“I have no clue what you just said.”
Gemma burst out laughing. “Seems a shame we didn’t run into each other sooner. Though”—she gestured around at the bar—“I wouldn’t have expected to see you back at the Myrtle anyway.”
It was Reznick’s turn to smile. He checked his watch. “I really gotta go.”
She pouted. “Already? But we haven’t finished our game.” With a wink, she added, “And I’m winning.”
“I’d better quit while you’re ahead, then. Got to get up early tomorrow. Stuff to do.”
“Like what?”
His cell phone rang.
Reznick pulled his phone out of his pocket, expecting it to be Lauren. His daughter was at Bennington College in Vermont, and they usually spoke once a week. But instead of Lauren’s cell number on the caller ID, a number he didn’t recognize flashed on the screen. He looked up at Gemma. “I need to take this.”
“You want another beer?”
“Put it on my tab.”
“That I can do.” Gemma headed to the bar to order the drinks.
Reznick walked to a quieter corner to take the call.
The voice on the line was a whisper. “Hey, man, are you there? Reznick?”
“Who’s this?”
“Your IT pal in Miami.”
Reznick recognized the voice of the high-level hacker he sometimes did business with. The kid kept a low profile—not surprisingly—but Reznick had found out that his name was Trevelle Williams and that he was a former National Security Agency cybersecurity expert. The kid had helped Reznick out of numerous tight spots and investigations that Reznick had worked on for the FBI, but it was extremely unusual for Trevelle to call him out of the blue. That wasn’t the only reason he sensed something was wrong—there was a tightness in the guy’s voice. “You sound kinda strange. You OK?”
“I’ve got a situation,” Trevelle whispered. “I need your help.”
“A situation? What kind of situation?”
“Long story . . . Bottom line? I’m in trouble.”
Reznick looked across at Gemma, who was chewing gum and drinking beer from the bottle as she talked to the bartender. “You in Miami?”
“Not anymore. I’m headed to New York. Can you meet me there?”
Reznick heard other voices in the background. “Where are you calling from? I hear other people.”
“I’m on a Greyhound bus.”
He pictured the kid slumped in a seat, hand concealing his mouth as he whispered into the phone. “You left Miami on a Greyhound?”
“I believe people are trying to kill me.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Trevelle took a deep breath. “They’ve already killed one person. A friend of mine. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Will you meet me? I don’t know anyone else in a position to help me with something like this. Only you.”
Trevelle was a good guy. Supersmart. Whatever had unnerved him and made him think his life was in danger had to be bad. “OK, let’s try and figure this out. Do you know why these people want to kill you? Do you know who they are?”
“I have a . . . I received a file.” His voice, already a whisper, dropped further. “It was passed to me. I think it has something to do with that.”
“What does the file contain?”
“I just opened the file a couple hours ago, but it was originally sent to me a week ago. It has national security implications.”
“I understand.”
“Look, man, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Will you help me?”
Reznick was conflicted. He had decided to take a few months off—no shadowy ops, no FBI crises. But he couldn’t ignore a call for help from a guy who had gone above and beyond for him in the past. “Where in New York are you going to be?”
“I can’t say exactly. Just head to Manhattan. I’ll know when you’re there. I’ll contact you again.”
Two
Early the following afternoon, Reznick’s flight touched down at JFK. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed out of the terminal. He preferred to travel light. Then he waited in line to catch a cab into the city.
The Manhattan skyline came into view through the taxi’s windows. New residential towers sprang up each time he visited. A vista forever changed since 9/11. Thinking about it always left him empty. His young wife, Elisabeth, had died in the Twin Towers. That day had not only changed America and destroyed thousands of lives but also set the country on course for war. A dirty war that was still playing out in Afghanistan. The memories of Iraq were seared in his brain. As a young Delta Force operator, he had seen firsthand the destruction, the blood, the dead, and the dying. It never seemed to end. And for what?
His cell phone rang, snapping him out of his dark thoughts.
“You’re here.” Trevelle sounded relieved.
Reznick looked out the window, bemused. “How do you know I’m in town? My phone is secure.”
“Not as secure as you think. It’s three years out of date.”
“It is?”
“Standard-issue FBI encryption. I pioneered it eight years ago and sold them the patent.”
Reznick glanced at his phone, then returned it to his ear, displeased. “So this phone is vulnerable?”
Trevelle laughed, seemingly back in his comfort zone. “You have no idea. I’ve got some great encryption software for my high-end clients. You want me to download the software to your cell phone?”
“And it works?”
“Trust me. This version is being used by the Israelis. Shin Bet has issued this to most of their senior people.”
“Fine, send it over.”
“Good stuff. I’m loading the software onto your cell . . . now.”
Reznick heard a ping from his phone. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The cab driver glanced in his mirror.
Reznick stared at the man, who looked away. “When did you get into town?”
“Early this morning.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the west side. West Thirty-Fourth between Eleventh and Twelfth. Northern entrance to the High Line. You know it?”
“I know it. Where will you be exactly?”
“Not far. I’ll find you.”
“Gimme ten minutes.”
A silence stretched between them.
“You still there, son?”
“Mr. R., I just wanted to say thanks.”
“What for?”
“Trying to help. Believing me. Trusting me.”
“See you soon, kid.”
Reznick asked to be dropped off three blocks away from his destination, trying to minimize the risk of being tailed. He walked into the Javits Center and headed across the lobby. Then he strode out of an exit directly opposite the High Line entrance.
He crossed the street and passed a line of tourist buses gearing up for tours of the city.
Then he headed up the iron stairs, and he was on the High Line. He walked south along the elevated former freight rail line, now a beautiful mile-and-a-half-long walkway that led down to the edge of Greenwich Village.