret events which suit our mindset. I’m not saying that the events in Tehran didn’t happen…‌it’s just that I think there are implications further down the line if we do accept these events as factual.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Colonel, I don’t have time for your agency doublespeak bullshit.”

“Let me apologize if I didn’t make myself clear. I’m more concerned about American national interests than these three ex-Delta guys.”

“Are you saying we should not concern ourselves with this?”

“Quite the opposite. I think it’s important that we find them and take them to a secure place. And that includes Reznick.”

“Colonel, I’ve worked with Jon Reznick on two separate investigations with national security implications, and his conduct and capabilities were quite exemplary. I want him part of the FBI team working with us.”

“I disagree. It would be best for all concerned if Jon Reznick is taken to a secure facility with immediate effect.”

“And just say he doesn’t want to go, Colonel. What do you propose then?”

The colonel leaned back in his seat, unsmiling. “Assistant Director Meyerstein, that will simply not be an option for Mr. Reznick.”

Meyerstein couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m sorry?”

FBI Counterterrorism Assistant Director Andrew Nuffield cleared his throat. “Martha, I’m with the Colonel on this. We need to get Reznick out of the way. Not only for his safety but also for US national interests.”

“Andrew, we’re losing some perspective here. Reznick is a valued asset. We need him front and center on this investigation as it unfolds.”

“May I remind you Martha that there’s an APB out on Reznick,” said the Colonel.

“That can be taken care of.”

Nuffield sighed. “Look, we’re going round in circles. The decision has already been taken.”

Meyerstein took a moment to absorb the full implications of what Nuffield said. “What?”

“This is Counterterrorism, Martha, and I’m the lead on this.”

“I know you’re the lead here. But you know I’m right. We need Reznick here.”

The Colonel softened his tone. “Martha, we have a team already en route from Dulles, who will be removing Reznick to a secure facility within the hour.”

Meyerstein felt sick. “What is going on here?”

The Colonel said, “It’s for his own good, Martha.”

“His own good? Are you kidding me?”

“We believe Reznick is a potential danger to America.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I want to know what everyone else thinks.”

The faces on the split screen were impassive.

The Colonel leaned forward, hands clasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Who made this call?”

“It came from higher up the chain.”

“How high?”

“Director of Homeland Security. And above.”

Meyerstein shook her head as she kept her anger in check.

“It is what it is, Martha. You need to deal with it and move on.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to consider your position. Good day, everyone.”

The videoconference screens went blank. Meyerstein sat in silence for a few seconds. She felt the shock and anger course through her body. Go with it she thought to herself. It was what her father had taught her. Don’t let shock or anger turn to fear. Harness the energy and use it to propel yourself forward. “Goddamn.” She ran the conversation round her head again. She hadn’t seen this coming. The thought of incarcerating Reznick against his will was unthinkable.

Meyerstein reflected on what they had said. It was the usual CIA bullshit. The Colonel didn’t want any talk of American involvement in Iranian civilian assassinations to be discussed with anyone at any level, at any time.

She knew how Reznick would react. She pictured him being tasered before being dragged out by a CIA team. She couldn’t bear the thought of that. She didn’t want to face up to it. But she would have to.

She would have to tow the party line on this one.

Shit.

A sharp knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Stamper popped his head round the door. “We got a problem.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Reznick.”

Meyerstein sighed. “What now?”

“He’s disappeared.”

“What?”

“He’s just stolen an FBI Lincoln from the garage and driven out onto the streets of Washington, cool as you like.”

SEVENTEEN

The first thing Reznick did was ditch the Lincoln and drive away a stolen brown Mustang outside a Dale City diner, just off I-95, south of DC. He popped a couple of Dexedrine on the freeway. The drugs kicked in. He felt the chemicals rouse his system. He was switched on as he headed for Richmond, Virginia, a plan formulating in his head.

The miles on the freeway were being eaten up as he wondered what Meyerstein was thinking. He saw the way the wind was blowing. He knew the deaths of Tiny and Dorfman were connected. And he knew the Iranian connection would mean the American intelligence agencies would want him out. He knew how those agencies worked. How they thought. He knew the mission to Tehran was top secret and the Pentagon and CIA couldn’t have a trace of that mission being divulged in any form.

He knew the CIA would claim they wanted to keep him safe at a secure facility. He knew this was bullshit. It was all what was in American interests. And to hell with anyone else. They would take him off the case. Keep him against his will at a military base. Or if need be, kill him.

Did Meyerstein see this? The Feds didn’t always know what the CIA got up to. One thing Reznick did know was he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit around and let another Delta buddy die. Not Blaine. He thought of his kids and the vow he’d made.

He headed off the freeway for twenty miles and took some back roads south before getting back on I-95.

He needed to be alert. He couldn’t be predictable. He knew they would be looking for him. Everywhere. But slowly, as the miles clicked by, the plan was starting to take shape. Crystallize.

He figured a car journey would take a day and a half without sleep. And it would mean a number of cars being stolen, increasing the risk of getting caught. The airports and train stations in and around DC, including Baltimore, would be targeted.

Richmond was only two hours south of DC and had an international airport with multiple destinations. He was going to hop on a flight. He needed somewhere far enough away from L.A. but close enough to reach it with a few hours drive.

• • •

Just before two o’clock he parked up at a garage opposite the main terminal at Richmond International Airport. He went to a bathroom and locked a stall, ripped open the lining of his jacket and pulled out two thousand dollars in cash, along with a fake passport, two fake credit cards and a fake driving license all under the name Ronald Barr.

Reznick ate a slice of pizza inside the terminal, drank some Coke and looked at the flight boards. New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Miami and…‌Las Vegas.

He bought a ticket for a Delta flight, leaving at 4.45 p.m.

He got in line, was frisked by security, answered some dumb-ass question from a security official before he was ushered into coach class.

Once on board and seated, Reznick closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Five hours later, they touched down.

It was dark when he left the terminal at Las Vegas and hired a Chevrolet Camaro. He headed off into the desert night. He cranked up the air-con. Just before midnight he stopped off in Baker in the Mojave for a beer and to stretch his legs. A huge thermometer in the deserted town showed it was 91 degrees Fahrenheit. Sweat stuck to his top.

Reznick went into the bar, a country song playing in the background. Two olds guys playing pool, Fox News on with the volume down. “Heineken,” he said.

The bartender handed over a chilled bottle of beer and Reznick sat down on a stool. “Hard day, honey?” she asked.

Reznick glanced up at the TV, which showed firefighters fighting fierce blazes near Los Angeles. He took a couple of gulps of his drink. It felt good. “Had worse.”

“Where you headed at this time of night? You going to Vegas? Because if you are, I’d love a ride.”

“Sorry, opposite direction.”

“I love LA. You ever been there, honey?”

“Couple of times.”

“Had a lot of fun times in LA, let me tell you.”

Reznick gulped the rest of the beer, quenching his thirst. “Is that right?”

“Lot of fun.” She turned and pointed up to the TV. “Don’t worry, that’s away in the San Gabriel Mountains above Azusa.” She turned to face Reznick. “I take it you’re not going there.”

Reznick pushed the empty beer bottle towards her. “Same again.”

She got another cold beer from the fridge, prized off the metal top and handed it to Reznick.

Reznick gave her twenty dollars. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at Reznick. “You look dog tired, honey. Whoever you’re working for is driving you too hard, that’s for sure.”

Reznick gulped some beer as the TV flashed up a picture of Blaine. He pointed at the screen. “You wanna turn that up?”

She pointed the control at the TV and cranked up the volume. “Sure thing.”

The newsreader’s voice said, “The missing man is a well known Hollywood security consultant, Blaine Vincenza. Police are concerned for his safety and have asked Mr. Vincenza to contact them at the earliest opportunity as his family fear for his well-being. He may need medication for a heart complaint.”

Reznick gulped the rest of the beer. He pushed the empty bottle towards the bartender. “Gotta go.”

“You not staying for another?”

Reznick’s mind was already thinking ahead. “Maybe another time.”

“Take care, honey.”

Reznick headed out of the cool bar into the stifling desert night. He got back in the hire car and drove hard west along Route 95. His next stop Los Angeles.

EIGHTEEN

“We got something!” Stamper shouted across the Command Room on the fifth floor of the FBI’s headquarters.

Meyerstein rubbed her eyes and stared up at the image of Reznick on the big screen. “We’re sure this is him?”

Stamper nodded. “This is the one and only Jon Reznick, disembarking from a Delta flight from Richmond, and walking the arrivals hall at McCarron International, Las Vegas, three hours ago.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “How the hell did we allow him to get this far?”

“Blindsided us again, Martha. We had to prioritize. Dulles and Reagan International were covered, not to mention Baltimore. The biggies. The obvious choices.”

“He’ll be headed for LA.”

Stamper nodded.

“What’ve we got in place?”

“LA field office is on this, as is Vegas.”

Meyerstein’s phone rang and she picked up. “Yeah.”

“Ma’am, Special Agent Thomas Clarkson. We have something on Reznick.”

Meyerstein knew Clarkson, a smart rookie who worked on the fourth floor. “We’ve already got the Vegas lead, Thomas.”

“We now know what car he’s driving. It’s a Chevrolet Camaro.”

“Where did he pick it up?”

“Avis rental at McCarron. License plate is being circulated. He’s using false ID. The name’s Ronald Barr.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes and shook her head. “Goddamn. Okay, Thomas, good work. Feed this into all US intelligence agencies. We need to find him.”

“Will do, ma’am.”

Meyerstein ended the call and relayed the news to Stamper. “He has a deep connection to Vincenza and his kids. That’s what’s driving this whole thing now.”

Stamper said nothing.

“What is it?”

“We could do without this, Martha.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Martha, we’re being made to look stupid.”

“Okay, Roy, I get the picture.”

Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair.

“What is he playing at? He needs to keep the hell out the way.”

“Roy, I said I get the picture.”

“Martha, how many times do you have to defend Reznick? He’s getting in the way.”

“Look, I know this is not ideal. He might know other Vincenza connections in the city, which might lead him to this guy. I think he’ll be in touch with us again to work this case.”

“Martha, this is wrong. Langley doesn’t like this guy. They think he’s getting favorable treatment from you. Any deal with him we cut in the past to get back Luntz is over. And we need to move on.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m saying we need to cut our ties with Reznick once and for all.”

“And why would we do that? Hasn’t he been invaluable in the past?”

Stamper shook his head. “Martha, you’re reading this wrong.”

“I’m reading this wrong. How am I reading this wrong?”

“I think this time he’s gone too far. I think he’s at odds with what we’re about.”

Meyerstein stared at Stamper and remained silent.

Stamper shrugged. “What?”

“Next time you start questioning my judgment, we’re going to have a discussion about a future posting for you. Do you understand me?”

Meyerstein’s phone began to ring.

Stamper flushed.

She stared at him. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Get to it, then. Find me Reznick.”

Stamper left the room and she picked up her phone. “Meyerstein.”

A man cleared his throat on the line. “Martha, it’s O’Donoghue.”

She nodded. She was surprised that the Director of the FBI was still awake. “Sir, what can I do for you?”

“Martha, I’ve just got out of a meeting with the Director of the CIA and this Iranian thing has got them spooked.”

She said nothing.

“What is also worrying them is Reznick.”

“Sir, I think…”

“Hold on. I think it would be in everyone’s interests if he is found and taken to a secure location. Do you understand?”

“With respect sir, I don’t agree.”

“What do you mean you don’t agree? I’m giving you a direct order.”

“Sir, firstly, I think the reason Reznick did a runner was because he knew what we had in store for him. Secondly, I think he’s useful on the outside, leading us to Vincenza and the Iranians.”

“Martha, you’re too close to this. What’s apparent is that you are losing control of this situation.”

Meyerstein bristled at his words. “Sir, give me forty-eight hours and I’ll have this cleaned up.”

A long sigh down the line. “We want Reznick out of the way.”

“And I’m saying sir, let me deal with this.”

“What’s the latest?”

“Reznick is on the move. Headed to Los Angeles. False name.”

“Okay, what do you propose to do?”

Meyerstein sighed, feeling herself more and more annoyed by his tone. “What I propose is that I head to LA and make contact with Reznick myself. This is where it’s going to play out.”

A long silence opened up before O’Donoghue spoke. “Okay, forty-eight hours.”

Meyerstein said, “On one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“I won’t be going there to trap Reznick for the CIA.”

O’Donoghue said nothing.

“I can work this case with Reznick.”

A beat. “Very well, head to LA. Update me as soon as you make contact with Reznick.”

“Thank you sir.”

“One final thing.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Be careful. Reznick is a dangerous man.”

NINETEEN

The morning sun peeked through a gap in the shabby houses opposite the boxing gym in a rundown part of East Los Angeles, dusty palm trees hanging limp in the dead air. Reznick was sitting in a parked car drinking his second coffee of the day. He stared across the street as an old Hispanic man opened up the gym’s door and went inside.

Reznick waited a couple of minutes. He got out the car and headed across the street, followed the man inside. The sound of footsteps on the floor above. He headed up a flight a stairs to a first floor landing. The smell of stale sweat, photos of boxers on walls. He noticed a few black and white shots of Roberto Duran. The Panamanian brawler, one of the greatest boxers ever. A guy raised in the slums of El Chorrillo. A fighter Reznick’s father had admired. Manos de Piedra. Hands of Stone. Tough. A man who’d win at all costs. Reznick remembered his father reading boxing articles about Duran to him when he was a boy. He had listened intently, and admired Duran’s almost monastic dedication. Unbowed, and mostly unconquered.

Further down the corridor he noticed a set of stairs leading down into a deceptively spacious gym.

Reznick entered the gym and the old Hispanic man turned around, rheumy brown eyes creasing up.

“Can I help you, son?”

“Looking for a friend of mine.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Way back in the day. He learned to box here. Little white kid. Blaine.”

A smile washed over the man’s leathery face. “Blaine? You kidding me? You one of Blaine’s friends?”

Reznick nodded.

“Man, that was a long time ago.”

“I believe he still comes back here. Recruits the guys from the gym for security jobs he has.”

The man went quiet for a few moments. “You’re asking a lot of questions. Why you want to speak to him?”

“I’m an old friend.”

“You box?”

“I have boxed.”

“When?”

“In the Marines.”

The man grinned. “You get your ass kicked?”

“Not too often.”

The man sighed. “Not seen Blaine for a couple of weeks.”

Reznick nodded. “I believe his mother still lives round here.”

“Not any more. He moved his momma away. Neighborhood getting too crazy. Shame really.”

Reznick said nothing.

“I remember the day Mrs. Vincenza brought Blaine in. He was getting pushed around. White kid amongst a lot of Hispanic guys, can be tough.”

Reznick said nothing, happy to let the man talk.

“His mother was a nice lady. Lost her husband in Vietnam. And she wanted her son to get toughened up.”

“You must’ve done a pretty good job,” said Reznick.

“This is a proper boxing gym, son.”

Reznick looked around at the walls, pictures of tough local fighters. “So I see.”

“Listen, you know LA at all?”

“Some.”

“A lot of the guys that Blaine hires are for close protection work for big shots. Bit of muscle for premieres and after-parties. The guy who runs some of the operations is one of my old fighters. Pedro Mendes.”

“Where can I find Pedro?”

The old man pointed behind Reznick. “Ask him yourself.”

Reznick turned round and saw a little guy, impossibly lean, veins bulging out of his neck. Dark brown eyes fixed on him.

“What you want?”

“I’m a friend of Blaine’s. I was told you might be able to help?”

Mendes shrugged. “Who are you? Are you a cop?”

“Ex-Delta buddy.”

Mendes gave an exaggerated nod. “You don’t look like ex-Delta to me. Look like one of those candy-ass boys from West Hollywood.” He grinned like a jackal.

Reznick stared back at him. “How old are you?”

“Fuck is it to do with you? Come in here asking about Blaine? I don’t know you. I don’t give a fuck for you.” Mendes stared at him, nerve ends twitching.

“I’m sure you can box. But I’m not sure you can fight. You wanna see the difference?”

Mendes spat on the floor and glared at Reznick. “You do a lot of talking, don’t you?” He stood, snarling. He was about six or seven yards from Reznick. Then he rushed forward to land a haymaker with his right.

Reznick took a step forward and slammed his left forearm into the neck of the oncoming Mendes. The boxer dropped to the ground, out cold. He’d hit the carotid sinus. He picked up the unconscious Hispanic guy and slapped him a few times on the face.

He came to, eyes rolling back in his head.

Reznick grabbed his neck and the man winced. “Okay, here’s how it’s gonna work, Pedro. I’m an old friend of Blaine, and I’m trying to reach him. Where can I find him?”

Mendes shook his head and Reznick squeezed tight. He winced. “Okay…”

Reznick loosened his grip. “Speak.”

“He occasionally goes to a restaurant in Studio City.”

“I don’t want occasionally. I’m not interested in occasionally. I want to know where to find him.”

“Okay, every night he dines at the same place.”

“Every night?”

“Every night.”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Nobu in Malibu.”

“What does he drive?”

“Ferrari. Black.”

Reznick frowned. “Doesn’t sound like the sort of place Blaine would eat or the car he’d drive.”

“He moves with a lot of interesting people these days. He likes to be seen out and about and with the right set of wheels.”

Reznick grabbed the guy by throat. “Don’t fuck with me. If you’re not telling the truth, I know where to find you. Do you understand?”

The guy nodded, eyes closed tight as Reznick pressed into his windpipe.

Reznick loosened his grip and the guy coughed and spluttered. He turned to the old man. “Appreciate that.”

Then he turned and headed out onto the streets as a harsh LA sun began to beat down.

TWENTY

Just after noon, Jerry Morlach was escorted to a corner table on the sun-drenched roof terrace of members-only club Soho House in West Hollywood. It was located high above Sunset on the top two floors of a high-rise. He was lunching with a French art-house producer with a rumored penchant for cocaine, hookers and any starlets who crossed his gaze. He smiled as his lunch guest arrived. The producer ordered a bottle or Chablis and a salad whilst Morlach stuck with his usual steak, rare, washed down by Perrier. Morlach listened patiently as the producer talked incessantly, rubbed his nose frequently and visited the bathroom on four separate occasions.

Morlach took it in his stride. He stared out at the downtown skyscrapers. He had seen it all in his time, mixing with the movers and shakers of Hollywood over the last twenty five years, providing the financial backing for producers to pursue their dreams. He didn’t give a damn about films. He didn’t give a damn about art. He cared about the money. He needed big returns. His clients demanded it. Their money had to be invested in sure-fire winners. Blockbusters. Big name summer hits. But he had seen that art-house films and indie films could provide a spectacular returns for a modest outlay.

Morlach’s mind wandered as the Frenchman got more animated, talking about “the struggle” and “basic conflict” amongst the characters, which he insisted, was vital to great cinema. He let the producer drone on as his thoughts turned to the unexpected delivery.

The documentation had been postmarked Dubai, but this concealed the true geographical origin of the package. He knew what was inside and the intended purpose. He just didn’t know who would collect or when.

Morlach sipped more water as the Frenchman prattled on. He endured the lunch for another painful hour before he ordered another bottle of Chablis to the delight of the producer. Then he picked up the bill and descended the private elevator to the parking garage.

He was about to start up his car when his cellphone rang.

Morlach answered on the third ring. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat.

A beat. “Good lunch?”

Morlach groaned. “Interminable, if you must know.”

“He’s very talented, they say.”

Morlach said nothing.

“I believe there was a safe delivery.”

“It’s all in order.”

The voice on the line said nothing.

“Is there anything else I should do?” asked Morlach.

A long sigh. “We have a fast-moving situation.”

“I need to know more.”

“Don’t stray far from home in the next forty-eight hours.”

“Why not?”

A silence opened up down the line.

“I said why not?”

A long sigh. “The schedule of filming is being altered and we might have to update the documentation accordingly.”

“Altered?”

“They’ve ran into a few snags.”

“Will that be a problem? Because if it is, we will refinance elsewhere.”

Morlach nodded and smiled at the coded language. He wondered if it was fooling anyone. “No problem at all. Whatever you require, I will provide.”

“Your help is much appreciated.”

Then the line went dead.

TWENTY-ONE

The sky was burnt orange as Reznick headed west along the Pacific Coast Highway. The smell of the salty air reminded Reznick of home by the cove in Maine. He had always loved the sea. It made him feel free. The ever-changing vista. The breakers crashing onto the shoreline.

Reznick saw a sign for the restaurant up ahead. He drove past for a couple of miles before he turned around outside Malibu and headed back down the Pacific Highway. He pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s and switched off the engine. The Nobu restaurant was opposite on the ocean side of the freeway.

He pulled out military field glasses and looked across at the entrance to Nobu. Top-of-the-range cars filled the parking lot.

He didn’t know if Blaine would be at the restaurant tonight, but it was his best shot.

Headlights from the eastbound and westbound highway traffic strafed the road ahead as darkness fell over Malibu.

Reznick watched and waited as time dragged. He felt his stomach rumble from the lack of food. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He went inside the McDonald’s and ordered a burger, fries and large coke. He sat by the window and stared across at the fancy cars pulling into the Nobu private parking lot. He wolfed his food. It felt good. He went to the restroom and popped a couple of Dexedrine. The amphetamines kicked in. He was alive again.

Reznick returned to his car and resumed his stakeout of the Nobu parking lot. He replayed the call from Tiny in his head again. He thought of Pete Dorfman. He thought of Pete’s face as he drank on the roof terrace in South Beach. Both men’s lives snuffed out as methodically and clinically as the scientists’ lives Reznick and his Delta crew had snuffed out. And now it was retribution time. A sense of foreboding washed over him like he hadn’t felt for a long time.

• • •

The minutes dragged into hours. Still nothing. Reznick wondered if the punk at the boxing gym hadn’t played him. His instincts had told him to track down his old buddy. But he sensed something was not right. Blaine had a cellphone virtually attached to him at all times. He wasn’t the sort of guy just to disappear or drop off the radar on a whim.

Just when Reznick was thinking of getting the hell out of there, a sleek black Ferrari cruised into view and turned into the Nobu parking lot.

Reznick’s senses switched on and he peered through the field glasses. He watched and waited. The car light went off. The driver’s door opened and Blaine stepped out, buttoning his blazer over his white shirt. He looked every inch the affluent West Coast businessman as he entered the exclusive restaurant.

Reznick watched and waited for a few moments. The restaurant was directly across the busy freeway. The quickest way was to jaywalk across. But that could attract unwanted attention from the cops.

To hell with it, he would jaywalk.

Just as Reznick moved to get out of the car, a motorbike pulled up in the Nobu parking lot. A helmeted pillion passenger climbed off and opened up the rucksack of the man riding the bike.

Reznick peered through the field glasses. He sensed something was wrong. Badly wrong. A feeling of dread came over him. “No, no…”

He realized in that instant something was going down.

The pillion passenger pulled out of the rucksack what looked like a metallic cellphone device and placed it underneath the Ferrari. He then climbed back on and the bike gunned hard out of the Nobu parking lot, disappearing among the rest of the steady Pacific Coast Highway traffic.

They had taken less than thirty seconds to plant the device, and no one but Reznick had witnessed it.

TWENTY-TWO

Reznick felt a surge of adrenalin rush through his body. He slammed the car into reverse and cut across the highway, swerving to avoid an oncoming truck, as he gave chase to the motorbike. He pulled up the number for Nobu on his Bluetooth phone. His heart pounded as he peered ahead into the traffic. But through the myriad of lights he picked out the motorbike tearing north up the coast road.

The phone began to ring. And ring.

Eight rings later someone picked up.

“Nobu, Malibu, good evening.”

“I need to speak to the manager,” Reznick said, raising his voice above the roar of the engine.

“I’m sorry, the manager is not available just now. How can I help?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Heidi Franzen, duty restaurant supervisor, sir.”

“Heidi, I need to speak to a customer of yours, Blaine Vincenza. He just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss who is or isn’t dining with us this evening. If you’d like to leave your number––”

“Heidi, I haven’t got much time. I need to speak to Blaine right now.”

“Sir, with respect, I do not know who you are.”

“My name is Jon Reznick.”

“Mr. Reznick, it is not our policy to––”

“Listen, miss whatever your name is, I don’t give a damn about your policies.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, we’re very busy this evening––”

“Heidi, do you want me to spell it out to you? There’s a fucking bomb under Blaine’s black Ferrari, outside your goddamn restaurant. So are you going to––”

She hung up.

Reznick thought of Blaine and the other diners inside oblivious. “Fuck.” Thoughts were tearing through his head.

His cellphone rang, barely audible as the traffic roared past. He didn’t recognize the caller number. “Yeah, who’s this?”

“Don’t hang up.” Meyerstein’s voice. “Jon, we’ve got an approximate fix on your location.”

