Mark One

by John Hindmarsh

  He had other items to include in his insurance, and set about copying more files to cloud storage, then backing them up to a new account with a separate cloud storage provider. He regularly maintained a number of cloud-based data storage accounts, which held his backup copies. All his files required password access, and their contents were encrypted. They contained details of major illegal transactions and significant activities between Boothby and his financiers and associates, at least where Pickover had been able to record the details. Pickover had made arrangements for the files to be released publicly, if he suffered a serious accident or died; Wikileaks was one of the intended future recipients of his insurance legacy. Of course, some of the documented activities involved him as well, and he could not reveal them unless he was somehow protected from the law.

  He checked his watch. He had sat here for over two hours and wondered what was keeping the FBI EAD. He barely had addressed the thought when a stranger entered the bar and walked over to his gloomy location.

  “Charles? Charles Pickover?” asked the stranger.

  “Yes?”

  “Oliver Stewart. Call me Oliver, please. You phoned me earlier. Sorry, it took a few minutes longer to get here than I expected.”

  “May I see some ID?” While he knew the man’s name, he had not met him previously, and was feeling very exposed.

  “Certainly.” The stranger unfolded his wallet and displayed his FBI identity card. Pickover checked the name and the photograph, and smiled his relief.

  “Thank you. I—I need to be cautious. I think—I know—my life’s in danger.” Pickover frowned at the row of Scotch bottles at the back of the bar. They seemed impervious to his concern.

  “So you said, which is why I arranged for a temporary guard.” Oliver indicated the two men sitting at the other table. “Two of my senior agents. I instructed them to protect you, and they’ll continue to do that, unless we decide there’s no further need.”

  Pickover was startled. “Does this mean others know I have approached the FBI?” He felt a rush of panic push his blood pressure higher.

  Oliver held out his hand in a reassuring gesture. “No, Charles, certainly not. We can keep confidences, and these are key agents whom I can trust.”

  Pickover sat back in his chair. “Ah—thank you.”

  Oliver sat at the table. “While I’m very curious to hear what you have to say about LifeLong and why you think your life’s in danger, I want to defer discussion of those matters until the agent in charge arrives. I arranged for a helicopter to collect her and another operative. That’s what delayed me. I gave their driver instructions to deliver them here as quickly as possible. However, they won’t arrive for another thirty minutes or so.”

  “Thank you, again.” Pickover knew he sounded servile and his voice nearly squeaked. His stress levels were building up and he could not fully control his reactions.

  Oliver smiled, sympathetically. “Let me check where my people are. I haven’t yet managed dinner, and we can try the restaurant, here, if you like?”

  Pickover nodded as Oliver reached for his cell phone. The call was brief. “They are closer than I thought. They’ll be here in ten minutes,” he informed Pickover. “Let’s see if we can organize a meeting room and a late meal.”

  The room was quickly arranged. In Washington, almost anything can be obtained, of course for a cost, thought Pickover. By the time Oliver had found a manager who could authorize the late night facilities and approved the proffered meeting room, his two people had arrived and were quietly introduced.

  He sat with Oliver, Schmidt, and Special Agent MayAnn Freewell at the table in the meeting room, while the two guards maintained their role outside the doors. The meal was finished quickly, everyone realizing this was likely to be a long night.

  “Tell us,” instructed Oliver, looking hard at Pickover after the table had been cleared and the waiters had left the room. “Why have you made contact with the FBI, and in particular, with my Division?”

  Pickover fidgeted and stared at the table for a moment. He took a deep breath. “Senator Boothby instructed me to pay Reverend Barker and his United Fundamentalist paramilitary team to destroy the LifeLong complex and to murder the researchers.”

  There was stunned silence for a moment. Then three people tried to ask questions at the same time. They stopped when chaos ensued. Oliver signaled for Special Agent Freewell to proceed.

  “Charles, I’d like to know more, and in particular, what proof you have of this?” She leaned forward and focused totally on Pickover.

  Pickover sat back, subconsciously and unsuccessfully trying to remove himself from the intensity of the special agent’s regard. “Ah—I can substantiate what I said. I’ve documented proof of Boothby’s involvement. I have details of other events in which the FBI either are or should be interested. I can give you all the evidence you need and more. Others are involved with Boothby—this hole’s deeper than you realize. But—my life’s now at risk. Boothby—or his associates—will want to silence me. I’m involved—incriminated—as well. I need FBI protection. I need a deal.” He did not mention that he’d almost emptied Boothby’s offshore account; there would be time for those details later.

  “We can offer protection—.”

  Pickover interrupted. “Boothby can reach further than you realize—FBI, CIA, NSA, military—and into some foreign groups. He has access to an extremely large network of resources and I don’t have all their details. If you simply lock me up in an FBI cell, I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours.”

  MayAnn turned her attention to Oliver Stewart. “Sir, what do you think?”

  “If he has solid evidence linking a US Senator to the LifeLong murders, we must do what’s needed. Pickover, we’ll provide a safe house, with trusted agents to guard you. We’ll deal. The details obviously need to be negotiated. As of now, you’re under our protection—”

  Pickover’s cell phone rang, startling him. He looked at the caller id and blanched. She never called him on his public number. He held up his hand. “Please—I must answer this.” He turned his attention to his cell phone. “Yes?”

