Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four
Page 24
“No, I’m okay,” the girl said, standing to look at Mark. “Thank—thank you.” She now was crying, her tears in full flow.
“I have a meeting I must get to and I’m very late,” said Mark. He reached out to comfort the attempted kidnap victim. He thought he could see bruises already forming on her arms. “Your attackers won’t bother you anymore.” He held the young woman, trying to calm her fears. He awkwardly patted her head. “You have someone you can call?”
The girl protested. “Oh, yes. But—don’t leave me, please.” She clung to Mark, pressing her head into his shoulder. He experienced a wave of lavender.
“Tell the police it was a man in his fifties, bald.” He was not sure the words had penetrated, that the girl understood his intention. He could hear police sirens dopplering their approach. “You’ll be all right, now. I have to go. Remember, it was an older man, bald.” He pushed the girl back and looked into her eyes. “I really need to go.” He smiled his reassurance as he released her.
Mark turned and walked away, the move so sudden that no one interfered. Most of the bystanders, in their rush to scatter away from the armed and struggling kidnappers, had not fully comprehended what had happened. They were more concerned about escaping from the altercation than staying to watch. There was one exception, he realized, a man who had stood to one side, watching, observing, almost as though he had been monitoring the kidnappers’ efforts. Mark made a mental note to later explore who the man might be.
If the crowd was typical, Mark expected there would be numerous conflicting eyewitness reports. The lack of fingerprints on the bodyguard’s weapon would worry the investigators. He was fortunate the man had carried a Glock; it was a weapon he had used before. He hoped there had been no street cameras, and that none of the bystanders had videoed the struggle. Luck would play its part, good or bad.
An hour later he was in his small apartment, watching CBS Boston on television. He had decided to defer his exploration of Harvard—he would do that another day. For now, he needed a sanctuary, somewhere familiar where he could feel safe. The television station was running a live news report from downtown Boston. The news anchor was exchanging possible interpretations of the afternoon’s events with one of the station’s reporters, who was standing in front of the bank that Mark had recently visited.
“Yes, Alice, an FBI spokesman confirmed the identity of the young woman who was the victim of this attempted kidnap. Her father, Julian Kelly, is well known as the founder and major shareholder in one of Boston’s largest software companies, RDEz. His daughter was taken to the hospital by ambulance. A family spokesman informed us that she’s now home, under the care of her personal doctor. We understand no interviews will be permitted.”
“Sherilee, thank you. Do you have a clearer idea of what actually happened?”
“There are conflicting stories, Alice. The young woman’s bodyguard is dead, and so are two would-be kidnappers. The FBI’s Boston office has promised an update at 7 p.m. We taped an interview with an eyewitness, and perhaps you can show that—?”
“Yes, Sherilee. Here’s your earlier interview.”
The studio team cued a short clip of Sherilee interviewing a bystander.
“This is Manuel Long. Manuel was waiting for a bus just down the street from the bank when this all happened. Tell me, Manuel, what you saw.”
“Yes, ma’am. The two guys grabbed the girl and tried to get her into their car. She was strugglin’ and screamin’, makin’ a lot of noise. They shot the other guy and he shot back. They all dead, now.”
“No one else was involved?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t see no one else.”
“Thank you, Manuel. Now back to the studio.”
“Thank you, Sherilee. There are other reports, of a mystery man, of someone apparently comforting the young woman. Stay tuned for breaking news and for an update at 7 p.m.”
Mark switched off the television set. He was perturbed. His spontaneous reaction to the attempted kidnapping had possibly created the type of situation that he had taken pains to avoid. He had managed to stay below the radar these last few months, undetected, he hoped, by either law enforcement or anyone else who might be searching for him. As long as no one had managed to take a video of today’s event, as long as the young woman acted on his suggestion to say her helper had been an older man, he was probably safe. He planned to stay in his apartment for a few days, to keep a low profile, at least until the media found another newsworthy item on which to focus.
