Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  “Hmm. I’ll follow up that answer, later. You know General Schmidt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. How well?”

  “We’re not close friends. I haven’t seen much of him since his accident.”

  “He’ll try to rescue you, though?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve helped Cerberus. He’ll want to help me.”

  “Good. I want you to record a video message for Schmidt. He needs to see that we have you under our control”

  “Why?”

  “That response takes you close to another head slam. You will record a message?”

  “Y—yes.” Mark realized there was no advantage to be gained by refusing to cooperate. His mind leapt into action—there must be a way to take advantage of the intended video.

  It was well into the afternoon; at least Mark assumed it was afternoon, when his captor organized the video session. O’Hare suspended the camera on a weighted mechanical arm above the autopsy table and tested the focus.

  “Good, it works,” the NSA agent said. “Your friend Schmidt is going to get a full image, and I’m sure you realize, with sound effects. I want him to get—what should I say—yes, an unexpurgated message.”

  There followed what seemed to Mark like hours of electrical torture but which he assumed was only five minutes or so. He did not repress his screams of pain, nor his involuntary movements, when O’Hare or Emma pressed whatever button caused his electric shocks. This time he managed to not bite his tongue. He hoped whoever viewed the video caught on to his coded message, as brief as it was.

  O’Hare switched off and removed the camera. “A good performance, far better than I’d expected. Emma will keep you company for the next few days.” He waved the SD card from the video camera at Mark. “This will go to Schmidt—with an editorial commentary, of course. I’ll leave you now, in Emma’s good hands, at least until I need to send Schmidt another message.”

  Chapter 20

  Linda Schöner stopped to chat with the maître d’ of Restaurant Placido. She had attended the same college as his daughter, and some years after graduation she had prevailed on Cerberus resources to rescue the slightly older woman from a relationship that was fraught with disaster. As a result, the so-called boyfriend had been sentenced to jail for major drug dealings and Teresa had vowed she would never again be caught up in a similar situation. As far as Linda knew, Teresa had kept her promise.

  “Terrie is getting married,” Victor said, with a large dose of fatherly pride. “A nice boy. Attorney. I know his father, and we have mutual friends.” Victor had a broken nose from his youth and spoke with a subdued Brooklyn-Italian accent.

  Linda wondered about the mutual friends. “Please tell her I said congratulations.”

  “I will, she’ll be pleased. I have your table, as you requested. Some of your friends are here already. I seated them not too close.”

  Victor, Linda knew, was referring to soldiers from the 145th. She had prevailed on Helen Chouan, CO of the MP Battalion, to lend her some resources in case she needed backup for today’s effort. She had not informed Schmidt that she was initiating one of the pressure points that would impact Ross Cromarty and also was taking a leading role in that process. She had, on reflection, considered it necessary to have some protection at hand.

  Linda said, “Good. Now, when Senator Fordsby arrives and asks for Thomas Driscoll, show him to my table. He’ll have his two men with him; they need to be seated at another table, where they cannot overhear our conversation.” She was not sure whether the two men were minders, bodyguards, or simply companions; however, she did know they accompanied the senator everywhere.

  “It will be done as you say, Miss Linda. If there’s anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, Victor. It’s good of you to help me. I appreciate it more than I can say.”

  “No problem. As you know, it’s my pleasure to help you. Anytime. May I show you to your table, now?”

  Placido was one of Washington’s tony restaurants, well regarded for both its cellar and its chef and Linda rarely felt she could justify the expense of dining in such luxury. She smiled to herself at the thought of Schmidt’s reaction if she claimed a meal here on her expenses. The table Victor led her to was in a semi-private nook, not too hidden, yet not in the wider, more open section of the restaurant. Three tables along, three fit young men had placed their order. Linda caught the details of how they wanted their steak, something along the lines of break off its horns and slide it onto a large plate. They were, she guessed, from 145th, smartly dressed and on their best manners. The giveaway was their military haircut. There were another couple; they were further away. The man had a similar military-style haircut and the woman, who also looked fit, was smartly dressed; it was possible Helen had provided backup for the backup. She looked around at other tables and to her surprise saw Helen, seated at a far table, with a male companion—she recognized him; he was a captain from the battalion. Linda smiled to herself, without acknowledging either Helen or her soldiers. Well, she thought, I have backup plus.

  Twenty minutes later Victor accompanied a middle-aged man to the table. The senator was portly and his suit required regular intervention of a skilled tailor. His weight gains were part of the penalty of his current lifestyle.

  “Senator Fordsby,” Victor said, “Mr. Driscoll phoned to say he was running late. He also said Miss Schöner would act as hostess until he arrived.”

  Fordsby’s stare as he looked at Linda was borderline impolite. “I don’t know you,” he said.

  Victor interceded. “I have known Miss Schöner for a number of years, Senator. She is a nice lady, with an impeccable background.”

  The senator looked startled as he recognized the hidden censure in Victor’s voice. “Oh, all right. See that my friends are cared for.” He accepted the chair that Victor was holding out and sat down at the table. “Thank you.”

  “Victor, I believe Senator Fordsby’s drink of choice is whisky—Scotch—you know his preference. I’ll stay with my current drink.”

