“Pah. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I haven’t started yet.”
Mark removed his Kevlar helmet and placed it on the floor, and then stepped forward, careful not to stand between Schmidt and the Russian. He raised his hands. “Hi. I’m Mark Midway. I understand you want me?”
“Aah—Boothby’s little friend. Yes, you’re worth money to me. Come and stand here, where I can see you,” said Yazov, pointing.
Mark stepped cautiously towards the workbench and stood six or eight feet away from where the Director was sitting. She glanced up at him but said nothing.
Schmidt was frowning, thoughtful. “I’m very pleased to see the Director is unharmed. We’ve twenty FBI agents inside and around the house, and your men are all accounted for—there’s no way out for you. Why don’t you put your weapon down and release the Director.”
Yazov was not yet convinced. “Russians tough—more tough than you think. My men are safe.”
“I can arrange for their bodies to be dropped here, if you want?” He pointed to a clear space in the garage, near where he and Mark had entered. Schmidt’s demeanor was casual, he seemed to be relaxed. He was broadcasting his side of the conversation to the FBI team. “It won’t take a moment.” He started to move towards the kitchen door. The gaps between Schmidt, Mark, and the Russian were now wider.
“Stop. Don’t move.” The man seemed perplexed—perhaps his men had been killed. He appeared to be unsure why Schmidt was in the garage, without backup—apparently he did not regard Mark as a threat.
“You let me go, yes? With Director?” the Russian said.
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists, same as Spetsgruppa A. What were you before they kicked you out—captain?”
“Major,” the Russian spat. “No one kicked out.” Yazov was in a corner, and he was unable to identify a safe exit.
“Well, Major, think back to your time with Spetsgruppa A—what happened with terrorist kidnappers?”
Yazov frowned. “Why you say terrorist?”
“You attacked and kidnapped a senior member of a US government body—that’s a terrorist offense. You sheltered Boothby, who organized a terrorist attack. You’re a terrorist.” Schmidt shrugged. “Now be sensible, heh?”
“If you want Director alive, I need safe passage, with my men,” Yazov glanced towards Mark, “and Midway. I will release prisoner when long way from here.”
“I told you, we don’t bargain with terrorists.” Schmidt paced out his sentence. “Give me your weapon if you want to stay alive.”
The Russian laughed—there was a tremor of fear in the sound. While Schmidt and the Russian had been talking, Mark had drawn his Glock and was now holding it beside his body, hidden from the Russian.
“I think you need some more data. Perhaps we can show you one of your gang—we can drop a body through the door,” Schmidt instructed via his radio link. After a moment there was a rustle of noise in the kitchen and a body was pushed through the doorway onto the garage floor. “I don’t know his name, so I can’t introduce you.”
The Russian swore, using a mixture of English and Russian, as he looked across the garage at his dead comrade. Distracted, he moved the Colt away from the Director. The Director made eye contact with Mark and she blinked. Mark raised his Glock and shot the Russian in the head. It was a snapshot, accurate and fast. The Russian dropped his Colt and collapsed onto the floor. Blood and grey matter was splattered across the wall at the back of the workbench.
Schmidt did not know whether to free the Director or to curse Mark. He ended up doing both. “Mark, that was damned dangerous—,” he shouted as he rushed towards the Director.
“I instructed him to fire,” she said. “I read reports on the LifeLong case—he’s a better and faster shot than you.” She smiled at Mark. “Thank you, Mark. Thank you, too, Archimedes. Mark, swap your weapon with Archimedes, quickly, if you want to remain anonymous.”
Mark and Schmidt immediately swapped weapons as suggested by the Director. He gave his Glock to Schmidt and holstered Schmidt’s weapon. When FBI Ballistics compared bullets, it would appear Schmidt had fired the shot. Almost immediately, FBI agents filtered into the garage, anxious and eager to verify the news that their Director was safe.
Two agents checked the body and one commented. “He’s dead. That was excellent shooting, Schmidt. Good to see you haven’t lost it.” They studiously ignored Mark, they had overheard the Director’s comments.