~~~
Archimedes Schmidt knocked on MayAnn’s office door and let himself in. He was security-cleared and did not need an escort to visit FBI offices at Quantico. Schmidt was just on six feet tall and heavily built. His short-cropped hair was starting to turn gray at the edges, an aspect of life which he ignored.
MayAnn Freewell was an FBI Special Agent, one of the department’s rising stars. Schmidt had helped MayAnn with her investigation of a paramilitary raid on the LifeLong Complex, a genetic engineering laboratory. Files, folders, and papers now cluttered MayAnn’s office desk. She appeared to be more than ready to hand over all her reports and indeed, everything the investigation team had gathered, to the prosecuting attorneys. Most of the major offenders involved in the crimes were dead, killed either in commission of their various offenses, or at the hands of other gang members. The FBI had arrested three rogue CIA agents and other key people including a southern preacher and his fellow-conspirator, all of whom were involved to some degree in planning and executing a murderous assault on the LifeLong Complex, and now they were awaiting trial. MayAnn’s remaining responsibilities were to ensure the prosecution files clearly described all those events with supporting evidence for the pending court processes.
After Schmidt’s arrival had interrupted her concentration, and at his prompting, they watched an internal video news report relayed from the FBI’s Boston office.
“Interesting,” said MayAnn. “Both kidnappers were shot in the forehead, right in the center. Two perps, two shots, two hits, two dead. With a Glock. The technique reminds me of someone.”
“The weapon belonged to the bodyguard,” reminded Schmidt. He had already considered the possibility that they both could suggest possible identification of the man who had rescued the kidnap victim. “The trajectory of each of the two bullets was from ground level, from precisely the fallen bodyguard’s position. However, the medical report states the bodyguard was dead when he hit the pavement. There’s no way he could’ve fired off his weapon, under that circumstance, with that accuracy. Always assuming the ME is correct. Finally, just to make it more difficult, there are no fingerprints on the weapon.”
“You know a lot about this attempted kidnapping?”
“I know the girl’s father. We’re both investors in some small business operations—one is a law enforcement-focused training company, if you recall?” Schmidt was referring to a company that offered intensive LEO training; MayAnn had been one of the first course attendees, tasked with evaluating the program’s suitability for training FBI recruits.
MayAnn nodded her head. “You continue to surprise me. What else?”
“Computer technology training and certification. One or two other operations.”
“Manufacturing bugging devices, I suppose?”
“How did you guess?”
MayAnn ignored the question. She would explore these new facets of Schmidt as investor and entrepreneur, later. “Seriously, do you think it might’ve been our young friend?”
“Yes, with a 95% probability. Based on intuition, only. No proof. There were no cameras focused on that part of the street, which might be why the kidnappers staged their attempt there; they were just out of range of the bank’s cameras. The circumstances—rapid fire, remarkable accuracy, both kidnappers killed, use of a Glock—I know, it belonged to the bodyguard—and then disappearance. It’s a match.”
“Of course, if he killed two kidnappers in order to save the victim, while
their crime was in progress, we can only thank him,” said MayAnn.
“You sound cynical?”
“Tired, perhaps. I need a vacation—I’ve been on this LifeLong case for six solid months. Not like some, who’ve managed to take time away. That reminds me – where have you been this last week? And why didn’t you call me? I feel neglected.”
“I’ve had other demands on my time,” defended Schmidt. Previously he had maintained distance in their personal relationship although he planned to override that hesitancy. “I told you. Now you have this case under control—”
“I know. I know. As I said, I’m tired. I need time off, I suspect. And while the perps are almost all accounted for, there’s still a deep hole in our investigation.”
“Two, actually,” corrected Schmidt.
“Three, if I can still count. One—who killed the rogue CIA agents at Cherry Hill? Two—who deleted records of one of our key witnesses from FBI computer systems? And finally, item number three: who raided the safe house, drugged two marshals, and removed that same witness from our protection?” counted MayAnn.
