Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  "I didn't know anything about it."

  Jim had stammered about how Mark must have missed the call, but Mark knew that hadn't been the case. Jim insisted that Mark come along with them, so he had, but he'd sensed nobody was comfortable speaking to him.

  Too much had happened. He couldn't fault the others, and had tried to break the ice, but eventually, a topic of conversation would move onto a subject, or reference something that had happened during the time Mark had been imprisoned. It didn't bother Mark as much as it seemed to bother them. One guy had wondered if Mark lived under a rock when he hadn't known about some pop culture trivia, but a hard elbow from the man's girlfriend had cut the man off mid-sentence.

  After several conversations had come to abrupt halts, Mark had decided to spare everyone the awkwardness and had volunteered to photograph the festivities. No longer needing to include him in the conversation, the partygoers had become boisterous. Even Jim had kicked back in the corner of a booth and debated baseball with George Ortiz. After waiting for the official happy birthday song and cake distribution, Mark had left early.

  Brushing the memory aside, Mark turned to the computer. This was no time to wallow in self-pity.

  Two hours later, Jim returned just as Mark clicked through the final images.

  "Sorry, Jim, but none of these guys are Hazim."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I've gone through them twice." Mark spread his hands in a helpless gesture. He moved to rise from the chair but Jim waved him down and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk.

  "Okay, well we can have you work with a sketch artist so we at least have something. Also, we'll need a sketch of how Mohommad appears now."

  It was late afternoon before Mark finished with the sketch artist and he entered his studio feeling completely wrung out. He plopped onto his desk chair and contemplated the flashing message light on his phone. No doubt there were calls from clients and he really should answer them, but he sat for another ten minutes staring at the red flashing light while attempting to block out the events that had transpired in this very room the evening before.

  He'd almost forgiven Mo for pointing a finger at him back in the fall of 2001. Mark rationalized that Mohommad had been coerced into blaming him. Under the duress of an intense interrogation, it would be understandable. Especially if the interrogators had goaded him with details about Mark's story about the camera.

  Maybe he should have been friendlier when Mo had walked in the door yesterday. Would it have changed the outcome? He felt in his gut that Mo had come only for the camera, not to renew an old friendship, but it was possible his bluff about the camera being a wild story would have carried more weight if he hadn't gone ballistic towards Mo and his accomplice the second they walked through the door.

  At least the camera wouldn't give Mo much of an advantage. Mark doubted it would even be a factor in whatever Mo and his organization had planned—if there even was anything. At best, Mo would get a twenty-four hour notice of something, but it could be anything. The only advantage is that Mark wouldn't get to see it a day ahead. Plus, there was no guarantee he'd see the outcome of whatever they were planning anyway. It wasn't like he could control what the camera showed him. The fact that the only other large scale attack that would have occurred in the U.S. since September 11th had been shown to him was still not proof in his mind. Besides, he consoled himself, he wasn't the only one responsible for preventing terrorist acts. There were a half-dozen agencies which had a greater chance of preventing something than he did.

  Even after running the arguments through his mind several times, he still couldn't shake the guilt that something would happen and it would be his fault if people died. He should have withstood the waterboarding. He was practically a pro at it now.

  The phone rang, shattering the silence, and he nearly rolled the chair through the wall behind him when he started at the sound. On the third ring, he answered it, hoping he didn't sound as shaky as he felt.

  "Martin and Taylor Photography. Mark speaking." He glanced at the caller ID and frowned when he saw “blocked number”.

  "You called in the FBI. Why did you do that?"

  "Mo?" Mark fumbled in his pocket for the phone Jim had given back to him.

  "I let you live last night, and this is the thanks I get? I thought we were buddies. Others weren't happy with my decision to spare you."

  "Listen, Mo, I didn't call anyone. Someone came by the studio and found me where you'd left me. I was in no shape to call anyone." He had to buy time. If he kept Mo on the phone, maybe Jim could trace the call. He set Jim's phone on the desk and pushed the keys to get through, cringing at every beep as he pressed the buttons.

