“A reasonable request, in its way. However, we’ve expended time, energy and resources in looking for you. We weren’t able to protect you, of course. It was too late when we discovered where you were.” He looked at the captain. “I also understand we provided a course of stabilization pharmacology?”
The captain nodded. “Yes, the gold nanites. They will stop the growing pains.”
Mark protested. “None of that justifies you holding me prisoner or forcing me to be a lab rat. Besides, I’ve no idea whether your so-called stabilization process exists or even works.”
“I see. Valid points, I suppose. I have no intention of running a prison. We could just write your costs off to experience. How about this—we let you go, on conditions. You stay away from the FBI offices—we’ve removed records such as your fingerprints and DNA—and we’d like to keep you off their records, indeed, off any government record. You’ll understand why, as your abilities mature. In return—I’ll give you a contact number. At any time, phone that number. I’ll probably be the person who answers it. Just request my assistance. We’ll come and get you. At that point, I’ll have someone fill you in, describe who we are and what we do. Then you can make up your mind whether you want to join the organization. No lab rat activity required, I promise.”
Mark weighed the colonel’s comments. “First, I want to see if I can help my friends—we still need to find Boothby. Then, once the FBI succeeds in arresting Boothby, I’ll stay away from them. I don’t want to become a government specimen, just as much as I don’t want to be a lab specimen, here. I’ll phone you if I want to learn more about you, about your organization.”
“Good. Captain, let our friend go. Make sure he is taken to wherever he wishes. Give him back his ammunition, otherwise that Glock is useless. You’re authorized to draw funds, provide transport, whatever is needed.”
***
Chapter 29
Schmidt listened to the senior FBI leaders plan their response to the Director’s kidnapping. The meeting topics circled around two or three times as the Deputy Director struggled with issues and competing egos. At last Oliver Stewart spoke up, cutting through the spiraling agenda.
“Let me summarize. We’ve three tasks. One is to present to the media a well-founded response. Second is to ensure calm within the Bureau. Finally, we need to capture these bastards and rescue the Director, ensuring she is unharmed. Agree?”
There were nods around the table.
“Very well. My Division is focused on this Russian gang, and rescuing the Director is our top priority. I’ll leave external and internal communications to you, Lucas, as Deputy Director. As far as the internal communications are concerned, you’ll need support from all the ADs, myself included. Agree?”
There were more nods from around the table.
“Very well. I need to move on this. Sorry folks, I must go. Schmidt, coming?” He rose from his chair. Schmidt nodded and followed him out of the room.
“Well done, Oliver,” Schmidt said. “That could go on for another two hours.”
“And probably will. Lucas is a nice guy. However, he doesn’t have enough practical experience, in my opinion.”
Schmidt paused at the elevator to answer a call on his cell phone. He listened intently and then spoke. “Bring him to Quantico, as quickly as possible. I’ll meet you there.” He turned to Oliver. “We have another one of the Russians. It seems he was guarding Boothby—who escaped after knocking him unconscious, and then apparently reported him to 911. It seems Boothby didn’t agree with kidnapping the Director.”
“I’ll let you handle his questioning.”
“Thanks.” There was an element of glee in Schmidt’s voice. “I’m going to enjoy that task.”
~~~
“A terrorist—a foreign terrorist—doesn’t have any rights,” explained Schmidt to the Russian prisoner. “None at all, especially if they’re involved in killing or kidnapping senior government employees. So understand, Guantanamo’s likely to be your home for a long time, if you don’t cooperate.” He did not mention it was likely to be Ivan’s home even if he did cooperate.
“I’m innocent,” protested the Russian. “I was assaulted—by—by this Boothby.”
“You were guarding Boothby?”
“Yes, act as guard. Help him.”
“You helped a criminal evade arrest—you know that’s a crime?”
“I am innocent—want attorney.”
