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

by John Hindmarsh

  “Your man, the guard—he’s going to be okay?” Schmidt asked, reflecting the concern of Maeve and Linda in addition to his own.

  “Yes. He has mild concussion according to the doctors.”

  “Please keep us informed,” Maeve said. “Let us know if his family needs support.” Cerberus was cash rich and Maeve was prepared to provide all the support the security guard’s family required.

  “”Certainly. Thank you. We’re taking care of them at the moment. He has a family, two preschoolers. His wife is upset, of course. How’s the search for Mark?”

  “We’ve a good idea of who’s behind his kidnap; we’re applying pressure while we gather evidence. We hope the details of the aircraft you mentioned will help us locate Mark,” Schmidt explained. “As usual, it’s a slow process.”

  “Understood. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Brian, thank you for your report. If you require assistance, let me or Maeve know. Julian and Anna and, of course, the families—are important to all of us—so maximum security, please.”

  “Thank you. I’ve sufficient resources, at least, as far as I know. If your suspect brings in a large number of people, I might accept your offer. Believe me, I’ll do whatever’s needed.”

  They ended the call. Maeve stared at the blank television screen for a moment. Schmidt and Linda waited patiently for her comment.

  Maeve said, “I think ICE—HSI, that is—should take O’Hare’s lady friend into custody within the next twenty-four hours. They can hold her for a week or more, without difficulty.”

  “You want to increase the pressure on him?” asked Linda.

  “Yes. If O’Hare’s attempting to add Anna and the children to his victims, we need to be far more aggressive. Linda, find out what you can about the financing of his house and aircraft—let me know which banks are involved. We need to review his and his shell companies’ bank statements, to determine whether his expenditures are beyond his legitimate income. Also, trace the origin of his mortgage repayments. I can apply more pressure than he’s ever experienced.” Maeve’s earlier role as director of the FBI, and even prior, had allowed her to develop an enviable depth of business contacts.

  “On it, Maeve. I think we’ve already obtained most of what you need.”

  Schmidt added, “Maeve, I think I’ll move a squad of MPs to Boston. Winter’s people are good, but the 145th can provide more, and I daresay, better resources. I’ll call Helen. Is there anything more we can do, to pressure Cromarty?”

  Linda said, “My team has been exploring—I’ll intensify the process. If he’s paying O’Hare—or O’Hare’s Delaware company—we’ll be able to trace the money transfers. We’ll let you both know.” She stood; she wanted to get back to her team.

  Chapter 24

  “If some of my people are investigating a green card holder, I can assure you it’s for a valid reason,” snapped Roy Hoskins, executive assistant director, HSI Domestic Operations. His responsibilities encompassed immigration fraud investigations. Roy had more than thirty years of ICE investigative experience and was not inclined to take nonsense from anyone, whether that person was within Homeland Security or from another government department.

  The voice over the phone was equally severe. “I don’t give a damn what you say about your people. Stop the investigation—you have no reason to do this, none at all.” Roy could hear his caller pounding his desk.

  Roy wiped his hand over his face, trying to restrain his exasperation. “Listen, O’Hare, if you’ve got some little bit on the side, don’t expect me to hide her for you. As far as I’m concerned, if Axelton knows you, it doesn’t mean squat.” Axelton, an executive associate director of DHS, was Roy’s boss. Roy had no idea who O’Hare was and didn’t care. “I’ve got hundreds of teams out, and lots of files to go through. So if you’re finished—”

  “Fucking hell I’ve finished. I’m an AD and I’ll have your balls if you don’t stop your team. You won’t survive another day if anyone acts against her.”

  “Listen, buddy. I’ve recorded this call, and I’m copying it to Axelrod. If you like, I’ll copy it to your director, too. As far as I’m concerned, you can shove your threats.” He slammed the phone down. He had more to do than get involved in someone’s personal issues.

