“I daresay he’s had enough of in-depth medical examinations—I don’t know how he coped after that helicopter crash,” Linda said. Helen Chouan simply nodded.
Maeve continued, “Suggestions welcome regarding Mark and the rescue Schmidt was preparing with you, Helen.”
The major replied, “I’m conflicted. I want to rescue Mark, of course. My team is more than prepared to go. We’re missing Schmidt and the authority he carries, though.”
“I want to meet with the president later this afternoon to gauge his reaction to all this,” Maeve said. ‘We’d need fresh authorities if we want to take action without Schmidt.”
“I haven’t seen enough data to make an assessment, but do you think Mark will survive another week or so?” Linda’s deputy asked. He was Cerberus, one of her brightest analysts.
“Aaron, we don’t know. He was far more alert than he should have been in the torture video. Every day we delay is likely to reduce the probability of his survival.”
A knock on the door provided an unexpected interruption. A hesitant PA opened the door and said, “Maeve, I have a call from Anna. I think you should take it.”
Maeve reached out for the cell phone. She waited for her PA to leave.
“Yes, Anna?”
She listened for a few seconds. “Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker. I have Helen and Linda, plus our three senior deputies in the room. Go ahead.”
“Something happened? What was it? Niland said it was Schmidt. Is he okay?”
Maeve said, “It was a bomb of some kind. Schmidt’s out of action for possibly a week. Someone attacked his apartment. We’re meeting now to determine what we should do. I have to report to the president later.”
There was silence for half a minute. “Damn.”
“That’s our reaction, too.”
“Please—please let us know when Schmidt recovers,” Anna said.
Maeve said, “Yes, we will, I promise. We’ll carry on with our meeting. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken with the president.”
“Thank you. All of you, thanks. Mark will appreciate your efforts, as will we.”
Maeve disconnected and turned her attention to the other attendees. “The questions now are whether we think we should delay Mark’s rescue and whether there are alternative actions we can recommend to the president. Will Mark survive for another week, if it takes that long for Schmidt to recover? Do we recommend that the president appoints another general to take Schmidt’s role, or do we think it’s sensible to wait until he is well enough to lead the rescue efforts? What do you say?”
“What if O’Hare discovers we know he’s holding Mark?” questioned Helen.
Maeve said, “I think we will be here for a while, trying to examine what ifs. Keep them sensible. Let’s see where it goes. I’ll go around the table. Linda?”
Chapter 36
O’Hare cursed. He cursed Schmidt, he cursed the apartment building, he cursed the drone pilot, and he cursed himself. Schmidt, he was willing to curse anytime. The apartment building because he’d wanted to do more damage, to remind Schmidt who was in control. The drone pilot, just because. And himself, likewise—he wasn’t certain this venture was heading down the path he’d planned. O’Hare knew, without doing any research, that the finance issue with the helicopter could be laid directly at Schmidt’s door. Also, while he didn’t know how the man had achieved it, Zarina’s arrest and disappearance into the bowels of DHS and subsequent transfer to some MP outfit could only be attributed to Schmidt.
O’Hare fumed. He paced the floor of his study, back and forth, back and forth. He was so close. His dreams of a fortune were only weeks away. His dreams of revenge on Schmidt seemed more difficult to realize. Also, Cromarty was chasing him. He’d committed to visit the man at his home in New York State. He missed his regular transport method. He could rent, ask Cromarty to send his chopper, or he could drive. He decided to drive; it was only an hour or so to travel. He was not looking forward to the meeting.
Cromarty frowned at O’Hare as he opened his door. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarled. “I’m in more trouble than you realize and you’re missing. What do you think I pay you for?”
O’Hare raised his hand. “Don’t. You think you have problems?”
Cromarty threw his cheroot out the door and pulled it closed. “Come.”
O’Hare followed him to the grandiose room Cromarty called a study. It was large enough to house two families, he thought. He sat in the chair nearest the door. It was a subconscious seeking of an emergency exit. He watched Cromarty select another cheroot and carefully light it. The puff of smoke did not reach him.
