He missed his cigars. He hated this apartment. He completely loathed Pickover. He stumbled over a small table and kicked it across the room.
“Ivan,” he called.
It took a few seconds for the man to appear from his bedroom. “Da?” he enquired.
“I want to go out. Out. To my home. I need clothes, cigars, I need to get out of this prison. Understand?”
The man stared at Boothby, his face impassive, while his mind digested the few words. Finally he spoke, his accent heavy. “No, not allowed. Stay in room.”
“Damn you,” Boothby was frustrated. “If I want to go out, I’ll go out.”
“No, not possible, not go out.”
Boothby stormed over to the apartment door and tried to pull it open; however, it was deadlocked. Boothby pulled at the knob and shook the door. He turned to the Russian.
“Give me the key.”
“No. Not possible. Dmitry say not go out.”
Boothby stalked over to the man. He was taller, although his caretaker was clearly the fitter of the two. He stared down at the Russian.
“Unlock the godforsaken door.” He was almost screaming.
The Russian maintained his impassive expression. He shrugged, turned and walked back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Boothby stared after him, ashen faced. No one ignored him like that, no one, not ever. He began to pace, again.
He decided to wait, he could be patient. The Russian would leave the apartment at some stage during the day, either to report to his boss, or else to buy food. Or perhaps to do both. Boothby could not always understand the man’s ragged English.
At last the man left. Boothby paced for a short while in the empty apartment. Then, his decision made, he went to the kitchen window—he had discovered earlier that it opened onto the fire escape. The window obviously had rarely been opened and he struggled against the glue of multiple coats of paint until eventually the window pushed up with a screech. He looked out. The street was only three floors down and the fire escape, while rusty, appeared to be safe. He clambered through the window with a struggle and climbed down the escape to the rear of the apartment building. The last section was hinged and unnerved him as it almost dropped him onto the ground. He wiped his hands. Now he could go home and get a change of clothes, and some damn cigars.
~~~
“We’ve had a sighting of Boothby,” announced MayAnn, bursting into the office she shared with Schmidt. Mark was reviewing transcripts from his debriefing session. They both looked up.
“Where?” asked Schmidt.
“The report states he managed to enter his house from a neighbor’s back yard. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sighted by our agents—they were watching from the front. They didn’t know he’d been there until his wife alerted them. She said he wanted a change of clothes and his cigars, and he accessed a wall safe, clearing out whatever money he had there. We didn’t know about the wall safe. Not sure if his wife did or not, prior to this.”
“He took a risk like that to get cigars?” Schmidt was astounded.
“They’re imported and expensive. Apparently he’s addicted to them,” replied MayAnn.
“Does his wife know how much cash he took?” asked Mark. He had been intrigued to hear the FBI plans for reducing Boothby’s access to funds.
“No, unfortunately. It was a bulky envelope. Could be five to ten thousand. It just puts off the reckoning a little while.”
“I assume by the time the alert was raised, Boothby had disappeared?” asked Schmidt.
“Yes, he made his wife promise not to alert the authorities for thirty minutes—she waited twenty. He was well away by the time the alert was raised. She thinks he arranged for a cab to collect him from the neighbor’s house, at the back of theirs.”
“Hmmm. Close but no cigar, huh?” Schmidt ducked a badly aimed blow from MayAnn. “That’s abuse, you realize?”
“I would get a medal,” said MayAnn. “We’re trying to track down the cab, in case the driver can provide data to help us find our fugitive. Not much hope, though.”
~~~
Boothby had used two different taxis to return to the apartment. The door was opened by a surly-faced Ivan, who frowned at the re-appearance of his missing guest. He spoke in Russian, probably, thought Boothby, expressing his ire. He placed the suitcase and his supply of cigars in the bedroom and returned to the living room, where he lit up a cigar. Ivan frowned and waved his hand. Boothby ignored him. His thought processes now would be, he was convinced, far more effective.
