Hard Duty (A Jon Reznick Thriller) by J. B. Turner

Author:J. B. Turner [Turner, J. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2024-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty

The following evening, the Lexx Bar, a deluxe lounge in Abu Dhabi’s Grand Hyatt Hotel, was buzzing.

Reznick sat alone on the terrace, nursing a single malt on the rocks, waiting for Mac. He scanned the patrons sitting inside on the leather banquettes in the sprawling bar area. It was quite a cross-section. Business travelers wearing Italian suits, digital nomads wearing flip-flops, a local wearing a Nike tracksuit, another wearing a smart-casual button-down with chinos and loafers, and another wearing traditional garb, all mingling amiably. He checked his watch. Mac was ten minutes late.

Reznick nursed his Scotch and stared down at the lights of the cars headed along the Corniche, beside the beach. Earlier, he had bought a couple of burner cell phones from a pop-up iPhone shop close by. Purely as a precaution, he had dumped the cell phones Trevelle had given him and Mac.

Reznick was, to be honest, still in a state of barely suppressed anger at what had happened. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. He couldn’t figure out how the target had apparently hacked the encrypted phones. It had compromised the whole operation. Was there any point in continuing? The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He refused to believe Trevelle had let him down. The ex-NSA expert couldn’t possibly be the weak link; he was sure of it. But he needed to find out what had happened. Had the operation been compromised in a different way?

Was it possible that the microphone in Reznick’s cell phone had been activated remotely, turning his device into a bug?

Reznick checked his watch again as he wondered what the hell was keeping Mac. He considered whether he should head up to Mac’s room, to see if Mac had crashed out on his bed, forgetting to set the alarm on his watch. But then again, he probably hadn’t. He’d give him another ten minutes.

In the meantime, Reznick pulled out his new burner iPhone and called Trevelle.

“Yeah, who’s this?” Trevelle’s voice was tentative.

“It’s Jon. Jon Reznick.”

Trevelle sighed. “The voice recognition confirms it’s you. I need two more bits of confirmation.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where was your father born, Jon?”

“Bangor, Maine.”

“What is your blood group?”

“Rh negative.”

“Copy that.”

Reznick sipped the last of his Scotch. “I’m not a happy man.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not used to this sort of setback. I’m pissed. You need to know that. So I’m going to need answers. I’m going to need a technical explanation. This is not a blame game. It’s just about establishing facts. We need to learn from our mistakes—and make sure they don’t happen again.”

“Agreed. First things first, this new cell phone of yours . . . I just remotely uploaded my latest military-grade encryption. It works without you knowing it.”

“That was one of the reasons I was calling. We’ve been compromised. Big-time. How do I know the stuff you’re uploading isn’t compromised too?”

“You need to trust me. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Listen, Trevelle, I’m sorry to come down hard on you . . . but this is a fucking shitshow.

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