“Damn.”
“That’s exactly what Maeve said. There are other links based on the flight plans. One is to Ross Cromarty—you know of him. Another is to a property occupied by a woman, possibly Russian. We’re continuing to dig.”
“I’ll return to Washington. I’ll be in my office tomorrow morning. Chuck can handle the troopers. We have a good case to proceed against two or three, in particular, Trevors and Joyce. They’ll probably arrange plea deals. There’s been some resignations—the State will be looking for a new troop major.”
Maeve added, “Good. Final item—we’re going to ask Brian Winter if his team will investigate what happened at the airfield where we think the aircraft was refueled. Mark was undoubtedly off-loaded at that time.”
“Agree with that. Well done, Linda. Let’s keep researching—we need to locate Mark.”
Chapter 18
“What do you know about Cromarty?” Schmidt asked. He had reviewed Linda’s analysis of the helicopter’s flight plans, which included numerous flights to Cromarty’s New York State property. “I’ve encountered him in the past. Your team has details?”
“Yes. He’s wealthy, an aggressive takeover and strip them merchant. He tried to buy both the Cerberus and Lifelong genetic research data.”
“And failed. RDEz was the only reliable purchaser, at least in the president’s opinion,” Maeve said. “We had a lot of soft reports in the FBI files, but nothing hard about his dealings. We never discovered anything actionable.”
Schmidt didn’t mention that he was a substantial shareholder in RDEz, Julian Kelly’s company, or that Mark had received a large block of shares in consideration for the sale of all the research files he had rescued from the deadly attack on the Lifelong complex. Maeve and Linda were fully aware of Schmidt’s investment, anyway.
Schmidt explained, “We need to know more about Cromarty. Linda, perhaps your team can dig deeper with their research?”
“Yes, I’ve added that to the list. It’s public knowledge that he has substantial interests in shipping, manufacturing, and resources. A lot of foreign investments, mainly in Africa. There’s a rumor he has a substantial shareholding in a Russian oil exploration company.”
Maeve said, “I remember—we had a suspicion he was using his foreign corporate structures to bypass sanctions against trading with Iran. That’s it. His mother—no, his grandmother—was Iranian; she moved to California in the 1970s. She passed away about ten years ago. Also, he has a reputation for being a vindictive business opponent.”
“The FBI didn’t proceed against him? Breaking sanctions carries severe penalties, I thought?” Schmidt asked.
“We only had vague rumors. Our legal people recommended taking a wait-and-see approach. I don’t know what’s happened since I retired.”
“I’ll add that to our list,” Linda offered.
“Please do,” Schmidt said. “Do we have any idea why Cromarty might be interested in Mark?”
“I’m going to take a leap into the dark. Don’t laugh,” Linda said. She paused. She was deep in thought, her expression serious.
“Go on,” urged Maeve.
“You have to be joking,” Schmidt said, looking at Linda.
“No, I’m serious.”
“What are you two talking about?”
“It’s a 70% probability,” Linda offered.
“Might be closer to 75%,” Schmidt returned.
“Tell me what you’re talking about.”
Linda flinched at Maeve’s tone of voice.
“Relax, Maeve. Linda and I are building the same set of probabilities. Cromarty wants Mark for leverage to get Lifelong trade secrets. He failed to get them legitimately. He probably blames me for his failure to acquire Cerberus, so he’s using Mark to trap me. Julian also may be at risk. Interesting.”
Linda nodded her head. “I think there’s more. He wants to ensure the sanctions issue is buried.”
Maeve said, “I don’t think I can cope with both of you. One is bad enough.”
“Can your team refine your probability model?” Schmidt asked Linda.
“Yes, I’ll put it at the top of the list.”
“Aren’t you overworking your analysts, based on a vague rumor?”
“No, Maeve. It’s obvious, when you think about it. I’ve read about how he reacts if someone tries to obstruct his business dealings. I recall something about a Russian who tried to take over his oil investment—he was found dead. There was a major article about it in the Sunday Times, the British newspaper. The reporters claimed the Russian hadn’t committed suicide, that he was murdered. Cromarty threatened major legal action against the paper and the reporters. There was another case, here in New York. Something about a bid for a property.” Schmidt said.
Maeve frowned. “The other bidder disappeared? His body was never been found?”
“Yes, that’s the one. With headlines like those, there must be other examples of his business misdealings.”
“My research list is long,” reminded Linda.
“I agree, the priority is O’Hare. Followed by Cromarty. We need data. Something to help us find and rescue Mark,” Schmidt said.
“I can make more Cerberus people available, if you need,” Maeve offered.
“Yes, please. Ex-FBI types might be best; they’ve legal training and investigative experience.”