“So what’s your story?” Cromarty blew another puff of smoke. It also failed to reach O’Hare.
“Disasters. Chopper’s off—waiting on its annual checkup.” He decided not to mention the mortgage repayment notice.
“I saw a news item on cable news. Someone tried to assassinate an army general. Schmidt, I think his name is. Know anything about that?”
“No, not a thing. Did they say what happened? How badly he was hurt?”
“Not a mention of any details. The authorities apparently suspect it was a terrorist attack. I’m not sure where the news anchors get their information from. So it wasn’t you?”
O’Hare shook his head. “No.”
Cromarty stubbed out his half-smoked cheroot. “What else is happening?”
“Nothing. Where’s Grovers?”
“Home, I suspect. I thought this meeting should be only you and me. I’m disappointed in you.”
“I’ve had some critical calls on my time.” He wasn’t going to give details; that would weaken his position.
“Same here. We could help each other, co-operate. It could ease our mutual problems.”
“Not sure you can assist with Agency issues.”
“What about your missing Russian lady friend?”
Shit, thought O’Hare, how did he connect those dots? “Not sure I’m following you.”
The expression on Cromarty’s face was triumphant. “Zarina—Zarina Gorky? Doesn’t the name ring a bell? She has a green card, obtained, it seems, under false pretenses.”
O’Hare shrugged. “I’ve heard about her. Where did you dig up that snippet of data?”
“I have my contacts. Now what can you do to help me with my issues?”
“You need to be more precise.”
Cromarty thumped the top of his desk. “I’m about to be investigated for breaching banking sanctions! I understand the Senate Banking Committee has been given a complete paper trail. It’s a bloody mess and you’re not fucking helping.”
“Ross, calm down. How can I disrupt a Senate inquiry? Think it through—work out how to soften the results.” He knew he was treading on thin ice. “Come clean, plead insanity or something.” As soon as the words left his lips, he cursed himself. Stress was undermining his caution. Normally he would never had said that to Cromarty.
The man exploded. O’Hare had never seen such a display of unrestrained temper. Or, he thought, perhaps it was fear of what would happen to him when the Committee’s decision was published. Cromarty threw his pen set including its glass inkwell, apparently full, across the room. Ink blotched the white patterned wallpaper and ran down the wall in fine black streams. He picked up the brass reading lamp, pulled out the power plug and threw it. His aim was off—it missed O’Hare by three or four feet.
O’Hare protested. “Ross, stop it. You need to relax, think this through.” He stood, undecided whether to leave or move towards Cromarty, perhaps to restrain the man. His natural inclination was fight, not flight.
Cromarty shouted, “Relax? Relax? How can I bloody relax? This is why I employed you and that useless general.” He drew a deep breath. “To help me resolve embarrassing issues. You’re both bloody hopeless. You can’t even deal with Schmidt, let alone Chaborz.” He looked around, possibly seeking something else to throw.
O’Hare now was extremel
y worried. Cromarty was not supposed to know anything about Dr. Chaborz. He cursed under his breath. Cromarty snatched a sword off the wall behind his desk and waved it, his temper unabated. He stumbled over a chair beside his desk and headed for O’Hare. The weapon was a Japanese Katana, the blade about two feet long, and O’Hare was unable to determine whether it had a decorative edge or was fully sharpened.
He rushed Cromarty, blocking the man’s wild swing of the sword. He grabbed his wrist and bent his arm back, forcing Cromarty to drop the sword. Cromarty backed off and went back to his desk. He snapped open a drawer and pulled out a handgun. He fumbled as he released the safety catch and tried to aim it. O’Hare jumped over the chair between them and grabbed the man’s fist. He was stronger than Cromarty even though the man was fueled by rage. He forced Cromarty’s fist backwards while avoiding ill-aimed kicks and ignoring wild, one-handed blows.