Reznick took a few moments to think of his next move. “How did you find me?”

“When you use the words ‘bomb’ and a few sentences earlier ‘Jon Reznick’, it’s picked up by the NSA.”

“Nice to know the NSA is respecting an American’s privacy.”

“You’re in Malibu, aren’t you?”

“I’m heading through Malibu. And I just want to let you know that you’ve got a problem. A big fucking problem.”

“Tell me about this bomb.”

“Two guys on a motorbike pulled up outside the Nobu restaurant about two minutes ago, and placed what looked like a magnetic bomb to the underside of Blaine Vincenza’s black Ferrari.”

A beat. “Blaine? Ex-Delta Blaine?”

“The very one.”

“Copy that.”

“Listen, you need to clear the restaurant. You need to get Blaine. No one touches that Ferrari.”

“Got you.”

Reznick swerved as he overtook a truck and narrowly avoiding clipping another car.

“Jon, we have a chopper in the air now. An FBI SWAT team is five minutes behind you. Have you got a visual on the bike?”

“Affirmative. But my car is no match. I’m barely keeping up. Listen, you need to seal off that restaurant.”

“Myself and the bomb squad are on that, Jon.”

Reznick braked hard as a pick-up truck cut in on him. “Goddamn!”

“Are you okay?”

“Fucking Californian drivers, that’s all.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Support is only a minute behind you and closing fast.”

“Anti-jamming signals would be first port of call for bomb squad. Could be triggered by cellphone.”

The sound of a radio crackling in the background down the line.

Meyerstein said, “Hang on. Bomb squad’s ETA is four minutes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll be there in less than a minute…‌” The line began to break up. “What about you, Jon?”

Reznick stared at the road ahead as the motorbike headed off into the hills outside of Malibu. “Looks like these guys are heading off the highway. I’ll be in touch.”

“Be careful, Jon.”

Then she hung up.

TWENTY-THREE

Mohsen Sazegara stood on the upper level deck of the safe house high up in the Malibu hills and stared through the military binoculars down to the floodlit Nobu parking lot. Police cruisers had sealed off the entrance and no one was getting in or out. He adjusted the Bluetooth headset. “I don’t like this. Reznick appears out of the blue and is following our guys. Something’s been compromised.”

“Let’s roll with it, Mohsen,” said Behzad.

Mohsen watched a black Suburban pull up at the cordon. Four men wearing dark suits got out, followed by a woman. “Hang on…‌Who’s this, Behzad?”

Behzad, the computer specialist within the team, took dozens of photos with his telephoto lens. He pulled out the disc from the camera and slid it into the side of the MacBook Pro. “Give me a moment. I’ll scan against our database.”

“These are not ordinary cops.”

“Everyone who is anyone in the American intelligence community is on our system,” said Behzad.

“What about Vincenza and Reznick? They’re not on it?”

“We have their details from other sources.” Moments later, Behzad smiled. “Well, well, well,” he said, and flipped the laptop around so Mohsen could see what he’d found.

Mohsen stared at a photo of an attractive middle-aged white woman. “Who is she?”

“FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein. It says here that she’s worked with Reznick in the past.”

Mohsen grinned. “You kidding me? An assistant director, right? And Vincenza inside?”

“The orders were very clear. Strictly ex-Delta only, Mohsen. You know that.”

Mohsen stared through the viewfinder of the field glasses. “I know what the orders were. I also know that if we do something more direct, high value casualties such as this Meyerstein woman are not a problem. We’re sending them a message, aren’t we?”

Behzad turned the laptop back around and scanned the information. “Why don’t I send Tehran an encrypted message and await instructions?”

“Fine. Two minutes.”

Behzad tapped away at the keyboard for nearly a minute. A few moments later the reply pinged through.

“What does it say?”

“Hold fire…‌await further instructions.”

Mohsen felt his stomach tighten with excitement. “We’ve got her in our sights. I don’t understand.”

“That’s what it says here. Digital signature of General Jafari himself.”

Mohsen knew that special Quds operations conducted outside Iran had to be rubber-stamped by the General or they didn’t happen. His word was law. The General had recruited Mohsen when he was a soldier with the elite Revolutionary Guards. He knew the General’s brother who was in charge of the Basij, a loosely allied group of Islamic organizations who acted as street enforcers. Some acted like official military units like Ansar Hezbollah, whilst others were controlled by local clerics. They had both earned their spurs as young men, beating anyone considered Westernized or flouting Islamic conventions. Now, here he was in the epicenter of all things decadent and western, and they were about to unleash more Quds Force payback.

“I don’t like it,” Mohsen said, eyes pressed up tight to the field glasses.

“Don’t like what?” Behzad asked.

“Where’s Vincenza?”

Behzad went to the front of the deck and stared through his telescopic lens. “The bomb squad will be here soon. We’ve got a window of opportunity, Mohsen.”

Mohsen knew what he meant. Anti jamming devices would soon be deployed, rendering the bomb inert. He stared at the gathering Feds cordoning off the Nobu restaurant parking lot. His attention was drawn to police sirens further down the Pacific Coast Highway, lights flashing. He trained his field glasses on the fast-moving vehicles. He wanted to get Vincenza. Reznick could wait. Save the best till last. “They’re locking it down.”

“How long have we got?”

Mohsen sighed. “Anything from five to seven minutes.”

“That gives us time.”

Mohsen said nothing.

“They’re onto us, Mohsen. We can’t jeopardize the mission. I say we should get the hell out of here and regroup.”

“I think we’ve got them where we want them. They know we’re here. And that fear will seep into every one of them. And that’s good.”

Behzad said nothing.

Mohsen trained the field glasses back on the Nobu parking lot.

His cell vibrated in his pocket and he answered. It was his handler in Brentwood. “You contact me for orders, not Tehran.”

Mohsen took a deep breath. “Things are getting interesting here. We can show them the might of Tehran.”

“Mohsen, listen to me…”

At that moment, Mohsen saw a man emerge from the restaurant. “Hang on,” he said. “We have something.”

“What?” his handler said.

“Vincenza and Meyerstein are talking. They’re both in our sights.”

A long silence opened up down the line.

“We can take them both out now.”

Mohsen could hear his heart beating.

“Watch and wait.”

“What?”

“That’s an order. Let’s see how this transpires. And let’s not show our hand just yet.”

The line went dead.

TWENTY-FOUR

Reznick was driving hard as he headed up Malibu Canyon Road, struggling to keep up with the lights of the bike in the distance. His cell rang.

“Talk to me, Jon.” Meyerstein’s voice was tight.

“Where the hell is the chopper? I’m following these guys up into the hills. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going.”

“Mechanical problem. It had to turn back.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“We’ve got two mobile SWAT teams on the way. They’re not far behind.”

“Tell them to get a move on. This car is a heap of junk.”

The signal dropped and they were cut off. “Fuck.”

Reznick headed higher into the hills, gaining on the bike as they moved inland. Up ahead he saw the lights weave through the canyon. He wondered if the guys on the motorbike thought they’d lost him.

His thoughts went back to the arrival of the motorbike. The guys placing the bomb. He thought of the location. The restaurant was right beside the ocean. But on the other side were the hills, winding roads and houses, overlooking the ocean from on high.

Line of sight.

The realization crashed through his head like a concrete block.

His foot was to the floor as he drove higher into the dark hills, headlights strafing the winding canyon road.

His cell rang.

“Jon, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m on it. Listen, you’ve got a major problem.”

“I think I’m aware of that, Jon.”

“I’m not talking about the team that laid the bomb.”

“What then?”

“You’re being watched. Right now.”

“You think they’re watching us?”

A coyote ran across the road. Reznick swerved to narrowly avoid it. “Goddamn.”

“You okay?”

“Fucking Californian wildlife.”

“So tell me…‌where might they be watching us from?”

“Hills directly above Malibu. Hundreds of homes there with direct line of sight.”

“So how…‌?”

“Never mind how. You need to make the bomb safe as they may remote detonate at any time. Listen to me––”

The signal dropped off again, killing the call.

Reznick sped on up through the canyon. Round sheer drop hillside roads. All the time, in the distance, the single light from the motorbike. He saw a sign for Las Virgenes Canyon Road. Up ahead, the bike started to pull further away and then hung a right onto Mulholland Drive.

He pressed his foot to the floor but the vehicle was struggling on the steep incline. He was barely doing sixty-five.

Blue flashing lights appeared in his rear mirror. He glanced back and saw two motorcycle cops tearing toward him, lights on full, sirens blaring.

“Gimme a fuckin’ break.”

Reznick’s heart sank as they got closer. He waited for them to cut him off. But instead, they tore on past with their high-powered bikes. Dust kicked onto Reznick’s windshield.

His cellphone rang again. It was Meyerstein.

“Who the hell sent up the motorbike cops?”

“Jon, second chopper is now finally in the air. SWAT’s going to be with you in no time.”

“There is no time. Tell me those two cops are not going to flag down the guys who planted the sticky?”

“They’re armed and in radio contact, Jon. They’re both highly trained officers.”

“Meyerstein, you’re not getting this. This is not a straightforward shoot-out with some bad guys. These are pros. They will devour these guys if they are stopped, I can guarantee that. Hold on…”

Reznick swerved on a tight bend as he approached the turn for Mulholland Highway. He hadn’t spotted another vehicle for the last couple of miles as he headed high into the mountains. He gripped the steering wheel tight, struggling to stay on the roads snaking through the canyon with the tight bends at high speeds.

A mile or so up ahead he saw blue lights flashing through the scrub.

He pressed on down Mulholland, the lights of Malibu away down the mountains in the distance.

Meyerstein’s voice came back through the cell. “Jon, the guys have been pulled over…”

The cell signal seemed to drop again and Reznick groaned.

“Shit…”

“What is it?” Reznick asked.

“Goddamn cellphone signal keeps dropping.”

Reznick turned a bend and caught sight of the blue police lights. “Got them. They’ve pulled them over at an overlook.”

“Copy that, Jon.”

The cell signal cut out.

Reznick drove on hard, foot to the floor. A couple of minutes later he headed round another bend. Blue lights strafed the hills road, two BMW cop bikes at the side of the road.

Where were the cops?

He pulled over into the overlook beside overgrown shrubbery.

He got out of the car. Blood on the ground. Shit. The headlights showed the soles of a pair of black leather boots sticking out from the trees. He went over and kneeled down. The body of a dead cop. Two bullets drilled into the forehead.

He felt a black fury grip him deep inside, threatening to engulf him. He headed over to the cops’ motorbikes. It was then he saw the second cop, lying face down. The same state. There was no sign of the guys who’d planted the bomb.

Reznick stood and contemplated his response. He bent down, took a gun from the dead cop’s holster and climbed on one of the bikes.

He revved up hard.

A police controller came over the radio. “Echo Five Delta, respond.”

Reznick picked up. “Two officers dead. My name is Reznick. Refer to Assistant Director Meyerstein of the FBI. I repeat two officers have been shot dead. I’m on it.”

“Echo Five ––”

“Shut the fuck up. Assailants on Ducati bike. I’m more than two miles behind heading south on Mulholland. Silencer almost certainly used from 9mm handgun, point blank.” Reznick kicked into first gear and sped away, clicking through the gears until he was hitting 90mph through the winding canyon road.

A crackle down the line. “Please identify yourself, officer.”

Reznick switched off the radio. He headed down the canyon road, wind buffeting him as the bike weaved and accelerated along Mulholland. He saw a truck and overtook it at breakneck speed. He saw a sign for Calabasas. He revved harder. Rapidly changed gears through the winding highway. Powered through the small town. Then down the highway and through the hills.

He couldn’t see the bike.

His mind raced. Had he lost them? Had they disappeared into a side street in Calabasas?

A few minutes later Reznick was snaking down Topanga Canyon Road back toward Malibu. The lights of the hillside houses and the communities of the canyon all around.

Reznick spotted more lights up ahead, half a mile or so down the canyon road. The bike had stopped at an overlook. He rounded a bend. He felt his heart race as he sped down the hillside highway, the smell of oaks and burnt vegetation hanging in the balmy air.

The headlights of a truck heading up Topanga strafed the overlook. The bike was there. No passengers in sight.

Reznick slowed down, moving down the gears. He edged the police bike beside the Ducati. He got off and stared out at a dirt road trail. Then he turned and saw something in the distance. Two silhouetted figures heading across the dark canyon. Ticks bit his arms and neck. He took his cell from his shirt pocket and punched in Meyerstein’s number. “Listen up,” he said, “there’s an overlook half way down Topanga. The two guys have dumped the Ducati. I’m in pursuit on foot.”

He pulled his Beretta from his waistband and headed down the hillside towards the silhouettes.

On the line, someone cleared their throat. “Jon.” The voice of Meyerstein. “Jon…‌we’ve got your location.”

Reznick headed through the undergrowth and fought his way through overhanging branches and shrubs and vegetation. He got onto the dirt trail and began to run. Heart pounding. Fast. All senses switched on. The full moon was shining on the two figures in the distance as they headed east.

He was getting closer. Two hundreds yards. Then one hundred and fifty. Then one hundred. He began to hear them panting.

Reznick trained his gun on them. “Freeze!”

The men stopped dead in their tracks.

“Hands on your head! Now!”

Reznick moved closer, Beretta trained on them. “Do not fucking move or I will blow your fucking brains out!”

The whispers in Persian. “Say nothing. Do you hear me? Tell the American nothing.”

Reznick sensed something was wrong. He stepped forward, six or seven paces from them. The moonlight bathed the verdant canyon in an eerie light. “Very slowly, turn around, hands on head. One wrong move, you die.”

The two men turned around and faced him. Young kids. Maybe Iranians. Dressed in western clothes. The fuckers who had planted the sticky on Blaine’s car.

Reznick stood and pointed the gun at them. He thought they seemed distracted, eyes darting this way and that. “Next move, and you die.”

Suddenly a green tracer light was fixed on one of their foreheads.

Reznick spun around. He saw a spectral figure in the distance. Then two shots rang out.

TWENTY-FIVE

Meyerstein was sitting in the back of a Command Post truck in the Nobu parking lot, watching real-time night vision footage from the police chopper circling over the two dead bodies. She watched as Reznick was cuffed by the FBI SWAT team leader and looked up toward the chopper. Her heart sank as he was led back to Mulholland.

Meyerstein sighed and looked over at Roy Stamper. “This whole thing is running away from us, Roy.”

“Counterterrorism are running all the angles on this. The last thing we need is for Reznick to be in among it all. Look at the results.”

“That’s enough!”

“We wanted to bring those guys in. We needed to speak to them. No goddamn use now, Martha.”

“I said enough! Reznick is the one who managed to track down his old buddy, the one who witnessed them planting the bomb, alerted us, the one who warned us we were being watched. We don’t know who took these guys out.”

“Martha, we’ve had this chat before. But I’ll say it again. This guy is whacked out. He’s so far out there he doesn’t know right from wrong.”

“Are you kidding me, Roy? Are you seriously pointing the finger at Reznick for being the bad guy in this?”

“We don’t execute people in cold blood.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough. They’re going to be bringing Reznick here within the next half hour.”

Meyerstein glanced at a screen, which showed an FBI bomb technician’s truck had pulled up beside the Ferrari. Two technicians got out of the truck and were briefed by one of Stamper’s men. Radio signals were blocked. The bomb disposal guys peeked under the Ferrari with flashlights and mirrors.

A couple of minutes later, Meyerstein’s radio crackled into life. “Special Agent Lionel Farmer, LA field office bomb technician.”

“Go ahead,” Meyerstein said.

“Ma’am, it’s a tilt trigger mechanism. Very neatly put together. But it was also cellphone activated, so glad we have that covered.”

Meyerstein nodded. “What about the timer?”

“No timer…‌we’re sure of that.”

“How long until you make it safe?”

“If you mean how long until we are able to extricate the actual device, probably the rest of the night. But as long as no one sits in the car, we’ll be fine.”

Meyerstein thought the tech sounded unduly confident. “Get to it.” She ended the radio conversation. Her natural instinct was to err on the side of caution. She would much rather have doom laden predictions for an operation so plans could be made accordingly. She was suspicious of certainty. Her father, a leading Chicago litigator, had warned her of that many times. Just when you think you have it all figured out, something comes out of the blue to wreck the best-laid plans. She could hear his brash voice now.

She turned to Stamper. “Where’s Vincenza now?”

“He’s in the staff rest room, through the back. Refusing to talk to us.”

Meyerstein sighed.

“You want me to go in and sort it out?”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Leave him to me. I’ll deal with him myself.”

TWENTY-SIX

Mohsen Sazegara stared through the powerful military binoculars he was holding in his right hand. In his left, he held a prototype handheld radio frequency meter. He looked at the readings and saw the spectrum that had been blanked out by the jammers. He smiled. Little did the Feds know that his team had the latest technology, designed specifically to evade the finest American counter surveillance methods available to the FBI. They also had the advantage of using a dummy trial-and-error firing circuit, which had pinpointed the precise part and size of the jammed spectrum. Mohsen had already switched to bandwidths beyond the jamming range of the three year old technology the Feds had in the field. It wasn’t military grade, which was far tougher to counter.

Behzad was taking more photos. “Did we have to take out the motorbike guys, Mohsen? They were just kids.”

“Couldn’t be helped.”

Behzad said nothing.

Mohsen sensed his brother’s distaste for the dirty war they were engaged in, but didn’t share any qualms about what he’d done. The cell could not be compromised. Taking out the two young Iranian American kids meant that the Feds couldn’t interrogate them, find out who had recruited them in America and how. Even tenuous links to elements within the network could lead to the Feds joining up the dots of the disparate groups who were operating at large.

The importance of attention to detail as well as the paramount importance of the mission had been drilled into all of them.

Mohsen would kill his own brother, Behzad, if it enabled the death of the target, or ensured the cell wasn’t compromised. Needs must. The end justifies the means. He remembered the psychological tests he’d sat in Tehran. He had been given the scenario: How would you feel if you had to kill your brother? He had just smiled and said, “Whatever it takes,” and that was that. His heart rate, he found out later, didn’t spike at all when he said it. And that had impressed those higher up in Quds.

He didn’t know if Behzad had done the same tests. But he assumed that he wouldn’t be on the mission if he hadn’t given a clear response.

The mission was king.

Mohsen reflected on how things were going and thought that it was getting a bit messy. The plan had been simple. Eliminate each of the Delta operatives one at a time. But something had gone wrong to have brought the heat of the FBI on their tail.

It complicated things. He would much rather keep things simple. Simple was good.

The more he thought of the mission the more focused he became. Blinkered almost.

He remembered the day his team was told about the assassinations. And the identities of those involved. He felt as if his heart had been ripped out by its roots. For years he had nursed the hurt. Some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he thought about the bespectacled, brilliant scientist. His brother. The quietest boy in his school. He always admired him. Protected him down the years growing up. Stood up to bullies who laughed at his bookishness.

Mohsen remembered the funeral. He remembered falling to his knees, crying, unashamedly. But the years hadn’t healed his hurt. Now there was just emptiness in Mohsen’s soul which couldn’t be healed.

The sound of Behzad groaning loudly snapped him out of his thoughts. “The bomb technicians are well within range,” his brother said.

“I’m not interested in them. This is about Vincenza.”

Behzad said nothing.

Mohsen trained his binoculars on the restaurant windows and spotted Meyerstein inside. “She’s speaking to Vincenza, who’s now sitting in staff rest room.”

Behzad took more pictures. “Line of sight not perfect.”

Mohsen stared at the image of Vincenza. The man who had been part of the team which had killed his brother. Mohsen had said a silent prayer when he took on the mission – that he would not return until each and every member of the six-man American team had been wiped out.

“I don’t like this Reznick running around,” Behzad said. “He is going to be a problem.”

“We’ll deal with him in good time.”

“What the hell are they talking about?”

“By all accounts, Vincenza is a stubborn son of a bitch. Pissed off every officer he ever encountered.”

“What if Vincenza appears with Meyerstein?”

“We don’t have the go ahead to kill her.”

Behzad fired off more photos. “She’s getting pretty animated with him.”

Mohsen’s earpiece buzzed. It had to be the handler. “Yes sir?” he said.

A deep breath. “The situation has been reappraised.”

“Copy that.”

“Code 429.” It was the kill code to take out whoever was in their way, including Meyerstein.

Mohsen’s heart skipped a beat. “Very good sir.”

“Do not let us down.”

Mohsen stared through the binoculars at Meyerstein and smiled.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Meyerstein waited until Vincenza’s girlfriend was escorted out of the rear of the restaurant. Then she pulled up a seat beside him in the staff rest room. She caught a whiff of booze and cigarettes on his breath. His eyes were glazed. “Here’s how it’s going to work, Mr. Vincenza. We’re going to take you out of here, to a place of safety, just like Daisy.”

“Do I look like the sort of guy who needs a babysitter?”

“Mr. Vincenza, I know all about you. I know about your role within Delta.”

Vincenza said nothing.

“It was Jon Reznick who notified us about the bomb.”

“Reznick? Bullshit.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “He tracked you down to warn you of a threat. It’s all about your mission in Tehran.”

Vincenza knocked back the glass of red wine.

“Two guys on a motorbike, one gets off and clips a magnetic bomb to the underside of your car. A matter of seconds and they were off.”

Vincenza ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, you’re serious…”

“Do you think this is a game? So…‌you have a choice. Either you exit the premises with my officers willingly, or we take you down here and now. The decision is yours.”

“Where’s Reznick now?” said Vincenza.

“Not far.”

Meyerstein’s cellphone rang. She recognized the Director’s caller ID immediately.

“Martha,” he said. “O’Donoghue.”

“Sir, I was about to call in with an update.”

“What’s Reznick saying about what happened? That was our best chance of a lead.”

“Sir, I’ve not spoken to him. He’s in transit to the command vehicle.”

“He executed two American citizens, Martha. We’ve got a firestorm coming our way on this.”

Meyerstein sighed as Vincenza got to his feet and began to pace the room, muttering to himself. “Sir,” she said, “if you’ll just let me…”

“Martha, he’s crossed the line. He’s blown the best lead we had. But I guess you know that already.”

“Sir, I don’t want to jump to conclusions until I know all the facts. Reznick was on this before anyone. He was the one who tracked down Vincenza.”

“He’s blown a chance to get vital intel. Do you know what counter terrorism are saying?”

“Sir, I deal in real intel. And facts. Fact number one, we don’t know what happened up there. Only Reznick does.”

“I don’t give a damn…”

Out of the corner of her eye, a razor-thin red beam shone through the window.

Meyerstein turned. “Look out!” she shouted. A red dot locked on to Vincenza’s head. Time seemed to slow down and then stop.

A bullet ripped through the windows, shattering the glass, flooring Vincenza. He lay prostrate in a pool of blood as the shouting began and chaos ensued.

Meyerstein was flung to the floor as the glass shattered. Her mind raced as Stamper ran into the room. She looked up and pointed to a position high up in the hills. “Forty five degree angle it came in at,” she said. “I want Malibu shut down. Nothing goes in our out. Do you hear me?”

Stamper nodded and slipped on the bloody floor. “I’m on it, Martha.” He got to his feet and scrambled across the restaurant to the rear exit.

Meyerstein was hauled through a side exit of the restaurant by her team and headed out onto the Pacific Highway, back to the safety of the command vehicle.

A young LA counterterrorism Fed said, “Ma’am, we’ve got countless agents and police now scouring the houses overlooking the Highway. Roadblocks set up north, south east and west.”

Meyerstein looked through a window of the command vehicle up at the lights on the hill. “What are we talking about?”

“Military sniper, I’d suggest.”

“Reznick cautioned that they might be watching,” said Meyerstein.

“This is a targeted assassination. The bomb attached to Vincenza’s car. Pure chance that Reznick catches sight of this. But that didn’t stop them. Like most pros they had a back up plan. They didn’t come all this way to miss their man. They’re not going to be satisfied until every member of the Delta team from Tehran is wiped out.”

“Three are dead. We have one in a secure location and we’re trying to track down a fifth in Arizona. That leaves Reznick. He must be protected. These Iranians can’t win.”

The counterterrorism guy nodded, but said nothing.

“What’s the latest on the two guys killed up on the canyon?”

“Update just came in. Reznick didn’t kill them.”

Meyerstein’s insides knotted. “What?”

“Reznick didn’t kill them.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Reznick said the kids were taken out long-range, just like Vincenza was. From maybe half a mile, maybe more.”

“Ballistics backs that up?”

“They will. First responders said it’s clear it isn’t 9mm slugs we’re talking about. Shots darn near tore the kids’ bodies apart.”

Meyerstein picked up a black coffee sitting on the table. “This mine?”

“Yup.”

Meyerstein took a couple of gulps of cold coffee and grimaced. “IDs on the two kids?”

“Americans.”

“What else?”

“Parents were Iranians.”