  "Hazim barely tapped you. He wanted to kill you but I wouldn't let him."

  Mark closed his eyes and with all the sincerity he could muster, he said, "I know. I guess I'm supposed to thank you."

  There was a pause and Mo sighed. "I wanted to let you know that none of this is personal, Mark. You were a good friend, but you must understand that some things are more important than friendship. I have obligations I must fulfill. We've both paid a bitter price for our countries, have we not?"

  A lump pushed up into Mark's throat as a wave of sorrow washed over him. Mo's tone of voice was so familiar it caused the past to come slamming back. All the good times they'd experienced over the years before everything went to hell flashed through his mind's eye.

  "What happened, Mo? I don't understand how it came to this. What happened to shooting pictures then going out and playing a few games of pool?"

  The connection on the special phone clicked, interrupting Mark's train of thought. He covered the mouthpiece to the office phone and prayed Mo wouldn't hear him as he relayed the information as quickly and quietly as he could to a woman who answered. She sounded vaguely familiar and he placed her voice as the one he'd heard coming from the phone the last night just before Mo had cut it off.

  "Sorry, Mark, but as much as I'd like to discuss our past good times, I can't. Only because of our past friendship, and because I realize I do owe you after what I told the CIA, I felt the need to warn you that your act of calling the FBI has been noticed. You must realize that all threats to our plans will have to be eliminated. Please don't be a threat."

  The dial tone sounded in Mark's ear and he set the phone down and spoke into the special phone. "Hello? Ma'am? Were you able to trace the call?"

  Jim came on the line, surprising Mark. "We're working on it, but it appears that the call was relayed through the internet and proxy servers before reaching you. Basically, he could be anywhere in the world."

  "So we're back to square one." Mark sagged onto the desk chair.

  "That depends. What did he tell you?"

  Mark closed his eyes as he pulled up the details of the call and relayed them to Jim. "Why do you suppose he called to warn me?"

  Jim's sigh sounded loud in his ear. "Hell if I know. A sense of guilt? A lingering sense of loyalty?"

  "Yeah. I guess." It made no sense to Mark because Mo must have realized that any calls to him would be investigated, hence his use of proxy servers. It was still taking a chance though. And for what? "Jim...do you think there's a chance of getting Mo back on our side?"

  "You mean like being a double-agent? I don't think that would work. I wouldn't trust anything the guy said."

  "You're probably right. It's just that I heard something in his voice. Like maybe he wasn't happy."

  "Look, Mark, I know it's still hard for you to come to terms with what Mo did to you, but you have to face the fact that the man is proving himself to be the terrorist we had accused him of being. You never really knew him."

  Mark wasn't sure he agreed with Jim but he let it go for the time being "Right. Well, whatever. I'm probably just too tired to make sense of anything right now."

  "How's your head feel?"

  "Like a drum corps has taken up residence inside my skull." Mark massaged the back of his neck.

&
nbsp; Jim chuckled. "Sorry to hear that." His voice sobered as he said, "Back to business. In light of Mohommad's warning to you, I'm alerting the Chicago P.D. In addition, I'll have one of my agents parked outside your studio until we decide if the threat is real or not."

  Mark groaned. "Not this again."

  "Whatever you do, keep the phone nearby and just try to get some rest."

  Chapter 7

  After eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, Mark flopped onto the sofa and switched on the television. He didn't really care what was on, he just wanted some noise and something mindless to take his thoughts off everything that had gone on. Just as he was nodding off, his cellphone rang. It took a moment for him to get his bearings and locate it on his breakfast bar. He glanced at the caller ID and a warmth spread through him. Jessie.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Mark. It's Jessie."

  He grinned and sauntered back to the sofa and sat on the edge. "Yeah. I know."

  "How are you doing?" Her voice washed over him like a warm summer rain.

  Mark eased back, unsure how much he could tell her. In the past, he could tell her everything, but now? "Uh...I'm good. You?"