The Director stood, assisted by Schmidt. She turned to the men crowding into the garage. “Thank you, everyone. Yes, I agree, well done, Schmidt.” She smiled at Mark as he offered a helping hand to keep her upright. “I think if there’s an ambulance waiting, I should have a checkup. This has been stressful.” Schmidt and Mark assisted the Director through the open garage door to a waiting ambulance, its red light flashing across the scene.
~~~
Later in the morning, Schmidt visited MayAnn in hospital. Although she was due to be released the next day, she still was in pain from her broken rib. He sat beside her bed and ate nearly all the grapes he had brought with him.
“He is frightening,” Schmidt commented, after describing the shooting. “He’s extremely fast and very accurate. I understand now why the LifeLong attackers didn’t stand a chance.”
“So where’s Mark?”
“He disappeared again, when I went with the Director to the hospital. He could visit you here, I told him you were in hospital.”
“What do we do?”
“With Mark? Offer to be his friend—I think he’s short of both family and friends. I don’t think he can aid our investigation into the loss of files. Also, I don’t want to see him treated as a laboratory experiment.”
“I agree. Did you discover who removed him from the safe house?”
“No. He said ‘they’ did it—and he added he didn’t know who ‘they’ were.”
“So we’re down to Boothby and Robert—Roberto Francis Wilde. Not bad.” MayAnn sighed and settled back on her pillow. “That is, apart from whoever penetrated our files. Do you think it’s a black ops team?”
“Yes. Perhaps more than just a team. It has more the feel of a sophisticated organization. Now, I need to get back to Quantico—I need to check whether we’ve received bank data on Boothby. You rest, for the remainder of the day. I’ll have more files for you to read tomorrow, when the hospital releases you. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
“What’s this, role reversal?”
“Yes. My turn to be boss.” He leaned down and kissed MayAnn on her forehead. “Do you want me to visit tonight?”
“Yes, please, and I’ve a favor to ask—can you bring me something to wear for tomorrow?” While her request was an imposition, she was confident Schmidt would not mind. “This is getting very domesticated.”
“I noticed. I’ll try to find something. I’ll bring it tonight.”
~~~
MayAnn was asleep when Mark visited and he did not waken her. He penned a short note on the get-well card he had brought and placed it beside her bed. He tiptoed out of the room.
~~~
Schmidt’s first task was to catch up with his emails. One message in particular caught his attention—it was from his OFAC contact. The email contained details of a credit card transaction and the cardholder name was a match against the Blacklist. He read the details—apparently Boothby had spent the night at the Marriott Renaissance hotel, downtown Washington. Damn, he thought, Boothby was either arrogant, stupid, or simply possessed chuztpah in major quantities. He looked up the telephone number and phoned the hotel.
The front desk had sparse details. “Yes, Mr. Dawes was a guest. He’s checked out already.”
“Did he say where he was going?” asked Schmidt.
“No, we don’t know his travel plans and we’ve no record of arranging anything. I assume he caught a taxi.”
“Can you check?”
“Who would know—there must be over a hundred
taxis taken here, each morning?”
Annoyed and impatient, Schmidt ended the call. There was a second email from his OFAC contact. Boothby had purchased an iPhone, again using a credit card in the name of Dawes. Schmidt shook his head, the man was unbelievable. He printed out both emails and went searching for one of MayAnn’s investigators.
“This gives us a lead,” he explained. “Arrange for someone to visit the retailer—the merchant name and address are in the email—and get the cell phone details. We need both the serial number and the telephone number. The retailer should help us. I doubt that you’ll need a subpoena for this information. Once we have the details, get an authorization for tracking and tracing.”
Schmidt continued. “Also, have someone from OFAC contact the card issuer in the Isle of Man. We want details of any cards the bank has issued, in any other name, on the same account as this. The OFAC contact details are in their emails.”
An hour later, a third email arrived from Schmidt’s OFAC contact. Boothby had used the same credit card to rent a motor vehicle. Schmidt handed the transaction details to the investigation team and asked them to obtain the vehicle license number and description. He suggested they modify the APB for Boothby to include the details. He could feel the net closing in on Boothby.