When the pistol was pointed towards Cromarty’s temple—he guessed it was seven inches or so away—he forced Cromarty to pull the trigger. The explosion, close to his own ear, temporarily deafened him. Cromarty fell to the floor, dropping the weapon. O’Hare bent down and checked for a pulse. As far as he could determine, Cromarty was dead. He stood, his face pale, his hands trembling. It took him a moment or two to steady his nerves. He had touched barely anything in the room. Cromarty hadn’t even offered him a drink. He wiped the chair arms where he had sat. He used his handkerchief to prevent fingerprints and picked up the Katana, wiped it, and hung it back on the wall. He left the pen stand and the brass desk lamp where they had fallen.
He had visited this house a number of times in the past so he did not need to wipe away all possible fingerprints; a room totally devoid of fingerprints in itself would generate questions.
The blowback of the shot fired into Cromarty’s skull had left powder burns on his hand and jacket. He was certain he could feel blood, bone fragments, and brains splattered on his face and there was something in his eye. He shuddered. He could not afford the time to wash before he left. Using the bathroom would create the risk of leaving some thread of evidence that would undo the suicide scenario he had established.
It was time he left. The house, he hoped, was empty; at least no one had come to investigate the sound of the shot. Cromarty would not have so openly allowed his temper to display if any family members were in residence. He was thankful he had not arrived in his helicopter—the noise of its arrival and departure would have alerted neighbors, which he could ill afford. He headed out of the house, closing the front doors.
He sat in his car realizing he had a two-hour drive in front of him, during which he could not afford to be stopped for any traffic offense. Not for any reason at all. He could imagine a police officer shining a flashlight onto his face and asking “Sir, why is there blood on your face?”
He could not cease his incessant worrying all the way to his home.
He would need to arrange an alibi.
###
General Grovers hit the replay button on the security camera. Cromarty had wanted to meet with him after his discussion with O’Hare and had told him to park his vehicle, an SUV, around the side of the house and to wait in the security control room located at the rear of the house. Intrigued, Grovers had turned on the security camera in Cromarty’s study. After O’Hare’s arrival, he had watched the unfolding drama with total disbelief. He knew nothing about the Senate inquiry. He had flinched when Cromarty threw his pen and inkwell set. Likewise the brass lamp. He had jumped up when Cromarty grabbed the Katana and wildly attacked O’Hare. He eased back into his chair when the NSA agent disarmed their angry boss. He started to move towards the door when Cromarty pulled out his handgun. He sat slowly back down when O’Hare struggled with Cromarty and—as far as Grovers could determine—forced Cromarty to shoot himself in the head. He watched in utter disbelief as O’Hare cleaned possible fingerprints off the chair he had been sitting in. He began to breathe again when O’Hare left Cromarty’s office, only to stop breathing as he wondered if O’Hare was aware of the security room. He waited, his handgun pointed at the door. No one came to the room. After ten minutes, he holstered the weapon. His hands were shaking.
Grovers pulled the tape cassette from the deck and weighed it in his hand. It felt light, given its contents. He slotted the cassette into a separate player and pressed play. He skimmed the tape forward. Satisfied, he ejected the cassette and dropped it into his briefcase. He unconsciously emulated O’Hare and wiped the chair and equipment clean of his fingerprints.
Life suddenly was both interesting and of extremely high risk. He had not felt his pulse race as fast since Iraq.
Chapter 37
Harry, Maeve’s PA, knocked tentatively on her office door. She was reading reports and he was always reluctant to interrupt her when she had that frown on her face.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Ma’am, I have a strange situation.”
“Go on.”
“Someone from the British Embassy—that is, he says he’s their Assistant Defence Attaché. He wants to speak with whoever is in charge. Colonel Davis, Colin Davis.”
“Put the call though to me.”
Harry disappeared and a moment later Maeve’s desk phone chimed. “Yes?”
“Colonel Davis, ma’am.” The phone clicked as the connection activated.
“This is Maeve Donnelly.”
“Aah—Ms Donnelly. I’m Colonel Davis—that is, I’m Colonel Colin Davis, Assistant Defence Attaché at the British Embassy.”
The caller had a strong English accent; it sounded theatrical, thought Maeve. She said, “Yes, Colonel?”
