Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  “I like it.”

  “Let’s talk it through with the legals. You talk to your lot, and I’ll sound out mine,” said Schmidt.

  “One of these days, I’ll find out who yours are—.” Her smile took the sting out of the comment.

  “Think executive and judiciary, MayAnn. Of course, a black-funded operation. Very high level. Not much more I can say, except I don’t exist.”

  “That just confirms my suspicions without any real disclosure. Well done.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the office door. A junior agent peered in, and looked relieved when he saw MayAnn. “Agent Freewell, the Director’s office is looking for you and Colonel Schmidt. They said could you attend meeting room five on Basement Level three, building 25, as soon as you can?”

  “Oh?” MayAnn checked her cell phone. “They didn’t call me. Very well, we’ll head there now.” She muttered to Schmidt. “That’s one of our really secure floors. This is getting interesting.”

  ~~~

  The meeting room could hold twenty or more people seated around a large rectangular table, although it currently held only Schmidt and MayAnn, and a busy technician. She advised MayAnn she was setting up video conference links to both the Director and Oliver. Test patterns were showing on two large video screens at the far side of the room. There were video cameras trained on both Schmidt and MayAnn, and a microphone on the table.

  “Interesting,” murmured Schmidt. “They must’ve enticed Oliver into the office.”

  “He claimed he was feeling better. I think the term workaholic comes to mind.”

  “There’s a lot of that about.”

  After about five more minutes, images began to take shape, and once the displays were clear and the sound balanced, the technician left the room.

  “Good morning, Agent Freewell, and to you, Archimedes,” greeted Oliver. He looked pale. He had not fully recovered from the Russian’s attack. “I believe the Director will be with us in a minute.”

  “Good morning,” returned MayAnn. Schmidt nodded his greeting.

  “Ah, good.” It was the Director. “Everyone’s here, thank you. I called this meeting. I’ll be quick. I’ve a small group of security technicians who do various tasks for me. One is to check—via telecom corporation databases—what phone tapping operations have been authorized for various law enforcement and government bodies in the US, each week. I have my little team run these new authorizations against our database of FBI and FBI-related telephone numbers. To our surprise today, five of our phone numbers turned up in the matching process. These numbers are for the cell phones belonging to Oliver, Agent Freewell, Archimedes, and me—I have two.” The Director paused for a moment. There was stunned silence.

  “Yes, I felt the same. I’ve an investigative team backtracking the authorizations, and as soon as I have further details I’ll share them. This is a stunning penetration of our security. I’m going to skin and gut and hang out to dry the person who did this. In the meantime, understand that some of your recent calls may have been compromised.”

  “Director, this is astounding. If you want a hand with the gutting, let me know.” Schmidt was angry.

  “Director, if our phone calls have been compromised, what about our emails?”

  “A good question, Agent Freewell. I’ll have my little team work on that question for you. I’ll leave you to assess the ramifications for your LifeLong investigations. Oliver, let me have a risk assessment report by 5 p.m. Thank you, everyone.” The Director disconnected.

  “MayAnn, can you list all your calls over the last week, inbound and out, and caller or who called? I’d like a brief outline of each conversation,” requested Oliver. “I’ll do the same. Then we need to assess the risk arising from unauthorized disclosure of the contents, whether to Boothby, the Russians, whoever. Schmidt, if you don’t mind providing your details, also?”

