Reznick leaned closer and read the document quickly. It was a memo. Calling for a woman’s assassination.
“You familiar with this kind of thing?” Trevelle asked.
Reznick sat back on the bench. “Yeah. The memo appears to indicate that an operation has been set up, something similar to a special access program. That means the operation is considered highly classified, and information is severely restricted to a select few. Even people with top security clearances might not have access. Maybe only those in the higher echelons of the military, the chair of a congressional committee, and a few others would know. This kind of thing is black ops, sometimes. I would guess it’s a government operation.”
“Except it’s not,” Trevelle said. “It appears government from the terminology. But I know that this memo definitely did not originate from within the US government or the Pentagon.”
“So who’s it from?”
“This is where it gets interesting. It’s from a private security company based here in New York. Geostrategy Solutions.”
Reznick speed-read the document again. It gave permission for a back-channel operation conducted by an unnamed foreign intelligence service to neutralize—assassinate—an American woman.
Geostrategy Solutions. Reznick doubted they’d instigated this on their own. He wondered if the assassination was a government operation that had been subcontracted to a private security firm. Compartmentalized assassination. Need to know. It gave the government plausible deniability. “It’s interesting. But how do we know this is authentic and not some elaborate hoax?”
Trevelle waited until a group of excited school kids passed by with their frazzled teachers before he picked up the conversation. “The guy who sent this to me and the guys who sent it to him don’t play pranks. They’re serious dudes out to expose government corruption. Besides, all the metadata points to it being legit.”
“So this is for real. The woman referred to in this document . . . Do we know who Rosalind Dyer is?”
Trevelle logged out of the VPN and reaccessed the internet using a server in Switzerland.
“Why use a server in Europe?” Reznick asked.
“They’re way more into privacy. And we can cover our tracks.”
“Figures.”
Trevelle typed in the name Rosalind Dyer, and the screen showed a picture of an attractive fortysomething woman. “Here she is. This is who they want to kill.”
Reznick studied the picture. The woman looked well dressed. But not flashy. “Who is she? What does she do?”
Trevelle took off his sunglasses and lowered his voice. “This is where it gets interesting. She lives in DC. And she works for the government.”
“What part of government?”
“She’s a special agent. An investigator.”
Reznick’s brows rose. “FBI?”
Trevelle shook his head. “Defense Criminal Investigative Service. DCIS. The investigative arm of the Department of Defense Office of Inspector General.”
Reznick frowned at the picture. “Never heard of them.”
“They ensure American tax dollars are being spent correctly. Think defense contracts.”
Reznick pondered that. “Billions of dollars at stake.”
“She must know something,” Trevelle said. “And that’s why someone wants to silence her.”
Reznick nodded. “Listen, son, I don’t know if I’m the best person to help with this.”
“Why not? I thought you’d be the perfect person.”
“I think we need to turn this over to the FBI. This is what they do. They’ll protect you. And they can figure out what to do about this woman and the people who want to kill her.”
Trevelle turned away as if disappointed.
“What?”
“I’m not handing myself in. I’d never see daylight again.”
Reznick sighed. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Listen, I’m not ruling out speaking to the Feds about this. At some point. But I’ll need guarantees.”
“I don’t think they do guarantees. But I can talk to them.”
“In the meantime . . . what do you think? Am I overreacting?”
Reznick gave it some thought. “The timing is odd. These guys descending on your place right when you receive the file. But if, as you say, your friend originally sent it a week earlier, that might have given them time to discover they were hacked and trace the recipients. The sort of work you do, I trust you’d know if this was coming from any of your other jobs.”
“So what would you do, if going to the Feds isn’t on the agenda?”
“I really think that’s your best and safest option.”
Trevelle shook his head. “You said you know the sort of work I do. Then you know they’d lock me up and never let me near a computer again.”
“Well, then I guess you need to warn your hacker friend in New York and Special Agent Dyer. Both of their lives may be in danger.”
Trevelle nodded. He shut the MacBook and placed it inside the backpack. He zipped it up and got to his feet, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
“How far away does your friend live?” Reznick asked.
“He’s a fifteen-minute walk from here. He lives down in the Village.”
Reznick stood up. “So what’re you waiting for? Let’s go talk to him.”
Three
It was a short walk from the High Line to Hudson Street, lined with upscale shops and fashionable bars and restaurants in Greenwich Village.
Reznick looked around the area. “Nice place. Costs a fortune, I’ll bet.”
“David—that was his handle, as in David and Goliath—bought Bitcoin when it was two cents. He bought the whole townhouse and rents out the floors below him.”
“Smart dude.”
Trevelle stepped forward and buzzed apartment 6. He tried a few more times. No reply.
“Maybe your friend went out for coffee?” Reznick said.
Trevelle shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like him.”
“Why not?”
Trevelle pulled out his cell phone. “He’s agoraphobic.”
“So he doesn’t leave his apartment? Ever?”
Trevelle shook his head. “He opens the window and sits on the balcony in the summer.”
“He doesn’t go out? Seriously?”
“He’s a fucking hermit, what can I say? It’s weird, I know. But he’s a nice guy.”
Reznick took a step back and stared up at the top windows. “Give the guy a call. I’m assuming he has a cell phone.”
Trevelle rolled his eyes. “Man, you need to chill.” He called the number and pressed his cell phone tight to his ear. A minute later, he ended the call and shrugged. “Voice mail.”
Reznick wondered why the guy wasn’t answering. “Buzz him again.”
Trevelle held down the buzzer for a full two minutes. Still nothing. “That’s pretty weird for him. He gets his groceries, coffee, water, everything delivered to his apartment. I swear, he’s a bigger recluse than me. When I visited, about a year ago, he showed me his medication. Xanax and a couple of other drugs to chill him out.”