“What happened to them?”

“We’re piecing it together. UCLA students. Probably radicalized. The parents by all accounts didn’t know a goddamn thing.”

“What about their computers?”

“We’ve just arrived. Early days. Forensics are combing laptops, cellphone records. We’ll build up the picture.”

Meyerstein slumped into a chair and spun it round to face the young Fed. “What a goddamn mess.”

“The pattern has been set. We can all see the common thread. Reznick saw it first. Our problem is if this gets out…”

“The fallout would be immense, I know,” Meyerstein said. “The American people don’t want to hear about some Iranian hit squad roaming around the country. Taking out people in Florida, California and God knows where.”

The young man nodded.

“Why didn’t they take out Reznick when they took care of the two Iranian-American students?” asked Meyerstein.

“My gut feeling? A separate cell was tasked with following the two young men to ensure they were taken care of if they got into trouble.”

“So the triggerman might not have known that was Reznick on their tail?”

“Compartmentalize. Need to know. You know the drill.”

Meyerstein sipped some more cold coffee and put down the cup. “What’s the NSA saying?”

“They’re tracing calls to both the kids’ cellphones, which we have. But the traces are bouncing around everywhere. Calls are encrypted and virtually unhackable. Will take time.”

“We should never underestimate the Iranians.”

“One of the best Special Forces in the world. Knowledge, technical skills, knowhow built up over many years…‌They train Hezbollah, pass on most of their knowledge to them. Bombs, counter insurgency, terrorism, intelligence, you name it.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Shows what we’re dealing with. They still got Vincenza and wiped out the two Iranian-Americans who were on their side.”

“Resourceful, ruthless and able to adjust plans to a fast-moving situation – the hallmarks of any special forces.”

A hard knock at the door and a SWAT team leader stepped into the command vehicle.

Meyerstein said, “Did you get Reznick?”

“We got Jon Reznick.”

“Where is he?”

“At a secure facility.”

“On whose goddamn orders?”

“The President’s national security adviser.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

It was a high-speed thirty-minute journey north along the Pacific Coast Highway to the Point Mugu naval air base.

Meyerstein sat throughout the journey in quiet contemplation. Events were getting out of control. She felt the pressure building. There were going to be more deaths until this cell was destroyed. O’Donoghue would be taking flak from the intelligence community. He wasn’t averse to replacing a team and worrying about the consequences later.

A base security guard along with Roy Stamper and the SWAT team leader escorted her deep into the bowels of the base. Down shiny corridors, air conditioning units growling low in the background. Her security guard was replaced by a naval detail as they moved into a secure area.

“They’re with me,” she said.

The lead naval officer said, “Ma’am, you’re the only one with base clearance.”

Stamper and the SWAT team leader took a seat and settled down to await Meyerstein’s return. She moved on with the new escort to an elevator. Then up to a suite of offices on the top floor.

Daniel Frostrop, the base commander, sat behind his desk in the large corner office. He wore a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and tightly knotted brown tie.

Meyerstein’s gaze wandered round the room. It was decked out in dark wood, the walls lined with military books. Framed photos showed Frostrop with everyone from Presidents Clinton and Bush to Kofi Annan.

Frostrop leaned back in his chair. “Take a seat, Meyerstein.”

The naval officer shut the door and Meyerstein sat down.

A moment later there was a knock on the door and a tall man in his fifties entered the room, wearing a dark suit. Frostrop got up from his seat. “Brigadier Andrew T. Belmont, Homeland Security, counter terrorism expert and adviser to the President on national security issues. This is FBI Assistant Director Meyerstein.”

Meyerstein turned and nodded but said nothing as Belmont took a seat at the back of the room.

Frostrop sat down and leaned back in his seat. “You’re probably wondering why we have Reznick here.”

“I’ll be interested in your explanation,” said Meyerstein.

Frostrop grimaced. “You see…‌I was just speaking to Brigadier Belmont here and we both agree that this is the best place for Reznick until further notice.”

Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “Under whose authority?”

Frostrop nodded in the direction of Belmont. The Brigadier held up a letter showing the Presidential seal. “This gives me carte blanche to decide what we do with Reznick.”

“Do you know anything about Jon Reznick?”

“I’m well aware of his record,” Belmont said. “And I’m well aware that he is now used by the FBI on a freelance basis.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

Belmont said, “Look, Meyerstein, just to clarify – I’m not here to cause you problems. Or the FBI. The Bureau is the lead agency. But Jon Reznick…‌he’s my concern.”

“He’s also my concern,” she replied.

“And I respect that.”

Meyerstein studied Belmont’s clean-cut features. She thought there was a coldness around his eyes. “Has anyone interviewed him?”

Belmont shook his head. “Not yet. We only know what the SWAT guys relayed to us.”

“Which was?”

“Sniper downed the two young would-be bombers.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“We got a problem, that’s what it tells me.”

“What else do I need to know?” said Meyerstein.

Belmont cleared his throat. “Within the last few minutes, shortly before you arrived, we got news on Rain, the other Delta operator.”

Meyerstein shrugged. “And?”

“And it’s not good. Rain’s body has been found. Washed up on a remote shore of Lake Champlain, Burlington, Vermont.”

Meyerstein took a long hard look at Belmont.

“That is why we’re keeping Reznick out of sight. We can’t take any more chances.”

“You want my take on this?”

Belmont shrugged. “Sure, go right ahead.”

“They’ll only be after one thing.”

“Reznick.”

“Precisely,” said Meyerstein.

“And that’s why we’ve brought him here. No one needs to know a thing.”

“There is a flaw in that logic, Brigadier.”

Belmont shifted in his seat. “And what precisely is that?”

“They will check the nearest secure facilities. The nearest military bases.”

Belmont ran a hand through his short hair. “Do you think they’ve got the capabilities to penetrate this base’s security?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Quds Force.”

“You can’t be serious…‌I mean, for Iran to contemplate such a move would be near suicide. We operate in the shadows. Those are the rules.”

Meyerstein got up from her chair and paced the room. “They’ve picked off each of these ex-Delta operators, one at a time. It wouldn’t make any sense to keep one or two alive. They’ve been instructed to find them and kill them all. Simple.”

The base commander Frostrop shrugged. “This is an easy decision, Meyerstein. Reznick can hide out here until the coast is clear.”

“You’re not listening. Besides, what if he doesn’t want to?”

Frostrop sighed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think Reznick, from what we know about him, is the type of guy who is content to just hide out? Do you?”

Frostrop said nothing as Belmont shrugged.

Meyerstein faced the two men. “I know Reznick quite well. We might be missing a way to deal with this.”

Belmont scratched the tip of his nose. “What are we missing?”

“There are risks involved, I have to warn you.”

“I don’t like risks.”

Meyerstein smiled. “Depends what sort of hand you’re dealt.”

“What are you proposing?”

“I want to speak to Reznick,” said Meyerstein. “Face to face. Now.”

Belmont pressed back the cuticles on his fingernails. “Why?”

“I want to see if we can use Reznick to get closer to them.”

• • •

Brigadier Belmont accompanied Meyerstein deeper into a restricted area of the base. They headed down a series of corridors until they reached a basement tunnel that led to a separate building. She felt disorientated as they approached a screened-off area, armed guards blocking the entrance.

IDs were checked and they were buzzed through. She peered through a small window into what looked like an interview room with one table, two chairs and a handcuffed Jon Reznick pacing the room. Two cameras were placed high up in the room.

Meyerstein turned to Belmont. “I need to speak to him alone.”

Belmont shook his head. “No.”

“I do this on my own or forget it. And I want the handcuffs off.”

“Why?”

“He’s no threat to me.”

A long pause. “Very well,” said Belmont, “but I’ll be watching through the window.”

Belmont handed Meyerstein the keys for the cuffs. She entered the room, the door locking automatically behind them.

Meyerstein sensed Reznick was wired. “How are you?” she said.

Reznick glanced up at one of the cameras and shook his head. He turned to face her. “You mind explaining what the hell I’m doing in this shithole?”

“It’s just temporary.”

He stared at Meyerstein. “You mind uncuffing me?”

Meyerstein stepped forward and uncuffed Reznick. He turned to face her. They were standing so close to each other that Meyerstein could feel the warmth of his breath.

Reznick stood in silence, searching her face for answers.

Meyerstein took a step back. “This is payback, Tehran-style.”

“If you dish it out, you’ve got to be able to take it.”

“Pity you can’t share that sentiment with Tiny, Dorfman, Vincenza and Rain.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took out Vincenza at the restaurant. Long-range. Just been told Rain’s body was washed up on Lake Champlain, Vermont. I’m sorry.”

Reznick sat down in the chair and said nothing. Face as impassive as ever. Eyes clear, almost unfathomable.

“What was Albert like?” she asked.

“Albert was the quietest of the crew. Content to just be there. Dorfman was the one doing the wise-cracking.” He shook his head. “I remember Albert showed me a picture of his newborn daughter which his wife had emailed him, when we were hunkered down in an informant’s house in Fallujah.”

Meyerstein felt her throat tighten.

“The pride in his eyes was something any father would understand. He didn’t tell anyone else, only me. I sometimes wondered why that was. Maybe it was because the rest of the guys pulled his leg about him being a cracker, having grown up in the backwoods of Georgia. Ain’t she something, Jon? he would say.”

Meyerstein let out a long sigh.

“Tell me more about how they got Blaine,” he said.

“Vincenza was gunned down as I spoke to him in that fancy Malibu restaurant.”

Reznick stared at her for what seemed an eternity.

“You were right,” she said. “They were watching us, Jon.”

Reznick bowed his head. “What about the two who planted the bomb?”

“Jon, you must have inadvertently got in between the two students on the bike and the shadow.”

“Yup.”

“What was the triggerman who took out the two on the motorbike driving?”

“No idea. Too far from me.”

Meyerstein paced the room for a few moments. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing.

“I need your help.”

“First get me out of this place.”

“Jon, that might be a problem, but there’s someone here who can make that problem go away.” Meyerstein stared at the mirror through which she knew Belmont would be watching and signaled for him to join them.

“Listen,” said Reznick, “I don’t want to hear some horseshit story about we can’t do this and we can’t do that. They’ve just killed my Delta buddies. And I’m not going to sit here with my thumb up my ass.”

“Jon, listen to me, you need to realize…”

“Get me out of here or…”

Belmont entered the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” said Reznick.

“I advise on national security matters.”

Reznick stared at him but said nothing.

“The name’s Belmont. This is complicated Jon. The Iranians want to take you out. But we’re not going to allow it.”

Meyerstein interrupted: “I want to see if we can’t come to some sort of arrangement.”

“You talking about a deal?” said Reznick.

Meyerstein pointed to the door. “You want out of here?”

Reznick nodded.

“There are risks involved in taking you out of here. Risks for all of us. Firstly, do we all agree that we want to track down these sonofabitches?”

Reznick and Belmont both nodded.

Meyerstein sighed. “Jon, what if I said that I want to use you?”

“In what way?”

“As bait for the Iranians.”

Reznick stared at her. “You want me to lure them? I’m the honey, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” she said.

“I’ll do it. On one condition…”

Meyerstein’s cellphone rang, interrupting the conversation. “Goddamn,” she said, picking it up from the table. She didn’t recognize the number. “Meyerstein.”

A silence opened up for a few moments. Then a voice spoke: “You really need to get new encryption for your phone, Assistant Director.” Male. She didn’t recognize it.

Meyerstein froze for a second, then stared at Belmont and Reznick. “Who’s this?”

“Don’t play games. You Americans are very fond of games. Well, guess what? So am I.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number,” said Meyerstein.

“Oh, we’ve got the right number, Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“We want Reznick.”

Meyerstein heart skipped a beat. She said nothing as thoughts careered through her head. This was the Iranians. Speaking to her on her phone.

“In thirty minutes, we will call you back on this number. We will have more details of how this is going to work.”

TWENTY-NINE

The specter of the growing threat galvanized Meyerstein. She hooked up an emergency videoconference with the National Security Council in Washington, sitting alongside Belmont, as they started to get a handle on what and who they were dealing with. She scribbled notes as the faces of the President’s most senior military and intelligence advisers stared down from large screens in a secure conference room on the Californian naval base.

Meyerstein listened as the arguments raged back and forth amongst the experts. She ordered her thoughts and plan of action before she made her first input. “I’d like to know what’s the latest from the NSA on tracking this call.”

Mitch Chivers, an NSA senior analyst, said, “Ma’am, this should be easy for us, but in this case, it’s not.”

Meyerstein said, “What do you mean?”

Chivers glanced at his laptop. “I’m just checking the latest from my team as we speak. We believe the call originated from California, specifically the Santa Monica area. We just can’t narrow it down any further. They must be using more advanced encryption.”

“How’s that possible? Never mind. What’s the latest on this cell?”

Counterterrorism expert Ronald McMaster put up his hand. “If I can jump in here Martha. My best analysts have been working on this. I’m afraid we don’t yet have verifiable intel…”

Meyerstein sighed. “Jesus! What do we know?”

“We are certain these are Iranian Quds Force operatives. And they seem prepared to up the ante. Tehran knows the ramifications if they conduct any terrorist acts on our soil.”

“I want names and the modus operandi of these Iranians,” said Meyerstein. “Is that clear?”

McMaster leaned forward and tapped a few keys on his laptop. Simultaneously images of five Quds Force operatives appeared on the middle split-screen. “We believe these are our guys. Still checking the voice analysis. The guy in the middle is the leader. Mohsen Sazegara. He’s here to avenge the death of his brother.”

“His brother?”

“Ali Sazegara, a nuclear fusion scientist who was blown up in Tehran six years ago.”

Meyerstein leaned back in her seat and shook her head. “So, it’s personal…” She turned and looked at Belmont. “You wanna jump in, Brigadier?”

Belmont sighed. “It is personal, Martha. Ali Sazegara was killed just yards from his home in a Tehran suburb. Reznick led that part of the mission. He was the trigger man.”

Meyerstein stood up and paced the room. “And when the hell were you going to tell me this?”

Belmont cleared his throat and looked up at the screens. “I’m sure you understand, gentlemen. It’s always on a need-to-know basis. And that’s how it is.”

Meyerstein turned and faced him. “Bullshit. You put my team and me at risk. Not to mention Reznick and his Delta crew.”

Belmont sighed. “You need to get the right perspective on this, Martha.”

Meyerstein ignored Belmont. She sat back down. “Ronald, do you think taking out Reznick is the most important hit?”

“Yeah,” said McMaster. “All that Shi’ite blood brother stuff. It’s personal and it’s bad for Reznick. But it’s very worrying for America.”

Meyerstein looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes until they call back. How do we get on the front foot?”

McMaster said, “I think we should get Reznick out of here. Take him to the other side of the country.”

“You clearly don’t know Jon Reznick,” said Meyerstein. “He will not want to hide from these guys.”

“What do you propose?”

“We don’t know what their next move is going to be. It’s not the usual Iranian modus operandi to want to enter into discussions.”

“I’ve got to agree with Meyerstein on this,” said McMaster. “I fear there may be something bigger here. The Joint Chiefs of Staff will be briefed. They’ll call for some action against Tehran. Maybe a missile strike.”

“And we will be the pariah,” replied Meyerstein. “It will set off unrest across the Middle East. Spark Hezbollah into full-scale confrontation with Israel. The Shias in Iraq will be in uproar. The place will be in flames. And that’s why they might be thinking we’ll want to localize the threat.”

McMaster blew out his cheeks.

Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments. “Something else to consider. Do you think these guys in California have gone rogue?”

McMaster winced. “Long shot…”

“Think about it. What if the brother of this dead nuclear scientist is ripping up the rule book and playing to his own agenda, and to hell with the consequences?”

McMaster said, “From everything we know about Quds, this is not how they play the game. It’s tight and it’s scripted. Very, very disciplined.”

Meyerstein took a few moments to reply. “What if we’re wrong? What if these guys have stepped off the deep end? What if they are not planning to go back to Tehran until Reznick is dead?”

No one said a word.

• • •

When the videoconference came to an abrupt halt, Meyerstein headed back to the interview room where Reznick was leaning against a wall, arms folded. She faced him, hands on hips, and outlined what she knew as he listened intently. “What do you reckon’s going on here, Jon?”

“With regards?”

“With regards to why they’re going to call back. Any minute now.”

Reznick stared at her long and hard. “They’re fucking with us, that’s what they’re doing.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Is that your considered analysis?”

“Pretty much. We’re all waiting on them to make the next move. But I guarantee you they’ve already made it.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re playing you. They’re playing me. They’re playing all of us. My gut is telling me these guys are doing their own thing.”

Meyerstein said, “What if I told you that one of the Iranians…‌you killed his brother in Tehran.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Did you know that?”

Reznick shook his head.

“So where does that leave us?”

“They’re going to try and kill me. No matter the cost. And make no mistake, revenge is everything to these guys.”

“Jon, I…”

The shrill ringtone of Meyerstein’s cellphone interrupted their conversation. She saw that the caller ID display on her phone was changing, clearly scrambling the lines to avoid detection.

Meyerstein felt her heart rate quicken before she answered. “Meyerstein.”

A long sigh. “Good to speak to you again, Assistant Director.”

“Thank you for calling back.”

“I can hear the uncertainty in your voice, Meyerstein. It betrays your true feelings. I don’t want to hurt you. As long as I get what I want.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes. “What do you want?”

The man began to laugh.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“You know exactly what I want. Jon Reznick.”

Meyerstein looked across at Reznick was who staring back at her. Eyes cold, face inscrutable. “No deal.’

“That is your final answer?”

“Yes it is.”

A long sigh down the line.

“We have plans in place,” the man said.

“What sort of plans?”

The line went dead.

THIRTY

Jerry Morlach was listening to an old Miles Davis album on his terrace when his cellphone rang. “I’m looking to speak to Jerry Franklin Morlach,” an unfamiliar male voice said.

Morlach’s instincts switched on immediately. He didn’t know anyone who used his full name. The fact that someone had used his full name told him everything he had to know. “I think you have the wrong number.”

A long sigh down the line. “I am a contract worker.”

Morlach took a few moments to compose himself. He had been expecting the call. The two-tier code – his full name and the words contract worker – had been activated. His senses were fully active. “I’m sorry, this is a bad line. It sounded like you said you are a contract worker.”

A long sigh. “Yes I am.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Morlach, you may know my predecessor. His name was Stadler.”

Morlach did indeed know who Stadler was. He hadn’t heard from him in years. He wondered if the caller was a replacement.

“There are things we need to discuss. We want to talk. Frankly.”

“Why?”

The man sighed again. “You’re the back channel for this deal, right?”

Morlach said nothing as a silence opened up down the line. He lit up a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. “I need to know that you are indeed who you claim you are?”

“You need to make a call. They’ll verify.”

Morlach said nothing as he exhaled the smoke.

“The verification code is eight characters long. Do you have a pen handy?”

Morlach had a photographic memory for figures and didn’t need a pen. “I’m listening.”

“Verification code is as follows: 944981 Delta Delta. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

Morlach nodded. He ended the call and pulled up the contact number he had in his cellphone. Four rings and a woman’s voice.

“Please give the verification code.”

Morlach recited the number. There was a long pause down the line.

“I can confirm our contract worker has been deployed,” the woman said.

“Thank you.” He ended the call and waited. Exactly an hour after the first call ended, Morlach’s cell rang.

The man answered after one ring. “We okay?”

“We’re good,” Morlach said.

“We have work to do.”

“I’m listening.”

A long sigh. “We are quite prepared to give you what you want.”

Morlach said nothing.

“I mean, of course, Jon Reznick.”

Morlach’s stomach knotted at the mere mention of Reznick’s name. “How do I know that what you say is true?”

“I think it’s important we keep this channel of communication open at this time.”

“You haven’t answered my earlier question.”

“Which was?”

“How do I know that what you say is true?”

“I’ll be back in touch.”

THIRTY-ONE

Meyerstein was running on adrenalin. A sense of foreboding washed over her, pervading her every thought. She felt as though events were about to unfold in the darkest way. The specter of terrorism on American soil. She sensed it. So did the intelligence community. But unless they tracked down the Iranians, they were beholden to them.

She pushed those thoughts aside and endured another grueling video conference call, this time with the Pentagon. NSA analysts checked and cross-referenced leads on the whereabouts of the caller they believed was in the Santa Monica area. But they couldn’t pin down the call.

Meyerstein felt frustrated and apprehensive as she ended the videoconference. She had sank too many black coffees for her own good, nerves shredded. She called home and spoke to her mother who was looking after the kids. She had three minutes with each. They asked when she was coming home. She felt bad. She always did when her job took her away from her family. But she knew the demands of the job. It was no nine-to-five.

Meyerstein worried that her kids were no longer the center of her life. She simply wasn’t there for them nearly as often as she would have liked. She missed their concerns and foibles and the small things that made up their day. When she did spend time with them, she felt herself zoning out of their world, as she focused more and more on her work. Was she becoming detached from her own children?

She thought of the times her daughter had talked about the music she was rehearsing with her piano teacher – invariably Bach – but Meyerstein had struggled to stay interested as she was always exhausted after work.

The more she thought of it, the more she worried she was becoming adrift from her family. The job was doing that to her. Day by day, month by month. Year by year. It was eating away at her. From within. She wondered if it was time to reassess her priorities.

“Meyerstein, video conference room!” Belmont shouted, snapping her out of her reverie.

She headed back to the videoconference facility. Three huge screens now showing the FBI’s Counterterrorism HQ in McLean.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “any developments?”

McMaster punched a few keys on his laptop. A grainy photo was brought up on the big screens of a man wearing a Lakers baseball cap. He had light brown skin, cellphone pressed to his ear. “Got a breakthrough, ma’am. This is the latest shot we have of Mohsen Sazegara.”

“Where was this taken?”

Counterterrorism specialist Mac Jackson put up his hand, “Hi Martha. Yeah, this was taken seventy two minutes ago at a Laundromat in Santa Monica.”

“How are we only getting this now?”

“Long story. Face recognition matches throwing up other IDs, but we’re satisfied this is one of our guys. But here’s the kicker. He doesn’t live or work in Iran.”

“You got to be kidding me?”

“The face recognition matches a naturalized U.S. citizen with dual Iranian citizenship. He lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. New identity.”

“Shit?”

“Indeed.”

“What does he do?”

A long sigh but no answer.

“I said what does he do?”

McMaster cleared his throat. “He’s an engineer at defense contractor Methvens & Fischer.”

“No, that can’t be right. Jesus!”

A long sigh again.

Meyerstein shifted in her seat as she stared up at the faces on the screens. “Okay, let’s focus here. Firstly, how many times has he visited Tehran?”

“He has made seven return trips to his brother-in-law in Hamadan in the last five years.”

“Tell me about Mohsen Sazegara.”

“He’s not married. Fitness fanatic. Thirty-five. Black belt karate. Member of three gun clubs in Texas. Very well integrated and westernized. And he’s operating under the name Mozen. M-o-z-e-n,” he said, spelling it out.

“Have his details been circulated?”

“Intelligence and Homeland Security now have it.”

“Cops?”

“Restricted to senior levels in Southern California.”

Meyerstein nodded. She knew that if there was any leak from a sheriff or cop the whole thing would turn into a media frenzy. “What about his home in Corpus Christi?”

“Already combing through it. Forensics are searching his laptop but nothing so far. Pretty advanced encryption by all accounts.”

“Who’s pulling the strings? Local or foreign?”

“Maybe both. But we’ve ran this around and we think this guy is leading the team.”

“Guys, we are chasing shadows. What’s their next move?”

“Martha, I don’t think we can…”

“I asked what’s their next goddamn move?”

A long sigh. “The near unanimous vote is that a long range sniper will pick off the next target, especially after Vincenza was gunned down long range and the two Iranian-American students were taken out the same way.”

Meyerstein felt a headache coming on. She didn’t know if it was too much coffee or too little sleep. Maybe both. “How have we missed this guy?”

“The same way we missed the Boston bombers,” said McMaster.

“That’s not strictly true. We didn’t miss those guys. We had a heads-up from the Russians.”

McMaster and the rest of the guys up on the screen nodded.

“This is different. This guy should have been on our radar. He’s not working on his own. What about the rest of his crew?”

A long silence opened up.

Meyerstein stared at the faces on the screen. “You’re keeping something from me. What the hell is it?”

McMaster rubbed his eyes. “Martha – Mohsen Sazegara was, at one time, on our radar.”

“What?”

“The FBI had him under surveillance two years ago.”

“So why did it end?”

“Martha, there are competing threats. We have to think triage. What is the most severe and urgent threat? Work back from there.”

Meyerstein leaned back in her seat. “So the guy leading this cell that hunted down and killed ex-Delta operatives was once under our goddamn nose? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Sadly not.”

“Who made that call?”