  "I'm great. I just got some fantastic news."

  The excitement in her voice was contagious and he smiled in response. "Oh yeah? What is it?"

  "I'd rather tell you in person. Maybe go out and have a drink, if you feel up to it."

  Wariness crept into his voice. "Up to it?" Why would she ask that?

  The excitement dimmed as she said, "Jim called me and told me a little bit about what happened. I'm sorry about what you had to go through...again." She paused and he was about to speak and tell her it was no big deal when she continued, "I feel like a complete idiot for not thinking about it before calling and disturbing you."

  "Hold on. First, you aren't disturbing me, and I would love nothing more than to go have a drink with you. You don't know how much I need to hear some great news for once." He swallowed hard after he spoke, hoping like hell she wasn't going to tell him she was getting married. A few months ago, he'd run into her at a restaurant with another man. Awkward didn't even begin to describe the encounter.

  "Wonderful. Can I swing by and pick you up, or do you want to meet somewhere?" The excitement was back in her voice and it warmed him.

  "It'll probably be quicker if you swing by, or I could come and get you..."

  "Your place is right on my way to where I have in mind. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

  Mark took a quick shower. He told himself it was just to wake up, but he couldn't rationalize the splash of cologne and mouthwash. He glanced in the mirror, wincing at the ugly bruise on his temple, but there was nothing he could do about it. Oh well. Jessie had seen him in worse condition.

  Eighteen minutes after he'd hung up, he grabbed the special phone and his regular one and shrugged into his jacket, stuffing the phones into the pocket. True to her word, Jessie's car pulled up right on time.

  It felt like old times as he climbed into her little sports car and he had to remind himself that he no longer had the right to lean over for a kiss. "Hey. So what's got you all fired up?" He rubbed his hands on his thighs.

  Jessie threw him a grin and shook her head. "Oh no you don't. Not until we get to the restaurant.."

  "O'Leary's?"

  "Nope. Not this time. Thought we'd go somewhere different. Somewhere a little more upscale. Have you eaten dinner yet?"

  "Does a bowl of Cheerios count?"

  She laughed. "Not hardly."

  Mark grinned and wasn't even sure why. "Then I guess not."

  A few minutes later, she pulled in front of a well-known chop house. Mark whistled. "This must be amazing news."

  "Come on. I'm dying to tell you."

  Although her good mood had rubbed off on him, he couldn't help the trace of apprehension that slowed his steps as they followed the hostess to their table. After ordering drinks—a Scotch for him and a glass of wine for Jessie—they made small talk and perused the menu until their drinks arrived.

  Finally, Jessie raised her glass of wine and took a deep breath, her eyes reflecting the soft light from the sconces along the walls and touched the edge of her glass against Mark's. "You are looking at Chicago's newest FBI agent!"

  She clinked his glass, but he was so shocked, he forgot to drink his for a moment. Relief that she wasn't announcing her marriage warred with his mixed feelings about her working for Jim. He covered his feelings with a laugh. "Wow! Not what I expected, but congrats." He took a sip of his Scotch. A long sip.

  Tilting her head, her eyes took on a thoughtful glint. "You don't sound too happy for me."

  Mark shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just didn't know you wanted to be an FBI agent. I thought you liked being a detective. Also, I'm in shock because I thought you were going to tell me something else."

  "I did like being a detective, but I wanted to have a bigger scope. A broader picture of law enforcement."

  "Makes sense. Well, I'm very happy for you. You deserve it." He smiled and raised his glass again in a toast. Jessie did deserve it. Mark knew it first hand and despite his misgivings, he was happy for her.

  After she took a swallow, she set her glass down, her finger tracing the rim as she asked, "What did you think my news was?"

  Heat climbed his face as he stammered, "I...I thought you were going to tell me you were getting married." Sure she'd see exactly how much the idea bothered him, he studied his menu.