  “Certainly. I need to escalate this on my side, as well.”

  “Just don’t use your cell phone,” advised MayAnn.

  ***

  Chapter 18

  “I suspect,” commented MayAnn later to Schmidt, “this is Agency-related, and it’ll play right into our hands. There’s always a trail of paperwork a mile deep for any bugging requests. Theo may’ve overstepped his reach.”

  “Yes, I agree. However, just consider the contents of our conversations. Theo must be having a good laugh at our expense.”

  “He won’t laugh long,” commented Oliver. He had re-established the video conference, after receiving their cell phone call details. They had decided video was more secure than a telephone conference. After commencing the session, the screen had been blank for four or five minutes as they waited for Oliver to return.

  “Apologies for the interruption. I just got word—the Director’s technical team has traced the tapping requests and has three names. She’s playing hardball—she’s not approaching her opposite number in the Agency. Instead, three of our teams have been briefed to arrest these Agency people at their homes. The arrest teams will hit each address at 4 a.m. tomorrow. SWAT will accompany them, and it’ll be a very noisy wakeup call. They’ll deliver the prisoners to you.”

  He looked at the astounded faces of Schmidt and MayAnn. “I know, I know. However, the Director advised the President of her concerns and her intended approach. He approved. We don’t know how far up the tree this’ll go. Remember, this may not answer all of our questions—either who the Agency person is who’s working with Boothby, or who killed the Agency operatives by carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Correct,” said Schmidt. “I can’t see them being the same person.”

  “Apart from revealing details of our progress, what else have your phone conversations disclosed?” asked Oliver.

  “The one area I am sensitive about is my conversations with Midway. We didn’t talk for long. However, I did ask Midway to email me,” said Schmidt. He rubbed his hand across his close-cropped skull. “And if they’re getting our emails as well—”

  “I don’t think internal FBI emails can be accessed—at least that’s what the IT Engineering Division advises. They’re not sanguine about emails into the FBI system, and outgoing emails can end up anywhere, as you know.” Oliver shrugged. “Midway’s not likely to disclose his whereabouts in an email, surely?”

  “No,” said Schmidt. “But if they can grab his email, they could pick up his IP address and use that to trace the source. However, I expect Mark to logon only if he is a long way from wherever he located. No, I don’t see how they can discover where he is.”

  “But Schmidt, you don’t have an FBI email address—we all use your private address.”

  “It’s secure, probably better than FBI can manage. We don’t have so much traffic to worry about.”

  MayAnn was about to pursue Schmidt’s claim when she suddenly realized one of her communications could cause issues. “I almost forgot. I had a phone call yesterday from an agent—he’d had an enquiry about the APB for Mark. He did mention the caller’s location—Brunswick, Georgia. Damn.”

  “So apart from someone picking up on this, Mark should be safe. I’ll include it in my risk assessment for the Director. Anything else?”

  “I spoke with legal about getting some subpoenas. I just mentioned I needed a meeting, no details,” said MayAnn. “I did have an inbound call advising me of Casey’s murder. I arranged Pickover’s move from the safe house.”

  “I also had a call into our legal,” added Schmidt. “I’m scheduled to meet them tomorrow. No details covered. Fortunately, I think both me and MayAnn are cautious about what we say on a phone.”

  “Right. That gives me all the details for my report. Thanks. Anything else before I go?” Oliver waited a few seconds, and when both members of his audience shook their heads, he disconnected the video feed.