“Martha, I don’t think it does anyone any good to trawl over––”

“Goddamn, who made that call?”

McMaster looked around at the faces at his end before he turned to look at Meyerstein. “Authorization shows that it came from the San Antonio FBI field office.”

“Who’s in charge there?”

“Martha, I don’t think blaming someone––”

“This is nothing to do with blaming someone. This is holding people to account. Because if we don’t, we’re going to make those same mistakes over and over again. Who’s in charge?”

“Special Agent in Charge is Charles Patterson.”

“I need to speak to him right now,” said Meyerstein.

“The SAC is indisposed, Martha.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s on honeymoon.”

“I don’t give a damn where he is. I need to know the rationale.”

“Martha, it was the wrong call.”

“Get me the number.”

Mac gave her the number and Meyerstein abruptly ended the videoconference. She punched in the number for Patterson. Three rings and the call was picked up.

“This better be good,” a man’s voice rasped.

Meyerstein cleared her throat. “Charles, apologies for bothering you, Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein.”

“Is this a joke? Do you know what time it is?”

“This is no joke. We’ve got an emergency, Charles.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“A guy the San Antonio field office had under surveillance. Look, is this a secure line you’re on?”

“Yeah. Who are we talking about?”

Meyerstein rubbed her shoulders to relieve her tense muscles. “Mohsen Sazegara. Dual citizenship. Iranian-American. Worked for a defense contractor under surveillance.”

A beat. “I know the one you mean. But what do you mean we had him under surveillance?”

“I mean you lifted the surveillance on him.”

“I did no such thing.”

Meyerstein was momentarily wrong-footed by the answer. She quickly scrolled her iPad to bring up the details. “I’m sorry, I have a copy of the instruction you sent out, March 7 this year.”

“Listen, Meyerstein, I sent no such thing.”

“I have it in front of me, your signature.”

“Not mine. There is no goddamn way I authorized that.”

Meyerstein wondered if the SAC was just not willing to take the flak. “Are you positive? I’m going to be double-checking this.”

“100 per cent. I did not authorize that. You say a document has my signature. Has that been verified? Because I think you’ll find that signature isn’t mine.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. She hadn’t seen this coming.

“Listen,” he said, “get your handwriting forensics at Document Examinations to check the signature. It ain’t mine.”

Meyerstein thought he sounded genuine. “Charles, we’ll check this out. You might be hearing from Counterterrorism. Probably want to keep your cell charged.”

“What the hell is going on, Martha?”

“I need to go, Charles. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.”

Meyerstein ended the call and hooked up again to McLean. She relayed the information to Mac and the rest of the counterterrorism specialists around the table.

“That’s impossible,” Mac said.

“Except it’s not. I want the best FBI forensic handwriting expert to check over this instruction from Charles. He is adamant it wasn’t him. I believe him.”

“Copy that. We’re on it. This will take a couple of hours, Martha. I’d suggest you get some rest. You look terrible.”

Meyerstein was about to protest but a wave of tiredness washed over her. She realized she hadn’t slept in the last 24 hours. She ended the videoconference and was shown to a dormitory.

The place was basic but clean with an en suite. She took off her shoes. It was bliss. She stripped down to her underwear and went into the bathroom. She washed the make-up from her face. She looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, panda shadows around her eyes. She got into the single bed, switched the light off and was asleep before he head hit the pillow.

Three hours later, a gentle knocking on the door woke Meyerstein. It took her a few moments to get her bearings. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she shouted.

She jumped out of bed and quickly freshened up with a hot shower. She always carried her full make-up in her handbag. She applied fresh make-up, got dressed, popped a mint in her mouth and was ready to rejoin her team.

The videoconference recommenced.

The face of FBI forensic handwriting specialist Morton Greenbank was up on one of the screens. “Ma’am, Special Agent Greenbank. I can see how they did this.”

“Did what?”

“The signature is not Patterson’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks like Paterson’s at first glance. But it’s not. They hacked the FBI.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “This is getting worse. How could they have done this?”

“We’re still trying to figure it out. But I can confirm there has been a clear breach down in San Antonio. Someone has accessed a server, and got to work.”

“The FBI cybersecurity has been breached? Are you kidding me?”

“The Iranians are world class at this. They do this all the time.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“Any weak spot or local weak spot might have provided the opportunity. Perhaps a memory stick that has been swapped, infecting a local computer down there, allowing them access. Break in to an agent’s car, and any laptop or flash drive in there could be their way in. It’s low tech, but very effective. Social engineering. But this might’ve come all the way from Tehran.”

“Okay, how long till you determine exactly how this happened?”

“I’ll have it within an hour.”

“Can you also determine how this false signature got on the document and into our system?”

“I’ll get to it.”

The forensic expert’s face disappeared and in its place was McMaster. The adjacent screen flashed up a picture of a thickset man with pale brown skin and piercing black eyes. “Martha, we got a critical update.”

“Who’s this?”

“This is Mohsen’s brother Behzad. He lives in Dallas, organizes tours to Middle East tourist haunts in Jordan, Egypt etc. for wealthy Texans. His wife and three kids took a flight to Tehran ten days ago. He’s disappeared.”

Meyerstein said, “What else do we know about this guy?”

“Westernized, like his brother. Never been under FBI surveillance.”

“What else?”

“Here’s the kicker. He bought ammonium nitrate at a home depot in Austin last month.”

Meyerstein put her head in her hands. “And him and his brother are here in southern California. The question is where?”

“Martha, we’re going door to door on the houses overlooking Nobu in Malibu. Still nothing.”

“Are you telling me there is no surveillance footage from someone’s front yard or driveway?”

“Martha, each and every house is being checked over. It takes time.”

“We haven’t got time.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

Meyerstein’s cellphone rang. The caller display was a number she didn’t recognize. Before she answered she looked up at the screens. “Are we doing a trace on my cell?”

McMaster nodded. “Already in place. Go right ahead.”

Meyerstein answered the call. “Yes?”

“We don’t want to hurt anyone.” The man’s voice. “Really we don’t. So you’re going to give us Reznick. Hand him over.”

Meyerstein felt her blood turn cold. “Listen, we don’t do deals.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not with you. Not with anyone.”

A long sigh. “And that’s your final word?”

Meyerstein looked up at the screens and everyone was nodding. “We want dialogue.”

“You’re trying my patience, Meyerstein.”

Meyerstein felt her anger rise deep within her. “We don’t do deals.”

“Oh, but you will. Trust me on that.”

Meyerstein’s insides knotted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I think I’ve said enough.”

THIRTY-TWO

Mohsen Sazegara parked the car on the third level of the parking garage in downtown Santa Monica. He wore sunglasses, a long sleeved plaid shirt, khakis and sneakers with a Lakers cap pulled low. He glanced in the rearview mirror and made sure there was no one else around. Satisfied there was no one going to disturb him, he got out and popped open the trunk. Inside was a backpack. He took it out and slung it over his shoulder, slamming the trunk hard. Then he locked the car, took the stairs and crossed

2nd Street to the four-screen Laemmle cinema.

He handed over a twenty-dollar bill, took his change and headed inside. They were showing four European art-house movies. He decided to head into the screening of a gloomy Scandinavian crime thriller with English subtitles. It was nearly full. Maybe around forty people.

Mohsen sat in the middle of the front row and placed his backpack under the seat, tight between his feet. He took off his shades and stared up at the screen. The film was about a loner detective investigating the death of a politician’s mistress.

He heard whispered voices several rows behind him. “I wish he would get his goddamn head out of the way. Why is he sitting in the front row?”

Sazegara afforded himself a wry smile in the darkness. If only they knew, he thought.

He stared at the dank images of a Copenhagen alley as the cinemagoers in far-off California absorbed its message. The European liberal mindset at work. A “progressive” society on the surface. But dig beneath the veneer, and the norm was alcohol, prostitution and Godless youth in various states of undress.

He wondered why the West had allowed things to get to such a level. To him it was a venal cesspool of permissiveness. Religion and morals had been marginalized for the liberal elites who managed the country. Gay marriage. That was the thing these days. The permissiveness was now everywhere.

He had seen it as he integrated into the life of Texas. The kids who didn’t respect their parents, the lack of discipline in poorly run schools and the parents and their consumer-driven quest to see who could have a new car, a new gun, a new house, and invariably a new wife.

The rustling of candy papers a few rows behind him snapped him out of his reverie. His senses were switched back on as the Danish voices on the screen boomed out of the surround sound speakers.

The more he thought about what he was about to do, his insides knotted. His mind was on fire. It was like he was about to be consumed by a euphoric madness. The sense of expectation grew within him, making him so giddy he nearly burst out laughing.

He closed his eyes for a few moments. Discipline. You must be disciplined. He could hear his handler’s voice now. The calm, authoritative and commanding tone. In his mind’s eyes, he saw his mother again. The terrible anguish contorting her face as she buried her son, Mohsen’s brother, the brilliant nuclear scientist.

The helplessness in her eyes consumed and drove him. He had no remorse at the best of times. Now? He felt nothing. And that was good.

He was afraid of nothing. Of no one.

Mohsen opened his eyes and felt cleansed. Refreshed. He took another few moments to compose himself. Then he bent over and undid his backpack and felt the McDonald’s paper bag. Inside was the cold metal of the aerosol container.

The silent killer.

He placed the bag carefully underneath his seat.

The device was primed. It would fill the air with a deadly chemical, elements which had been added at a basement lab in a Houston suburb by one of his crew. An opium-like derivative of fentanyl, Carfentanyl. The drug used by the Russian Special Forces in the Moscow Theater Siege. Ten thousand times more powerful than morphine. Anyone who inhaled a drop would be dead in seconds.

Mohsen contemplated the device and the sequence of events about to unfold. Within the container was the cellphone receiver. A text message sent to the number would activate the device and release the killer chemical.

Confusion would reign for a few moments.

He imagined the people screaming as they gasped for breath. And then they would die. A painful, bewildering and quick death.

Mohsen leaned over and picked up the backpack, minus the McDonald’s paper bag with the device, which was now under the seat. Then he walked out of the cinema and back across the road. He took the stairs two at a time and got back into the car.

Mohsen took a few deep breaths and pulled away. He carefully negotiated the other parked cars in the garage and drove through Santa Monica for a mile, parking in a quiet street off the Pacific Coast Highway. The sky was red.

He took out his cellphone. Then he texted the number and closed his eyes.

THIRTY-THREE

“Oh shit, this is really happening,” Meyerstein said. She felt sick as she stared up at the screens showing real-time images from the Hazmat team inside the cinema. Twisted bodies lay between and across the seats, some with their tongues still protruding as they had gasped for air, others with eyes wide. A few had made it as far the exit doors but had breathed in too much of the gas to survive.

She turned and looked at Belmont. “Forty-three dead. I can’t bear to think about it.”

Belmont said nothing.

The voice of the caller lingered long in her mind. We have plans. Those were his last words. She wondered if she had made the wrong call. Should she have tried to play along more? She began to think that in some way she was partially to blame.

She tried to push those negative and corrosive thoughts to one side, as the largest screen switched to the FBI’s Counterterrorism guys in McLean, round a huge conference table. “Martha,” said FBI Special Agent John Veitch, “we got the latest assessment.”

Meyerstein stared at Veitch up on the screen. “Shoot.”

“This is a four-men crew. All Iranian-Americans.”

“Mohsen Sazegara?”

A grainy image appeared on the third screen. It was from a surveillance camera in the parking garage in Santa Monica. It showed a tall, muscular man wearing a baseball cap with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“This is him,” said Veitch. “Cool as a fucking cucumber. This guy walked in to the cinema and watched a film for fifteen minutes, no more, and then left the device. Primed. He triggered by remote control from a cellphone.”

Meyerstein took a few moments to digest the facts. She knew the importance of viewing evidence and information dispassionately. She had to fight against this turning personal. “This is not Iran’s usual modus operandi when it comes to the West.”

“They’ve crossed a line. They know the rules. It points to this Sazegara and his crew going rogue.”

“He must know that we will wipe them out.”

Veitch shrugged. “Maybe that’s what he’s wanting? A head to head confrontation. Revenge for his brother.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Where is Sazegara now?”

“After leaving the cinema and returning to the parking garage, we tracked the vehicle to a parking lot on the eastern outskirts of Santa Monica. Here’s the footage right now.”

A few moments later, Meyerstein watched on one of the screens as Sazegara drove into the parking lot, pulled up, got out the vehicle and headed for the stairwell, a backpack over his shoulder. Then the screen froze. “What happened?” she asked.

“We don’t know.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Jamming technology. Blocked all the surveillance cameras within a one hundred yard radius. Likely he drove away in another vehicle or was driven away.”

Meyerstein shook her head. She thought about what Reznick had said. “They’re fucking with us.”

“Big time,” said Veitch. “The President is meeting his closest advisers as we speak, including the FBI Director. They’re assessing all options. Including…”

“Including what?”

“Martha, they might cut Reznick loose.”

Meyerstein wondered if she had heard right. “Tell me you’re joking?”

“Martha, I don’t like it any more than you do. But we have to look at the big picture.”

“Are we just going to hand over Reznick to them? The United States of America is serious about this? Have I missed something?”

“It’s one of the options on the table.”

Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. She got to her feet and paced the room for a few moments, all eyes from the screen on her. “One of the options on the table? One of the goddamn options on the table? Are you guys serious? Well, you know what, it’s bullshit.”

“Martha, I know this is personal for you,” said Veitch. “You brought Reznick into a couple of operations. But you need to see the way the wind is blowing on this one.”

“Go to hell. This isn’t personal. What about the forty-three innocent Americans just murdered by this maniac? If we capitulate to their demands, this won’t be the end of it. I will not hand anyone over.”

“No matter the cost?”

Meyerstein’s heart rate was up a notch. “We don’t play by their rules.”

“Martha, the fallout from this could be immense.”

“It already is. No way do we bend to them. How the hell can we guarantee that these guys are just going to melt away? This is a suicide mission for them. They know they can’t go back to their regular lives or escape to Tehran.”

“I think all they want is Reznick,” said Veitch.

“I don’t give a damn what they want. We will hunt them down. And we will sort this out our way.”

“No matter the consequences?”

“The consequences are already too high.”

“I’m not disagreeing, Martha. But sometimes you’ve got to make deals. It’s the name of the game.”

“Can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Meyerstein sat back down. She wondered how this was going to play out.

Her cellphone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out and didn’t recognize the caller ID. Her stomach knotted.

“Meyerstein,” she said.

A long pause opened up down the line. She sensed it was him.

Meyerstein signaled to those on the screen to trace the call. One of the Feds there nodded in reply.

“Meyerstein,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“Your voice sounds strained,” the familiar man’s voice said.

Meyerstein cleared her throat. “I’m…”

“Yes, there’s definitely a tension in your voice. I’m not surprised. Are you shocked?”

Meyerstein was tempted to curse him. But she remained calm. She closed her eyes and prayed that the NSA would somehow track the call, despite knowing it was almost certainly being bounced off every cellphone mast to mask the GPS location. She glanced at her iPad. Real-time NSA messages were coming in, trying to pinpoint the location. Vermont, Canada, Florida, California, Germany. The list of false trails mounted up.

“If you’re wondering, never trace me.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“Cat caught your tongue, Assistant Director?” The voice dripped with sarcasm.

Meyerstein sighed down the line, stalling for time.

“How does it feel to have someone walk into your country and do some wetwork?”

“What do you want?”

A long sigh. “You might not believe me, but I didn’t want to kill those people.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, I did. And sadly, it’s going to happen again. And again, until we get what we want.”

“I think you must understand there are some lines in the sand we don’t cross.”

“Lines in sand get redrawn all the time, don’t they?”

Meyerstein closed her eyes.

“America is very good at drawing lines in the sand,” the voice said. “Lines on a map.”

“I need more time.”

“You’re out of time. We’re already at our next destination.”

“Goddamit!”

“I think you’re starting to understand how serious we are. We’re making progress.”

“Give me some time.”

“I will call back in precisely one hour’s time. And then we will talk about handing over Mr. Reznick.”

The line went dead.

THIRTY-FOUR

Three minutes later, a flushed Veitch was back up on the screen, staring down at her. “Martha, the NSA have got a fix on the phone!”

Meyerstein felt an adrenaline rush. “Location?”

“Ten minutes. Oxnard, right on the beach.”

“Let’s do this.”

Meyerstein headed outside to a waiting SUV, accompanied by three LA Feds, before being driven off the base at high speed. The radio crackled into life, speakers on.

“Be advised,” Veitch said, “SWAT team on the outskirts of Oxnard. One minute from location.”

“Have we got more details?”

“1262 Santa Cruz Avenue. Colonial house, stairs up to the door on the first level. Double garage. Owner of the house is Jackson Melrose, boat builder, but he rents it out through Oxnard realtor Leland Van Zandt. No note of who is living there at this moment.”

Meyerstein nodded. “We copy that, thanks.” She looked at the driver. “ETA for us?”

The driver glanced at the GPS as they sped down the street. “Seven minutes.”

“Goddamn!” said Meyerstein. “SWAT will make the call, as they’ll be first on the ground. But approach with extreme caution.”

Veitch replied, “Copy that and out.”

Meyerstein sensed the mood amongst the team she was travelling with had hardened. The focus had intensified. She knew that getting the cell, either dead or alive, was all that mattered. But something was gnawing away at her.

Her father had always instilled in her caution. She wondered about the sudden revelation of the cellphone GPS location.

She punched in the number for Veitch and he picked up after one ring. “Martha, you still en route?”

Meyerstein peered at the road up ahead. “Copy that. Listen, about the trace on the GPS signal.”

Veitch said, “What about it?”

“How come they’ve jammed their signals so far, but not this time?”

“Jamming technology works best when on the move. Indoors, it’s more susceptible to interference from a TV cable box or wireless signal on a router.”

Meyerstein pondered on that for a few moments. “Yeah, but what if it’s something else?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if it’s a trap, that’s what I’m saying?”

Veitch said nothing.

Meyerstein thought the silence went on too long. “I’m still waiting for a reply,” she said. “We’re nearly there. I need to know.”

The driver said, “ETA two minutes.”

Veitch’s voice on the radio: “One of the analysts Matty Sanders thinks they’re fucking with us.”

“I know Matty. He’s working Counterterrorism for Homeland Security?”

“Yeah. Joint Counterterrorism Task Force. He believes these guys are out of the Quds loop, acting on their own, and are fucking with us all.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment.

“And he’s convinced they won’t stop until we get Reznick. He believes this little trip into Oxnard might just be a little diversion. He said it might be a counter surveillance move, with them watching us.”

“Tell him I want to talk when I get back,” said Meyerstein.

“Will do, Martha, but the analysis is saying irrefutably it’s them.”

The sound of a chopper overheard was partially drowning out the conversation. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

“I’m monitoring from the sky,” said Veitch. “If they are there and make a run for it, we’ve got it covered.”

“Keep this frequency open,” replied Meyerstein.

“Will do.”

A radio crackled into life in Meyerstein’s vehicle. “Ten seconds till arrival,” a voice said from the SWAT vehicle as it approached the front of the house.

Meyerstein remained silent as a feeling of dread washed over her.

THIRTY-FIVE

Reznick was sitting in a chair in the naval base interview room when Belmont came in carrying two cups of coffee.

“How you holding up with this confinement, Jon?” he asked.

Reznick shrugged. “I’m holding up fine. Where’s Meyerstein?”

Belmont handed him one of the cups. “Black, right?”

Reznick nodded and gulped some of the coffee, feeling good to get something apart from Dexedrine into his bloodstream.

“She’s…” Belmont blew on his white coffee and sipped it. “She’s in a meeting.”

“This about the earlier call they put in?”

Belmont nodded.

“Meyerstein said that one of the guys is the brother of one of the scientists my team took out.”

“I can’t discuss that with you, Jon.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Protocol.”

Reznick gulped some more of the hot coffee feeling it burn the back of his throat. “Protocol, huh? That’s bullshit, Brigadier.”

Belmont said nothing.

“Where you work out of?” asked Reznick.

“I work for the government.”

“The government.”

“The American government.”

Reznick said nothing.

“We need to nullify this threat, don’t you agree, Jon?”

Reznick gulped down the rest the coffee. “Yeah.”

Belmont went across to the desk and leaned against it. “Jon, I want to level with you. We need to talk about options.”

“Options?”

“Yeah. Options, Jon.”

Reznick sensed something wasn’t right.

“But first we’re going to move you to a safer location.”

“A safer location?” Reznick shrugged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Somewhere more secure.”

Reznick didn’t like the vibes he was picking up. “Is Meyerstein happy with this, Brigadier?”

Belmont finished his coffee and lobbed the foam cup into the trashcan. “Of course she is.”

“What happens if I say I’m not going to play ball?”

“I think you will.”

Reznick felt his eyes getting heavy and his mind foggy. “What was that?”

“I said I think you will.”

Reznick closed his eyes for a second and struggled to open them again. His vision blurred, Belmont looming large as if through a fish-Eeye lens. He tried to speak but nothing came.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Belmont’s voice echoed as if emanating from a dark underground chamber.

Everything went black.

THIRTY-SIX

The doors of the SWAT truck were flung open. A heavily armored team emerged and fanned out, encircling the property.

Meyerstein watched from the backseat of the SUV as the lead guy bounded up the stairs. She could hear his heavy breathing on her headphones.

He knocked at the door.

Three more times he knocked. No reply.

His voice drawled, “Kick her in son.” His colleague stepped forward and kicked the door in and the rest of the team stormed in.

“FBI SWAT!” she heard them shout. “No one fucking move!”

Meyerstein could see the patterns of illumination inside the darkened house from the flashlights and helmets.

“FBI SWAT! Come out right now!”

Meyerstein held her breath for a few moments.

The lead guy was breathing hard. “Upstairs, downstairs, basements! All clear. Still to check the attic. Stand by.”

Another SWAT voice. “GPS is showing it’s here, the signal slap bang on this location. It’s here. Get up into the attic.”

“Yeah, we’re on it.”

A few moments later, a gruff voice. “Yeah, it’s been converted into a sleeping area. Unmade bed, piles of books lying around.”

A woman’s voice said, “Larry, check this out. Koran under the pillow.”

Meyerstein felt her stomach tighten. She wondered why they couldn’t find the cell.

“Larry,” said the lead voice, “negative on the attic. We got a clean sweep?”

“100 per cent clean, no sight nor sound of our guys.”

“Fuck.”

“GPS signal still shows it right here within the house. Check drawers, cupboards, and every goddamn space we have to. Tear off the walls. It’s here. And we’re not leaving until we find it.”

“Yeah, copy that.”

The search continued for the next eight minutes as Meyerstein listened on the headphones, hardly daring to breathe.

Then the radio silence was broken with the shrill sound of a cellphone ringing.

Another voice said, “It’s downstairs. Sounds like the kitchen.”

It was in that terrible moment that Meyerstein realized what was about to happen.

She opened her mouth to shout instructions but was too late.

A huge explosion ripped through the house. Flames shot through the windows as dust, glass and masonry rained down on the cars.

Then high-pitched screaming from the radio.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The seconds that followed were a blur for Meyerstein. Her driver reversed down the street as flames and secondary gas explosions erupted turning the beachside community into a blazing war zone, debris strewn everywhere.

Meyerstein noticed a slight tremor in her hands as they headed back to base. “Son of a bitch!”

“Ma’am, are you okay?” a young FBI agent said.

“Forget about me. I’m fine. Oh God, what about the SWAT guys? Goddamn!”

Her cellphone rang, making her heart skip a beat. She sensed who it was going to be. Part of her didn’t want to answer. But that was never an option. “Who’s this?”

“Assistant Director Meyerstein. I told you I would call back.”

Meyerstein seethed as the SUV picked up speed on the outskirts of Oxnard. “We will find you. And we will kill you.”

A long sigh. “I admire your bluster,” he said. “Do you mind if I call you Martha?”

“Go to hell.”

“It’s just that I feel as if I know you now.”

Meyerstein struggled to contain her fury. “You know nothing about me.”

“Far from it. I know a great deal about you. Is your husband still with the young beautiful student? But you still have your great career. Carved from your privileged background in the Chicago suburbs.”

Her blood ran cold. “You will pay for your barbarism.”

“America could give a master class in barbarism. Carpet-bombing of children in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos with Agent Orange. Arming death squads across the world. Smuggling out Nazi scientists after the Second World War. Illegal war in Iraq. Do you want me to go on?”

“That’s not the America that I know and love.”

“Well that’s the America we know and hate every day. The America that visits and imposes its structures and values, whether we want them or not, and all in the name of freedom. Do you think the Iraqis live in a free and democratic society after your intervention? Was the Shah of Iran a democrat? Do you know what his torturers did? Did you know what they did to my own father?”