Schmidt looked up at the FBI agent standing behind the prisoner. “Please stop recording.” He waited while the equipment was turned off. “Now leave us alone for ten minutes.” He watched the agent leave the room and then turned to the prisoner.
He laughed. It was a shiver-generating sound, as harsh as splintering glass. “No, Ivan. Be very clear—no attorney. You’re involved in terrorism. We’ve evidence you killed one of our prisoners while he was being treated in hospital. We know you were guarding Boothby. You have been involved in kidnapping the Director of the FBI.”
The Russian shook his head, and winced with pain.
Schmidt continued. “I want to know everything about your boss. I want to know where the Director’s being held, and how many people are guarding her. If I don’t get those details in the next five minutes, you’ll suffer, I’ll make sure of that. If the Director’s harmed or killed by your boss, you won’t reach Guantanamo alive. Understand?”
The Russian did not speak. Schmidt stood and walked behind him. “Ivan, I see you’ve been hit here, on the back of your head.” He punched the padded dressing and Ivan moaned and strained at his handcuffs which were affixed to the interview table.
“I think you understand me?” He hit the dressing again, twice, three times. “The doctor said you might have mild concussion—what do you think?” The Russian moaned, although he did not speak. Schmidt returned to his chair and sat down, relaxed.
“Pain, Ivan, can be easily inflicted. See, your eyes are watering, your head’s throbbing, just from those little taps on the head. I can cause you a lot of pain. I’ve no problem doing that—you’re a terrorist, you kidnapped a friend of mine. I’ll stop when you talk.” He waited.
“I—not terrorist. Now legal resident. Left because terrorism in my home country.”
“Ivan, Ivan. You’re engaged in criminal activities against the US government—planting bombs, killing FBI agents, kidnapping the Director of the FBI. These are terrorist crimes. Also, you murdered an FBI prisoner.”
“No—I just drove Suburban. Not kidnap, not kill FBI.”
“Just being in the vehicle’s enough for me, and it’ll be enough for the court, to convict you. Where’d you take the Director?”
“No—dead man if I talk to you.” Ivan looked away.
Schmidt thumped down on the desk and pushed himself almost all the way across it, reaching head to head with the prisoner.
“You’re a dead man, Ivan, if the Director’s harmed. You’ll accidentally trip on the way out of this interview room, understand?” Ivan fell back into his chair, pulling at his restraints; he was shocked by Schmidt’s aggression.
Schmidt’s anger was almost tangible, it filled the interview room. Ivan had turned pale, he was apparently starting to feel real fear.
“Want attorney.”
“No attorney, Ivan. Talk to me, or feel pain.” Schmidt stood up again.
“No, no. Don’t hit again. Need doctor, need hospital.”
“It’s like this, Ivan. You can talk to me here. Or I arrange for you to go to Guantanamo tonight. The prisoners there are terrorists, too. They tried to attack the United States. We’ll treat you same as them.” He walked behind the prisoner and rubbed his hand across the dressing on Ivan’s head. “See, Ivan. Pain again, from each blow from Boothby. I can match them. Do you feel that, here, here and here?”
“No,” moaned Ivan. “Need doctor, need hospital.”
“Talk first.” Schmidt applied pressure again to the dressing.
“OK, OK,” Ivan nearly
screamed, mainly from fear rather than pain. “I tell you. But if boss knows I talked, I’m dead man.”
Schmidt turned the video recording system back on and re-initialized the tape. He did not mention that US laws probably would lead to a death sentence anyway for the crimes Ivan had committed. Assuming he survived Guantanamo. “Tell me.”
~~~
Schmidt conferred with Oliver after the exhausted and suffering Russian was returned to his holding cell. Schmidt decided not to send the man to a hospital—they had already lost one prisoner that way. “I think we’ve enough details, now. We know the identity of this Russian gang boss. We know the address Ivan drove to, with the Director. It’s unlikely they would’ve moved her, there’d be too many risks. Arrange a rescue team—and be clear, I’m going with them. Maeve is an old friend of mine.”
