"Hold it. I have a few more questions before you get all fuzzy-headed."
"Ask quick. With or without the pills, I'm going to be 'fuzzy-headed' soon," Mark said as he squinted at the label. It stated he could take two the first time and he hoped it would knock him out for the night. His mind was going at a hundred miles an hour, and he had the unsettling sensation of being exhausted but too wound up to sleep.
Jim opened a briefcase and pulled out a legal pad and a pen. "I know, sorry. I just want to get as many details as I can while everything is still fresh in your mind." He sat back at the table and flipped through what he had already, apparently reading the notes. Occasionally, he'd jot down a word or two.
Mark waited, glancing into the living room from the kitchen area. He'd been to Jim's townhouse only a few times. It didn't fit the image he had of Jim. It was actually...nice. A dark brown leather sofa and matching chair faced a large screen television. A bookcase filled the far wall, and he idly wondered what kind of books it held.
It had been over a year since Mark had gone to him about the Wrigley Field plot, and six months since the encounter with the cult. Oddly enough, he and Jim were friends now…sort of. Every few weeks, they would catch a Cubs game at a bar. A few times, they'd gone golfing and once, they'd gone to see Second City. Despite this, Mark felt as if Jim was still more stranger than friend. The man never spoke of his personal life or his past.
A few months ago, Lily had off-handedly mentioned that Jim was coming to pick her up to take her for dinner, and Mark had almost fallen off his chair.
Since then, Jim hadn't mentioned her when they'd go watch a game, and if it hadn't been for Lily's occasional comments about places they had gone, Mark would have never suspected Jim was seeing her. Not that he minded or anything, it just felt odd.
At the clink of the beer bottle, Mark returned his attention to Jim.
"While you were getting patched up, we combed through every file we had on Mohommad Aziz. According to the records, he was sent back to Afghanistan in December of 2002."
Mark couldn't stifle the wave of resentment that rose within him. "He was released before I was?"
Jim's eyes were unreadable as he tapped his pen against the pad twice before nodding. "Yes. He held dual citizenship, and so his American citizenship was revoked and he was sent back under the condition that he never return. His last known residence was with his uncle in Afghanistan." He glanced at his notes and continued, "The uncle holds office in Kundunz province and has some political connections, apparently."
"You've got to be kidding me." It was ludicrous. Mark had been released only after he had nearly been broken. He'd returned home to nothing. No home, no business, and his personal life in shambles, while Mohommad had no doubt returned to a hero's welcome from his extended family in Afghanistan. Anger heated a path from his chest to his head, and his face burned. "I guess I didn't have enough connections to get released sooner."
Jim bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I'm sorry. I tried."
Mark pushed out of the chair and paced a few steps. His instinct was to leave—to get away before he exploded with rage. It was as if everything he'd tried to forget, the anger, frustration and resentment that he'd quashed and locked into a vault in his brain, had suddenly sprung free to run amok. It was barreling around inside his head, crashing into the barriers he'd carefully constructed.
He stalked halfway to the couch, halted and faced Jim. "You've known this for how long?"
"Since shortly after Mohommad was released. I received a memo." He tossed the pen on the pad of paper and spread his hands. "What difference does it make? It's not like I personally set him free. I only questioned the man one time before he was sent to another facility."
Mark gave his head a little shake, trying to comprehend the last bit of information. "You interrogated him? Were you the one who told him about the camera? For some reason, I thought it was another team. I mean, it wasn't like he was held in the same brig as I was...or was he?" Mark had to know.
Jim stood and approached Mark. "I can't discuss this with you, Mark. You know that."
"Like hell you can't! It's not like there’s some kind of interrogator/interrogatee confidentiality clause, is there?" Mark knew he wasn't being rational, but he couldn't stop. "Do you all take classes on interrogation ethics?" He flung his arm toward the bookcase, pointing. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if you have Torture Methods for Dummies as some of your lighter reading."