***
Chapter 31
Boothby, before he picked up the rental, spent nearly an hour making calls on his new cell phone. He was trying to discover the whereabouts of the survivor of the attack on LifeLong. He had a list of contact names and telephone numbers, garnered at various times as a result of assignments conducted by the Reverend Barker and Arthur Greenwood. He had the same message for each contact.
“Tell Roberto—Bob Wilde—to contact me on this number. I have an assignment he might enjoy.”
Immediately he had collected the rental, a Cadillac, he headed south. His destination was the Hampton Inn on Jekyll Island. He would base himself there for a few days. It was close to Jekyll Yards, where Midway had been last sighted. He expected Midway would still be there; or at least someone would know his current whereabouts. He hoped Wilde would phone in—he needed professional assistance, and the ex-soldier had the necessary skills. He would wait for two days, he decided, and then would search for Midway by himself.
It was at least a ten hour drive, and Boothby stopped part way at a nondescript motel, paying cash for his overnight stay. The following morning he resumed his journey and arrived at his destination mid-afternoon. This time, he had made a reservation.
Boothby paid cash, and when asked for a credit card to cover incidentals, offered the card he had used previously. The card worked, and he relaxed, his tension easing. After a sound night’s sleep, Boothby set about enjoying an early spring break beside the hotel’s swimming pool while he waited optimistically for Bob to make contact.
~~~
Schmidt was happy. He was receiving Boothby’s credit card transaction details via his OFAC contact and the FBI team were tracking the ex-Senator’s new cell phone. He decided to let Boothby run for a few days and withdrew the APB. In addition, the overseas banks were cooperating and would keep Boothby’s accounts open until advised otherwise by OFAC.
There was a possibility, thought Schmidt, that Boothby was intending to make contact with potential reinforcements, and he wanted to know who they were. The only reason for Boothby to be in the Jekyll Island region was to continue his attack on Midway, he thought, and Boothby was unlikely to attempt that task without help.
Schmidt arranged with the FBI investigation team to take a task force to Jekyll Island the following day, to be available if Boothby moved out of the hotel. He discussed his planning with MayAnn, even though she was supposed to be recuperating, and she agreed with his reasoning.
~~~
To Boothby’s relief, Bob made contact. “I know you and yes, I am interested. It’ll cost. What do you want?”
Boothby explained. “I’ve a task for you—I need assistance to capture the specimen your team missed at LifeLong. I’ve the location where he was last staying—he’s either there, or someone will know where he is. I can’t stay in this area for very long, so it needs to be done quickly—tomorrow, if possible.”
Bob agreed to meet him the following morning. “I’ll come prepared to help. Get rid of your cell phone—they’re probably tracking you,” he directed. “Buy one of those pay as you go type. Cheap, you can throw it away once you’ve used it. If I need to contact you before tomorrow morning, I’ll call the hotel, get your new number, and then I can call that number.”
“All right. When you phone the hotel, ask for Dawes, Ernest Dawes.”
~~~
Mark spent the best part of a day searching for a motorcycle. He already possessed two—one was still in a snow bank along the road from Eureka, and the other was parked under the lean-to behind the garage at Miss Victoria’s—and now he was planning to purchase another one. It was, he decided, going to be bigger and better than either of the two he already owned and he would sell the others as soon as he could. Eventually he decided on a BMW touring model, two years old and in good condition. He paid cash—he was using more of his reserves than he wanted, but he needed fast, reliable transport.
He headed to Rock Hill to see if Robin had returned home, after which he planned to travel on to Jekyll Yards, back to his apartment. It was mid-afternoon when he arrived at Robin’s house and it was empty, or at least no one answered his knock on the door. He checked the stable. Robin’s pony puffed at him and nibbled his hand. She seemed to be comfortable. He decided to stay in Rock Hill for the night and found a Howard Johnson, nearby.
He checked Robin’s house again the following morning, in case she had returned. Robin’s house was still empty and he headed for Interstate 26. He needed a cell phone, he realized, so that he could contact his friends. He hoped he would see Robin in Jekyll Yards. He rode at a moderate speed, not wanting to be stopped by a highway patrol.