  “Chuck. It’s Daddy. He’s gone crazy. He came here; beat me, left me half-unconscious. He’s looking for you. He wants to know why you transferred millions out of his accounts. He’s going to kill you—I’m lucky he didn’t kill me.”

  “Alex, listen to me.” He was almost shouting, concern driving him. “I’ll arrange protection for you—.” He stopped, the cell phone had disconnected.

  Pickover turned to the group watching him. “That was Alexis Boothby. She and I—her father has just assaulted her, left her almost unconscious. Can you help—?”

  “Yes,” replied Oliver. “What address?”

  Pickover provided the details and Oliver immediately phoned for an FBI unit to take Boothby’s daughter into protective custody, and for the unit leader to report to him immediately he could establish Alexis was safe.

  “I think we’ve proof that you need protection,” said Oliver, after he finished issuing instructions. “We should finish up here, as soon as we can. Charles, we’ve a safe house we can move you to, now. In any case it seems imprudent for you to go anywhere near your home. Give me your cell phone—no, not for evidence—your whereabouts can be tracked by its roaming signal by anyone who knows the number.”

  Pickover handed over his cell phone and Oliver opened the back and removed the battery. “Just switching the phone off isn’t enough. It still sends signals to the service provider. Removing the battery will do, for now. Remember, even changing the SIM card isn’t enough—each cell phone has an identification number that can be tracked. You’ll need a new phone.” Oliver kept the battery and returned the phone.

  “Do you have data links on your laptop? Tablet? Any other device?” asked MayAnn.

  “Why—yes. On my tablet. Not on my laptop.”

  “Can I have your tablet? This is just in case - I need to remove the battery from it as well,�
� advised Oliver as Schmidt handed him a small pocket toolset from his briefcase. Accessing the tablet battery was not a simple case of sliding off the back of the unit.

  “I’ve lots of emails—” He did not mention the tablet also had links to some of his cloud data storage sites. Even though the cloud providers were not US-based, if the FBI suspected the existence of files, they probably could gain access. Whether they could defeat the file encryption was more problematic.

  “I think your safety’s more critical?” said Oliver.

  Pickover reluctantly handed over his tablet. He felt the loss. It was a working tool, and he depended on it. He’d now lost both of his communications devices, and the result was a strange feeling of exposure, of helplessness. Earlier this evening he felt he was in control. Now, control had not just been removed, it had been totally nullified, and it had been done as a result of his own actions. He remembered the other phone in his briefcase and handed that to Oliver as well.

  Oliver regarded him quizzically. “That’s all? Nothing else tucked away that I should know about?”

  “That’s it,” said Pickover.

  “Good—.”

  Whatever Oliver was about to say was lost in the sounds of a disturbance outside the room. Both MayAnn and Schmidt had part-drawn their weapons, as the door was forced open. Two men burst into the room with silenced weapons ready. Schmidt fired and killed the first intruder before he could use his weapon. The second intruder managed to fire before MayAnn wounded him with a shot to his shoulder. He dropped his weapon as he screamed in pain and shock.

  “I thought we should keep him alive,” she explained to Schmidt. “He may talk.”

  The shot fired by the second intruder had found a target, perhaps not the one that he intended. Oliver was holding his side and blood was seeping through his fingers. The bullet had hit him, not Pickover. Schmidt moved quickly to Oliver and started applying first aid while MayAnn handcuffed the injured shooter. Pickover sat still, frozen, stunned at the suddenness of events.

  ***

  Chapter 14

  MayAnn stood back as the emergency response team quickly bundled Oliver onto a gurney, after they had added their more professional touch to Schmidt’s first aid attempt. The Assistant Director was in pain, although his injury was quickly diagnosed as a flesh wound, and not life-threatening. He had remained conscious throughout, and while waiting for the ambulance, he had contacted the Director to report the deaths of the two FBI agents. MayAnn had promised the Director a detailed internal update for the following day. Oliver managed a final comment before he was conveyed to the waiting ambulance.

  “MayAnn, this attack widens the entire investigation. You remain in charge, of course, and the Director agrees. I’ll stay in the command loop, this wound’s not going to keep me from duties. Work through Pickover’s material, I should be alert enough in the afternoon for a briefing.”

  “Now relax, Oliver. The medics want to go, they need to get you into surgery. Schmidt and I will cope. Go!”

  Oliver flinched as a wave of pain hit. He raised his hand in a parting gesture and closed his eyes. The emergency responders wheeled the gurney out to the waiting ambulance. The injured attacker, under heavy police guard, was already on his way to hospital.

  MayAnn turned to the senior LEO responder. Hotel security had reacted quickly when the armed intruders were detected on their security cameras, and had immediately called 911. As a result there was a heavy police presence in the building.

  “Lieutenant?” MayAnn held out her FBI identification for the officer’s appraisal.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He had been an interested observer to the various conversations while his men had carried out their duties.