  ~~~

  Schmidt balanced his new cell phone in his hand. “You know, I’m really reluctant to make calls, even if we’ve new phones and new SIM card
s. Plus I’ve now got the task of transferring my address book—hundreds of numbers.”

  “Oh stop muttering,” chided MayAnn. “We’ll need to make some calls on our old phones, just to keep traffic up—otherwise it’ll look suspicious if we stop using our phones at the same time.”

  “Can you get details of the three Agency names from Oliver? I’ll drop a word in to Homeland Security, in case one of our boys decides to make a run for the border.”

  “What if Agency tentacles reach into DHS?”

  “Risk is what life is all about,” said Schmidt. “You’re right of course. I would certainly have an alert trigger to let me know if my name suddenly appeared on a no fly list, and being Agency, they probably have multiple identities.” He smiled.

  Later, back in their temporary office, MayAnn checked her emails; she read one and whistled softly. “Guess what. One of our taps—Agency aren’t the only ones who can do this—one of our taps on the Russian network, has come up golden. We have their location, possibly where they’re holding Alexis. The team wants to know if they should go into rescue mode.”

  “Yes, immediately. Full kidnap/hostage rescue process.”

  “Agree. I’ll let Oliver know, and also tell the team to go.” She used her new cell phone for the calls.

  ~~~

  It was close to 10 p.m. when the kidnap rescue team reported back. They had Alexis, she was unharmed, and was on her way to Quantico under heavy escort. The two Russians guarding her had realized there would be no value in trying to fight off a heavily armored FBI SWAT team, and had rolled over very quickly. They now were under arrest, and also were headed to Quantico, traveling separately.

  “Pickover will be very relieved,” said Schmidt. “You should let them use my apartment here,” he suggested. “Better than both being locked in a cell after her experiences these last few days. That means I can go home. I should be safe.”

  “You’ve grown soft-hearted,” said MayAnn.

  “Never. It’ll soften him up, and we can ask him more questions. He owes us, now.” Schmidt doodled on his pad. “And she may know things that Pickover doesn’t.”

  “I take it all back.”

  “This is going to be a long night. Do you want to go with any of the arrest teams in the morning?” Schmidt was interested.

  “No. I want to have them here. We need detention cells in a different area for these three. They shouldn’t see either Alexis or Charles at any stage.”

  “All right. Let’s assess what Pickover has to say after he and Alexis are re-united. Yes, they can have my apartment. As long as we’ve a voice tape running.” He doodled again. “My schedule—after we get something to eat—wait for Alexis, put them together, and then go home. I’ll be back here at 9 a.m. The arresting teams should be back by then. We can check with them, then talk with Alexis and Pickover. Maybe talk to each of them, separately. Oh, and review the tape, first.”

  ~~~

  Schmidt was enjoying himself. He sat down in the interrogation room, opposite the first CIA agent, and threw his pad onto the table. MayAnn sat down quietly. Schmidt frowned and glared at the prisoner.

  “Aiding and abetting terrorists—or perhaps conspiracy to commit terrorist acts—not a nice way to end your career at the Agency, is it?”

  “My name is Bernard Reeve. I’m an Agency employee and I want to speak with my manager.”

  “Oh, dear. Your manager could also be here, for all I know, ex-agent Bernard Reeve. I could arrange special treatment for you—how do you like Cuba?”

  The man snarled. “Guantanamo isn’t for US citizens.”

  Schmidt laughed with obvious humor. “You, my son, are an ill-informed optimist. I can get you there on a flight this afternoon. You’ll just disappear.” He checked his notes. “Your family will be disappointed. Little—what’s her name?—yes, Emily, will be so sad you missed her birthday party, don’t you think?”

  “Leave my family alone or I’ll—.”

  “Yes?” Schmidt raised his eyebrows. “You’ve no influence here, sonny. None at all. Now, about these terrorist links of yours—.” He paused.

  The prisoner paled. “What?—wait, I don’t have any terrorist links.”

  “Why’d you authorize these two cell phones to be tapped?” Schmidt dropped two photocopied forms in front of the man. He tapped the top sheet of paper. “That’s your signature—we checked.”

  “But—but that was for—.”

  “Now don’t blame others,” Schmidt smacked the desk with the file and the prisoner jumped at the explosive sound. “The sentences, if you have a friendly judge, will be upwards of twenty years. Imagine, little Emily will be all grown up and married by the time you get out. As for your wife—she’ll be living with that boyfriend of hers, don’t you think? They’re probably already planning for him to move in.”

  “You bastard,” snarled Reeve. “OK, I signed it. I was directed to do so. By my manager.” He sat back and folded his arms.

  “Even though you knew it was illegal to do so?”

  “In the Agency, you do what your manager tells you.”

  “Ever read up on World War II war crimes? No, I suppose not.” Schmidt sounded disappointed. “Your manager’s name?”

  “Tim. Timothy Edgar-Osborne.”