Jim flinched almost imperceptibly. "Settle down." He put his hand on Mark's shoulder in a manner meant to calm him.
Mark shrugged the hand off, ready to do more if Jim tried to resist. "Don't tell me to settle down. I'm pissed off and I think I have a right to be. You kept me locked up for over a year. I can't get that time back. I came to terms with it, but only because I thought justice had finally won out, but it didn't, did it? Because if it had, Mo would still be locked up and everyone would be safer."
"You're right. It's not an exact science."
Still fuming, Mark stared at Jim, trying to find the words that would describe his feeling of betrayal, but Jim wasn't feeding the anger anymore and his head throbbed something fierce. He turned and plodded to the couch and sat with a groan. Leaning forward, he cradled his head then moved to rub circles on his temples, carefully avoiding the goose egg. He wondered if he had enough cash to take a cab back home. It would be awkward to have to ask Jim for a ride.
He heard Jim moving around the townhome as doors and cabinets opened and shut, but other than sliding back to rest his aching head on the couch, he remained where he was.
"I put a t-shirt and some sweatpants on the bed in the spare room. You're welcome to stay up, but I'm hitting the sack. Good night."
Mark opened his eyes in surprise. "You aren't kicking me out after my rant?"
Jim shrugged. "It's been a stressful day for everyone. Get some rest."
Mark nodded but couldn't force out a return good night. He remained where he was until Jim's door clicked shut. It took almost a super human effort to drag himself off the sofa, but he stumbled to his feet and shuffled down the hall, finding the room with no problem. After a quick pit-stop in the bathroom, he changed into the clothes Jim had left and sat on the edge of the bed.
Mark wondered why Jim even had a spare bedroom. Or rather why he used the space as one when he probably could have made it into a nice office. There was a small desk, no computer. A bookcase sat beside the desk. Mark stood and stepped to it, squinting at the books. He expected to find titles on politics and such, so he was surprised at finding four Harry Potter books. Others looked like they came straight off a high school reading list: The Grapes of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies and more.
Curious, Mark glanced around and noticed several picture frames on the dresser. The first one was of a younger Jim with a small boy of about seven or eight years old. The boy wore a baseball uniform and was missing two front teeth. Jim was kneeling beside him with his arm around the boy's shoulders. Jim's relaxed expression was one Mark had never seen on the man's face before. Was it a favorite nephew or something? He moved on to the next picture. It showed the same boy, only now he was a handsome young man in a blue cap and gown. He showed off his diploma to the camera. Mark could just make out the name on the diploma. Christopher James Sheridan. His eyes shot back to the young man, noticing the same intense look in the eyes, the same jaw. The name, coupled with the resemblance meant it had to be Jim's son. Only, Mark didn't ever recall him mentioning a son. Not that he ever brought up anything about his personal life.
Mark set the frame down, returned to the bed and climbed under the covers. After switching off the light, he laced his hands behind his head and stared up into the darkness. He realized he knew next to nothing about Jim. His own life had been deconstructed and examined from every angle by Jim and his team., leaving him not a single secret. Meanwhile, Jim had divulged nothing more private than his love of baseball.
For the
last few months, Mark had thought of Jim more as a friend than as his contact at the agency. Jim held the dual role of CIA officer and head of the Chicago FBI on counterterrorism unit. The FBI agents he directed didn't feel comfortable enough under a CIA officer to socialize with him, and so, like Mark, he'd been alone in the city. They both loved baseball and even with their rocky history, they'd formed a friendship. Or at least, Mark had thought of it that way. Now, he wondered. A friend would mention their son. A friend would, at some point, let their guard down and talk about something personal, but Jim never had.
The pain meds were kicking in big time, but Mark fought them off long enough to doubt his own instincts on how to judge friendships. First, Mo, then Jim. Hell, he could even throw Jessie in there for good measure. They'd started out as friends, of sorts, before it turned into something more. Since the events with Kern, they only saw each other occasionally, and he missed her company. He couldn't blame her though. At least she had never lied to him, or about him, like Mo had done. Or probed every corner of his life and never revealed any of her own, like Jim had done. Still, she was gone. He'd let her slip away.