  “Yes, Miss Schöner.”

  Fordsby stared again at Linda. She had exchanged her usual horn-rimmed glasses for a gold-rimmed pair, selected to communicate a strong and luxurious fashion sense. She wore a tailored dark-colored suit paired with a soft peach blouse and her hair, normally straight and unruly, had been blow-dried into temporary submission. She wore a bare minimum of makeup. She did not flinch under his regard. She lifted a thin briefcase onto the table.

  “Senator, we have time for a short discussion before Thomas arrives.” Thomas Driscoll was the senior strategist of a Super PAC, which was offering funds to the senator in support of his pending re-election bid. Linda had prevailed on Driscoll, using the results of some of her team’ research as leverage, and he had promised to delay his arrival for thirty minutes.

  “Yes?”

  “Indeed,” Linda replied. She opened her briefcase. “I’ve some information that will interest you, in your role as an Opposition member of the Senate Banking Committee.” She extracted a dozen or so sheets of paper and slid them across the crisp white tablecloth towards the senator. “Earlier this month you initiated a proposal for the committee to explore the effectiveness of banking sanctions on Iran. While the chairman and some of your fellow committee members are pushing back because this is a retrospective focus, given the current relationship with Iran, we believe there is value to be gained if you pursue your proposal.” She tapped the sheets of paper, photocopies of original banking transactions. “These provide details of the money trail for some $500 million of arms transactions in breach of US and international sanctions. The principal is an American citizen. We understand the committee will be able to access the original documents, given the parent banks involved are American.”

  “Miss—”

  “Read them before you reject them. If you wish to create a favorable media situation leading up to your re-election
, you would be well-advised to consider following this document trail.”

  Fordsby, with obvious reluctance, looked down at the first page. After a minute of reading he turned the sheet of paper over and read the second page. He quickly skipped to the third page and the fourth. He riffed the remaining pages although he did not read further. He looked up at Linda, suspicion strong in his reaction. He straightened the sheets of paper into a single block.

  “I’m impressed by the details. I’m not sure reality will support the contents.” He tapped the papers. “That is, how do I know these are real, that they reflect the truth?”

  “Senator, I—we—do thorough research. If I can demonstrate the accuracy of our research activities, will you pursue your proposal, as aggressively as you can, using the material we’ve provided?’

  The senator appeared bemused. He shook his head; it was a sign of disbelief rather than rejection. “How can you convince me of the accuracy of your research?”

  Linda withdrew another batch of paper from her briefcase, although this time with fewer pages.

  “Let me show you these.” She slid a sheet of paper towards the senator. “This is a credit card receipt for a recent hotel stay at a four star hotel. I believe the card is yours?”

  The senator looked down at the details. His face paled.

  Linda slid the second sheet of paper across the table. “These are some interesting banking transactions. Of course, as member of the Senate Banking Committee, you are aware that transactions in excess of $10,000 should be investigated by your bank—perhaps they overlooked these?” The page contained details of three cash withdrawal transactions of $12,000 each.

  The senator remained silent.

  Linda slid the third and last page across the table. “This photograph was, I understand, retrieved from one of the hotel’s security cameras. I believe other, similar, images can be also retrieved.” The senator looked down. The photograph was of two men entering a hotel room, and one of the men was clearly identifiable as Senator Fordsby. The two men were in a somewhat amorous embrace.

  Linda said, “I’m sure most people nowadays would find nothing untoward in this apparent situation. The issue would be different if your local selection committee—the members of which I hear are rigid in their beliefs—was to see it. To say nothing of your wife.”

  “I—” Fear, fight, and flight reflexes were conflicting the senator.

  “Senator, I have no desire to publish this material. I have demonstrated the efficiency of our research. I’ll do more than that. This man,” she pointed at the second person in the photograph, “is on his way to Europe as we speak. He’s undertaken to remain there until after the election. We can ensure his whereabouts are untraceable, and, of course, we can arrange for the hotel images to be deleted, if you wish. For no cost. Now, what do you say?”

  The senator folded the three sheets of paper and placed them in an inside pocket of his suit.

  “You have convinced me of your research capabilities.” He shook his head. “Although I must admit, I’m also fearful of them.” He straightened his back and looked Linda in the face. “All right. I’ll pursue my proposal, even though there’s a lot of pressure against me. Your research information will reverse a lot of that pressure.”

  “Good. Senator, Thomas is due here in a few minutes. He’s unaware of the content of our discussion. It’s up to you what you tell him. I believe he’s in favor of your proposal to the Banking Committee. My suggestion? Remain here, enjoy lunch with Thomas, share your intentions. There’s no need to identify the source of your—ah—research material, although he may guess.”

  Linda pushed her chair back. Before she could stand, Victor was at her side. “You are leaving already?”

  “Yes, Victor. No, don’t be concerned, I need to run. I believe Senator Fordsby will wait for Thomas—he’s looking forward to your chef’s special.” She smiled at the maître d’. “Remember, tell Terrie I said congratulations.” She turned back to the senator. “I enjoyed our discussion. Good luck with your proposal.”

  The senator stood. He coughed to clear his throat and said, “Thank you.”