Meyerstein closed her eyes. “Those SWAT guys have families. The people in the cinema have families. You’re a monster. And don’t blame America for your cold blooded butchering of innocent people.”

A long silence opened up down the line. “I understand the hurt of families better than most, Martha. Mr. Reznick destroyed not only my brother on that day. He destroyed me. And my sister. And my mother and father. So, here’s what we want. You deliver Jon Reznick to us, and we can move on.”

“So you can kill him?”

“What happens to Jon Reznick will be none of your concern.”

“Look, I need this to be discussed at the highest levels within the government.”

“Maybe I’m not making myself sufficiently clear. If we don’t have Jon Reznick delivered to us within the next twelve hours, we will carry out our third surprise. And after that there will be a fourth. And then a fifth. I’m sure you get the picture by now.”

Meyerstein shook her head as the SUV approached the entrance to Point Mugu and was waved through. “Delivered where?” She felt sick the moment she said the words.

“We’ll be in touch.”

• • •

Meyerstein went straight through to the videoconference room.

Veitch was staring down at her. “We intercepted the call again, easy as pie.”

“And?”

“And we have no location.”

“What? They’re running circles around us.”

Veitch shook his head. “The NSA has their best guys working on this.”

Meyerstein leaned back in her seat as she was handed a fresh coffee. She took a sip. “What about launching a drone on this to try and detect the signal?”

“You talking signal interception, right?”

“Absolutely. These new surveillance drones have the capability. They have direction finding technology that can pinpoint GPS locations of cellphone devices or two way radios, right?”

Veitch went quiet for a few moments. “I’ll look into it.”

“Prioritize it.”

“I’m on it.”

Meyerstein sighed. “I need to speak to Reznick before we decide our next move.”

Veitch said nothing.

Meyerstein stared up at the screen and saw that Veitch had averted his gaze.

“Am I missing something, guys?”

Veitch turned and looked at some of his counter terrorism colleagues before turning to face the screen. “Martha, I thought you knew.”

“Knew? Knew what?”

“About Reznick.”

“What about him?”

“Martha, Belmont and his guys have transferred him to a secure facility.”

“On whose orders?”

“National Security Council. We believe he’s then going to be flown direct to Tehran.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Reznick sensed he was not alone. He could hear whispered voices as if in a dream. He tried to open his eyes. Lights suddenly burned his eyes. The background drone of a plane’s engine. Vibrations. He heard someone move towards him.

“Mr. Reznick, apologies for the inconvenience, but needs must.”

Reznick squinted as a towering figure came into focus. Shaved head, staring eyes. “Where am I? What the hell’s going on?”

“You’re in transit.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“That’s classified,” said the man in military fatigues.

Reznick tried to get up but plastic wrist cuffs attached to a steel ring on the floor restrained him. His mind flashed back to the naval base. “Where’s Belmont?”

“I don’t know a Belmont.”

“Brigadier Belmont, goddammit.”

The army man ignored Reznick.

“Belmont!”

The man said nothing.

Reznick’s hazy mind tried to conjure up what had happened. “I want to speak to FBI Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein.”

“That’s not possible, Jon.”

“Why not?”

The army man ignored him again.

“What’s your name and rank?”

The man smiled but said nothing.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Reznick instinctively tried to get to his feet but the restraints kept him in place. “Goddamn, what’s this?”

“Just a precaution, Jon. So you don’t hurt yourself.”

A shudder from the plane’s turbulence as Reznick’s ears began to pop.

“Sit tight. We’re about to land in three minutes.”

The man quickly moved forward and put a cloth over Reznick’s nose. He felt himself slip, and was once again swallowed up by the darkness.

• • •

Jerry Morlach was pacing his living room, the sun flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, when his cellphone rang. He lit up a cigarette and watched the blue smoke fill the room. He answered after the third ring.

Morlach said, “Yeah?”

“Sorry for the delay.” It was the man who identified himself as the contractor.

“I was wondering when I was going to hear from you. Problems?”

“We’ve got the green light.”

“Excellent. We can now get this over the line. What about the logistics?”

“Leave us to worry about that.”

“Very well. If you insist.”

Morlach dragged heavily on the cigarette and stepped out onto the terrace. “I need your word that there will be no last minute change of plan.”

“We are good to go at our end.”

“Can I give an expected time of arrival?”

“You will have him within twenty-four hours.”

“You work fast.”

Morlach ended the call. He finished the cigarette and crushed it into an ashtray. He stared out over the city and collected his thoughts. He sent an encrypted text message to a liaison man in Dubai, the most senior Iranian operative in the Middle East.

The lead has signed on.

Over the next hour, he fielded four separate encrypted calls as he was kept abreast of developments. Three calls came from the man in Dubai, and one direct from Tehran.

When everyone was satisfied that the necessary checks and balances were in place for the deal to go through, he then sat down and lit another cigarette. He looked down on the City of Angels with a sense of satisfaction. Then he remembered the documents, which had arrived by Fed Ex, now carefully stored away in his safe.

How long would it be until someone would come and collect them?

• • •

When Reznick came to, he was in a huge windowless room, two air conditioning units growling low in the background. He was chained to a bolted down steel chair, plexicuffs on each ankle and wrist. He tasted a metallic aftertaste. His brain felt fuzzy, he couldn’t think straight. Where was he? Why was he here?

His memory was blank for a few moments. Then he tried to remember. Yeah, he had a daughter. He could see her in his mind’s eye. But he couldn’t remember her goddamn name.

The room was cold, the walls flaking beige paint. Scuff marks on the blue navy linoleum.

The sound of a door opening up behind him. He couldn’t turn to see who was approaching. The click from a mortise lock.

Footsteps getting closer.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw a silhouette of a man. He circled Reznick and stood about ten yards in front of him, arms folded. The man looked familiar. But he couldn’t place him.

“Jon,” the man said. “Do you remember my voice?”

It seemed very familiar. “Yeah, who are you?”

“Brigadier Belmont.”

“Belmont?”

Belmont stared at Reznick for a few moments. “Is it coming back now?”

Reznick’s brain was a rush of images, fractured memories. The sequence of events was starting to take on a semblance of order. “You…‌my coffee. You…”

“There was no other way, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing, still trying to fully emerge from the drug state. He felt a headache coming on as nausea washed over him.

“Four drops of chloral hydrate, and a top-up on the plane.”

“Where exactly am I?”

“You’re underground in the Nevada desert. Short hop from California to here. Homey Airport. A remote part of Edwards Airforce Base.”

“Groom Lake…‌Watertown Strip. Dreamland, right?”

Belmont smiled. “It’s known by those names too, yes.”

Reznick’s mind was rushing with all the connected and interconnected parts of the last few days. The trip through the desert to California. The hit on Vincenza. The chase up into the hills over Malibu. The two Iranian American students taken out by the sniper. “Iran.”

“What about it?”

“I remember now.”

“Do you?”

“Airforce base. Secrecy. You’re going to fly me out and pass me on, aren’t you?”

Belmont said nothing.

“The Iranians called Meyerstein. They want me. And they’ve turned the screw, am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“What kind of Brigadier are you?”

“The kind that acts in the national interest.”

Reznick coughed and tasted chemical residue. He spat it out onto the lino.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks. Feel it too.”

Belmont nodded but averted his gaze.

“So you’re gonna keep me here?”

“We’re drawing up plans to perhaps move you up to Canada until this dies down.”

“Then why am I being restrained?”

“It’s a temporary measure. Keeps everyone safe.”

Reznick stared at Belmont. “You’re not taking me to Canada are you?”

“We’ve still to finalize a few things. But it’s important we keep you safe.”

“You drug me, transport me to a desert bunker, chain me up, and now you say you’re going to take me to Canada? For my own safety?”

“We have ways of doing things.”

“You’re going to fucking rendition me, aren’t you? You’re going to get me off your plate, and draw the heat away from these Quds guys who’re still on the loose.”

“I’ve been reading your file, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing.

“It makes interesting reading. Your cognitive skills, high intelligence, ability to compartmentalize your work, but still maintain a relatively stable family background.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“Is there a purpose to this?”

“Does there have to be a purpose, Jon?”

“Fuck your cod psychology.”

“I didn’t realize you had killed so many people.”

Reznick said nothing.

“You just blend in…‌Your analytical skills are quite extraordinary.”

“You wanna go on a date, Brigadier?”

Belmont gave a wry smile. “Problem with authority, they say.”

“If you say so.”

“Whatever you think, trust me, we’re only interested in getting you to a safe place.”

“Drugged, cuffed up. You gotta do better than that, Belmont.”

Belmont said nothing.

Reznick looked around the room. “This is CIA.”

“We only want to ensure that no one else suffers. I don’t want you getting neutralized like your old Delta buddies.”

“Tell me something, did you learn that lingo at the Farm in Virginia by any chance?”

“Jon, don’t make this harder than it has to be. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

“So why don’t you let me go?”

“I can’t have you going AWOL on us.”

“I know this place. Did it say that in my file?”

Belmont said nothing for a few moments.

“I know about the underground tunnels. I know the layout. I know what it looks like from the air. Trust me, it’s not possible to go AWOL in here.”

Belmont sighed, clearing his throat. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Are you kidding me? After the last time?”

“Jon, that was purely as a way to get you off that base with the minimum of fuss. I’m tasked with acting in everyone’s best interests, including yours.”

“That’s very touching.”

“Jon, I’m trying to help.”

Reznick began to laugh. “Man, you’re something else.”

“What’s so goddamn funny?”

Reznick laughed harder.

“What’s so goddamn funny, Reznick?”

Reznick shook his head and laughed some more, head bowed.

Belmont took a step forward. “I just want you to know that I admire the work you’ve done for our great country.”

“Good for you, Brigadier.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? That was a compliment, goddamit.”

Reznick looked up and stared at Belmont. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Brigadier?”

“I’m trying to be respectful.”

“Bullshit. You don’t give a fuck about me. But that’s fine because I sure as hell don’t give a fuck about you or the CIA.”

Belmont took two steps forward and slapped Reznick hard on the face.

Reznick tasted the blood and looked up at Belmont. “That make you feel better, tough guy?”

“You’re now the property of the United States government. Satisfied?”

“Funny, I thought I was an American citizen. A free man.”

Reznick spat out some blood onto the floor.

Belmont took a step back and looked down at Reznick. His face was flushed purple with rage. “You’ve crossed the line. I’ve been pretty reasonable up until now…”

Reznick began to laugh again and spat out some more blood onto the floor.

“It didn’t have to be like this.”

“I’ve got news for you, Brigadier whatever your goddamn name is. I don’t play your stupid fucking games. Neither does Meyerstein.”

Belmont said nothing. He turned and left the room, switching the light off as he closed the dead-bolt locks on the door.

Reznick was left alone in the darkness, cuffed to the cold metal chair.

THIRTY-NINE

Meyerstein stood in the interview room and turned and faced the base commander. “On whose authority was Jon Reznick taken from here?”

“The Pentagon’s.”

“Tell me about Belmont and his role in this?”

“Just after you left, an unregistered Gulfstream requested permission to land. They had CIA codes.”

“Then what?”

“Six men, not in uniform, got out, and entered the building we’re standing in. They left with Jon Reznick on a trolley, strapped in, unconscious.”

Meyerstein felt her throat tighten. “What did you do about it?”

“I was in a meeting at the other end of the base.”

“So the guys just give the right codes, land, take Reznick, and walk straight out again.”

“Brigadier Belmont was in charge. He left with them. One of our guards challenged the group but Belmont pulled rank.”

Meyerstein turned her back on the commander for a few moments as she tried to regain her composure. “You’d think this was goddamn Guantanamo Bay.”

The commander nodded.

“So where have they taken him?” she asked.

“No one knows. This is the way the CIA play the game.”

“I want to see the surveillance footage of this whole goddamn thing.”

“That’s not possible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve checked. There is no footage.”

“Hang on, what are you talking about? I’ve seen the cameras all over this base. They must’ve captured every second.”

The commander shook his head. “I’ve checked. Nothing.”

“How come?”

“Jamming technology…‌or the system was hacked. No surveillance footage for the last twelve hours.”

Meyerstein kicked over a metal trashcan. “Son of a bitch.”

“It’s like they were never here,” said the commander.

• • •

Twenty minutes later, Meyerstein hooked up again with Veitch and the FBI’s Counterterrorism team on a video conferencing link.

“Who knew about this?” she asked.

“No one,” replied Veitch. “It was CIA.”

“What’s going to happen to Reznick?”

Veitch sighed. “Tough call. The Director is preparing to hook up with you any minute on this very subject.”

A few moments later, one of the screens lit up with the features of FBI Director O’Donoghue. “Martha,” he said, “this is out of our hands, I’m sorry.”

“Who signed off on this?”

“The authorization goes to the very top.”

“So we’re just going to hand him over?”

“The wheels are in motion.”

Meyerstein felt sick. “Where is he?”

“We don’t know.”

“I thought we were all part of the same team, goddamit.”

“Martha, all I know is that he’s in a secure facility.”

“And we are seriously just going to hand him over?”

“We’ve had assurance at the highest levels in Tehran that they will not harm him. But they will put him on trial. America will deny any knowledge or involvement. Official word will be the operation was rogue. He will go to jail.”

Meyerstein bowed her head and closed her eyes. “They’re going to kill him. You know that.”

“Martha, this doesn’t sit well with me. But our national interests come first.”

“What about the hunt for the Iranian-American operatives?”

“What about it?”

“What if we find them first?”

O’Donoghue stared at her. “We only have a very narrow window until he is handed over.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Hours, perhaps,” he said.

“Sir, we have two drones operating across Southern California as we speak.”

“That’s a long shot, Martha and you know it.”

“Listen, as long as they are up in the air, we have a chance.”

A long sigh. O’Donoghue shook his head. “I don’t like this anymore than you do.”

“This is shameful.”

“That’s enough, Martha.”

“Sir, it is shameful. What the hell have we become?”

“What choice is there?” said O’Donoghue. “To allow massacres to go on indefinitely until we find them? Imagine the reaction of the American public if they find out that we could’ve done something to mitigate the threat.”

“It’s the wrong call, sir.”

“Martha, it’s the only call. This is for the good of America.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“You know Reznick personally, and that’s what makes this so hard.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes. She imagined Reznick alone in a Tehran prison. Or worse, dead. “Goddamn right it does.”

FORTY

Reznick shuffled down a corridor, restrained at the ankles and wrists with plexicuffs, surrounded by a four-man team. He noticed sheathed knives hanging from each of their belts and 9mm handguns. He knew they were going to offload him. It was as clear as day.

He also knew where they were taking him. The remotest part of the facility, cut off from all the other areas, but linked by a series of underground corridors.

Past sullen guards, cameras constantly strafing the area. Down a flight a stairs and into a huge communal shower room. His shoes were removed, then his socks. His clothes were cut off him, the plexicuffs kept on at all times.

He was photographed.

Then he was strip searched before he shuffled under the high-pressure shower.

A towel was thrown and Reznick dried himself down the best he could.

Reznick was shown into an adjacent room and shuffled through, past the huge steel door and serving hatch. He went inside, naked, cuffs still on. The door slammed shut.

His clothes were handed through the hatch in a brown paper bag.

A guard said, “Hands through the hatch.”

Reznick complied and the handcuffs were taken off. The guard passed through a key. “You can now take off the ankle cuffs and hand them to us.”

Reznick complied.

“Now get dressed,” he said.

Reznick put on the new clothes. He felt stiff after having been cuffed. He began to pace the room, running on the spot, followed by 200 press-ups, then 100 sit-ups.

The hatch opened. “Reznick, put your hands through. We need to get your cuffs back on the wrists.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“It’s orders.”

“From who?”

“Brigadier Belmont.”

Reznick paced the room. “I don’t think I’ll bother. Thanks all the same.”

“You need to put them on.”

“Why?”

“He wants to speak to you, face to face.”

“What about?”

“Flight up to Canada.”

“And if I don’t want to put the cuffs back on?”

“Then we’ll have to do it for you.” The voice was deadpan. Without a trace of emotion.

Reznick had learned early on that you only ever fight battles you can win. He placed his hands through the hatch and the plastic cuffs were put back on and tightened, pinching the skin on his wrists. “Easy son,” he said.

The guard ignored him.

Reznick stepped back into the locked room, cuffed hands in front.

“Can you head to the far corner of the room, Reznick?”

“What?”

“We need to put ankle cuffs on too.”

“What the fuck is this?”

“Reznick, we have orders. You know how it works.”

Reznick took a step forward and stared through the eye level hatch. The guard stared back, eyes dead.

“There’s only one way we can do this, Reznick. And that’s our way.”

Reznick sensed the guard’s mood was darkening by the second. He shrugged and stared through the hatch.

“Are you going to comply or not?”

“Why should I? To make your job easier? But that would make my life more awkward. So, no, I’d rather not.”

The guard sighed. “Is that your final word?”

“I guess so.”

The guard hesitated for a second. He raised a taser and fired through the hatch at Reznick’s chest. Pain exploded through his body, the smell of burning skin. He fell to the floor. The room went crazy, all angles up. He felt himself losing control. He began to convulse, writhing on the ground.

FORTY-ONE

Mohsen Sazegara stared out of the tinted passenger window of the SUV at the sun-drenched roads of the Hollywood Hills, towering palms shading the sidewalks. His stomach knotted as he thought ahead to the meeting with the reclusive man he’d never met. He knew he had to keep things in check until they were home safe and well.

The car hung a left and then a right into an affluent cul-de-sac.

Mohsen stared at the imposing modernist glass house at the end of the road. “Straight ahead,” he said.

The driver nodded and pulled up outside the gates, which were shrouded by palms and a high wall. He punched the intercom buzzer.

A few moments later a man said, “Yes?”

“Here to collect a parcel,” said the driver.

A few moments later the gates opened and they drove through into a beautifully paved driveway and down into a basement garage. Electronic doors closed behind them.

“I’ll be five minutes,” Mohsen said to the driver. “Wait here.”

The driver nodded. “Yes sir.”

Mohsen got out and headed towards a door, covered by three security cameras. He pressed a buzzer.

A man’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Here to collect the parcel.”

“Can you give me the name of the person you should collect from?”

Mohsen knew the password. “Bill.”

He was kept waiting for a few moments. “Turn and look up at the camera to the right.”

Mohsen turned and looked up as instructed. He wondered if it was face recognition software scanning his features.

“Good,” the voice said. “Come on in. Bill can see you now.”

The door was buzzed open and Mohsen went in. A burly Persian looking man with a shaved head showed him to an airport-style body scanner. Mohsen stepped through and then followed the man up two levels.

Mohsen looked around. Wall-to-ceiling windows overlooked LA, burnt orange sunset flooding the valley below. A pair of huge white sofas. Jazz playing low in the background.

“He’ll be with you in a few minutes,” said the burly man. “Take a seat, Mr. Sazegara.”

Mohsen nodded and took a seat on the sofa at a 90-degree angle to the huge windows. The sun was getting lower in the sky, a dark red fireball engulfing the city, reflecting off the glass all around, shards of light stabbing out into the gathering gloom.

He waited for a few minutes, his heart pounding.

Mohsen heard a door open. He turned and saw a small man walking into view wearing tinted glasses, a black polo shirt, stone chinos and brown deck shoes, smoking a cigarette.

Mohsen stood up.

The man smiled and shook his hand, motioning with his cigarette hand for Mohsen to sit down. “Please,” he said. He dragged heavily on the cigarette as plumes of blue smoke filled the room. “How are you?”

Mohsen felt a mixture of excitement and fear. “I’m okay, thank you.”

The man looked at him and nodded.

“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice,” said Mohsen.

The man’s gaze drilled into Mohsen for a few moments. “I believe the original operation has morphed into something much more messy.”

Mohsen felt his throat go dry with the smoke and cleared his throat. “Mr. Morlach, we hit all the targets.”

“Bar one.” The man cut him down quick. Mohsen felt his pulse quicken again. Something about the guy unnerved him. Something intangible. “You’ve also attracted some attention…‌FBI, Homeland Security, National Security Council. In what was meant to be a low-key operation. A series of accidents.”

Mohsen shifted in his seat.

“What happened to make it go so wrong?”

“Reznick. That’s what happened.”

“And he headed here to LA?”

Mohsen nodded, head bowed.

“He was trying to warn his old Delta friend, Blaine, right before you took the man out?”

“He might’ve had the restaurant under surveillance, waiting to speak to Blaine.”

“Very messy. Look around you. I don’t like messy. I like order.”

Mohsen nodded.

The man dragged heavily on the last of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. “There are now ramifications…‌This makes things so much more complicated.”

Mohsen opened his mouth to speak but the man held up his hand to silence him. “Don’t get me wrong,” the man said. “You carried out the reprisals to the letter. But all this could have been avoided. When an operative starts becoming the news, you know we have fouled up.”

Mohsen nodded, keen to appease him, realizing the futility of arguing. He knew the man was connected to the highest echelons of power across Tehran. The military. Politicians. The religious leaders. He was viewed by some as a mystic. By others as a dangerous man to know, someone who could get you killed with one call to the right person. It was said by some within the Quds Force that he was an American spy. A double agent. Others believed the man was in fact a former operative himself, his reputation forged during the revolution which overthrew the Shah. Rumors also persisted that he had grown accustomed to a western lifestyle, with a private number on the speed dial of a Beverly Hills madam. Mohsen looked at the man, trying to push negative thoughts to one side.

“Tell me,” the man continued, “how do you think you will integrate back into Iranian society after living in Texas for so long?”

“I don’t ask questions. I just fit in and get on with it.”

“Good answer. It’s a big move. How do you think your family will react?”

“My wife will miss the mall, but, hey, that’s not such a loss.”

The man smiled. “Indeed.” He leaned over and crushed his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the coffee table before walking over to the huge windows as the skies darkened over LA. “When I look out here every night, do you know what I see?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I see a city in chaos. A city without a soul. A city where the poor and sick are left to die like dogs. A city that is choking with pollution, where the wealthy, like me, can afford to live above the smog line. Where politicians are bought and sold for campaign contribution funds from anonymous lobbyists. A city at war with itself. A city which is dying. But paradoxically, a city where the fantasy of the American Dream is created, before it is spread around the world.” He turned to look at Mohsen, hands behind his back. “How do you feel about America?”

“It sickens me.” He shrugged. “But I try not to think about it.”

The man nodded.

Mohsen stood up. “I appreciate your help and support.”

The man smiled. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. The cinema? Forget it. We don’t need to take lessons from the Americans about how we should conduct ourselves. I myself have suffered. I know from personal experience.”

“How do you mean?”

The man sighed. “Do you know what happened to my father?”

Mohsen shook his head.

“My father was a quiet man. A scholar. Intellectual. Leftist. And only days after the Americans installed the Shah, he was taken from us. In the middle of the night.”

Mohsen said nothing.

“Do you know what those bastards did to him?”

“I can imagine.”

“They stripped him naked, attached electrodes to his genitals and shocked him until he was unconscious. He was pissing blood for a week. And then he died of a heart attack, alone, in a fucking rat-infested basement that the SAVAK used. So, my friend, don’t weep for them. We have tasted enough tears to last a hundred lifetimes.”

Mohsen nodded. He held the man’s hand and kissed the back of it.

The man leaned over and pressed a buzzer. His burly assistant came in and handed a backpack to Mohsen.

“It has everything you need. Brand new American passport, new identity, driver’s license, cash, credit cards and return airline tickets, all under your new name, Charlie Thomas.”

“I like that name. Sir, I can’t thank you enough.”

The man put his hand on Mohsen’s shoulder. “They’ll be watching LAX. My private plane will take you from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Gate A1. Your flight will take off directly after Alaska Airlines’ red-eye. And from there you will be flown to JFK. You will then catch a British Airways flight to London. And from there a Lufthansa flight to Tehran with a stopover in Frankfurt.”

Mohsen nodded.

“Police are at Bob Hope, don’t get me wrong. But not in the same numbers, and certainly no Feds crawling around.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t complete the operation.”

“You did very well. You are a hero.”

Mohsen was choking back tears.

“What about Jon Reznick?” he asked.

“He will be taken care of. Diplomatic channels are working overtime on this. Reznick will be on Iranian soil, if Allah wills, before you touch down in Tehran.”

FORTY-TWO

The squeaking of heavy steel doors roused Reznick. Harsh artificial light flooded the windowless room. His head, neck and back all aching. He couldn’t stretch properly. Plexicuffs around his wrists and his ankles. The cuffs on his ankles bound him to the chair. Three guards approached, towering over him. They undid the ankle cuffs from the chair. Then they re-attached them tight, pinching his skin.

“You wanna take it easy, guys?” Reznick said.

The guards hauled Reznick to his feet and out of the room. They took him down a series of corridors, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the top-secret facility. He became aware Belmont was now with them. He heard his low voice in the background, directing operations.