“I suspect the answer is common—solve one, and you’ll have the answers for all three.”
“I think you’re right. Of course, that doesn’t take me any further towards a solution,” MayAnn sighed. Schmidt thought she sounded tired; this case had been exhausting and its unresolved aspects had frustrated both of them. “Do you have any idea how the Agency’s progressing with their internal investigations? They must still have major concerns about those deaths at Cherry Hill. Do they know anything we don’t?”
“According to sources—the Agency’s more lost than you are,” Schmidt confirmed.
“I feel for them—okay, I know, I’m being cynical again. It’s 8 p.m., time to call it a day. What plans do you have for dinner?”
“I thought I would take you to my favorite restaurant—Chez Schmidt. I have a suggestion to discuss.”
“You know how to spoil a girl. Let’s go.” She secured her files, locking them in a steel security cabinet, collected her jacket, laptop, and handbag, and exited her office, closing the door behind her.
After dinner, MayAnn relaxed in one of the chairs in Schmidt’s living room. A Miles Davis CD, Quiet Nights, was playing softly in the background. Her companion had poured two glasses of wine and MayAnn turned her glass, watching the subdued light reflections against the red swirls of the liquid. Schmidt watched her, his gaze intense. She looked up.
“What? Do I have a shiny nose? Did I use the wrong steak for my knife?”
“No, not at all. I’m just concerned—you need a rest.”
“You have a suggestion?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.” There was silence for a while.
“Well—?”
“What? Oh—my suggestion?”
MayAnn threw a small pillow at Schmidt.
He caught it and placed it on the corner of his chair. “All right, all right. Why don’t we both take a week off? The Caribbean calls; I’ve access to a sail boat. We could sail and explore some of the British Virgin Islands.”
MayAnn’s expression contained an overload of suspicion. “I didn’t know you could sail?”
“Now what’s so difficult about sailing—you just need to know when to drop anchor, and how to make a gin and tonic—with ice, of course, that’s a must, even when you’re sailing.”
“Hah—I knew you had an ulterior motive. You want me to be your crew and your drink steward.” She sipped from her glass. “When do we go?”
“When can you persuade your boss to give you time off?”
“Who, Oliver? He’ll let me go. I’ll tell him we’re working on a case.”
“No, don’t do that.”
MayAnn looked at Schmidt, her eyes regaining their suspicion. “Don’t tell me we’ll be working—?”
“I was going to tell you.” Schmidt sounded defensive. “I was, I swear. I just thought I’d get you used to the idea of sailing, first.”
***
Chapter 2
“Hurry up, Mark,” urged the young lady known to all her friends as Sam. She was in Mark’s apartment, waiting for him to finish dressing. He was in his bedroom and Sam was waiting in his small sitting room, now organized as his study. There were computer components, monitors, cables, and books, as well as functioning computers, scattered all over the room. Finally dressed, he presented himself to Sam; he was wearing tailored pants and a polo shirt, very different from his normal, casual attire. She nodded approvingly. “Good. Evan and Katrina are waiting for us. We’re walking. Come on.”
Her brother Evan was Mark’s landlord, and Sam had decided some time shortly after Mark had rented the small apartment that he was her rehabilitation target. She was in her mid-twenties, apparently a year or two older than Mark, and a student at Harvard. He had the impression she was studying for a graduate degree in engineering; however, he was unsure which aspect of engineering interested her. Sam was dark-complexioned, reflecting her northern Mediterranean heritage—Mark thought her grandparents were from Spain, and she had a vivacity and zest for life that seemed boundless.
A week earlier Sam had said to Mark, “You have such a boring life. You jog every morning, very early—I’ve seen you coming home. Every day you go to your computer classes. In the evenings, you work out at the gym, and the rest of the time you’re stuck in your apartment, playing with your computers—I hate to think what you’re up to. The only difference on weekends is that you’re in your apartment instead of attending a computer class.”