Later that evening the Russian boss, Dmitry Yazov, arrived. Normally Boothby had only dealt with him by telephone. Face to face was a different matter. The man was big, probably weighed 220 pounds, and was as tall as Boothby. Yazov had a very expressive face and a good command of English. Boothby knew he was capable of arranging someone’s murder without compunction.
“Aah, Senator Boothby. So good of you to return to fold. My friend Ivan told me you were very—shall we say—stupid, earlier today.”
“Dmitry, I didn’t think so. I needed clothes. Ivan wasn’t helpful, at all.”
“There was a lot of FBI activity all day, looking for Russians. They have security photo of Ivan visiting hospital where they were treating your Mr. Casey. They’ll soon have name, I am certain. Then address. Not this one. FBI are—how you say—hang on like dog with death grip—and they’ve been around all Russian places—checking names, visas, fingerprints, alibis, asking questions—everything. It’s very risky for you, and Ivan must remain inside. Both of you—stay inside.” He added comments in Russian, and Ivan nodded his head. When he finished, Yazov turned back to Boothby. “I told him, both stay inside. You have too much at stake to take risk. So, last time warning. OK?”
Boothby did not answer. He was not accustomed to being chastised by anyone, and did not like it, especially when it was done by a non-American, a Russian at that. He waved his cigar. “Very well. I’ve enough cigars for a week or more. Tell me, have you dealt with your man, the one the FBI shot and wounded?”
“He’s not my man, he is cousin, he is family. We’re planning how to rescue him, not shoot him. Also, we had news of Mark Midway in police report.”
Boothby sat up, suddenly excited. “You did? Have they arrested him?”
“No, he was assaulted by some American guy. Midway broke his arm, and—how you say—fractured his kneecaps. Midway is very good fighter, I think.”
“Yes, I suppose. Why don’t you check with police or sheriff, find out his address?”
“We got address. Tiny town in Georgia. State, not country.”
“Excellent. Can you send someone there to find out what he’s doing? Maybe there’re more of them? We need to capture him, I can use him for bargaining. I know some government people who would pay dearly to get their hands on him.”
“It will cost. You already owe me for apartment. You have money for me, now?”
“Yes, here’s ten thousand dollars.” He handed Yazov an envelope. Boothby still had another ten thousand dollars and once that had gone, he would have to transfer funds from his Grand Cayman bank. He would need online access to communicate instructions. “I need a laptop with a wireless connection, so I can arrange the next payment.”
Yazov nodded his head and placed the envelope in an inside pocket of his suit. He did not bother to count the money. Boothby assumed he would do that later.
“We can arrange, do not have worries. I’ll send person to check at place where Midway lives now. Not Russian, too risky. Person I know, reliable.”
“All right, just remember it’s urgent.”
Yazov nodded and spoke in Russian to Ivan. He then addressed Boothby. “OK, I go now. Remember, stay inside. Even if apartment burns down, OK?”
***
Chapter 24
Schmidt led the way to the meeting room adjacent to the Director’s office for the investigation team’s review meeting. MayAnn was thoughtful as she paced beside him, matching his long ste
ps.
“The meeting lineup’s interesting,” she murmured as they approached their destination. “CIA AD and a three-star general. There’s a lot of embarrassment going around because of that drone and the Agency involvement.”
“We’ll be under pressure to hand over Mark, as well,” said Schmidt. “Let me handle that part.”
“Willingly—it’s all yours.”
Director Donnelly’s communications PA showed them into the meeting room, a large, comfortably furnished environment with soft leather reclining chairs surrounding an oval table. The Director was at the head of the table, in discussion with two of her senior legal staff. Others were already seated; MayAnn counted ten attendees in addition to FBI representatives. Her immediate boss, Oliver Stewart, was absent—he was back in hospital, undergoing secondary surgery.