  “T. E. O.” Schmidt turned to MayAnn. “Aah, we’ve got him. Let’s move, quickly.”

  ~~~

  Their arrival at the address given by the prisoner was just in time for their driver to swing his SUV to a stop in front of a yellow Porsche 911, preventing it from entering onto the street. Another black SUV halted just seconds behind; it contained a four-person FBI SWAT team. Schmidt, MayAnn and the four black-uniformed members of the SWAT team jumped out of their vehicles, and with automatic weapons and handguns leveled, they quickly formed a semi-circle around the front of the small sports car. The occupants, a man and his wife, appeared to be terrified.

  Schmidt reached over and opened the driver-side door. “Timothy Edgar-Osborne?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “You’re under arrest. Step out of the vehicle. Are you armed? Do you have any weapons?”

  “Yes, I’m armed. I have a license. I’m an Agency employee. You’ve no right—.”

  “At the moment you’ve no rights except those I decide to give you. Step out of the vehicle.” He raised his automatic. “I’ll assume you’re resisting arrest if you do not exit and move away from your vehicle. Move. Now.” MayAnn already had the woman out of the Porsche and she was face down on the lawn beside the drive. Edgar-Osborne must have realized the futility of protesting further and stepped out and away from his sports car. He kept his hands down.

  “Where’s your weapon?” asked Schmidt.

  “In my holster, under my jacket.”

  “I’ll have one of my men remove it. Don’t try to draw or use your weapon. Understood?”

  “Yes, damn it.”

  It seemed half the neighborhood had gathered, fortunately at a safe distance, and were very avidly watching the scene unfold. Schmidt noticed some were recording the action using cell phones and in one case, a sophisticated video camera.

  He signaled a member of the SWAT team. Edgar-Osborne seemed to wilt when he lost his weapon. Schmidt directed him. “You know the process. Face down, on the ground. Hands behind your back.” He looked at the FBI agents. “Would someone like to handcuff him for me?” There was a rush of volunteers.

  In the meantime, a further two vehicles arrived. They were FBI-branded Ford Crown Victorias, configured to accommodate prisoners in the rear seat, with a solid, batter-proof barrier between rear and front seats. MayAnn conferred with the Crown Victoria drivers and the SWAT team lead. As a result, two heavily armed agents were allocated escort duty, one to the front seat of each Crown Victoria. The prisoners were similarly allocated, with minor differences— in their case, to the back seat and without weapons. The Fords immediately departed with the SWAT SUV as escort.

  “When he gets processed at Quantico
he’ll really be pissed. I instructed the team lead to make it as frustrating as possible.” MayAnn did not often resort to bad language, but she was still angry at having her phone calls tapped. “We’ll wait here until my investigation team arrives. Inside the house, away from this street circus. His wife gave me the house keys and told me the alarm code. Our driver will guard the Porsche and its contents. Come on. We can have a look around. Just remember, evidence rules apply.”

  Schmidt followed MayAnn up the garden path.

  ***

  Chapter 19

  MayAnn was both pleased and disappointed. The Director had expressed her satisfaction with their morning efforts. MayAnn’s team had detained four CIA agents with no loss or injuries, they possibly had identified Boothby’s CIA contact, and the evening before, a team had rescued Alexis Boothby. She also had expressed her dissatisfaction; the positive events nearly, but not quite, balanced the death of their prisoner, the injured survivor of the assault on LifeLong. She made her dissatisfaction clear.

  “Yes, I know he was guarded by a local LEO. That’s my issue. He was an FBI prisoner. We lost him. I don’t like that. We don’t let anyone murder our prisoners.”

  No one argued the point. The Director had a reputation—it was said she had iron teeth used for chewing up agents who disagreed with her. In this instance, MayAnn could see her point.

  “I understand, Director,” she said, spirits sinking.

  Schmidt spoke up. “Director, I think we all agree with you. We’ve made exceptional progress, overall, in just over a week. We’ve still lots to do. There’re three key tasks outstanding. We need to find the survivor from the assault on LifeLong. Second, I want Boothby, very much—he’s been the cause of major political corruption in the Senate and in Congress. Finally, there’s something we shouldn’t lose sight of—we don’t know who killed the four Agency drone operators.”

  The Director looked from MayAnn and back to Schmidt. “Agreed. Agent Freewell, your assignment’s unchanged. Oliver, if you’ve recovered, please ensure the team has the resources Agent Freewell requires.” Oliver nodded, and the Director continued. “Now let me provoke some reactions. You haven’t considered using Midway—I realize he hasn’t been high on your list and also understand he’s known to both of you. However—,” she paused, “—we can use him as bait to bring Boothby out of the garbage.”