“Ma’am, would you care to call back and request you be connected to me? To verify I’m with the embassy.”
Intrigued, Maeve said, “I’ll do that. Give me a minute or two.”
The colonel disconnected and Maeve looked at the telephone handset, frowning. Why would the Brits want to talk to her?
“Harry,” she called.
“Yes ma’am?”
“I want the—”
“I have it here.” He handed Maeve a Post-It with the British Embassy’s telephone number.
Maeve used her cell phone and called the number Harry had provided. Eventually, after coping with inadequate messages and instructions, she succeeded in connecting to the earlier caller.
“Colonel Davis.”
“Maeve Donnelly.”
“Ah, good. Please accept my apologies, Ms. Donnelly, for the roundabout contact. However, I thought if you called back, at least you would know I was located at the embassy.”
“Indeed. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve been informed, in the last hour, that six of our citizens are about to arrive in Washington to visit with you. Three are serving Army officers and three are civilians.”
Maeve frowned. She did not know any British Army officers.
The Assistant Defence Attaché, apparently not expecting a reply, continued, “My call is because of the three officers, a Colonel Evelyn Hudson and Lieutenants Thomas Young and Laura Allen. The three civilians—I only have their first names—Owen, Lewis and Carys. I believe they’re Welsh.” His tone was disdainful. He continued, “The Army personnel are on official leave from their posting in Germany.”
“I think I know who the three civilians are, and I have an idea about the three officers. They haven’t contacted me, though.”
“The only data I’ve received is a couple of words. Cerberus and Midway. Do they mean anything to you?”
Maeve laughed. “Yes, you’ve confirmed why they are visiting me. I assume you know of my involvement in Cerberus US?”
“Yes, Ms. Donnelly, our embassy is aware of your organization.”
Maeve thought that was probably an understatement. “Midway is the chief executive for Cerberus UK.”
“We were not aware of that. I must say, Colonel Hudson has an extraordinarily positive record and her soldiers are well regarded. We’d appreciate you informing u
s if you experience any issues.”
“Colonel, if the people are who I think they are—and I’m confident I’m correct—I do not expect any difficulties. We have common interests and welcome their visit.”
Maeve could detect the sense of relief from the British officer. “Excellent. My boss, Brigadier Crichton, was uncertain as to their reception. When fellow officers unexpectedly travel into our areas of responsibilities, we like to be aware of the wheres and whyfores, you understand.”
“Yes. Now, do you have arrival times, any travel details?”
“We understand they’re arriving this evening. Their flight—it’s a private jet—is expected to land at nineteen hundred hours.”
“If you can email details, we’ll arrange to meet the aircraft.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Donnelly.” He provided his contact details including his direct line and cell phone numbers. Maeve did likewise, including her email address.
After the call ended, she phoned Schmidt. While he was under doctor’s orders, he was mobile and working. She provided details of her discussion with the British colonel.
“Red carpet welcome?” Schmidt questioned.
“Oh, definitely. I have some ICE contacts and they’ll help our visitors clear Immigration and Customs. Can Helen provide transport and an escort?”
“I’ll contact her. Do you know—okay, I’ll arrange their hotel and we’ll meet them there. I’ll move to the same hotel; that will make transport easier to arrange. Be prepared for a late night.”
“What about you? Are you well enough? Perhaps the Brits can help?” Maeve continued to worry that Mark was still undergoing the torture regime portrayed in the video.
“Of course I’m capable, even if I’m not on duty. I expect it will be a day or two more before I get my clearance.” Schmidt’s proposal to lead the flight to Gitmo was suspended until he received a full medical clearance. He needed to be on that flight.
###
Maeve met Schmidt at the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, where their visitors had checked in forty or so minutes prior. Schmidt was still shaky from the injuries he’d received in the explosion; according to his medical report he should still be in bed, recovering. He had earlier reserved a small meeting room and he asked the concierge for directions. The man led them to the room, which was guarded by a small team of MPs in plain clothes. Refreshments were set out on a table and sideboard, and six people were already in the room, waiting for them.
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