“Agreed. I’d like to come with you, too. However, that would get me fired, if I got that close to the front line. All right, I’ll arrange it. But be aware, this’ll be a major Hostage Rescue Team effort—we don’t like our Director being a kidnap victim.”
“That’s OK, I’ll join them. What about MayAnn—have you heard—?”
“Yes, I’ve good news, her condition is stable. She has a badly broken rib as well as a fractured arm. She’ll be in pain for a little while. The doctors expect she’ll make a full recovery.”
~~~
Schmidt had obtained the house address and some details of its interior from Ivan and passed those on to the rescue team. The house was a Fannie Mae repossession and should have been unoccupied. Ivan had told Schmidt he did not know how his boss had obtained keys, nor did he know why no one was objecting to the trespass. There were no neighbors living in adjacent houses—they were also repossessions—and the house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac where it backed onto a park.
Schmidt joined the rescue team for its final briefing. The rescue raid was scheduled for four in the morning, a time which Special Agent Charles “Gross” Brown, leader of the Gold Tactical Unit [GTU], considered psychologically suitable. That was predawn and while winter was drawing to an end, it was still very cold in Washington and surrounding urban areas. The GTU was in the final stage of planning. They had found a planning blueprint of the house, and enlarged copies of this were displayed on all four walls of the briefing room, together with a detailed map of the local streets.
“We’ve a stranger joining us on the rescue,” Gross advised his unit. He nodded in Schmidt’s direction. “Archimedes Schmidt. He comes highly recommended and does not need a nursemaid, understood?” He looked around at the twenty members of his team who had crowded into the briefing room. No one commented—if Gross said the stranger didn’t need special treatment, that was the end of discussion. “Good.” He continued with the briefing.
“While we’ve been through this a dozen times, I will summarize again. I promise you—screw this up, and we’ll all be looking for new careers, including me and Schmidt.” His expression entirely lacked humor.
“The Director’s depending on us. The Russians are undoubtedly aware now that we have their location. We’ve had agents out in the target area, checking if there’s any indication of movement in the house where the Director is being held. Fortunately, so far all looks peaceful. We understand there are four Russians, including the leader, who we need to deal with. There’s a possibility two of them may’ve worked for the FSB—Russian Federal Security—not sure how that got past Homeland Security.”
“Let me repeat tactics. Five of you will enter from the rear of the house—that means you set out thirty minutes early, you need time to cross the park. Three for each side of the house, you can enter here and here.” He indicated the entry points on the enlarged blueprint. “Four will enter from the front, you’ll go straight in. The remainder will be backup and will take up positions as previously briefed. You know who you are. Weapons—remember our Director’s in there—if any one of you—you know the drill. We assume the Director will be in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Yes, it’s a guess, we can’t get close enough to check.
“We’ll ignite the neighboring house—it’s two doors further down on the right—at 0300.” He pointed to the street map. “This house. We own it, as of today. We can destroy it without upsetting anyone. Emergency services and local LEOs are supporting us. LEOs will man barricades to prevent bystanders getting in our way—not that we expect many at that hour of day. The arrival of fire trucks and related vehicles and personnel will be regarded by the Russians—we hope—as normal for such a fire. Yes, it’ll wake them up. It will also alert the Director. After all the emergency vehicles and personnel arrive—including us—Schmidt will knock on the front door—he’ll be the fire marshal, tasked to warn people of the fire. He’ll instruct the occupants to evacuate because of the fire, which will be threatening the adjacent house. Next door—here.” He tapped the street map.
“Schmidt’s fire marshal act will provide a diversion at the front of the kidnap house. When he engages the occupants, the team approaching from the rear is to make an immediate entry, through the back door, here. Keep it silent, unless the Russians see you and react. Immediately you’re inside the house, head to the second floor. Your task—do your utmost to locate and protect the Director if she’s on that floor. Shoot anyone else if they show any resistance—we don’t need prisoners. Each of the side teams will penetrate through windows and doors, as marked. Side teams, your task is the same—locate and protect, on the first floor.”