Schmidt set his laptop down on the table where someone had placed a card with his name, and plugged in the overhead projector cable. Notwithstanding that it was an FBI meeting, he was providing significant support to MayAnn and sharing the presentation activities. When he opened the presentation file on his laptop and displayed the introductory page on the wall screen at his end of the table, the Director spoke up.
“Thank you, everyone, for allocating time out of your busy work day.” Conversations immediately hushed. “This meeting provides an opportunity to bring some of you up to date, given cross-Cabinet implications. The President is taking an interest in this affair, as you’re aware.” She looked around the table. “I apologize for the absence of my Assistant Director for National Security, he’s undergoing further surgery—as some of you know, he was shot and wounded in the line of duty. I won’t ask for introductions from everyone. Needless to say we’ve a strong FBI contingent, including my Agent in Charge, Special Agent Freewell, who’s been working with Archimedes Schmidt, from the President’s Office. I welcome Paul O’Hare, Assistant Director, CIA and General Jamieson, from the Office of the Secretary of the Army. I understand each external department is represented by senior counsel. I’ll now hand over to Special Agent Freewell. Please note down your questions and hold them until the end of the briefing.”
MayAnn hid her surprise and delight that she was now a Special Agent—the Director had snuck that in very quietly. Schmidt murmured a very soft congratulation; no one noticed.
“Thank you, Director. This is a briefing on the LifeLong Case. I’ll describe the unlawful attack by a paramilitary terrorist group on a research complex, and the events and deaths which followed. I’ll mention names and brief backgrounds of various parties. Some of the resources—personnel and equipment—involved in this criminal activity belonged to the CIA or to the Army, and we’re holding Agency personnel who’ve participated in criminal aspects of this case.” She noted frowns from some of the non-FBI attendees in response to her last comment.
MayAnn spoke for over an hour as she described the background details, without dropping into the detailed evidence and investigatory reports. She recounted, step by step, the attack, including a description of the destruction of the drone. She named names. She described the involvement of the Agency and the death of their personnel at Cherry Hill. She mentioned the apparent ease with which the Army had handed over control of the drone and its missile. She detailed the deaths subsequent to the attack, and the arrests conducted by the FBI.
“Unfortunately, Senator—or I should say—ex-Senator, Boothby remains at large, hidden and protected by, we believe, a Russian criminal gang. Thank you. I’ll now take questions.”
There was an immediate confusion of questions and comments. The Director spoke up, cutting through the chaos. “Gentlemen, please. General Jamieson, raise your points.”
The General looked towards the Director and nodded his head. “Thank you, Director.” He turned back to MayAnn and Schmidt. “Special Agent Freewell, thank you for a most concise briefing. We provided a bomb disposal squad to disarm the missile you mentioned, so we can support your statement that an armed Army drone crashed near the laboratory complex. We also agree the drone was taken over and controlled by Agency employees, now deceased, at the Cherry Point test site. Unfortunately, all files generated by the flight were deleted from the test environment, so we don’t have evidence of the actual use of the drone. While the drone flight was initiated from Cherry Point and crashed near Eureka, apparently under control of Agency personnel, we’ve no supporting evidence that it was used to support this so-called terrorist crime.”
The rats are covering for each other, mused MayAnn. The Army will get points from the Agency for supporting their claim that this is all coincidental.
Schmidt spoke up. “General, fortunately FBI investigators reached the drone test facility before there was any cleanup of evidence, apart from that carried out by the Agency employees. We’ve a recording of all conversations that took place in the test facility, including transmissions to and from so-called Alpha team members—the terrorists attacking LifeLong and killing people. These recordings are standard test practice. We’ve the thumb drive containing the flight plan used to control the drone, together with the laptops used by the four Agency employees. These provide incontrovertible evidence that the drone was used by Agency personnel to support this terrorist attack. In the handout material, please refer to items 96 and 97 for transcripts.”
The general sat back in his soft leather seat, probably wishing he could sink out of sight.