“Take him to Room 7a.”

He saw a sign up ahead: Intelligence Officers Only. Beyond the sign, reinforced steel doors.

“Hold it right there,” Belmont said.

Reznick stood still as Belmont brushed past. He watched as Belmont pressed his right index finger against a wall-mounted scanner before the doors clicked opened.

Down another corridor, more movement, until they stopped outside the seventh room on the left – 7A.

Belmont again pressed his index finger against another scanner. The door clicked open.

Reznick was hustled inside. He took in his surroundings. A dark brown leather sofa, soft furnishings, nice watercolors on the wall, muted lighting. He knew what it meant. They were trying to reassure him. But he knew it was bullshit. There was no reason to be at ease.

Belmont remained standing. “Take a seat, Jon,” he said.

Reznick was hustled onto the sofa where he was lowered down onto it.

Belmont turned to the guards. “Everything’s fine now,” he said. “Give me fifteen minutes. The plane’s not ready to leave for another forty.”

The guards turned and left. The door clicked shut behind them. Reznick noticed there was a fingerprint scanner on the inside as well, adjacent to the door.

Belmont folded his arms. “I’m sorry. There was no need for the ankle cuffs as well. I can only apologize.”

Reznick said nothing.

“We’ve got all your Canadian documentation lined up for you. Ottawa is fully up to speed. And you’re going to have a new identity up there. The downside is you won’t be able to come back for at least a year, maybe two, until this has died down.”

Reznick shifted in his seat and winced.

“We’ll get the plastic cuffs off on the plane.”

Reznick knew it was bullshit. He leaned forward and stared at the floor, hands and feet bound tight. “What else?”

“There’s a house. By the water. Nova Scotia. I believe that’s where your ancestors hailed from at one time.”

Reznick said nothing. He knew he wasn’t going to Canada. There was no home by the water in Nova Scotia. He knew it would be a Gulfstream or Cessna used by a CIA front company, flown by CIA pilots, guarded by CIA guys until he was handed over. He knew about such deals. The rendition of Islamists to shithole American-friendly countries in the Middle East.

As sure as night follows day, he knew the fate that would befall him.

Torture. Death would be his only escape. He thought of his daughter alone in the world. But he knew she’d be looked after and protected by his late wife’s family. And he knew Meyerstein would look after things too. He wondered if she knew where he was.

“I read that your father fought in Vietnam,” said Belmont. “Marines.”

Reznick nodded.

“So did my father. He wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t come back.”

Reznick said nothing.

“War does terrible things to us. Makes us do terrible things.” He sighed. “I believe you worked for the Agency, on and off?”

Reznick stared at Belmont.

“We never really leave its clutches, in all its guises. I was told that once. I think it’s true.”

The sound of a cellphone.

Belmont reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He checked the caller ID and looked down at Reznick. “I need to take this.” He pressed his finger against the scanner. The door opened and Belmont headed out into the hallway, leaving Reznick on his own.

Reznick’s senses went into overdrive. He made a quick mental calculation. He wondered if he had enough time. This might be his last realistic opportunity.

Damn it.

He got off the sofa and sat on the ground. He shuffled along the floor to a pair of hiking boots at the side of Belmont’s desk. He undid the paracord laces and pulled them out. Then he made a bowline knot and slipped the loop around the front of his left shoe. Then he threaded the rest of the lace between the plexicuffs and tied another bowline knot and slipped the other side of the lace over his right foot. It was a move he hadn’t practiced for two, maybe three years.

He thought he heard voices outside the room. Was it Belmont?

He then began to pump his legs as if on a bike. Up, down, up down, for maybe ten seconds, until the friction from the laces had severed the plastic cuffs on his wrists.

Reznick got up and shuffled back to the sofa and sat back down, hands tucked out of sight between his knees. A few moments later the door buzzed open and Belmont walked in.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Belmont said. He walked over to a corner table and pulled out of a bottle of Scotch and a glass from a drawer. He poured a large measure, walked over to Reznick and held the glass in front of him. “One for the road, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing. His senses were switched on. Ready.

“Hell…”

Reznick held his breath, not moving a muscle.

“I’m goddamn offering you a Scotch, Reznick!” Belmont snapped.

Reznick stared at Belmont.

“I said––”

Reznick sprung up from the sofa and grabbed Belmont by the throat, slamming him to the ground. Then he smashed his fist into Belmont’s jaw. The sound made a terrible crack and Belmont lay motionless, unconscious.

Reznick’s blood was pumping with adrenalin. He ripped off his clothes and stripped Belmont of his. He saw that Belmont had a sheathed knife on the back of his belt and a 9mm under his jacket. He pulled on the clothes and tied the belt with the knife nice and tight. It was a pretty good fit. Average size guy. He felt something in the jacket pocket. Cellphone. Sunglasses. ID with photo.

He began to think ahead. His escape. He ripped up the clothes he had discarded and rammed part of his torn shirt in Belmont’s mouth.

Belmont began to come around.

Reznick pressed a hand over Belmont’s gagged mouth, then pushed one knee onto his chest and the other onto his right arm.

The Brigadier’s eyes opened wide and he tried to scream. But it came out muffled.

Reznick pulled out the knife and cut off Belmont’s index finger. The cold steel easily sliced through the bone. Belmont’s face turned white. Blood spilled onto the floor. Belmont’s eyes began to roll back and Reznick punched him hard on the temple. Belmont was out cold again.

Reznick picked up the bleeding, still-warm finger and walked over to the scanner. He pressed the severed fingertip hard against scanner. A green pinprick light appeared on the scanner and the door clicked open. He dropped the severed finger and pushed open the door.

The corridor was empty.

Reznick turned sharp left down a long corridor. At the end, there was a room marked Aircraft Maintenance Crew only. Reznick pushed open the door. Inside, rows of lockers. He opened a few. Then he turned and saw a uniform guard staring at him, gun drawn.

“Where’s your ID badge?” the man said.

“Sorry, first day,” Reznick said. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the ID badge. “Here’s my identification.

Reznick walked toward the guard. The guard stared at the ID badge he held in his hand. Radio crackled into life. Distracting him.

Reznick took a step forward and punched the guard hard in the neck before he had time to react. The guard dropped to the ground, head cracking off the floor. He took off the guard’s gray uniform and shoes. Shoes were half a size too small, but it would do. Uniform was a fraction big, but he pulled it over Belmont’s clothes and it bulked him out nicely.

He took the guard’s ID, pinned it round his neck and headed through a separate door to a washroom. He splashed his face with cold water.

Reznick was back in the zone. He walked back into the locker room and noticed a smoke alarm. Rifling the guard’s pockets, he found some cigarettes and a lighter.

He pulled all the toilet rolls and paper towels from the washroom, threw them in a trashcan and placed it directly underneath the sensor. Then he set fire to it.

Reznick headed out the door and down an adjacent corridor. He saw a door marked: Aircraft Maintenance Hangar – Authorized Personnel Only.

Reznick pushed open the door that led to the restricted area. A guy on scaffolding was spray-painting a small plane and three mechanics were working on an engine.

Suddenly fire alarms blared out all around.

Reznick’s heart was pumping hard. He followed the men as they headed out of an emergency exit and onto the adjacent airfield and the blistering night. A guy in blue overalls driving a golf buggy approached the group and Reznick put up his hand as if to halt him.

The buggy slowed to a halt.

Reznick said, “Got a fire situation buddy. Need to borrow this to alert the security gate.”

The maintenance guy jumped out.

“Where’s the nearest gate?” asked Reznick.

The guy shrugged. “Don’t you know?”

“Just been transferred.”

The man pointed his hand north-west. “Gate 3A, out here 200 yards on the right.”

Reznick jumped into the buggy and headed out onto the heavily-lit roadways fringed by floodlights, towards the security gate.

An armed guard stepped forward.

“We’ve got a fire in basement level four,” said Reznick.

“So I heard,” replied the guard. “What you doing here?”

Reznick got off the golf buggy and approached the guard and showed him his ID. “McIlroy,” he said.

The guard put his head out to take the ID.

Reznick smashed his fist into the guard’s jaw.

The guard fell back, cracking his head off the concrete. He was out cold.

Reznick bent over, rifled in the guard’s pockets and pulled out a set of car keys. He was in luck. He ran up to the adjacent parking lot and pressed the fob. A Jeep’s lights flashed as the alarm deactivated. He climbed in, slammed the door shut and switched on the air conditioning and car lights. Then he drove out of the facility and headed into the sweltering Nevada night.

FORTY-THREE

Veitch relayed the news about Reznick’s escape to Meyerstein from one of the big screens in the conference room. She stared up in disbelief.

“How is that possible?” she asked. “Are we sure he’s escaped?”

Veitch shrugged. “Apparently so.”

“What sort of bullshit is that?”

“The sort of bullshit that happens when a wet-behind-the-ears Brigadier gets involved.”

Meyerstein sighed. “They shouldn’t have tried to hand him over to the Iranians.”

“Not surprisingly, the CIA is saying nothing.”

“What about Brigadier Belmont?”

“What about him?”

“What’s the latest?”

“Lost a lot of blood. They’re trying to reattach the finger. Rebuild his nose.”

“What a fuck up,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“Does the President know about this?”

“He does now.”

“What are his people saying?”

Veitch sighed. “They think Reznick is out of control.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“If they catch him, there’s a good chance they might just neutralize him. This is bad.”

Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair. “I need time to see where we go from here. We’ll talk in fifteen minutes.” She ended the video call and headed to the bathroom.

She felt conflicted. If she was honest with herself, she was relieved Reznick wasn’t on his way to Tehran. But there was the possibility of blowback from the Iranians once they realized the Reznick deal was dead in the water. She splashed cold water on her face, looked in the mirror and saw bloodshot eyes staring back at her. The lack of sleep and the pressure was catching up with her. Smudged mascara. Damn, what a mess. But that was nothing compared to the situation she faced with Reznick hacking off Brigadier Belmont’s finger and going AWOL.

She pulled out some face wipes from her handbag and cleaned the residue of make-up from her skin. Then she applied fresh make-up, red lipstick and lots of Touche Éclat to cover up the shadows under her eyes. Hair brushed. An improvement.

She felt swamped. Pulled in a million different directions.

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts. She’d been awake for the best part of twenty-four hours and was dog-tired. Her head was swimming with a deluge of information. Assessment, analysis, hybrid threat appraisals, irregular warfare tactical briefings. On it went.

Her cellphone vibrated and she saw a number she didn’t recognize.

Meyerstein pressed the green button on her phone and expected to hear the American Iranian. She let out a long sigh. “Yes?”

A long silence opened up. She sensed someone was on the other end. She thought she heard traffic in the distance.

“Who’s this?” she said.

“Meyerstein…”

It was Reznick.

“Jon…”

“What did you know about where Belmont was taking me?”

“I knew nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Listen to me, I only discovered you’d been taken when I returned from Oxnard.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Do you think I’m lying?”

A long pause. “No I don’t.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Jon, a lot has happened. Stuff you don’t know about. You have to come in.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

Meyerstein told him about the cinema chemical attack, the booby-trapped house and the FBI SWAT team. “So that’s why Belmont wanted to offload you.”

“I was told they were taking me to Canada.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Jon, you need to give come in.”

“No deal.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment. “Jon, you need to see sense.”

“I have had my fill of sense. Now I’m going to do things my way.”

“Jon, please, don’t make this personal.”

“It’s too late.”

“Jon, you need to keep me in on this––”

The line went dead.

A minute later, Veitch called from Counterterrorism HQ in McLean. “Martha, we got the call.”

“Where is he?”

“The signal popped up just for a brief moment.”

“Location?”

“He’s headed for LA.”

FORTY-FOUR

Reznick was chewing some Dexedrine he’d stolen from a downtown pharmacist as he headed west along Sunset Boulevard when he saw a sign for a bar. He cut across lanes and pulled up at the parking lot opposite. He walked into the bar and ordered a Heineken.

He pulled out the pharmacist’s wallet and gave the barman a twenty dollar bill, ordered a slice a pizza and asked if he could use the bar phone. The barman shrugged. “Go right ahead, buddy,” he said. “Pizza will be with you in a couple of minutes.”

Reznick took the phone and turned his back on the barman. He punched in a number of a guy he knew in Nebraska. Bob Haines. His brother had been in Delta alongside Reznick a few years back.

The call rang twice before being picked up. “Bob, I don’t know if you remember me,” he said quickly.

A long silence. “Jon?”

“Yeah, look I need a favor. And we need to keep it low-key.”

“Name it.”

“It’s of the fast turnaround variety.”

“Hey, Jon, name it.”

“I’ve got a cellphone number. I want an address for it.”

“I use an intermediary these days. It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Couple of hundred bucks.”

“I’ll wire it to you in the next twenty four hours. I need this now.”

“You got it, Jon. I’ve got the number you’re calling from. Gimme the cellphone you’re trying to trace the address for?”

Reznick gave him the number.

“Leave it with me,” Haines said, before he hung up.

Reznick sat back down on his stool and ordered a black coffee for after his slice of pizza.

The barman looked at Reznick. “Just passing through?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Reznick said, taking a large bite out of the pizza. It felt good to get food inside him.

“I couldn’t help hearing you that you were looking for an address. You a cop or a PI, man? It’s cool, it’s not a problem.”

Reznick said nothing as he wolfed down the rest of the pizza. He always found it best not to let on.

“I used to be LAPD many years back,” said the barman, patting his belly, “but got shot in the stomach.” He lifted his tee shirt and showed a small scar. “Gangbanger, six blocks from here.”

Reznick nodded and gulped some more beer before being handed his coffee by a waitress. He sipped the coffee. The caffeine fix felt great.

“The thing is,” the barman said, “I was lucky. My buddy got shot up bad. Lost his fucking eye. You believe that shit? And all because we stopped the guy for erratic driving.” He shook his head. “It ain’t right. Fucker skipped bail. You believe they gave him bail? You couldn’t make shit like that up.”

The bar phone rang and Reznick grabbed it before the barman.

“Jon, this is proving to be tricky,” said Haines.

“How come?”

“Don’t want to elaborate, but usually my guy’s able to pull up cellphone addresses pretty easy.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I need time.”

“How long?”

“An hour.”

Reznick weighed up his options for a few moments. “I’ll call you in an hour.”

He hung up.

Reznick finished the coffee and handed the phone back to the barman. “Appreciate that.”

“Hey any time.”

Reznick tipped the guy another twenty dollars and left the bar, then headed further along Sunset Boulevard on foot.

Ten minutes later he was in West Hollywood. Hipsters and a younger crowd milling around. He walked on and ended up at the Power House bar. Vertical neon-lit sign. Huge slab of a doorman standing outside staring straight ahead. Reznick nodded as he brushed past the guy.

Inside it was suitably dark. Wood paneling. Red leather booths down one side. A handful of bikers sitting down the far end of the bar, a stoned white kid sitting giggling alone in a booth. Jukebox was playing Tom Petty. Loud.

Reznick bought a Heineken and sat on a stool at the bar.

The barman was smoking as he wiped down the counter.

Reznick stared at the bottles of blended Scotch behind the bar. He was tempted to just sit where he was and not go anywhere. Just drink. And forget. His mind flashed images of Belmont and the blood seeping from the severed finger. The dark thoughts lingered as he sat in the dingy bar, the stench of smoke and spilled booze seeping through his pores.

He went to the filthy toilet, emptied his bladder, washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face. When he returned to his seat, the barman had opened a fresh bottle of beer. “You looked like you needed another, man.”

Reznick nodded and gulped some of the beer. The jukebox was now playing some blues song. Maybe Muddy Waters. He handed the barman a twenty dollar bill. “You got a phone I could use? Lost my goddamn cell this evening.”

The barman took the money and handed him his cellphone. “Go right ahead.”

Reznick took the phone and punched in Bobby Haines’s number. He was kept waiting for nearly a minute until it answered.

“Jon, sorry, just got back in.”

“Any luck?”

“Second time lucky. It’s in LA, alright. Hollywood Hills West. Not far from the number you’re calling from. 8519 Hedges Place.”

Reznick made a mental note.

“Swanky three million dollar homes and upwards. Nice part of town.”

“Anything I should worry about?”

“Cops crawling all over the locale. Be careful.”

“Anything else?”

“The property is owned by a Jerry Morlach. Aged seventy-eight. Phone is registered to one of his companies, Entertainment Finance LA. Big shot.”

Reznick said, “How far on foot?”

“Three miles give or take. Best bet would be to head east by cab on Sunset Boulevard for two and half miles or so, and then up a bit into the Hills. Don’t do it on foot. Like I said, cops prowling about everywhere round there.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“That cops are prowling everywhere?”

“Police radio scanner. I’ve been listening in to everything coming out of LA since you called. They even mentioned your name.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Stay safe.”

Reznick hung up. He finished the rest of his beer and headed out the rear exit, past a beaten-up patio with smokers. He climbed over a rear wall and no one said a thing.

Then he headed down a deserted side street and hard-wired a parked tow truck. An oily Lakers hat was on the floor. He put it on and pulled it down low.

Reznick drove back down a parallel street, neon-lit bars, cars crawling. He got back onto Sunset and headed east. He stopped off at a corner shop and bought a cheap pay-as-you-go cellphone.

He got back in the truck and punched Morlach’s address into the vehicle’s satnav. Reznick turned onto the Sunset strip again. Through West Hollywood. Past nail bars. Sky bars. Restaurants. Clubs. Shops.

The satnav voice told Reznick to head left and he drove up Queens Road, snaking up through the Hollywood Hills. Higher through the winding roads. Past million-dollar homes. The houses got bigger and swankier the higher up he drove.

The views of Sunset Boulevard peeking through the gaps between the houses. The vast sulphurous yellow glow of the city spreading out below.

Reznick negotiated the streets as the GPS led him on to Hedges Place.

The road narrowed until he was in a cul-de-sac.

Reznick saw the cameras high up on the garage strafing the area. He took a few moments to run the options in his head. He looked around. There were a few houses overlooking the front. And almost certainly more houses the other side if he approached up the hillside.

He spotted a clipboard with paperwork on the truck’s passenger seat. He reversed the tow truck up the driveway, pulled the handbrake and switched the engine off. He picked up the clipboard, got out of the truck, walked up to the entryphone door. He pressed the videophone buzzer and put the cellphone to his ear as he pretended to talk. The face of a heavy-set guy flashed up on the small screen.

“Hey buddy, I’m here to pick up the vehicle that was involved in the freeway scrape earlier.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“8619 Hedge Place. I’ve got the right address?”

“I don’t know anything about this.”

“Hey buddy, I’ve just had my boss on my cell, busting my balls. No way I’m going back to the depot without that vehicle.”

“Look, I’ll be right down.”

Reznick stood with his back to the door, waiting for the man to appear. The door opened and the heavy-set guy stepped forward.

“What’s this about?”

Reznick turned around and smashed his fist into the side of the man’s neck. He went down unconscious. Reznick frisked the man. Underneath the man’s loose fitting shirt, a 9mm Glock strapped to his waistband. He pulled the man over to the back of the truck, tied an old rag around his mouth, trussed him up with tow straps and removed the Glock.

The man would be out of it for a good ten minutes, maybe more.

Reznick headed through the open door into a huge hall. He could hear TV. He followed the sound into a huge living room. Floor-to-ceiling views over LA.

He could hear another TV, a different channel. It was coming from up the stairs at the far end of the room.

Reznick padded up the carpeted steps. He heard a man’s voice, speaking into a phone.

Reznick held his breath as he crept towards a closed door. He listened for a few moments until the man on the other side of the door ended the call.

Then he opened the door and walked in.

Reznick pointed his gun at the man sitting on the bed. “This is how it’s going to work. I talk, you listen.”

The man sat frozen on the bed.

Reznick stepped forward and picked up the man’s cellphone from a nightstand beside the bed. “Is this yours?”

The man nodded.

Reznick scrolled through the numbers. “Okay, I see you were in contact with Brigadier Belmont.”

The man closed his eyes.

“Tell me about that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cut the crap.”

The man’s lower lip began to quiver. “Please, who are you? Where is Pravi? My assistant?”

“You need to listen. I asked you a question. Tell me about Brigadier Belmont.”

“I don’t know a Brigadier Belmont.”

Reznick turned the caller ID display and showed the number to the man. “Okay, tell me about this call. Who is this?”

The man said nothing.

Reznick pulled back the slide on the gun.

The man stared at Reznick long and hard. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Reznick.”

“Last chance. Who is this guy you called? Is he one of the team after me?”

“He’s a guy I do business with.”

“Quds?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Where is he?”

The man remained silent.

Reznick grabbed the man by the throat and pressed the gun hard to the man’s forehead. “You’re starting to fucking annoy me. Now where is he?”

The man reached under a pillow. “Maybe this can––”

Reznick caught a glimpse of black metal. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

Blood and gray fragments of brain matter splattered off the walls as ear-splitting sound-activated alarms went off around the house.

FORTY-FIVE

Meyerstein was strapped into the backseat of an FBI chopper as it swooped low over the Hollywood Hills, searchlights strafing the backyards and pools of luxury mansions, when her headphones crackled into life. Stamper’s voice. “Martha, it’s Roy.”

“Talk to me, Roy. This better be good news.”

“It’s all bad. Reznick’s been classified high-risk security threat. Shoot on sight. God knows where it will end.”

“That’s bullshit. We need to find out where he’s headed.”

“Martha, we have nothing. It’s like Reznick’s a ghost. He’s just vanished.”

The helicopter banked hard right and headed higher into the hills above Los Angeles. “What do we know about this Morlach guy and his relationship with Belmont?”

“The CIA is saying nothing. But people I know say that Belmont works out of the Pentagon and works on regime change stuff down at The Farm in Virginia.”

“You know as well as I do, Roy, how they operate. Denial. Deflection. Has been since forever.”

Stamper sighed down the line.

“What about the drones looking for the Iranians?”

“Nothing. They’re playing us.”

“What about Reznick? What was the last sighting?”

“Security footage. On foot heading up higher into the Hollywood Hills. Cops are trawling the area with dogs and night vision equipment. And they’re deploying heat seeking imaging equipment, just like we are.”

Meyerstein stared down at the slow moving traffic on Sunset Boulevard and the neon lights shimmering in the darkness. The helicopter headlights strafed the scrub below. “I haven’t heard from the Iranian contact. Has he gone to ground? Safe house? Watch and waiting for our next move?”

“The problem is, if this guy, or these guys, get to hear that Reznick is not en-route to Tehran, then we really are in trouble. We’re at their mercy.”

“We’re at nobody’s mercy, Roy. We need to find these sons of bitches. And quick.”

“What about Reznick?”

“Him too.”

“Martha, I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, he is a liability to us.”

“Roy, do you listen to yourself, sometimes?”

Stamper said nothing.

“We were going to send him to Iran. That was the wrong call.”

“Martha, it was the only call which could be made. But what Reznick did…”

“What, save himself? That’s what he did. He knew he wasn’t getting transferred up to Canada.”

“Is that what they said they were doing?” asked Stamper.

“That was the bullshit story Belmont concocted. Reznick would have seen through that.”

The pilot signaled to her.

Meyerstein said, “Roy, speak soon.” She ended the radio call with Stamper and turned to the pilot. “Yeah, what’ve you got?”

“Call coming through to you from Counterterrorism Special Agent Veitch in McLean.”

“Put him on.” Moments later, Meyerstein said, “Veitch, talk to me.”

“We just picked up a live signal thirty seconds ago.” Veitch’s voice was clear in her headphones. “He’s on the North Hollywood Highway.”

“Reznick?”

“We think so.”

Meyerstein signaled for the pilot to head in that direction. “Copy that, we’re on our way.”

“You need to know, Martha. Morlach was a diplomatic back channel for the American government to Tehran.”

Meyerstein felt her insides churn. “And Reznick has just killed him?”

“In cold blood.”

Meyerstein stared down at the lights of the cars on the freeway. She felt a terrible sense of foreboding. Events were unfolding with an urgency and inevitability she seemed unable to stop.

FORTY-SIX

Reznick headed off the freeway and drove until he found an underground parking lot. He pulled out the cell he had taken from Morlach’s home and downloaded the mSpy app. The software would help him locate his next target.Then he texted a message to the last number Morlach had dialed. You must call me.

A few moments later the cell rang. On the sixth ring Reznick pressed the receive button.

“I’m responding to your message,” said the voice on the line.

Reznick remained silent and ended the call. He had what he wanted. A few moments later the GPS information had flashed up on the cell. Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. It had been a long shot but the man who had called Morlach last hadn’t switched off the GPS on his phone.

His heart rate hiked up a notch. He sent another message.

Can’t speak on the phone. Where can I meet you at airport?

A few moments later a text came in.

Directly outside Terminal A.

Reznick send a text back. See you in half an hour. New paperwork.