* * *
Mark couldn't move. He lay on his back, limbs immobile while Mohommad smiled down, extending a slice of pizza towards him. The pizza looked great at first. Steam rose from the piping hot slice and melted cheese oozed over the edges, dripping in a long string. He could feel the heat and cringed as the burning hot cheese came within a millimeter of touching his cheek.
"Stop, Mo! What are you doing?" Twisting, but paralyzed, he couldn't escape and could only try to flatten his body to avoid the blistering goo. The strand became a thin stream of liquid cheese, and cascaded over his face in an unending stream, filling his nose and mouth. He couldn't speak. As the weight of it settled like a mold over him, he couldn't breathe. His efforts to get away increased, but the cheese cemented him to the desk. Suffocating him.
"Ahh!" Mark sat up, gasping as he clawed at his face, his chest heaving. Nothing. He rubbed his fingers together, sure he would find a handful of hot, sticky cheese, but other than a sheen of sweat, there was nothing clinging to him.
A dream. He flopped back, regretting the move as his head protested. It felt like a pinball was ricocheting around inside his skull. Sunlight slanted across his face, and he draped his forearm over his eyes.
There came a knock at the door followed by, "Mark?'
"Yeah?" He left his arm in place, peering beneath it as the doorknob turned.
Jim stuck his head in. "I thought I heard you awake. I'm heading into the office. When you feel—" He broke off, his brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
Mark started to shake his head, but winced. "Nothing. I just had a crazy dream." It was no use fighting the pain. Might as well face it head on. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth as the pinball hit a bonus spot and pinged repeatedly against his brain. "What were you going to say?" He massaged his temples.
"Just that when you feel up to it, I wanted to know if you could come down to my office and look at photos. See if we can find out who Hazim is."
Mark tried to concentrate. He had a shoot this afternoon, but he could reschedule it. It was a print ad for laundry detergent and involved a bunch of little kids playing baseball. No way could he deal with that today. "Um, yeah. I'm going to head on over to my place—that's okay, right?"
Jim nodded. "Yes. That's fine but take your phone with you. I've changed it so all you have to do is dial 119 for the call to go through directly to me. It's only for an emergency though, as it bypasses the system."
"Got it. 119." Mark stood, one hand on the corner of the desk as he waited for the room to stop its slow spin. "I don't think I'll need it though. Without the camera, I won't have photos, and Mo has no reason to return. In fact, I'm pretty certain I won't be causing any more problems for you." The smile he pasted on to temper the statement felt heavy and false, but Jim merely nodded.
Chapter 6
Mark's ordeal had thrown Jim's whole schedule for a loop. Jim tossed his pen onto his desk and rubbed his eyes. His meeting with one of his teams who had been investigating a report of repeated purchases of fertilizer had been canceled. The suspicion that the fertilizer was going to be made into a bomb had been unfounded and he'd planned on halting the investigation and re-assigning the group. At least he had plenty of people to put on this new investigation, but they had very little to go on.
Jim straightened in his chair and perused his notes again. What he couldn't understand was how the hell Aziz had entered the country again. Obviously, he must have a fake passport, and to have one that would pass customs required some very high level connections. Or he had somehow been smuggled in.
A snippet of information scratched at the back of his mind. Something he'd read recently, if only he could remember exactly what it was and why it was important. He scanned through files of memos. After thirty minutes, he found it. A memo concerning the likelihood of terrorists infiltrating the country via the Mexican border.
It was a good possibility, and as Jim read through Mohommad's file, he realized that it was highly probable. Aziz spoke Spanish. According to his file, he'd taken four years in high school, and had grown up in a largely Hispanic neighborhood, and at one time had a relationship with a Hispanic woman. Another photographer had independently confirmed the finding. George Ortiz, also a buddy of Mark's, had stated that Aziz had assisted him on photo shoots with Hispanic clients because of his fluency in Spanish.