  When his admission was met with silence, he risked a glance at her. Just as he'd thought, she regarded him, but not with the amusement he'd expected, but with a soft half-smile.

  "Mark, after all we've been through, do you really think I'd do that to you? Take you out to eat to announce I was marrying someone else?" As she spoke, she reached across the table and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "There is no one else. Fact is, you're a pretty hard act to follow."

  Shame that he hadn't considered her decency and how she would never be so cruel as to announce news like that so blithely mingled with a spark of hope. "I'm sorry. I should have realized." Her hand, warm and smooth, rested on top of his, forging a current between them. "So, tell me about it. When do you start?"

  With a final squeeze, she released his hand, but he felt the heat even after it was gone. Before she could begin, the waitress arrived and took their order.

  When she'd left, Jessie folded one arm over the other and rested them on the table. "I'm starting right away because I had already scheduled a two week vacation, so I decided to go ahead and use that as my notice." Her eye's danced as she added, "I can't wait."

  "I bet." He had to ask, "Are you going to be working directly with Jim?"

  She nodded and took a roll from the breadbasket the waitress dropped off. "Yes." As she tore the roll in half and reached for the butter, she paused, eyebrow quirked. "Will that bother you?"

  Truthfully, he wasn't sure if it did or not. It just seemed like suddenly the few people he'd been close to were now in Jim's camp, so to speak. First Lily, and now Jessie. He shrugged. "I guess not. Jim's a good guy."

  "That has to be hard for you to admit."

  "Kind of. I mean, I hated his guts because he was a big part of the whole enemy combatant thing, but a lot has happened since then.”

  Chapter 8

  "Yes, sir. I understand, but—" Jim clenched the phone to his ear, and felt the muscles in his jaw tense as his superior cut him off. Damn bureaucrats. "Right, but if we get the camera back, we'll still need Taylor to—" He loosened his tie, all the while wishing he could use it to strangle the man on the other end of the phone.

  Another two minutes passed, during which his boss stated that Mark Taylor was an expense they didn't need anymore, that only Jim had ever believed he was anyway, so Jim was to cut Taylor loose as an asset.

  "What about the Wrigley Field incident? Several agents saw the photos and they were the key pieces of intelligence that prevented loss of life.
"

  In the end, Jim's arguments fell on deaf ears. Even though his boss agreed that Mark had tipped them off to the plot, it didn't prove that he had a magical camera. A chill crept down Jim's spine when it was hinted that perhaps Mark had insider information because he had been part of the group all along as previously suspected.

  In an attempt to cut off that line of thinking before it fully developed, Jim agreed to rescind Mark Taylor's status as his asset. At least, officially. That meant no special phone. In most cases, an asset received some kind of stipend to keep them returning with information, but Mark had only requested that his own funds, still mired in red tape six months after his release from prison, be once again made available to him. Jim had also wrangled a small sum so Mark could start up a new business. He'd argued that Mark needed it for a cover.

  Jim set the phone down and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the headache building behind his eyes. It already ranked in the three ibuprofen territory and bordered on four. He reached into his desk for the pain reliever. He swore when he opened the bottle to find only two pills rattling around in the bottom. They'd have to do.

  After washing them down with the last dregs of his coffee, he reached for the phone again to call Mark to give him the news, but changed his mind. This was something he needed to do in person.

  * * *

  Jim rang the recently installed bell at the front of the studio, noting and approving the new security measure. Mark shouted for him to hold on a second. Hands in his pockets, Jim eyed the windows of apartments above neighboring businesses. Even now, Mohommad or his associates could be watching.

  Mark opened the door, his eyebrows rising in surprise when he saw Jim. “Hey, Jim. Come on in."

  Jim nodded towards the doorbell. "Glad to see you're using that."

  A grimace flashed across Mark's face as he turned and led the way to the studio. "Yeah. It's a pain in the ass though. Like just now, I had to stop what I was doing to answer it—not that I'm not glad to see you—it's just that I'm finishing up a shoot."