~~~
Schmidt was in the lead SUV of a three-vehicle FBI convoy on its way to Jekyll Island. The monitoring team had updated him an hour before. Boothby had made no calls, and the cell phone was stationary, at the hotel location. Schmidt thought the FBI convoy would arrive at their destination by early evening. If Boothby had not moved by midmorning the following day, he would consider authorizing his arrest.
~~~
Boothby and Bob Wilde met up at 9 a.m., at the Huddle House, a popular and cheap breakfast restaurant just off I-95, south of Brunswick. While the two men had not previously met, they had exchanged descriptions and recognition had been instant. They sat at a back corner table and quietly discussed their program.
“I want this Midway,” proclaimed Boothby. “He’s caused me intolerable personal pain and embarrassment. We must capture him, it’s critical.”
“You know my fee?” Bob cut to the most important topic from his perspective. “Cash. Half before we start, the balance when we finish.”
“Agreed.” Boothby passed over an envelope. His funds were running low, and he planned to hit some ATMs after they completed this task.
“When we’ve got Midway, what do we do with him?” Bob asked.
“I’ve some contacts south of Jacksonville, we’ll need to take him there.” Boothby had not verified his welcome—he was making some wild assumptions. “As long as he’s at the house in Jekyll Yards, that is.”
“Let’s finish breakfast and go see.”
~~~
Schmidt was worried. It was late morning, and Boothby had not moved outside his hotel for over twenty-four hours. “Phone the hotel,” he instructed the senior agent in the front passenger seat of the SUV. “Ask for Dawes. Disconnect if he answers.”
The agent made the call and waited while the hotel operator connected him to Boothby’s room. There was no answer. He disconnected and looked at Schmidt.
“All right, send one vehicle to the hotel. They can check whether he’s in the hotel grounds somewhere, whether his car’s there,
and if not, wait until he shows up. We’ll take the other SUVs to Jekyll Yards. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.”
~~~
Mark slowed his motorcycle and stopped outside Miss Victoria’s house. Two unfamiliar vehicles were parked immediately in front and for a moment he experienced a sense of disquiet. He turned the bike so that it was facing back out of Jekyll Yards and parked it in front of the lead vehicle. He walked past the garage to the rear of the house. Mark opened the kitchen door and stepped inside, holding the Glock he had exchanged with Schmidt, just in case.
A moan and a soft thump of a dog’s tail caught his attention. It was Betsy. She was on the floor, all bloodied. She struggled to raise her head to look at Mark. He stepped over to the dog and patted her, checking for injury. She had been shot twice. In addition, her jowls were covered in blood.
“Who did this?” Mark asked in a whisper. The dog growled and struggled for a moment and then rested, her eyes dimming.
“Don’t struggle,” Mark commanded, rubbing her ears. “I’ll see Miss Victoria and then come back for you.” He patted the dog’s head again, aware that it was already too late. Betsy gave a soft sigh as her eyes closed. She stopped breathing. She had delegated her responsibilities.
Mark cursed and headed to the hallway leading to the front of the house. Partway along, a man was stretched out on the floor, his eyes closed. He was a bloody mess. Mark stooped down to examine him. From what he could remember of the FBI description, this was Boothby, the man who was hunting him. A rough tourniquet was bound around his right arm, just below the elbow. The remainder of his arm had been chewed off by very powerful jaws. Betsy had done her duty, Mark thought. Boothby opened his eyes.
He looked at Mark. “Help me.”
“My name’s Mark—your men murdered my parents.”
Boothby was holding an automatic weapon in his left hand and raised it shakily towards Mark. “I killed them, I killed the damn dog, now I’ll kill you.”
Mark did not hesitate. He shot Boothby in the center of his forehead, just above his eyes. Boothby’s left hand jerked and relaxed, and the weapon fell to the floor. Mark stood, shaking his head. He kicked the weapon aside. At least, he thought, Boothby would no longer pursue him.
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