  Linda was already walking towards the double doors leading to the street. She had applied the first pressure point.

  Chapter 21

  The next day Linda implemented the second phase of her plan to apply pressure on Cromarty. One of her friends, Travis Martin, was a reporter and blogger, and he was always interested in discovering potential scoops. He was, Linda thought, also very good looking—handsome, even—and played on his obvious clean-cut style. She had arranged their meeting in a modest restaurant and this time Linda planned to stay and eat her lunch, even if it wasn’t prepared by the chef at the Placido.

  Travis was already seated when she arrived—he was early for a change. She went straight to the table. Travis’s eyes lit up. They exchanged air kisses, cheek to cheek.

  “Hi, Linda. Long time.”

  “I know. Life’s been busy. You?” Linda took her seat, aided by the waiter.

  “Same, same. Busy, blogging, trying to discover news, lunching with pretty girls.”

  “You know—”

  “I know. For some reason you don’t love me anymore.”

  Travis and Linda, for a hectic three months, had been lovers. Linda wanted more commitment and Travis wanted less. They’d remained friends after the breakup. Linda took a sip of water from her glass, mainly to avoid a response.

  “Still running your research team?” Travis asked.

  “Yes. It’s getting larger. I liked that exposé you did on the pharmaceutical company—their price increases were ridiculous.”

  “Thank you. Reader response came close to blowing out my server.” He lifted his menu. “Let’s order.”

  The restaurant was efficient and their food was delivered in a surprisingly short time. Linda visualized rows of pre-prepared dishes waiting for someone’s selection so that a chef could load them into a red-hot oven. She had chosen a basic hamburger featuring Wagyu beef, and Travis, after a moment of consideration, had chosen likewise. Neither ordered alcohol; Linda wanted to keep her head clear—she was unsure of her companion’s motive. She finished her last mouthful of salad as Travis pushed aside his empty plate.

  “Aah. It might be only a hamburger—but it’s America’s staple meal,” Travis said. “Now, what do you want to discuss?”

  Linda checked her makeup, applying a slight remedial touch of lipstick. She used the opportunity to check whether anyone was interested in their lunch meeting. Apart from the two MPs from the 145th sitting a couple of tables away, apparently enjoying a similar meal, there was no obviously interested diner.

  “Travis, this one is serious. It could get you beaten up or worse, understand?” Linda still had a lingering attraction for her ex.

  “Now you’ve made it even more tempting. Tell me more.” He pulled a Microsoft Surface out of his briefcase, placing it on the table. At Linda’s nod, he opened the cover.

  They were interrupted by the waiter. They both declined dessert, although Travis ordered a black coffee.

  When the waiter departed with their plates, Linda played with her phone, establishing a secure link to the Surface. Travis had not changed his password; she thought she should warn him about that carelessness. She transferred a zip file. The process was not fast—the file was large. “It’s a zip file—open it later, somewhere private. It’s encrypted.” She handed a business card across the table. “Use the second line as the key. Include the spaces.”

  “You sound mysterious, very mysterious. Will it self-destruct?”

  “No, you idiot. Well, maybe it should, you never know. Our focus is a wealthy businessman. You will know of him.”

  “You don’t want to mention his name, here?”

  “Correct. If when you read the details you decide you’re not interested, let me know.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “We think—well, we know—he arranged for one of o
ur friends to be kidnapped. We want to apply pressure to him, undermine his strengths, emphasize his weaknesses. While he’s fighting against possible criminal indictments—he’ll hate the negative publicity—we’ll continue gathering evidence. He may end up charged with serious criminal offenses. His modus operandi is to mount aggressive corporate takeovers, and there are indications he has political aspirations—indirectly. We want to take his focus away from our rescue efforts.”

  “Ouch—so getting beaten up is really a potential reward, huh? You weren’t kidding.” Travis closed his computer after checking that the transfer had completed without error. The waiter delivered his coffee. He took a sip. Linda watched his movements.

  Linda frowned. She wasn’t sure how to convince Travis that her request held danger. “Travis, this is not a joke. Believe me, if you take this on, you’ll be in danger.” She shrugged. “How much? I don’t know. But there is danger, believe me.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “The Senate Banking Committee should shortly require this person to attend a hearing—they’ve been given evidence showing he was involved in illegal arms shipments to Iran. You now have a copy of that evidence.”

  Travis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He sat up straighter. “Your research is uncovering toads, huh? I’ll enjoy the reading material.”

  “There’s more information in the files I sent. The chairman of the committee, Senator Randolph, has received donations from the—er—businessman, so he’s not rushing to get this hearing into gear. Instead, he’s trying to kill it. Details of the donations—sources, amounts, dates, and recipients with their links to Randolph—are included in the file I gave you. However—” Linda paused and had another sip of water. “The senator is—I don’t know whether to call it wooing or screwing—in either case, the girl is only seventeen. She’s a Senate page, and somehow he has managed to indulge in definite sexual relations, I believe is the phrase, with her. You now have names and two videos, one taken in his hotel room. We want to protect the girl; she’s far too young to be involved in a major scandal. I’ll rely on you—do not post her details.”