Jim tore off a fresh sheet of paper and jotted down the notes. Okay, so if Aziz had been smuggled inside, he'd have no need of a passport, but he would require some kind of identification just to establish any kind of residency—unless he lived with someone else. The Chicago area had a large Muslim population. He could have been absorbed into it, or he could even be hiding out with old friends. They all needed to be questioned. Jim sighed and started digging through the files for names.
His phone rang and, annoyed at breaking his train of thought, he answered it with a clipped, "Yes?" It took only a second for the annoyance to dissolve. "Send him in."
Mark stuck his head in the door a few seconds later. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the dark bruises along his cheek and temple stood out in sharp relief. He looked like hell. Jim questioned whether he should have had him come down, but at least he didn't have the haunted expression he'd worn this morning. Jim waved him in.
"Feeling any better?"
Mark entered carrying two large cups of coffee and set one on Jim's desk. "Yeah, and I'll feel a lot better once I have some caffeine in me. I brought you a dose too." He sat in the chair on the other side of Jim's desk, wincing and rubbing his shoulder.
A peace offering. At least, Jim hoped that's what it was. It had bothered him more than he cared to admit when Mark had pointed out the bitter truth about how everyone would be safer if the right man had been kept in prison.
Sometimes he wondered how Mark could be so forgiving of what had been done to him. What if it wasn't forgiveness at all, but something like Stockholm Syndrome? Jim hated to think that their friendship was only based on a deep-seated fear and willingness to please. Taking a sip of the hot brew, he remembered Mark's attitude as he'd told Jim about the Wrigley Field plan. There hadn't been a hint of fear or willingness to please, just barely suppressed loathing and fury. Those were definitely not signs of the syndrome, but whatever had driven him to use the camera's prophetic power in the first place seemed to allow him to put aside personal grudges. For that, Jim was grateful. Mark's drive had saved hundreds of innocent lives in the Wrigley Field case.
Every once in awhile, Jim would see a hint of the resentment, but nothing like last night's explosion. Not that he could blame the guy. After a second sip, he could almost feel the caffeine seeping its way into his bloodstream as the cloud of fatigue dissipated. He lifted the cup. "Thanks for the coffee. I needed it."
Mark nodded. "So, what's the plan?"
Jim t
hought for moment. "I've pulled up some photographs I'd like you to look through. Take your time, and if you see Hazim, just note the number of the photograph."
"Sounds easy enough." Mark took a drink from his coffee and stood. "Am I looking on the same computer I was on during the Wrigley Field thing?"
Jim shook his head and closed and locked all his applications except the one to view photos. "No, you can use mine. I have a meeting to go to. If you see Hazim's photo before I get back, just note the number on this pad of paper. Or you can wait for me. I'd like to see if you remember anything more." He pulled out a legal pad and snatched a pen from his desk drawer. "Here you go."
* * *
Mark moved to the other side of Jim's desk and sat. Two years ago, he'd sat chained to a chair in front of Jim waiting to be interrogated, and now he was sitting at the man's desk voluntarily. With an ironic chuckle, he glanced around Jim's office, noting a few photos that hadn't been there last year when he'd been in the office. One was a more recent picture of Jim's son, and the other was of Lily. Squinting, Mark leaned forward, and then grinned. It was a photo he'd taken a few months ago on her birthday.
His smile faded as he recalled that day. He'd picked up a small cake for her and brought it to the office intending to present it to her at the end of the day. Just before they closed, Jim had dropped by and saw Mark coming down from the loft with the cake. He asked Mark if he was bringing the cake to the bar.
Confused, Mark had asked what bar Jim meant.
"Some of your photographer friends are having a small party for Lily over at O'Leary's. It's a surprise. Aren't you going?"
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 69