“When we commence our entries, all emergency services personnel will be withdrawn—we don’t want them hurt in any shooting. Once you—whichever team—locate the Director, we need to extract you and the Director. She will probably require hospitalization or, at minimum, a complete check by a doctor. An emergency vehicle will be standing by.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “Of course anything and everything can go wrong. Questions?”
~~~
Schmidt, in his fire marshal’s uniform with body armor underneath, rang the doorbell and at the same time knocked on the front door with a heavy hand. He was standing to one side of the doorway, sheltered by the stone siding, just in case.
“Fire Marshal!” he declared, thumping his fist on the glass and timber panel. The answering shotgun blast made a mess of the glass and light timber door panels. He pressed the doorbell again, and repeated his shout. Another shotgun blast blew through the open space of what had been the door. He tugged a flash-crash grenade off his weapon belt, pulled the pin, and with a roundhouse move, he threw it through the now wrecked doorway, as far as he could into the front room. He readied a second grenade and immediately the first one exploded, repeated the action. Two stun grenades in quick sequence, he thought, should more than discomfit the people inside. He hoped Maeve would forgive him, if she was anywhere nearby.
Four of the GTU members wearing state of the art Diamondback body armor charged past him, through the wrecked entrance. Glock in hand, Schmidt made his way into the house, broken glass and splintered timber crunching underfoot. As he followed the rescue team, he could hear the low pop of silenced weapons as surviving Russians exchanged fire with the FBI agents. While he had not heard any communication from the team responsible for locating the Director, he assumed some of the plan was working.
A Russian lay dead inside the front door. There was a shotgun next to his outstretched arm. Schmidt stepped over the body and continued further into the house. Another Russian was at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, also dead. Schmidt continued through to the back of the house, checking each room. As he reached the kitchen he was surprised to see another FBI agent enter through the back door—they all should be inside the house, according to the planned attack.
“What the hell—?” He was startled. Mark was the last person he expected to see.
“Hi, Schmidt. Good to see you didn’t end up in hospital as well.”
***
Chapter 30
Mark explained as they te
amed up to continue exploring. “I contacted Oliver Stewart, he told me where you were, and authorized an FBI ID tag, jacket and armor for me. So here I am.”
“We can discuss that later. First, I want to find the Director. Agents have checked upstairs, they said the Director’s not there. She’s not on this floor, either. Let’s try the garage, it must be accessible—ah, through here. Come with me.”
Schmidt led the way into the garage, switching on the overhead fluorescent lights as he entered. The garage doors had been forced open—totally wrecked, to be accurate— by the GTU on their entry into the front of the house. According to the blueprint pinned on the briefing room wall, it should be a very large garage, in keeping with the overall architecture of the house, big enough to easily accommodate four vehicles and other toys. Instead it held a black Suburban, a small workbench, some tools, and lacked space for anything else.
“There’s something wrong,” Schmidt muttered as he looked around. He tried to visualize the blueprint, aligning it with what he could see. He walked over and looked more closely at the end wall.
“This should work,” he said, as he tugged on a hand grip. Surprisingly, the wall rolled back in sections and revealed more space, including workbenches and old chairs.
The Director was sitting in one of the chairs, with plastic ties securing her arms and legs. She was conscious and obviously stressed. She was sitting upright and appeared to be very alert. Her captor was standing behind her. He was holding a Colt 1911 .45 caliber automatic and it was aimed unwaveringly at the Director’s head. Schmidt cautioned Mark with a hand signal, and they stopped. Schmidt kept his weapon pointing down, towards the floor. Mark’s Glock was still holstered.
Schmidt was the first to speak. He nodded. “Good morning, Director.” She gave a slight smile in response. He then looked at the Russian. “Dmitry, isn’t it? Dmitry Yazov. Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”
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