“No, you’re wrong—I have T’ai Chi on weekends,” defended Mark. Sam was older than his occasional friends and he enjoyed her almost sister-like attitude.
“Pah. I know for a fact there are at least five girls who would immediately say yes, if you asked them for a date—I’ve seen them almost drooling, it’s embarrassing—as they watch while you’re working out at the gym. So I’m going to make them all jealous, and that’s why you’re coming with me next Saturday evening, to an artist’s exhibition at the Apex Gallery.”
Eventually, to Evan’s amusement and Sam’s delight, Mark had surrendered. The Apex Gallery was located on Newbury Street in the Back Bay district, where it stood shoulder to shoulder with a dozen or more other galleries. While Mark was not gallery-aware—Sam had described him as a philistine—he had allowed himself to be persuaded to attend. Indeed, with Sam, it was a case of following the path of least resistance.
The gallery was exhibiting the work of a Polish painter, Anda Okolski, and this evening was the formal opening of the exhibition. Mark had been unsure how to pronounce the painter’s name, and could not decide whether the person was male or female. He also suspected, given the location and reputation of the gallery, the prices were well outside anything he was willing to pay for a painting.
Mark’s apartment was on Beacon Street—Evan and Sam had a larger apartment in the same building, on a higher floor—and the walk to the gallery in the early evening was relaxing. Evan and his girlfriend walked ahead, while Sam and Mark followed. Sam was like an anxious mother hawk, worried that Mark would turn and head back to his apartment. At one stage he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk; he had a very serious expression on his face.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I’ve just remembered, I forgot to set my alarm. I’d better go home.”
“No way. You’re coming with me.” Sam grabbed his arm and tugged him along the street. Mark relented, but was unable to stifle his laughter. Sam kept a firm grip on his arm, marching him along.
The gallery owner, a Frenchman, knew Evan, Katrina, and Sam, and welcomed them like long lost friends. He also gushed his welcome to Mark, and assured them all that the artist was absolutely marvelous and her paintings revealed the best talent he had ever seen in any New York or Boston gallery. The venue was crowded—there were perhaps sixty or more people in attendance. Some of the guests were in more formal dress, while most were dressed as casually as Mark.r />
Sam twirled around, her skirt flaring. “See, aren’t you glad I made you dress up?”
Mark smiled. He readily admitted to himself that his day-to-day clothes style was, at the least, mundane if not downright boring. It also was simple, and easy to maintain. He knew his rationalization would not appeal to Sam, so he kept his silence.
“So show me these paintings. You’ll need to explain them to me, if they’re too modernistic. Remember, I’m an art virgin.”
Sam flashed him a smile. “Very well. Let’s follow Evan, he’s the real expert.”
They accepted a glass of champagne each from one of the gallery staff and followed behind Evan and Katrina. Mark sipped from the flute as he moved closer to the first painting and examined the descriptive tag. He almost choked.
“What? Ten thousand dollars?” He didn’t realize he had spoken so loudly and looked around, almost embarrassed.
“Shhh,” admonished Sam. “That’s not expensive for good, collectible work.”
Mark managed to swallow and took another large mouthful of champagne. He stood back and examined the painting—it was an oil and wax abstract, a matrix with black and deep red brush strokes with a wax overlay.
“No way,” he said. “That would pay for a month of my computer courses.”
“I was right, you are a philistine,” muttered Sam. Ahead, Mark detected Evan hiding a burst of laughter at their exchange.
The prices increased as they progressed further into the gallery. Small groups of people gathered around the more expensive pieces and Mark was surprised that some paintings were already red-tagged, indicating they had been sold. Evan examined a painting up close and then stood back. He leaned towards Mark and asked, “What do you think? Would you have something like that in your apartment?”
The painting portrayed an old residential building in a stage of advanced decay, and the top two floors were on fire, with smoke and flames rising up. Windows on the remaining floors were dark, vacant, except for one, which glowed red. Mark looked at the price and back at Evan. “Are you serious?”