He then took the battery and the chip out of the cell and dropped it down a storm drain. Then he strode across to a BMW convertible nearby, opened up the hood, ripped out the alarm wiring and started it up.

Reznick revved up hard and punched in Bob Hope Airport into the car’s satnav. He was seven miles from his location. A matter of minutes down the freeway.

FORTY-SEVEN

Mohsen’s senses were working overtime as he sat drinking a scalding hot coffee in the tacky terminal of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. He watched as a Mexican wiped down a nearby table and wondered about the message from Morlach. He didn’t like it.

He went over to a payphone and caught sight of his brother pretending to read the LA Times. He punched in a number, popped in a couple of bucks, and waited until he heard a familiar voice.

“I’m glad you called,” the voice said before Mohsen could speak.

“I’m looking for clarification.”

“Your father has gone.” The coded message meant: Morlach is dead.

“I just received a call.”

“It’s Reznick.”

Mohsen went quiet for a few moments. “I see. How do you know it’s him?”

“Never mind. He’s not far. But you have got one thing in your favor.”

“And what’s that?”

“Reznick doesn’t know there are two of you.”

“We’ll handle him, don’t worry.”

“We need to make sure this time.”

“It’s done.”

Mohsen ended the call and phoned his brother’s cell. “Restroom nearest to you in two minutes.”

He hung up and walked over to the rest room. He checked the stalls were all empty. His brother came in.

Mohsen put his finger to his lips and whispered in his ear. “Dismantle your phone, battery and chip. Flush it all away.”

His brother went into the first stall and did as instructed. Mohsen did the same.

“He’s coming here,” said Mohsen.

“What?”

“Reznick is on his way here.”

“How is that possible?”

“It just is.” Mohsen could see the burning hurt in his brother’s eyes.

“I thought he was being traded.”

“He was. But it’s all gone wrong. He’s onto us. And we need to take care of him.”

“What’s he expecting?”

“An Iranian standing directly outside Terminal A.”

Behzad cleared his throat. “I’m not having that. I’m going to be the one.”

Mohsen sighed. He knew his brother was headstrong. Impulsive. Consumed with a black anger. Mohsen, by contrast, had learned to deal with the loss, rationalizing it. He had chosen to remember his brother full of life and promise. A passionate and brilliant man.

The more he thought of it the more he realized that he could compartmentalize it so much better than Behzad. His brother lived to avenge their elder brother. He understood. But Mohsen knew the mission needed focus. And discipline.

“I will be the sacrifice,” Behzad whispered. “But you must promise me to kill Reznick.”

“He will die,” said Mohsen. “I make that promise to you, my brother, in the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Reznick drove hard toward Burbank and punched in the number for Bobby Haines in Nebraska.

“What’s going on, Jon?”

“I need something else.”

“What’re you looking for, bro?”

“A gun shop in or around Burbank, open right now.”

A few moments pause. “Guns and Stuff, 9376 West Magnolia Boulevard, Unit 7.”

“Owe you one.” Reznick ended the call and entered the details into the satnav. Six minutes later he was in downtown Burbank. He pulled up down a side street outside a children’s clothing store. He went across the street into the gun shop and looked at the racks of guns.

The tattooed guy behind the counter with a badge grinned. “Heading out to the range late tonight, buddy?”

“Just new in town. I’m looking to see if you can help me.”

The guy shrugged. “What are you looking for?”

“Two things. The best sniper rifle you’ve got and night vision sights.”

“Night hunter, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Love that. Okay, here’s what we’ve got.”

The guy went down the racks and picked out a mean looking rifle. “Just got a load of these in. M24. All-American classic sniper rifle.”

Reznick held the weight and looked down the scope. “Good weight, balance.”

“You know your guns. Bolt action. As used by the US Army. But I guess you know that already. The M24 uses the Remington 700 action. The stock is composite Kevlar, graphite, just the best. Bipod is detachable. I’ve got some armor piercing ammo which might interest you.”

“Indeed it does.” Reznick stared down the scope again. It was pristine.

The guy handed him a box. “Telescopic sights. Same gear used by Seals and Delta.”

Reznick nodded. “How much for it all, including the ammo?”

“Thirty-seven hundred for the rifle. For the telescopic scopes, another two big ones. Ammo, maybe another grand, which should keep you going. But, hey, I can give you the whole thing for six thousand dollars.”

Reznick nodded. “You got it.”

The guy grinned. “Man, I love it when a customer just knows what they want,” he said, tapping out a beat on the glass counter.

“I’m also looking for a Berretta 9mm with ammo,” said Reznick.

“That’s a good gun.” He bent down and pulled out a tray of 9mm handguns. He picked out a pristine Berretta, picked it up as if he was handling a gold bar and handed it over to Reznick.

Reznick pulled back the slide and stared down the barrel.

“That’s a good gun, my friend,” the guy said.

Reznick nodded. “And military grade binoculars?”

The guy bent over and unlocked the drawer and handed him expensive-looking binoculars. “You’re really going for it, aren’t you? Okay, this lot was imported from Germany last month. Straight out the box.”

“Ammo for the Berretta?”

The guy pulled up four packets of 9mm magazine ammo and shrugged.

Reznick picked up one packet, opened it and slid a magazine in to the gun.

The guy held up his hands. “Hey buddy, that’s absolutely not allowed.”

Reznick flicked off the safety and pointed the gun to the guy’s head. “Don’t fucking move.”

The guy closed his eyes.

“Okay, this is how it’s gonna work. I want you to very carefully deactivate the security cameras and alarm system. Comprendi?”

The guy nodded hard. He opened up a panel on a wall behind him and flicked a couple of switches. “We’re offline now.”

“You sure?”

“Alarms are all off, I swear on my mother’s life.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. Just not now.”

Reznick ordered the man into the stock room where he tied him up with duct tape and old string. He locked the guy inside. Then he threw the ammo, rifle, gun and binoculars into a black nylon rifle case he took from a shelf. His mind was racing. He got back in the car, lifted up the rear seating and slid in the bag to keep it out of view, before he headed straight for the airport.

His mind flashed up images of Tiny in Fallujah. Then the tears in Pete Dorfman’s eyes as he had stared into his drink.

A cold fury was building. He felt a switch being turned on deep inside him.

It was time.

FORTY-NINE

Meyerstein’s chopper landed in the parking lot of a mall, just off the freeway. She jumped out and climbed into a waiting SUV. Roy Stamper was already sitting on the back seat.

“So where the hell is he?” she said, buckling up. “He can’t just have vanished?”

“The NSA says the signal died less than a mile from here.”

“He was heading north at the time, right?”

“Due north on the freeway.”

Meyerstein was handed an iPad and pulled up Google Maps. “The Ventura Freeway nearby, his options are unlimited.”

“Pretty much. That is if he’s looking to break out.”

Meyerstein thought of that for a moment as she rubbed her eyes, the tiredness washing over her. “Veitch was running the scenarios. What’s the latest?”

“Last time I tried to speak to him, he was incommunicado” said Stamper.

Meyerstein punched in the unlisted number for Veitch into her cell.

“Martha,” said Veitch, sounding harassed, “we’re on it.”

“I need you to find him. Now. I don’t need excuses.”

“Martha, gimme a break. These things take time.”

“We’re out of time. What’s the latest on Morlach?”

“NSA is still on it.”

Meyerstein slammed her fist into the seat in front. “That’s all I keep hearing. We’re on it. We’re on it. So what the hell is taking so long?”

“We’re working our way through it.”

“Give me what you’ve got.”

Veitch sighed down the phone. “Morlach’s estimated worth is $249 million. He’s a big spender. Top of the line Porsche, BMWs, Mercedes…”

“What else? Who’s looking over this? Give me a name.”

Veitch sighed. “Special Agent Sarah Munro.”

“Get her to call me right away.”

A few moments later Munro was on the line. “Ma’am, how can I help? I’m sifting through Morlach’s finances and outgoings, etc.”

“Tell me what you’ve got, Sarah.”

“As well as his thing for upscale cars, he’s bought a couple of trendy restaurants in Hollywood.”

“Sarah, I don’t mean to be tetchy, but I’m looking for anything unusual about the expenditure,” said Meyerstein.

“Okay, I get it; a very wealthy man, he buys big presents for himself and friends. This is Hollywood.”

“But what else? I want to know about unusual patterns of spending, do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Ma’am, I’m compiling the report, but I’m nowhere near…”

“Special Agent Munro, listen to me. Give me what you’ve got. Not tomorrow. Not in an hour. I want it now. What do you know now?”

“There is something that caught my eye,” said Munro.

“What?”

“Morlach doesn’t like lashing out for flights.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, instead of flying first class for LAX to New York, he’s taken dozens of flights on a budget airline. Jet Blue.”

“Not a clincher for me.”

“But what if I told you he owns a Cessna based at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank?”

Meyerstein took a few moments to absorb the information further. “Okay, now that’s interesting. Munro, I’ll call you back if I need anything else.” She ended the call, turned to Stamper and relayed the story for him. “Morlach was the link man. And he has a goddamn Cessna at Burbank.”

Stamper shrugged. “So?”

“FBI cover at Burbank, if memory serves me, is nonexistent. Compare and contrast with LAX. Think about it. Burbank has minimal Feds and cops. Internal commuter stuff. Not international. Is that right?”

Stamper nodded and said nothing.

“What if Morlach has been using this route because he knows, or has been told, that it’s less likely to attract the attention that a hub airport with international connections would have.”

“I see where you’re going with this.”

Meyerstein tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Bob Hope Airport, Burbank. Let’s get to it!”

FIFTY

Reznick slowed down as he approached the short term parking garage. He glanced across at the main terminal building opposite. A few travellers with backpacks, others pulling trunks on wheels. All Caucasian.

He pulled up at the security barrier for parking.

The guard stepped forward. “Evening sir. Can you drive through and park it up on the left?” he said. “We need to have a look inside your car.”

Reznick nodded and drove on to the designated security vehicle screening area. He stepped out. “Be my guest.”

“You mind opening the trunk?”

Reznick opened the trunk. The guard poked a flashlight inside and took a cursory look.

“That’s fine, sir,” he said. “You picking up?”

Reznick nodded. “I’m a bit early. Picking up my sister.”

“Two hour waiting, max.”

“That’s fine, she’s due in around an hour.”

Reznick got back in his vehicle and drove to the top of the four-story car park. He parked at the far end, furthest away from the nearest vehicle. He checked the line of sight and saw it overlooked the main terminal building. He shut off the engine and pulled the bag out from underneath the rear seats. Then he quickly assembled the rifle, inserted the magazine and attached the night vision scope. He placed the rifle on the floor and picked up the night vision binoculars.

He focused in on the area, directly in front of the main terminal. Nothing of interest.

Reznick waited and waited.

What if the guy didn’t turn up? What if it was a ruse? How could he know he had the right guy? These thoughts ran through his head.

Reznick was a stickler for detail. He knew from doing wetwork the importance of knowing for sure who the target was. He wondered if he shouldn’t try and get in closer.

The more he thought about the set-up the less he liked it. He wondered again if he shouldn’t just get up close and deal with it. The bottom line was that there were no good clean solutions.

He liked certainty. It was ingrained in him. It was that certainty that would keep him alive.

He peered through the binoculars again.

Slowly, like a ghost, a man emerged from the terminal into the periphery of his vision wearing a Seahawks hat. The man stopped and stood in front of the terminal building.

Reznick’s heart rate quickened. He stared through the binoculars and studied the man. The man didn’t have any cases or bags of any sort.

Reznick could tell he was making too much of an effort to stare straight ahead. The man touched his left ear.

Reznick zoomed in on the man’s head. The man turned and Reznick saw it.

The guy was wearing an earpiece.

He scanned the front of the terminal. A laughing mom with her two young kids, a couple holding hands, people entering and exiting. He checked each of them over.

He trained the binoculars on the man with the Seahawks hat. Eyes staring straight ahead. The man touched his ear again.

Reznick scanned a wider area, examining those within a twenty meter radius of the front of the main terminal.

It was then his attention was drawn to a figure sitting on a bench at the cab line, reading a paper. He watched as the figure turned the page of the paper and then touched his right ear.

Reznick zoomed in. His heart hiked up a notch. The man on the bench had classic Persian features. He turned sideways and Reznick saw it.

The man was also wearing an earpiece.

FIFTY-ONE

Meyerstein was sitting in the back of the SUV as the FBI driver sped towards Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Three cars ahead was a plain-clothes FBI SWAT team riding in a Lincoln. Her radio cracked into life. It was Veitch.

“Martha, the intercept has been analyzed and from the GPS we’re certain the call is genuine,” he said.

“What else?”

“We’re using the airport’s surveillance cameras. Looking at the guy in real time, cool as you like, with his Seahawks hat on.”

“Face recognition?”

“Nothing so far.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“I know, it’s frustrating, but the hat, the angle of the camera, it’s not allowing for a full face scan.”

“Who’ve we got on the ground?”

“Airport cops are aware of the situation.”

“Listen to me, they need to back off on this. Likely this guy is going to have to be taken down.”

“They’re under strict orders.”

“How many people in the area?”

“Thirteen people in addition to the Seahawks guy.”

“If there’s any heat this Quds guy will take down as many innocents as he can.”

Veitch sighed long and hard.

Meyerstein checked the iPad, which showed the real time pictures from the airport. “Okay, I’m looking at what you’re seeing. Yeah, I see your problem. Face partially concealed.”

“Martha, what’s your ETA?”

Meyerstein tapped the driver on the shoulder. “How long?”

“Two minutes, three max.”

Meyerstein said, “Did you hear that?”

“Copy that, Martha.”

Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments as they sped through the dark Burbank streets.

“Talk to me, Martha. I know you too well. What else is bothering you?”

“Reznick.”

“What about him?”

“I’m certain it was him who sent the text. Had to be. We reckon Morlach was dead when the message was sent.”

“I’d concur, Martha.”

“Reznick must be in the vicinity. So where the hell is he?”

“We both know Reznick will try and take this guy down by himself. It’s what he does.”

Meyerstein stared at the footage. “What I’m seeing…‌the profile is similar but I’m not sure.” She watched as the man in the Seahawks lit up a cigarette and dragged hard on it.

The driver turned and said, “ETA ninety seconds.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Where the hell is Reznick?”

Veitch said, “My guess, he’s there already. Watching and waiting.”

Meyerstein’s blood ran cold. That was what she feared.

FIFTY-TWO

Reznick stared through the field glasses at the guy in the Seahawks hat smoking his cigarette. He then swept the binoculars to the guy sitting reading the paper on the bench. He was now wearing shades and a Lakers cap pulled low.

The more he thought about it the more he was beginning to doubt whether he could take the guy down. His line of sight kept getting interrupted.

“Who are you?” he said through gritted teeth.

He needed certainty.

Reznick turned his focus on the guy reading the paper. His hand on his mouth as if thinking, but also good cover for communicating. He was sure they were part of the same Iranian crew.

His problem was how to deal with both of them. If he took out one, the other would potentially get away in the ensuing chaos and panic.

Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

Both needed to be neutralized.

He considered taking out the guy on the bench up close. Then focus on the Seahawks guy.

Time dragged.

He needed to decide and to make his move.

The Seahawks guy suddenly turned his head. Two SUVs pulled up in front of the terminal, blocking Reznick’s sight. “Shit!” He stared through the binoculars.

The doors of the first SUV burst open and four plain-clothes officers with short sleeve shirts ran out towards the Seahawks guy. The half a dozen or so people nearby dived for cover. In less than thirty seconds, the four-man team had the Seahawks guy cuffed and in the back of their SUV. Then they sped out of sight.

His heart was racing as he turned his attention to the Lakers guy on the faraway bench.

Just at that moment, Reznick saw Meyerstein emerge from the last SUV, cellphone pressed to her ear. He figured they had intercepted the message. He watched as she directed operations whilst talking into the phone.

Reznick turned the binoculars to the Lakers guy and saw the spectral figure disappear into the crowd like a ghost.

FIFTY-THREE

Meyerstein stood outside the terminal with three other Feds and surveyed the parking garage opposite, cellphone pressed to her ear. “Give me the latest on Sazegara,” she said.

Veitch sighed. “Martha, that’s why I’m calling. It’s not him.”

“What?”

“It’s definitely not Mohsen Sazegara. It’s his young brother, Behzad.”

Meyerstein closed her eyes. “Give me a break, will you.”

“Martha, we’re one step behind all the goddamn way.”

“The guy in our custody…”

“Behzad Sazegara.”

“Why wasn’t he on our radar before now?”

“He was a sleeper, Martha.”

“If we had his brother under surveillance until recently, why not him?”

Veitch sighed. “Someone has fucked up on this, that’s for sure.”

“Well that’s just great.” Meyerstein thought for a moment. “This Behzad…‌he was wearing an earpiece. What distance would it operate at?”

“Two hundred feet if it was bought off the Internet. Military grade would be up to maybe half a mile.”

“What about the travel documents that he was carrying?”

“We’re looking them over, Martha. False IDs all the way.”

“The dead guy in the hills. What else do we know about him?”

“He was a back channel to Tehran.”

“Mohsen’s here at the airport. I know it. We need to shut this down.”

“We’re on it, Martha.”

“Listen to me. We need to find him before this night is done.”

Veitch sighed. “Martha, I said we’re on it.”

“We need to find him. Before Reznick gets his hands on him.”

FIFTY-FOUR

Reznick had watched from afar as the Lakers guy had slipped away from the periphery of the crowd at the front of the terminal and jumped on a shuttle bus. He quickly packed away the guns, ammos and field glasses into the rifle bag and put it under the back seat of the BMW convertible.

He got into the driver’s seat and sped out of the garage exit. As he headed down a near-empty road he spotted the airport shuttle van.

Reznick tailed the airport shuttle van a few hundred yards to the Ramada Inn, Burbank. The van stopped at the entrance. The Lakers guy got out with two others and went inside.

Reznick parked the BMW in the parking lot of the small hotel so he had clear line of sight to the entrance. He ran the options in his head.

He reached back to retrieve the rifle bag and checked the rifle and 9mm were locked and loaded. He watched and waited. The time dragged. The guy might be holed up in there for hours.

But less than fifteen minutes later, Reznick was in luck.

The man emerged from the hotel, accompanied by a Mexican woman. He had changed his clothes, and a brown leather bag was slung over his shoulder. His gaze wandered round the parking lot.

Reznick slid down low in his seat as the Lakers guy and Mexican woman crossed the parking lot to an Escalade with tinted windows. The woman got into the driver’s seat while the man threw the leather bag onto the back seat and slid down into the front passenger seat.

The Escalade’s lights came on and it pulled away.

Reznick waited a few moments before he pulled out of the parking lot and joined the heavy traffic on the busy freeway. It wasn’t long before they were on Interstate 5 headed for San Diego.

He drove hard and wondered about the final destination.

Sixty miles per hour. Seventy. Cutting south on the freeway, headlights all around, snaking toward San Diego.

Reznick wondered if the Lakers guy was going to escape across the Border. The Mexican woman would be the cover. And it would be a perfect fallback plan if the airport scheme had to be abandoned.

The headlights swept the freeway stretching out in front of him. The Escalade was cruising in the fast lane.

Reznick stayed in the middle lane, out of the rearview line of sight, as they approached the Border.

FIFTY-FIVE

Meyerstein was buckled up in the back of the SUV, iPad on her lap, ready to head back to the FBI’s LA field office, when the armrest phone began to ring. She picked it up the same moment a message from Veitch dropped in her inbox. “This better be good news.”

“Check my message,” said Veitch.

Meyerstein double clicked on the email and it opened up. Grainy color photo showed a man with a baseball cap sitting on a bench outside the terminal where they were parked. “Who the hell is this?”

“We’ve had to bump up the image size by three hundred per cent.”

“And?”

“This is Mohsen Sazegara caught on surveillance footage. Airport security was focusing on the Seahawks guy. But when we ran the footage, we saw this guy on the periphery of the footage.”

Meyerstein looked long and hard at the image. “Son of a bitch. So where the hell is Mohsen now?”

The sound of another message dropping into her inbox.

“We’re checking a whole bunch of footage within a two mile radius with face recognition,” said Veitch. “It’s caught this still image from a camera at the Ramada in Burbank, real close to the airport.”

Meyerstein opened it up and saw Mohsen leaving the hotel with what looked like a Mexican girl. “Who’s the girl?”

“This is where it gets interesting. She is Rosario Lopez. She’s the youngest daughter of a lieutenant in the Tijuana drug cartel, the least powerful of the big three in Mexico. The question is, what’s a drug cartel doing teaming up with Iranian Special Forces?”

“Technological know how, anti-jamming telecommunications – that’s intel very useful for drug cartels. You rub my back I’ll rub yours. Probably getting financial backing from Tehran and in return the cartel help Quds operatives cross the border to America.”

Meyerstein tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Freeway south!”

“Got it, ma’am.” The driver nodded and sped off at breakneck speed.

Meyerstein said to Veitch, “Helicopter support on this?”

“Choppers are in the air. FBI and LAPD. California Highway Patrol are also in the loop on this.”

“So what’s their location just now?”

A long sigh. “We don’t know. We’ve just received the Ramada footage and are going over it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”

Meyerstein felt as if things had spiraled out of control. She wondered where Mohsen was headed. Was LA really his final destination? But if escape was indeed the plan, the only option would be to cross over into Mexico.

The sound of her cellphone ringing snapped her out of her thoughts. She recognized the number. “Talk to me, Veitch,” she said.

“Fourteen minutes ago, Mohsen and the Mexican woman got into an Escalade. They drove away. Headed south.”

The SUV went over a pothole and shook Meyerstein in her seat. “I do not believe how this is playing out.”

“It doesn’t end there.”

“Reznick?”

“You got it. CCTV picked him up. BMW followed Mohsen on to I-5, heading south.”

Meyerstein stared as the headlights of the cars blurred on the freeway. “I want all our resources on this. Find Mohsen, and find Reznick.”

“We’ll find them. It’s just a matter of time.”

“We’re clean out of time, Veitch.”

FIFTY-SIX

Reznick headed off the I-5 and drove through downtown San Diego. The car he was following was more than one hundred yards in front. He switched lanes and followed at what he thought was a discreet distance.

He lost sight of the vehicle.

“Goddamn!” Reznick said. He punched the dashboard and drove on, annoyed with himself. “Gimme a break!” The BMW’s headlights strafed the dark streets in a sketchy part of San Diego.

Up ahead in front of a truck, signaling left, he spotted the Escalade. He hit the gas and then was within seventy yards of the vehicle. He followed on.

He knew he was taking a chance getting close. But time was fast running out, the border only a matter of miles away.

The Escalade drove on for a mile or so to the parking lot of a suburban diner. Reznick drove past the diner for a hundred yards before he doubled back and parked up. He was just in time to see the guy with the baseball cap stroll into the diner. The Mexican woman stayed in the car, lights off.

Reznick waited for a couple of minutes. A short while later the man emerged and cocked his head to the Mexican. She got out and followed him toward a BMW parked under some trees at the far end of the parking lot.

Nice counter surveillance move. Clearly pre-planned. A clean vehicle for crossing the border.

Reznick slid down low as the car sped off past him. He waited a moment before he pulled away and sped back onto the freeway, still headed south. They were on the 805 South and before long passed the lights of National City. Deeper and deeper through southern California. Closer and closer to the border.

Up ahead, a sign for the 805 East.

The BMW took Exit 3 onto the road.

Reznick punched in the number for Bob Haines in Nebraska. “Bob, it’s Jon.”

“Man, your tab’s gonna be maxed out today.”

“I’m heading east on the 805, south of San Diego. Very close to the border. I believe the guy I’m following is trying to get over the border. What intel you got on this part of the world?”

Haines sighed. There was the sound of keys being tapped. “Mmmm…‌Okay, can only be one place, man. Otay Mesa. Border crossing.”

“But my guy is smart. He’s a wanted man. And even if he’s got fake papers, he’s going to attract some heat.”

“So what exactly are you looking for?”

“What do I need to know about Otay Mesa?”

A beat. “Okay, this area is within the reach of the Mexican drug cartels. They have money to throw around. It buys a lot of influence in and around the town.”

“Still risky. Too risky.”

“There is something else.”

“What?”

Haines cleared his throat. “Are you there yet?”

“Just approaching it.”

“If he has Mexican help, there is one sure way of avoiding the border crossings.”

“And what’s that?”

“The cartels have a network of secret tunnels running from Otay Mesa into Tijuana on the Mexican side.”

Reznick realized immediately what he meant. “Goddamn. He’s not going to go over the border is he? The fucker is going under.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Meyerstein adjusted the radio headphones as she sat in the front seat of the chopper headed south, the lights of San Diego below. She turned to the pilot. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“Ma’am, we’re going into a strong headwind. We’re doing well cruising at 107 knots per hour.”