  As a precaution, he decided to check with the New York office. He buzzed his PA. “Francine,” he said. “Find out why New York is checking out Zarina Glenbrook, maiden name Gorky. She’s Russian, here on a green card. Claims to be married to a US citizen. Apparently there are some issues.” He read out the details he had noted. “Tell Grecco I’d like to be briefed by whichever team is involved.”

  The call from the New York office came through an hour later. “Roy, this is Grecco. Whatja want to know?” Robert Grecco was one of the special agents in charge, attached to HSI’s New York office, and was responsible for managing a number of teams investigating immigration fraud.

  “You’ve got a team investigating some Russian for submitting false statements for her green card. One Zarina Gorky or Glenbrook?”

  “Yeah, the team’s one of my best. She’s definitely a fraud. No husband in sight, doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know his family, yada, yada. Classic. I authorized her detention—they should bring’er in this evening. Clear cut case. Ya wanna talk to the guys?”

  “No, your word’s good. Send me a summary, keep me informed. Let me know if anyone tries to interfere—there’s someone jumping up and down at the NSA—I think she’s his bit on the side.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard she’s a looka. No worries. I’ll let ya know if anyone causes problems.”

  “Good. Tell Mary I said hi.”

  “She’ll want to know when ya visiting again—she says we owe ya dinna.”

  “I’ll let you know. Too much is hitting my desk at the moment. Keep hard.”

  “Sure, boss. See ya.”

  Hoskins copied his recording of the call with O’Hare to Derek Axelrod, his director, with a covering note. He believed in the adage that covering your ass was better than getting it kicked.

  ###

  O’Hare was furious. First, he’d heard Boyle had totally failed to pick up Midway’s partner and their children. Unbelievable. Three men, all cornered and captured, total failures. He’d kill Boyle if the bastard opened his mouth. Fortunately, there were no evidential trails; he’d made sure of that. Even though Boyle was ex-CIA, they had never met, and he’d used a false name when he’d recruited Boyle for what the man thought was a black government operation. Second, an hour or two later, Zarina had called, in a total panic. Two evening ago, a Homeland Security investigative team had knocked on her door asking all kinds of questions. She’d been so unnerved she’d forgotten his briefing and had spent the following day worrying that she was about to be arrested. Any investigation of Zarina’s visa had the potential to turn into a disaster and that craphead Hoskins had totally wiped him off. He promised himself he’d kill Hoskins if anything happened to her. He wasn’t scheduled to be back in New York State until closer to the weekend, and she was in total meltdown. The danger for him was high. He needed to protect Zarina; otherwise some deadly chickens would come home to roost. Damn.

  He paced back and forth across his office. He didn’t know whether to call Axelrod or not—he knew Hoskins had told the truth when he said he’d taped their conversation. A copy was probably already with Axelrod. The way things were going, undoubtedly a copy would be with his boss before long. Damn again.

  His cell phone buzzed; it was a text. He read the message, anger building. Now Cromarty wanted to have him visit—urgent and critical, he said. Impossible—the man knew he was in Washington for most of the week. O’Hare raised his cell phone, tempted to throw it against the concrete wall of his office. A soft knock heralded the opening of his door. His PA opened it and peered in.

  “What the hell do you want?” he snarled.

  She stepped back, totally alarmed at her reception. O’Har
e realized his error and walked to the door. He breathed deeply.

  “My apologies, Geraldine. I’m under a bit of pressure at the moment. What’s the problem?”

  The woman took a moment to find her voice. “Sir, there’s a meeting. You’re wanted. Director’s office. You’re to bring anything you have relating to someone—a Russian—called Gorky, also Glenbrook. In five minutes, MJ said, and you’d know who she is.” MJ was the director’s PA and at times seemed to exercise as much power as the director himself.

  O’Hare paled. He struggled to rein in his temper. Geraldine moved away, carefully out of reach. She had heard her boss had a ferocious temper although she had never before seen it on display. He shuddered, barely taking control.

  “Thank you, Geraldine. Yes, I know the case. Tell MJ I’ll be there.”

  O’Hare returned to his desk and sat in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his desk. A sensible solution continued to evade him. This, he thought, was going to be tough. First he needed to make a phone call.