  “As you probably gathered, the man on the gurney is Oliver Stewart, Executive Assistant Director for National Security. This shooting’s related to a terrorist attack which we’re investigating. An FBI team’s on the way here and they’ll take over from you, if you don’t mind?”

  “Agent Freewell, please accept my sympathies for your dead agents—very sad. I don’t have any disagreement about jurisdiction, and I’ll do my utmost to coordinate with your team. Do you need anything right now?”

  “Yes, thank you. If you can provide protection until our people arrive, in case the attackers have a back up team? Please ensure no one’s allowed near this area. No strangers, no hotel staff, no press, just your people until the FBI team arrives. Then, if you can, please support our team and the coroner’s people when the bodies are released. Of course, we need verbatim details of any comments or statement made by the injured attacker. Delivered to my team, no one else.”

  “I’ve already cordoned off this part of the hotel. My people will support you, I’ll arrange that. As for the prisoner, we won’t Miranda him until we have to—he’s not able to go anywhere for the moment. Give him time to talk.” The lieutenant instructed the waiting officers and then spoke on his radio to his men accompanying the ambulance with the prisoner.

  MayAnn turned to Schmidt. She ignored Pickover. He was safe, sitting in the corner of the bar, and in any case he was too shocked to move. “What do you think?”

  “They were after our friend there—Oliver was an accident.”

  MayAnn nodded. “Agreed. We must move Pickover to a safe house. You and me as well, until we get whatever he has to offer, and until we’re sure there’s no further threat, to any of us.”

  “What about Boothby’s daughter—Alexis?” asked Schmidt.

  “I’m waiting on that unit to check in. They’ll take her into protective custody. As for Senator Boothby—while you and the medics were treating Oliver, I instructed another team to look for him. He’s now a person of extreme interest. We need to see Pickover’s evidence before we take action, but I want to be prepared.”

  “Good. I’ll contact Homeland Security. We need to make sure he can’t leave the country.”

  “This’ll sizzle when it reaches the press.” MayAnn yawned. Stress and exhaustion were combining to take their toll. “I must speak with the Director again before I fall asleep. Do you need to report—?”

  “Done, already. I’ll keep our friend company, while you update your boss.”

  ~~~

  The safe house was a large, empty urban house surrounded by other large urban houses, also empty, in the northern outskirts of Washington. The area had been devastated by housing bubble reversals, with major price drops and repossessions. The FBI had purchased the house from Fannie May. It was held in a nominee name with no obvious relationship back to the real owner. A private security team had installed cameras and alarms, and made modifications to doors and windows, strengthening and securing access points. The house had four bedrooms and sundry other rooms, all partly although adequately furnished. MayAnn, Schmidt, and Pickover, accompanied by two marshals from the U.S. Marshals Service, were now in residence. Schmidt had made the arrangements—he had contacted the Assistant Director of the Witness Security Division, and as a result, the marshals had joined them at the hotel, and had accompanied them to the house.

  MayAnn had decided sleep was the priority, on the basis that rested minds in the morning would be more insightful and effective. Both Schmidt and Pickover had readily agreed. Pickover was in a totally depressed mood—Alexis had disappeared by the time the FBI team had arrived at her apartment—and he told MayAnn he was unsure whether he would be able to sleep.

  She was awake at six that Thursday morning, and spent the next hour making and responding to telephone calls. Schmidt was still asleep. Oliver was out of surgery and his condition was normal. The hospital expected he would be conscious and communicative by midday. Their wounded attacker was also out of surgery, although still in a critical condition—his shoulder wound was more serious than first diagnosed. He had been identified as a Russian with a permanent resident visa. His dead associate was also Russian. Both men had convictions for minor offenses, mainly extortion, and the dead Russian had been a suspect in an unsolved murder.
Both Russians had known associates in common, all of whom were now subject to investigation.

  Alexis Boothby had disappeared. However, the investigation team had found fingerprints of one of the Russians’ known associates in her apartment, and an APB was active for that suspect. Senator—soon likely to be ex-Senator—Boothby had also disappeared. His wife, alarmed and extremely worried for both her husband and her daughter, did not know where he was and had not seen him since the evening before. Schmidt had contacted Homeland Security to ensure both cross-border and airline travel alerts were in place, ensuring if the Senator attempted either domestic or international travel, MayAnn’s team would be immediately contacted.

  MayAnn was waiting for the relief shift of deputy US marshals to arrive. The changeover would allow the current shift to buy breakfast food and bring it back to the house, so everyone could start the morning with a meal. Coffee was the only item currently available, as long as you wanted it black and without sugar.

  Schmidt was awake. MayAnn could hear him making phone calls as well. She had not checked on Pickover. If he was asleep, she did not want to wake him—the more refreshed he was, the more accurate his details would be. She hoped the disappearance of Alexis Boothby would not silence him. At last Schmidt exited his bedroom and joined her in the living room—at least she supposed that was the room’s purpose, based on the sparse furniture. FBI safe house budgets did not run to luxury.

  “Good morning,” Schmidt sounded grumpy—he needed his morning coffee.