“In that case, Special Agent, we’ll defer further questions until we’ve had an opportunity to examine the handout material in depth.”
“Thank you, General,” acknowledged MayAnn. “I would ask that follow-up questions be advised within seven days. We’re under tight reporting deadlines imposed by the White House.”
“Assistant Director O’Hare,” nodded the Director. “Does your team have any questions for Special Agent Freewell?”
“Thank you, Director Donnelly. Yes, we’ve a number of concerns and questions. Firstly, the Agency protests vehemently this unwarranted attack on the Agency and its employees. No proof has been offered to support what can only be described as wild allegations. No Agency personnel were involved in any illegal activities. We’re not even allowed access to our employees who’re being held by the FBI. Again we request immediate access to Timothy Edgar-Osborne and his desk team members, whom the FBI has sequestered, depriving the Agency of due process.”
“Ahem,” coughed Schmidt.
“You wish to take the Assistant Director’s points, Archimedes?” queried the Director with an almost imperceptible smile.
“Yes, Director. If I may?” The Director nodded her assent.
He coughed again. “Assistant Director. To the contrary, you’re fully aware Agency personnel were involved in this—homeland—terrorist attack. Four Agency employees were killed at Cherry Point while in command of an armed drone which crashed supporting a significant criminal, terrorist endeavor. The names of these operatives are known to you and we’ve copies of HR records which establish they are indeed Agency employees. We also have copies of their pay slips, very clearly Agency.” The Assistant Director moved as if to protest and appeared to change his mind. “We subsequently discovered your Caribbean desk was authorizing taps of selected FBI cell phones—an unacceptable abuse of power, which the FBI and the White House regard as intolerable. We’ve sequestered four Agency employees involved in this activity and they’ll remain under our jurisdiction until this matter’s resolved via our due process. Is that understood?”
There was a hurried consultation between the two CIA attorneys and Assistant Director O’Hare. MayAnn could not hear any of the discussion; although it was obvious the Assistant Director was being restrained by his legal advisors.
“Colonel Schmidt,” replied the Assistant Director. “I reserve all questions until we’ve reviewed the material to be provided at the end of this meeting.” He closed his notepad.
General Jamieson raised his voice. “Director, I do have a request. Well, it’s rather more
than a request. I have a mandate, approved by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to require the immediate handover to me of one Mark Midway and all the technical files he possesses or which you may have recovered from the LifeLong complex. He and his technical files represent scientific knowledge which we could use.”
“Archimedes, do you want to respond?” asked the Director.
“Yes, thank you.” Schmidt paused. “General, unfortunately you have been misled. Midway is not someone’s property. He’s a validly documented American citizen, innocent of any offense, and property—such as technical files—which he rightfully holds, as far as we are concerned, remains his. Files which we may have obtained from LifeLong also belong to Midway. He’s currently under FBI protection and will be participating in the Witness Protection Program. Finally—I have the President’s signed authority to instruct you to inform the Joint Chiefs of Staff the answer is no. By the way, the authority’s also signed by the Secretary of Defense. I’m not sure what else I can say to underscore my response. Just take my word—the answer is no.”
“Colonel Schmidt, I protest.”
“General, let’s be clear—you’re protesting the signatures of the President and the Secretary of Defense? You’re aware this meeting’s being recorded and transcripts will be delivered to the White House immediately we conclude the meeting? Are you sure you want your protest to remain on the record?”
“Colonel, I withdraw my request and my protest.”
“Good,” said Director Donnelly. “As my Special Agent in Charge advised, an extensive selection of supporting documents is included in the DVD which we’re providing. This material’s extremely sensitive. The DVDs are copy protected and require individual passwords for access. Files on each DVD are both encrypted and password protected. The contents are classified as Secret. Unauthorized release of any material will be extremely prejudicial to our investigations and the person responsible will be pursued with the utmost vigor on our part. Are there any further questions?” She paused and looked around the room. No one reacted.
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