  “Cromarty? Yeah, it’s O’Hare. You know I’m in Washington? There’s no way I can meet with you until Friday. No, no way at all.”

  He listened to Cromarty and replied to his question. “No, I didn’t see a CNN newscast. So a tame senator has resigned—there’s nothing I can do about that. What? No, I have no influence over anyone in the Senate. Look, I have to go. I’ve been called to an urgent meeting. I’ll see you on Friday, all right?” He disconnected before Cromarty could protest. He cursed again. He had planned to be back in Gitmo on Friday—now that plan was shot to hell. Midway would have to wait a couple of days.

  ###

  Cromarty looked at his cell phone in disbelief. O’Hare had blown him off. That was a first. When he needed the man’s assistance, O’Hare dismissed him, without any regard for his crisis. He threw the phone at the potted plant in the corner of his office and stalked out, slamming his door. He walked to the end of the large executive floor lobby, to one of the smaller offices at the end. The title on the door, on two lines, read “Director Public Relations.” He pushed open the door without knocking.

  The person at the desk raised his head and looked at Cromarty through blurry eyes. “Yes?”

  “Where’s whatsisname—Threadneedle?”

  “Who? Oh, the fucker left last Friday. Resigned, lucky bastard.”

  “Who are you?” Cromarty didn’t know whether to be exasperated or angry. He thought anger would win.

  “I’m his temporary replacement. HR said to hold the fort until they told the boss and got him to agree to a replacement.”

  “The boss?”

  “Yes, you know, Old Crome. Oh shit—that’s you, isn’t it?” The man jumped up and straightened his tie. “Sorry, sir. I’m new and really don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m a media buyer, not a PR person.”

  “I can tell. Go meet with HR, ask for your severance package. One month in lieu, and that’s generous. Tell them Old Crome said so, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” He started to collect his personal items from the top of the desk. “What about the CNN request for an interview—you want me to do anything about that?” He lifted his jacket off the back of the chair and looked at Cromarty, obviously waiting for an answer.

  The question stunned Cromarty, and he was silent for a moment.

  He said, biting the words off, “I think we can both ignore that, for the moment. Get out of my sight. Now!” The last word was a shout.

  Cromarty had reached the end of his patience; the mention of CNN was the trigger. Damn. If CNN wanted to interview him, did that mean their news team knew he was the so-called key witness being considered by the Senate Banking Committee? He turned and exited the small office, slamming the door. He ignored the frightened expressions of his employees as he continued back to his office. There had to be a solution. He only needed time.

  ###

  O’Hare returned to his office in a furious temper. The director had peeled the hide off his back, with that bitch MJ noting it all down. He assumed the meeting had been taped. The director was not interested in his explanations—threatening the employee of another agency was an absolute cause for disciplinary action, irrespective of O’Hare’s rank in the NSA. Motive was irrelevant, he had been informed. The director didn’t want to hear anything he had to say in his defense. MJ had played the recording of the telephone call, at the director’s request, obviously making sure it was included in his disciplinary lecture—and the director had flayed him.

  At the end, O’Hare had stormed out, after refusing to use the director’s phone to call and apologize to Hoskins.

  Apologize be damned. The man was inept, one of those “play by the rules” managers, the kind O’Hare intensely disliked. Well, he thought, that was that; he’d created a brick wall, which would prove impassable, signaling the end to his rise in this agency, or indeed, in any other agency. Well, he had other irons, solid gold, not plated. He only needed another six months.

  Of course, that did not solve his immediate problem. He did not yet have a plan for rescuing the situation with Zarina. He’d called. There was no answer. Strange, he thought, she hadn’t planned on leaving the house today. Oh well, he’d try later, when he’d calmed down. Maybe then his mind would be more capable of resolving the situation. He kicked a chair out of his way and cursed the pain in his toes.

  Chapter 25

  Ladder checked his watch. It was 8 p.m. and the library was closing. He had spent most of the afternoon and evening researching Cerberus, with little success. He had learned the name came from Greek mythology, and referred to a multi-headed dog, the guardian of Hades. Sometimes the dog was described as having three heads; in other articles it had hundreds of heads. He found it difficult to reconcile the mythical concept with the twelve-year old Alex, who had been shot, or with her friends, Anna, Niland, and Gabrielle, who had visited her in hospital. Apart from mythological stories, there was nothing of relevance returned in his Internet searches. He sighed. He packed up his notebooks and closed his laptop. It was time he went home.

  He was heading, he thought, towards a pending disaster. His mom knew he would be late—he had sent a text, earlier. However, his step-uncle—now that was a relationship to be reckoned with—would be most irate and probably half-drunk. Irate, because he would be, and half-drunk because he couldn’t afford to drink enough to reach full inebriation.

  Ladder looked forward to when he could afford his own apartment, although he was conflicted—he wanted to leave, yet he did not want to desert his mother. He attended a state college in Redmont, which offered basic courses, while he really wanted to go to college in somewhere like Boston, where he could study broader subject areas that would challenge him.

  He swung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way to the street and wondered if he had time to get something to eat before heading home. It depended on the risk—would his step-uncle be drunker and angrier, if he wasn’t home for another forty minutes or so? Ladder was about to unlock the driver’s side door of his old—very old—pickup when he detected the presence of someone close behind him. He unlocked and opened the car door and swung his pack onto the front seat.

  Unencumbered, he spun around, to confront his potential assailant. A man was only feet away. He was taller and possibly heavier than Ladder and better dressed. He was also carrying a handgun, which now was pointed at Ladder’s midsection.

  “Pray to your god, if you have one. Tonight, though, you are fortunate, because I have questions for you, not death.”

  Ladder detected an accent, although he could not identify its origin. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet. Dealing with his step-uncle had long ago prompted him to take self-defense classes and, as a result, he had developed a high level of expertise. Not enough to deflect a bullet, but he only needed a minor diversion.

  “Who are you?”

  “You don’t need my name.”

  “What do you want?”
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  “A conversation. Some answers.”

  “A gun is supposed to encourage conversation?”

  The man laughed and holstered his weapon. He stepped closer. “My fist’d be more effective, ya khara. You are a lightweight, no? Not worth a bullet.” He grabbed the front of Ladder’s T-shirt. “Now, tell me. You met with some people in the hospital, no? Where did they go?” He ended the question by throwing a punch with his other hand.

  Ladder felt the increase of tension in the man’s grip and, anticipating the assault, stepped back to avoid the punch, while brushing his attacker’s hand away from his shirt. He followed up with a kick to the man’s unprotected crotch and a knee to his face when his assailant bent over in a reflexive response to the first explosion of pain.

  “Kess Ommak,” the man moaned.

  The stranger fumbled for his weapon and it slipped out of his hand. Ladder grabbed his assailant’s right arm in a lock, and brought his knee up and the man’s arm down, in a savage and sudden motion. The force of the maneuver dislocated his assailant’s elbow and tore tendons. Ladder backed off and kicked as hard and as high as he could, connecting with the side of the man’s head. The blow landed with a sickening crunch, and the stranger fell to the ground, silent, not moving.

  Ladder stood still, poised, ready to react if his assailant moved. “Shit,” he voiced to himself. He bent down to feel the man’s pulse. He was still alive. Ladder picked up the dropped handgun and tucked it into the back of his jeans. He used his cell phone to call Kelsi Pierce, his crime team boss.

  “Yes, Ladder? What’s the problem?” Kelsi sounded sleepy.

  “Doc, someone attacked me, here, near the college library, in the parking lot. The guy had a gun and wanted to know about Alex and her friends. He’s—he’s unconscious—I can feel his pulse, so he’s not dead. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Wow. You continue to surprise me. Call base. Harriet could be still on duty, otherwise it’s Marion. Tell her—either—you need Lieutenant Harkness. When he calls you, tell him what happened. I’m on my way. Oh, and tell base, you need an ambulance for your attacker.”