“What’s that in real money?”

“123 miles per hour, give or take.”

“ETA?”

“Five, maybe six minutes and we’ll touch down at Otay Mesa.”

Meyerstein nodded as the chopper dipped lower and headed due south-east. Her stomach fluttered. Buckled up in the back seats were three FBI colleagues, one whose eyes were closed, not enjoying the flight. She felt sorry for the guy. It reminded her of her father’s fear of flying. He wasn’t scared of anything else. But put him on a plane and he was stricken, clutching on to Meyerstein’s mother’s hand throughout the flight. “Neil,” she said to the agent, “we’ll be down before you know it.”

Special Agent Elbourne opened his eyes. “I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Her headphones crackled into life. It was Veitch. “Martha, Reznick is in Otay Mesa, edge of downtown. Border Patrol has been alerted.”

“Good. What else?”

The chopper hit some turbulence as they flew hard against the wind, getting buffeted. Her stomach fluttered again. Elbourne’s eyes closed tighter as color drained from his face.

“NSA lost the end of the conversation between Reznick and this guy in Nebraska.”

“Give me something!”

“Martha, our analysts have been pulling up everything we have on the Tijuana Cartel and their interests in Otay Mesa.”

“Tell me something useful.”

“They own numerous distribution companies in and around California.”

“And?”

“They have opened one in Otay Mesa, but through a legitimate shell firm who launder some of their drugs money.”

Meyerstein’s brain was racing. “So if the cartel own this distribution company, it can only mean two things. They could smuggle Sazegara out on one of their lorries or trucks. But that would be too risky.”

“Indeed.”

“Or there’s the second option. Out of sight. Something that takes long term planning and serious money.”

Veitch said nothing.

“You wanna know how many high-tech tunnels go under from California to the Mexican side?” asked Meyerstein.

“Son of a bitch,” was all Veitch could say.

FIFTY-EIGHT

The car’s satnav showed Reznick that he was west of the Otay Mesa Road at the intersection of Highway 125. He had tailed the BMW all the way to a nondescript industrial area of modern warehouses with a floodlit gatehouse.

Reznick pulled over. He spotted a sign over the razor wire topped chain-link entrance that said: Ramirez Distribution. He watched as the armed guard waved the car through. Cameras high up on poles covered the entrance in all directions.

This was it. This was definitely the stop-off.

He pulled out the field glasses and saw the guard light a cigarette as he leaned against a metal barrier, talking into a radio. He watched as the BMW crawled past a dozen or so sixteen-wheeler trucks to the furthest-away redbrick building. The man he was tailing stepped out followed closely by the Mexican woman. They punched a code into a keypad and disappeared inside.

Reznick scanned the rest of the compound and saw a gas storage facility with tanks and an adjacent gas pumping station. Self-sufficient. He pulled out the kit bag with the stolen guns and ammo, tucking his 9mm into his back waistband. Then he walked the fifty yards to the entrance and up to the gatehouse.

The guard shrugged, dragging hard on the cigarette. “You lost, my friend?”

Reznick pressed the Beretta to his forehead and cocked his head in the direction of the gatehouse. “Dentro!”

The guard went inside as he was told.

Reznick looked at the guy. Eyes hooded, dark. Jailhouse tattoos on his wrists and hands. Reznick pressed the gun tighter to the man’s head. “Speak English?”

The guard nodded.

“Who were the two people who just entered?”

“Don’t know, man.”

“What is this place?”

“Distributions, man. Look, I don’t know who you are. I just work when they need me.”

“Who are they?”

“Mr. Ramirez and his family.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“How did you get this gig?”

The guard said nothing.

“Tell me about the faraway office block, redbrick.”

“What about it, man?”

“What’s the code to get in there?”

“I don’t know.”

Reznick pulled back the gun’s slide and the man scrunched up his eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You know.”

The guard said nothing.

“What the fuck is the code?”

“I swear to God, man, I don’t know no code.”

The glint of a metal shank flashed in the dim guardhouse light. The guard thrust it toward Reznick. He parried it away and jabbed the man in the neck, knocking him out cold.

Reznick picked up the man’s radio, clipped it to his shirt pocket and headed towards the redbrick office building. He moved to one side of the door and pulled out the rifle from the kit bag, which he quickly assembled. Then he took aim at the nearest gas storage tank and fired three rapid shots into it with the armor piercing bullets. The sound of gunfire echoed across the concrete compound.

But nothing happened.

“Goddamn,” Reznick said,

He took aim again and fired off three more shots into the tank before it exploded in a huge ball of flames. Flames licked the dark sky. Reznick felt the heat and oil on his skin.

He stood back from the door.

A few moments later three heavy-set Mexican guys stormed out.

Reznick immediately gunned all three down before they could take him. His mind was in free-fall. He stepped over the Mexicans’ bodies and headed into the dimly-lit cavernous facility inside. At the far end he saw plastic wrapped bales of marijuana stacked floor-to-ceiling. He moved closer. He caught a whiff of the unmistakable pungent aroma of weed.

Further down the warehouse he approached a black steel door. He tried the handle. Locked.

He blew off the handle with his 9mm and opened the lock. He pushed open the door, which revealed a narrow vertical staircase.

Reznick put the 9mm in his waistband, the rifle slung over his shoulder, and climbed down. The stairs stopped beside an archway door, dimly-lit. There was the smell of water.

Reznick kicked in the door and saw that a tunnel lay ahead. His eyes adjusted to the low light. The tunnel was around five feet high, probably ninety feet deep underground. Wooden beams supported the tunnel. The floor was cement and the walls clay. Lights lined one side. He heard the low hum of what was probably a ventilation system to keep fresh air circulating.

It had to have taken years to construct. Millions of dollars in man hours and materials.

He peered in. Then he crouched down and headed into the tunnel. Senses switched on.

A sense of foreboding washing over him as he headed into the unknown.

FIFTY-NINE

Meyerstein’s chopper was circling high over the warehouse as the flames licked the sky. She looked down and saw FBI SWAT teams fast rope down into the compound from the second chopper. Her headset buzzed.

“Martha,” said Veitch, “drones on the Mexican side are showing a six car entourage just leaving a cartel compound on the outskirts of Tijuana.”

“What about Reznick?”

“We’ve just plugged into the compound’s surveillance camera system. He’s inside the end building. Already taken out three guys.”

Meyerstein stared down as the SWAT guys encircled the compound and fanned out towards the redbrick building. “We need to get Sazegara before he escapes to the other side.”

“Martha, I’m just being told we’ve got their radio frequency now. CCTV shows Reznick picked up a guard’s radio and clipped it to his shirt.”

Meyerstein breathed deeply. She willed herself to keep calm and focused.

“I’m getting the frequency sent to the pilot now. Elbourne will get the field radios we keep on board the choppers set up for you ASAP, Martha.”

“Good work, Veitch.”

The chopper descended and Agent Elbourne passed the radio to Meyerstein. She flicked open the channel and took and deep breath. “Jon, pick up. This is Meyerstein, over.”

She waited a few moments. No response. She was about to try again when her radio crackled into life.

“Reznick here!” he panted. “I’m in pursuit. Redbrick building. South side of the warehouse. Ninety, maybe a hundred feet down there’s a tunnel.”

“How far in, Jon?”

“Couple of hundred yards.”

“Wait for back-up, Jon.”

“Forget it. I’m going after them.”

SIXTY

Reznick kept his head low as he headed further along the tunnel. His breathing was labored in the dank air. Vibrations from the ventilation pipes. His heart was pounding harder as the adrenalin flowed, flooding his body with chemicals. He knew he was close.

Up ahead he thought he heard a faint sound. Perhaps hurried breathing.

He stopped for a moment and peered further down the tunnel. He held his breath and listened. His senses were switched on. Nerve endings twitching.

The sound was gone. Only the hum of the ventilation system.

He pressed on for another hundred yards. The tunnel began to zigzag.

Reznick craned his head a couple of inches lower and peered down the darkening tunnel as the light dimmed. Up ahead Reznick spotted a figure. One figure. A small woman. She just stood there.

As Reznick pulled out his 9mm, the sound of footsteps and breathing were on him. But behind him.

“Reznick!” a man with a heavy accent shouted. “Time to die.”

Reznick turned and threw himself to the earthen tunnel floor as the man pressed a switch on what looked like a cellphone.

Everything plunged into darkness.

SIXTY-ONE

Meyerstein strode through the compound toward the redbrick building surrounded by a phalanx of FBI officers sporting semi-automatic rifles. She approached the bloodied bodies of three Mexicans. A SWAT member was taking photographs.

Meyerstein turned to the lead SWAT Special Agent, Peter Rimmer. “Who are they?”

“Still to be identified. Cartel members almost certainly.”

Meyerstein walked round the bodies and into the redbrick block accompanied by Rimmer. Scores of SWAT guys were inside, radios crackling.

Rimmer pointed to the far door. “It leads down to a tunnel.”

“Why aren’t we in there?”

“Steel door is blocking access. The lock’s jammed.”

“Blow it then.”

“Thought of that. But the tunnel could collapse.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Can we cut our way in?”

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“How long?”

“Who knows?”

“I’m looking for an answer.”

Rimmer sighed. “Maybe an hour.”

“You’ve got ten minutes.”

“There’s another problem,” he said.

“What?”

“The power has just gone out.”

“How did that happen?”

“It’s been cut deliberately. That’ll mean the ventilation being cut off, no air, and the tunnel in complete darkness.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “We need to get in there now!”

SIXTY-TWO

Reznick was in pitch blackness. He felt sweat beading his forehead and stinging his eyes. He rummaged blind in the bag for the rifle as he lay on the ground.

His breathing was labored as the air became heavy and humid. The ventilation was no longer providing clean air. He felt the cold metal of the rifle barrel and pulled it from the bag.

Reznick switched on the night sights. He peered with his right eye pressed up tight to the optics. An eerie green glow. The dust was everywhere. In his nostrils. He began to taste it.

Reznick heard breathing. Getting closer. His mind was racing. He heard movement behind him in the direction of Mexico. He turned and scanned the area ten yards or so ahead. Dust and cement particles in the air. But nothing.

He turned back to face the threat coming from behind.

Out of the corner of the crosshairs he saw a red dot on the wall ahead of him. Then a flash of light. The muffled sound of a gunshot. Then a searing pain as the bullet tore through the base of his spine.

Reznick felt his mind slow down as he realized he had been shot. He swiveled round as the pain erupted in terrible waves, threatening to overwhelm him.

He pressed his right eye up against the rifle optics. Through the green hue he saw the Mexican woman, maybe sixty yards away, with a night vision handgun trained on him

He clenched his teeth tight. And got her in his sights as she aimed at him to fire again.

Reznick aimed at her head. Squeezed the trigger twice.

A double tap. A flash of light. Smell of cordite. The bullets tore through her head. Brain matter spray illuminated in a shade of green by the night vision sights.

“Reznick! Jon Reznick!”

Reznick turned round and gritted his teeth against the pain. He looked through the sights. The Iranian was on him. Reznick was expecting a bullet to the head. Nothing. He began to cough. He could hardly breathe. Gas. Tears streamed out of his eyes. Nose filling up.

“Reznick! How does it feel?”

Reznick thought he was going to pass out. His heart was beating so hard. Burning lungs. He couldn’t move.

He felt his vision go.

Reznick knew he was going to die. With his last breath, he willed himself to move. He began to crawl through the gas, rifle sights tight to his burning eye. He crawled. Yard by yard. Back down the tunnel.

A figure emerged, gas mask on, handgun pointing to the ground.

Reznick was shaking. Sweating. He wondered if this was chlorine gas. A choking gas. He wanted to scream as he was burning from the inside. But he peered through his tears. Then he pumped the full magazine into the figure.

Lights from the muzzle flash exploded all around, the sound unbearable. The man collapsed five yards or so from Reznick, blood oozing onto the floor.

Reznick slumped to the ground as the darkness engulfed him

SIXTY-THREE

Meyerstein watched, as the reinforced tungsten door was burned open by Rimmer’s team. “Get in there quick!”

Kitted out with gas masks, night vision glasses and powerful flashlights, the SWAT team rushed in and searched the inside of the tunnel. Dust, dirt and gas were everywhere.

The minutes seemed to drag.

Meyerstein’s earpiece crackled into life.

“Ma’am,” Rimmer’s voice shouted, “it’s a mess in here.”

“Where is Reznick? Where is Sazegara?”

“That’s a negative.”

“Find them!”

Meyerstein waited with the rest of the FBI team. She paced back and forth. Her stomach churned. Stay calm. Focus.

The time dragged. Seconds became minutes. And still nothing.

“Talk to me, Rimmer!”

No response.

“Rimmer, where the hell are you?”

A moment later: “We got something!” It was Rimmer’s voice on the radio.

“What is it?”

“I think it’s him.”

“Who, goddamit?”

A voice in the background shouted. “He’s dead. No pulse.”

Meyerstein felt like she was going out of her mind.

“Rimmer, identify who is dead, do you copy?”

A long silence opened up before he spoke. “He’s dead, under a pile of rubble. We’re bringing him out.”

“Who is dead, Rimmer?”

Rimmer was coughing down the line. “It’s Sazegara. He’s dead.”

“What about Reznick?”

“Nothing so far.”

Meyerstein’s heart was beating hard. A few minutes later the bloody, dust-covered body of Sazegara was dragged out. An FBI photographer stepped forward and took over a dozen photos of the dead man. “I want this formally ID’d by forensics ASAP!” she said to the photographer.

“Ma’am, I’ll send them right now.”

“Do it.”

Rimmer’s voice in her ear. “Ma’am…‌there’s a lot of rubble. I don’t think…”

“Don’t think. Find Reznick.”

“Wait,” he said. “I’ve got a visual on something. Bear with me…‌We’re trying to get to…” A long sigh. “Ma’am, we’re through.”

“Tell me what is going on!”

Silence.

“Special Agent Rimmer, what the hell is going on? Will you please answer me?”

“It’s the woman. Dead.”

“Reznick?”

More silence.

“Where is Reznick?”

“We’ve found him.”

“And?”

“Reznick isn’t…‌Ma’am, Jon Reznick isn’t breathing. No pulse.”

Meyerstein turned her back on the other agents to compose herself. “FBI medics?”

“They’re working on him, ma’am,” said a voice in her ear.

“Do not give up on him! Do you hear me?”

The other agents stared at her but said nothing.

Meyerstein paced the area. Come on, come on, come on.

A few moments later the Mexican’s body was brought out, photographed and laid beside the Iranian.

Meyerstein prayed Reznick’s body wouldn’t be next. Time seemed to have stopped.

She felt tears well up. She dug her thumbnails into the palm of her hand to take her mind off Reznick. She thought of her father.

Never let them see you cry. You’re a woman. Crying will confirm you’re weak.

“They’re working on him…”

Meyerstein was snapped out of her thoughts by Rimmer’s voice down the radio. “What?”

“They’ve given him a shot of adrenalin…”

Meyerstein heard a female medic in her earpiece.

“Come on, Jon, come on,” the woman’s voice said. “Wake up! Do you hear me! We will not goddamn give up on you do you hear me?”

Meyerstein felt faint. “Rimmer! What the hell is going on?”

“Ma’am, we have a slight pulse…‌We need to get him out of here.”

It seemed like an age before Reznick was carried out on a gurney, covered in blood and dust, oxygen mask on, attached to a drip. She thought her heart was going to burst. She wanted to go and hug him. But she didn’t. She went over, kneeled down and clasped his hand. “Jon, you’re gonna make it, do you hear me?”

His eyes remained closed throughout.

“Goddamit! You get him to hospital now, do you hear me! Chopper straight to San Diego!”

The team rushed to the waiting chopper and in less than five minutes, Reznick was strapped in and on his way.

Meyerstein rode in the helicopter with Reznick. She closed her eyes as he lay on the gurney, strapped into the back seats, medics still working on him.

Do not give up.

Meyerstein kneeled down beside him and held his hand, covered in blood and dust as the paramedics worked frantically.

A paramedic said, “Goddamn, we’re losing him! Blood pressure dropping!”

Meyerstein squeezed Reznick’s hand tight. “You will not die on me, Jon, do you hear me?”

The words were out before she realized what she had said.

• • •

The hours that followed were like a blur for Meyerstein. Reznick was rushed in to the University of California San Diego Medical Center as soon as the chopper landed. He was fighting for his life as the surgeons operated.

The hours dragged right through till dawn when a surgeon emerged from the operating theatre.

“Assistant Director Meyerstein?” he asked.

Meyerstein got to her feet. “Doctor, how is he?”

The doctor sighed. “He is critical. But…‌he is alive.”

“Alive. Alive is good. Thank God.”

The doctor smiled but said nothing.

Meyerstein slumped back into the chair with relief.

“We have operated on his gun shot wounds. Miraculously, they missed the spine and major organs. But he’s lost a lot of blood. He’d gone into cardiac arrest, but I think the efforts of the FBI medics saved him.”

Meyerstein nodded.

“He’s conscious. He’s very drowsy with the sedatives. But we think he’s going to pull through.”

“I need to see him.”

“That’s not possible right now.”

“I said I need to see him.”

The doctor said, “He needs to rest.”

“I just want to see him.”

The doctor took a few moments before he relented. Meyerstein was handed a gown and was escorted through to the ICU. She walked over to the bed by the window and pulled up a seat.

Reznick’s eyes were shut.

Meyerstein felt tears spill down her face. “Jon, I’m so sorry.”

Slowly he began to open his eyes. Blue, pupils like pinpricks. A smile, or maybe it was a smirk, crossed his face.

Meyerstein wiped her eyes. “Good to see you, Jon.”

Reznick said nothing.

“And thank you.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For being the most stubborn sonofabitch I’ve ever known.”

Reznick smiled at her for what seemed like an eternity. “Did I get them?”

“You got them, Jon.”

And with that, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

EPILOGUE

Six long months later, the sun was setting over Rockland, Maine, throwing tangerine ripples across the water, as Meyerstein stepped out of her SUV. She saw Reznick at the far end of the breakwater, staring out at the ocean. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets. She walked over the granite slabs towards him. He turned around and stared at her.

“Meyerstein?” Reznick seemed genuinely surprised. “What brings you up here to Maine? You’re miles out of your comfort zone. ”

Meyerstein ran a hand through her hair and smiled. She sighed. “Hello, Jon. When did you get out?”

“Just over a week ago.”

“You should’ve called.”

Reznick said nothing.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live.”

Meyerstein reached into her pocket and handed him a sealed white envelope with the Presidential stamp on it.

“What’s this?”

“Open it and find out.”

Reznick stared at the envelope. “From the President, huh?”

Meyerstein shrugged.

Reznick whistled and ripped open the envelope. He pulled out the letter and read the handwritten note from the President.

“They want you to go to the White House,” she said. “A special ceremony.”

Reznick looked sad as he stared out over the water.

“What is it?”

Reznick said nothing.

“It’s a personal invitation, Jon.”

Reznick sighed. “I can’t accept it.”

Meyerstein hadn’t seen it coming. “I’m sorry I don’t follow. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s bullshit.”

“Jon, this is an invitation from the President. He wants to thank you.”

Reznick’s gaze flickered round the bay. “I don’t need his thanks. I don’t need anyone’s thanks.”

Meyerstein was taken aback by his response. “I thought you would be pleased.”

Reznick looked again at the letter. “They want to honor me? For what?”

“For your courage. For finding Sazegara. You did it. You took them down.”

Reznick sighed.

Meyerstein moved closer to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you would react like this or I wouldn’t have sprung this on you.”

Reznick pointed over to the island in the distance. “My father used to take me out on his boat every day in the summer, no matter the weather.”

Meyerstein said nothing.

“Served his country too. You know what he got for his trouble?”

Meyerstein shook her head.

“He got a lousy government pension and a shitty job in a sardine packing factory. The bravest man I’ve ever met. They didn’t give him a thank you. Left him to sink into alcoholism and an early grave.”

“Jon, can’t you accept it for him?”

Reznick looked at her and bowed his head, letter crumpled in his fist. He dropped it in the water and it floated out into the bay. “I don’t like politicians.”

“Neither do I. But this is the President.”

Reznick said nothing.

“Well, no matter…” she said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t much like the President either.”

Reznick smiled. “He’s an asshole.”

“They’re all assholes.”

“You sound like my father.”

Meyerstein turned and saw her Feds watching from the shore.

Reznick looked over towards them. “You got company.”

“I’ve always got company,” said Meyerstein. “Never a moment to myself.”

“You drive all the way up here?”

“We flew.”

Reznick nodded.

“How’s Lauren?” she asked.

“Costing me a goddamn fortune. She got into some liberal arts college in Vermont.”

“Bennington?”

“Yeah, Bennington. How did you know?”

“I know a lot of stuff.”

Reznick smiled.

“Well, that’s fantastic news,” said Meyerstein. “Thought she was lined up for Princeton.”

“She was. Changed her mind.”

“You must be really proud.”

“I would be if I knew what it goddamn well meant.”

Meyerstein smiled. “Can I ask you something?”

Reznick shrugged.

“I was looking back through the files a few days ago. And the timeline shows that it started with a call from Charles Burns. And you headed down to Miami, and from there it all just snowballed.”

“True.”

“I don’t know many people would’ve done that for someone who wasn’t their flesh and blood.”

“Meyerstein, that’s where you’re wrong. We are flesh and blood. He was like a brother. All of them were. They were all mean bastards in their own way. But we were a family. We fought together. And sometimes we spilled blood together. But we were always family. Always will be.”

The sun had turned the water a pale red. “You’re never going to leave here, are you?” she said.

Reznick didn’t reply.

“I don’t blame you. It’s beautiful.”

Reznick nodded. “It’s changed a whole lot since I was a kid.”

Meyerstein stared out over the water. “It’s got something we seem to have lost along the way. I don’t know what it is. But Rockland has it.”

Reznick looked at her and smiled. “It gets harsh in the winter, mind you.”

“So does Chicago.”

Reznick cocked his head. “You wanna walk?”

“You got anything in mind?”

“There’s a great place…‌clam chowder and cold beers like you wouldn’t believe.”

Meyerstein smiled back at Reznick. “That’d be nice.”

Reznick stood in silence for a moment before they walked back along the breakwater to the shore, the silhouettes of the Feds in the distance.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the numerous people who have helped with my research over the years. Special mention must go to Angela D Bell, FBI, in Washington DC who was my first port of call when I began the Jon Reznick series of books. She assisted my questions with good grace and impeccable professionalism.

Last, but by no means least, my family and friends for their encouragement and support. None more so than my wife, Susan, who offered excellent advice, as each draft developed.

ALSO BY JB TURNER

Hard Kill

Hard Wired

Deborah Jones series

Miami Requiem

Dark Waters

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J.B. Turner is a thriller writer. His latest book Hard Wired is the third in the acclaimed Jon Reznick political/government thriller series. He also wrote the two ‘Deborah Jones’ investigative crime thrillers, Miami Requiem and Dark Waters. He is a former journalist. His is married with two young children.

Check out his website at www.jbturnerauthor.com

Follow him on Twitter @jbturnerauthor

Contents

- PRAISE FOR JB TURNER

- ONE

- TWO

- THREE

- FOUR

- FIVE

- SIX

- SEVEN

- EIGHT

- NINE

- TEN

- ELEVEN

- TWELVE

- THIRTEEN

- FOURTEEN

- FIFTEEN

- SIXTEEN

- SEVENTEEN

- EIGHTEEN

- NINETEEN

- TWENTY

- TWENTY-ONE

- TWENTY-TWO

- TWENTY-THREE

- TWENTY-FOUR

- TWENTY-FIVE

- TWENTY-SIX

- TWENTY-SEVEN

- TWENTY-EIGHT

- TWENTY-NINE

- THIRTY

- THIRTY-ONE

- THIRTY-TWO

- THIRTY-THREE

- THIRTY-FOUR

- THIRTY-FIVE

- THIRTY-SIX

- THIRTY-SEVEN

- THIRTY-EIGHT

- THIRTY-NINE

- FORTY

- FORTY-ONE

- FORTY-TWO

- FORTY-THREE

- FORTY-FOUR

- FORTY-FIVE

- FORTY-SIX

- FORTY-SEVEN

- FORTY-EIGHT

- FORTY-NINE

- FIFTY

- FIFTY-ONE

- FIFTY-TWO

- FIFTY-THREE

- FIFTY-FOUR

- FIFTY-FIVE

- FIFTY-SIX

- FIFTY-SEVEN

- FIFTY-EIGHT

- FIFTY-NINE

- SIXTY

- SIXTY-ONE

- SIXTY-TWO

- SIXTY-THREE

- EPILOGUE

- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

- ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Table of Contents

PRAISE FOR JB TURNER

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR