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

by John Hindmarsh

  “I think you might be correct. I—I’m afraid. That’s why I released you from the table.”

  Mark did not state his opinion of someone who followed orders to torture an illegal prisoner. He hid his anger, as fierce as it was; he wanted to escape his prison and needed a cooperative jailer to help him.

  “Emma, listen to me. I showed you before how much pain you were inflicting. Do I need to remind you?”

  “No—no, you don’t. I remember. I know how it felt.”

  Mark was inclined to refresh Emma’s memory, notwithstanding her claim. He relented. “Good. You will obey me until I’m free of this prison and free of Gitmo. Understand?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “But nothing. You will help me escape—no, not just help—you will do what you can to insure my freedom. Agreed?”

  “Yes, Mark.”

  “What weapons can you get? Do you still have the handgun you showed me before?”

  “Ken took it. He said it was too dangerous to leave here.”

  “Cell phone? Do you still have yours here?”

  “No. Ken took it off me. He was worried you might get hold of it.”

  “So how do you call him?”

  “I have to go to a central office.”

  “Damn. Can you get hold of a cheap cell phone?”

  “I—I’m not sure I should.”

  “It’s a risk you have to take. Get me one as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, Mark. On the weekend when I’m away from here.”

  Chapter 34

  Two men, probably in their mid-twenties, causally dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, dark-haired and of medium height, strolled along the Boston street, pretending to search for a non-existent address. If checked, they would claim it was the address for Said’s cousin, a relation he had promised to contact. They had left their vehicle three blocks away, carefully parked to avoid either attention or parking tickets.

  “Sos,” said Said, “I don’t see how we can get close to this family.”

  His companion frowned. He hated being addressed by the diminutive of his name. “Soslanbek. That’s my name.” They both spoke Arabic, albeit with a Russian accent typical of Chechens. “I agree. We’ve been past the apartment building three times and I cannot see how we can overcome the security.”

  There was a security desk inside the lobby of the building that had drawn their interest, and a doorman was stationed outside, sheltered by an awning reaching to the edge of the pavement. Said had detected a vehicle nearby with a driver and two passengers and suspected they were there to provide additional security. Probably private guards, Soslanbek had suggested, when he noted the vehicle had private plates.

  “So should we continue circling like lost vultures or do something else?” queried Said.

  “No, let’s return to our vehicle. We should talk with the doctor, unless you can think of a better idea.”

  “He will criticize us.”

  Soslanbek shrugged. “As Allah wills. The security is extensive. We cannot fly to the roof. We cannot enter by the front door. Perhaps we could pretend to be delivering something from a store.”

  “Or we could set a car bomb along the street, either in front of the apartment building, or park it outside the restaurant where they refused to serve us unless we wore suits.” Said was still angry at what he saw as an infidel plot to demean and belittle him. He had shaved off his beard because of this assignment, and the restaurant added insult to injury. He rubbed his chin, in memory.

  “A good idea for revenge. Perhaps not so good for our objective.”

  They both turned at the corner and headed off in the general direction to where they had parked their vehicle. Neither man noticed the motorcyclist that passed them nor the small Smart car, both of which leap-frogged them as they walked. Nor did they notice that a furiously pedaling messenger cyclist crossed the road as they unlocked their vehicle, close enough for his Go-Pro to capture details of their license plate.

  ###

  Brian Winter’s team reported to Linda Schöner and provided a description of the two men plus details of their vehicle, including the owner’s name and address.

  “We checked as thoroughly as we could,” said the team lead to Linda. “The owner’s address appears to be a Chechen fitness club of some kind. I had someone drive by; they said there’s a gym, small and scruffy looking, at that location. My guy took a photograph and my people here think some of the signs are in the Chechen Cyrillic alphabet. We’ll upload our files and a copy of our log. You might be able to make sense of it all.”

  After the call ended, Linda sat back in her chair and rested her feet on the corner of her desk. She’d kicked off her shoes earlier. Her claim was that her thinking improved when she felt relaxed—there were few on her team who would argue with her, given the evidence of her successes.

  Perhaps, she thought, these two men were tied somehow to the man who attacked Ladder. She’d been impressed by the young friend of Anna and the children and had agreed with Schmidt that he would be an excellent recruit to her team. Unfortunately, Maeve Donnelly had matched her assessment and wanted to also recruit him. The tug of war should be interesting.

  She checked her files for the copy of the police report on Ladder’s assailant and reread the details. His passport details identified him as a refugee, it seemed, from Russia. She checked his DHS file. No, she corrected herself, he was from Chechnya. Well, she was close—Chechnya was a republic of Russia.

  The link was worrisome. Linda downloaded the Winter team’s files—the team leader had said they had taken videos of the two men, which included some audio. She ran the files marked with audio and listened carefully. Her knowledge of Arabic was moderate. It seemed they were looking for someone and were concerned about the amount of security. She tagged the file for review by two of her specialists who had a far more fluent ability with the language.

  So, if she was correct, the three men were somehow linked. They were Chechen. Possibly seeking Mark and his family; she doubted the two men in the street were looking for Ladder—that seemed a touch extreme.

  After she organized her people, Linda called Maeve and detailed her concerns. When Linda finished, Maeve said, “You want me to free up a team? I have ten people with in-depth investigatory experience, mainly FBI. Do you want to brief them?”

  Linda said, “Yes, please. I’ve asked my people to tap into all cell phone calls from the gym. There’s a couple of towers nearby and they’re collecting call details from our—er—government sources.” She meant they were digging into NSA database files. “We’ll need people to help match cell phone numbers to faces and to track likely suspects. There’s a couple of coffee bars nearby, and it’s possible our targets frequent those.”

  Linda’s people had designed, programmed, and manufactured their own devices that could electronically reach into a cell phone within twenty feet or so of the user and strip out the data it contained, including its number, messages, images, calls made and received, and emails—the last only if the person was amateurish enough to use their phone for sending and receiving mail. The final step in the identification process was to photograph the owner of the cell phone in order to feed images to their facial recognition software. Her team would work with the resources Maeve supplied to combine efforts and data. Within days they would know more about the people frequenting the gym than their targets knew about themselves. All the information they gathered would be off the record, of course; certainly nothing they collected would be admissible evidence—there were no warrants involved.

  Later that day Linda sat with members of her team plus the additional Cerberus people provided by Maeve and defined the tasks required. Once the team agreed the scope, she left them to define the working details—she did not want to interfere in the granular details. As she closed the door on the conference room, two of her senior people rushed towards her; their expressions were so concerned, she could feel the anxiety.

  “Linda, we need you�
�”

  “Urgently. This is—”

  “Critical.”

  Linda threw her hands up in a pretend defensive move. “All right, you have my attention.”

  “Your office—”

  “With the door closed and—”

  “All phones left outside.”

  “We have information—”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  “You two have been working together for far too long. Remind me to give you separate offices. And maybe some Valium. Come with me.”

  Linda listened intently to the two analysts, gradually growing as concerned as her two team members.

  Finally she said, “You’ve told no one?”

  “No one at all.”

  “The source files are—”

  “Under double security.”

  “I’ll contact Archimedes. Continue to regard this as more than secret. If you see or hear anything more, inform me immediately. Understood?”

  Their reply was a chorused, “Yes, Linda. We’ll bury it deep.”

  ###

  Linda contacted Schmidt; he had not left yet for Camp Brewer.

  “Don’t you have time off work?” Schmidt asked. He was wide awake, fully alert, and sounded eager for action.

  “Not when it’s something as urgent as getting Mark back,” Linda replied. “My teams work in shifts, and I check their research at eight-hourly intervals. Well, kinda.” She didn’t mention that sometimes checking research meant she worked far more hours than her researchers. She had also spent hours double-checking the data her team provided earlier that afternoon.

  “What can I do for you?” Schmidt asked when the silence dragged out.

  “Did you know O’Hare has—well, had—a stepsister?”

  “No, I don’t know much about him, at all.”

  “She died last year. She was an FBI agent.”

  Schmidt recognized the karma cycle. “Her name?”

  “It’s someone you knew.” For once Linda wanted to not deliver this item of research. She finally said, “MayAnn Freewell.”

  The world held its breath and paused for a long moment. Schmidt did not say anything. Linda did not add any details. She knew Freewell and Schmidt had been an item until Freewell had died in a fire. The coroner’s report had stated the fire was accidental.

  Linda heard noises while Schmidt was silent and suspected he was moving around in apartment.

  “So—he blames me for what? Her death?” Schmidt was breathing in short gasps, as though he was struggling with a heavy weight.

  “It seems it could be the basis for his attacks. My team states the probability is high, approaching 95%.”

  “Brief Maeve in your 9:00 a.m. call. I’ll may be in the office—perhaps late tomorrow—depending on what happens with Gitmo.”

  Linda heard the initial roar of an explosion, suddenly terminated as Schmidt’s phone disconnected. She didn’t hesitate and immediately called 911. When she finished her call she contacted Helen Chouan who quickly agreed to send one of her best teams to investigate. Neither Linda nor Helen voiced their innermost concerns.

  Chapter 35

  Schmidt staggered for a moment and then stood tall. The explosion had damaged some of the interior of his living room in addition to taking out the window. There was no sign of fire, at least not yet. He assumed emergency services were on their way—the shock wave of the bomb had deafened him and he hoped it was only temporary. He shook his head. The bomb caused more damage than he would expect. The explosion had driven glass splinters into furniture across the room. The evening was not proceeding quite as he had planned.

  He sat down, sighing. He had splinters in his arm and something had creased his forehead; something sharp, he suspected, because blood was flooding his eyebrow and dripping down onto his cheek. He closed his eyes momentarily, jerking back into full-consciousness when a mental prompt reminded him that if he was concussed, he should try to remain awake. He stood up. He did not know how long he had sat on the settee. He wondered if it was damaged. Perhaps he had bled onto the cushions. Pain was starting to make its presence known as the shock wore off. He looked down at himself. His clothes were torn. Blood from wounds he hoped were minor was leaking out onto his floor and his ears were ringing. Perhaps his hearing was returning, he thought, and staggered to the door in case firemen were planning on knocking it down to gain access.

  He cautiously opened the door. A fireman grabbed him as his knees gave out. He could see more firemen grouped outside.

  “Come in,” he croaked. “I don’t think there’s a fire.”

  The fire chief looked over Schmidt’s shoulder. “Damn, that was one hell of a blast. Sir, you were fortunate—here, sit down. Our paramedics are on the way. Is there anyone else in the apartment? Sir, I said—”

  Schmidt raised his hand in acknowledgment. He was shocked by the tremors in his arm. “I—I heard you. No—no, there is no one else.”

  “Good. Now sit still, you shouldn’t move until—”

  “My cell phone,” Schmidt said, carefully forming the words.

  “Sir, I don’t think you should get up—ah, here’s our man. Thomas, we have one victim. Conscious. Possible concussion. Able to respond.”

  The paramedic dropped his bag beside the settee the fireman had chosen for Schmidt to use. “I’ll take over from here, chief,” he said.

  Schmidt tried to remain focused. The room was not co-operating with him and it danced around, spinning him. “I—I feel dizzy.”

  “Sir, can I have your name, please?”

  “Arch—Archimedes. Schmidt.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Two paramedics stood beside him, one asking questions while the other began to strip off his jacket and shirt.

  “Someone tried to blow me up.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No.” His answer was not as truthful as it could have been.

  Further questions were halted when another group entered the apartment. They were MPs from the 145th. Schmidt recognized the sergeant although he couldn’t remember his name.

  “Sergeant, come on in.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

  “General, we got here as quickly as we could. Do you know—?

  “No. Lots of possibilities, no one in particular.”

  The paramedics continued their triage. One was wiping blood from Schmidt’s face. “Sir, we recommend we take you to the local emergency—”

  “I’m cut in places. I have mild concussion. I’ve lost a modest amount of blood. Not sure there’s much the hospital can do.”

  “Sir, your forehead needs stitching. You should be checked over, x-rayed, in case there’s anything more serious.”

  The sergeant addressed the senior of the two paramedics. “I’m Sergeant Bresler. Schmidt is our general. He’s only recently recovered from a month or so in hospital—aircraft accident.” The sergeant didn’t think it necessary to go into details. “I’ll have our medics take over, if you don’t mind. We have a doctor with us.”

  “Okay—sure, we don’t need a territorial dispute. Thomas, the Army’ll take over. I’ll let the chief know.”

  Schmidt surrendered himself to the medics from the 145th. He had no idea how they had arrived so quickly and his mind could not focus on the problem. He struggled to remain conscious and he felt his eyes close.

  “General, stay awake, Focus. What can you tell us about the bomb and explosion?”

  “Damned if I know. It went bang. It knocked me out, I think. Cell phone—I need to call Major Chouan—”

  “Sir, she knows. So does Ms. Donnelly. And Ms. Schöner.”

  “Whole bloody world—”

  “Yes, sir. Probably even the president, by now.”

  Schmidt struggled to sit up straight. He’d started to slouch against the soft cushions.

  “Gently, sir. I’ll stitch this cut, otherwise it will leave an ugly scar. There’s some blood on your leg; we’ll need to see where that’s coming fro
m. Keep still, the injection might sting for a moment.”

  Schmidt could hear his cell phone ringing. He was surprised it still worked. He half-heartedly raised his hand to point in the direction of the sound. “Could someone—?”

  The phone was placed in his hand. Schmidt held it up high, trying to see the caller ID while not wishing to make the medic’s task more difficult. He did not recognize the number. He shrugged and pressed the answer button and held the phone to his ear.

  “Schmidt. I hear something went bang. I hope you weren’t hurt too badly. I have a lot more in store for you.”

  “Who the hell—” Realization struck. “O’Hare. You bastard. I’ll have your balls for this.”

  The caller laughed. “O’who? I have no idea who you mean. Enjoy the pain. There’ll be more.”

  The call disconnected. Schmidt looked at his cell phone and debated throwing it through the large hole in the wall where a window used to be. He didn’t have the strength. He sighed and placed the phone beside him on the settee. He’d get Linda to trace the number, although he expected it would not lead anywhere. It was O’Hare, he knew, without doubt.

  “Sir, please stand. I need to get your clothes off; there are glass fragments everywhere.” The medic turned to the sergeant. “Bresler, have a look for a change of clothes. I’d suggest pajamas, the general is going to need a day or two of bed rest. There’s glass—and blood, of course—all over. I’ll help him walk to the bedroom. He also needs a wash, to clean up the blood. Come on, General, I think you can stand.”

  ###

  Maeve Donnelly organized a meeting with Linda Schöner and Helen Chouan. She included each of their three senior people. The meeting was face to face in the Cerberus offices. Maeve taped her small collection of papers to attract the attention of the attendees.

  “The x-ray results are clean. Schmidt wouldn’t agree to an MRI; he said his concussion was mild. However, the medical consensus is to take him off the active list for five to seven days; perhaps longer if he has any adverse reactions.”