Schmidt said, “If you can, send resumes to both Linda and me.”
“Consider it done.”
“We’ll need to brief the president about Cromarty. I should do that, anyway, to update him on Mark’s kidnapping.”
Maeve said, “I’ve arranged a thirty minute session—private—for you, me, the president, and someone from his National Security team, for tomorrow.”
###
The president welcomed Schmidt when he and Maeve were ushered into the small meeting room. It wasn’t even a conference room, thought Schmidt, as he settled into a chair. He squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. This was a working office, not a showroom.
“Schmidt, welcome. We were wondering when you’d be back in business. Missed your insights.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to be back. I’ll arrange the medical clearance when I have a moment to spare.”
“Ha! I’ll bet that will take a while. Maeve, also welcome. What do you have for us? I take it the only good news is Schmidt’s return?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll cover quick headings.” Maeve pushed a file across the desk. “This contains the details. Midway has been kidnapped. Nathan Boyle, ex-CIA, posed as a senior FBI agent and arranged a police blockade to grab Midway. We’re searching for his location. We traced the helicopter Boyle used. Identification is based on partials, unfortunately. Once we had that detail, we analyzed the aircraft’s flight plans for the last couple of years. There are solid links. Suspects—Ross Cromarty might be involved. Other names include General Grovers, who is on his staff, and Ken O’Hare. He’s NSA, an AD managing a foreign affairs resources section. O’Hare’s definite and we’re gathering evidence. General Grovers is a guess at this point; we’re searching for substantive evidence. We’re researching Cromarty to find a weak spot. When we’re ready we’ll probably hit the three of them at the same time. Cromarty’s dangerous, also vindictive according to reports, and Mark refused to sell his Lifelong material to him. He was also trying to buy Cerberus intellectual property. Julian Kelly—well, RDEz—as you know, has both sets of IP. We’ve arranged additional security for Kelly. Schmidt, of course—”
“Refuses additional security, I suppose?” commented AJ Jenkins, the president’s national security advisor, with a smile. He and Schmidt were old friends.
“Reluctantly accepted, in this case. I’m aware this could get heated before long.”
“It’s disappointing to hear one of our senior NSA people is possibly involved. Let me know when you have enough evidence to act. What are your next steps?”
“We don’t know, yet, where Midway is being
held, and rescuing him is a priority,” said Schmidt. “We know where the helicopter re-fueled and it’s likely there was a changeover at that airfield. We’ll apply pressure to our three suspects—we need some good pressure points, first.”
“Take care. I’m aware of Cromarty and his reputation. What’s the certainty of the involvement of the other two?” the President asked.
“Approaching 100% for O’Hare. Grovers—our estimate is 60%,” said Schmidt. “We’ll ensure we’re 100% before we take action. And we’ll let you know before we go public with arrests. At least, as long as they don’t react in a way that requires immediate action.”
“Good. Maeve, what about Midway’s partner and their wards—are they safe?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve increased security. They’ve added another child—a talented twelve-year old girl. There’s a page on her in the file.”
“I’m interested in Midway and his—what, extended family? Do what you need to ensure their safety.”
“We agree, sir. They’re well guarded. If Cromarty got his hands on them, he’d have substantial leverage against Midway and we don’t want that to happen. Besides, they’re also friends of ours,” affirmed Schmidt. He had a reputation for protecting his friends as aggressively as he pursued his enemies, if not more so.
“Report every second day, please. Anything else I should be aware of?”
“No, sir. You have the critical items.”
“Thanks, Maeve. Good to see you back in action, Schmidt. We’ve got too much on our list today to spend more time with you. Schmidt, it’s time you took up golf.”
The president laughed at the horrified expression on Schmidt’s face.
Chapter 19
He twisted and turned. His neck burned. His head ached. His arms were strapped to a metal frame. He tried to move his legs and discovered they, too, were strapped down. He tried to sit up. A strap across his upper body held him down. He was able to lift his head, barely an inch or so. He built up the energy to try to open his eyes. His eyelids were stuck and he struggled until at last he managed to open both eyes. They were full of grit, aggravated, painful.
There was nothing to see—the room was pitch black; there was no light, anywhere. He could hear faint, distant noises, so presumably it was daytime. It might be early—very early—morning.
His nose itched. He couldn’t scratch it. His elbow itched. He couldn’t reach that, either. The back of his hand stung; it felt like a wasp was drilling into a vein. He could move his head, a mere fraction. That didn’t help. He blinked. His eyes felt less gritty. He realized he was wired, he could feel pads on his body—he was being monitored.
He swore. He was back on the zinc autopsy table; he could feel the cold metal on his back. The nurse—no, she said she was a psychologist—had not only avoided his control, she had somehow drugged him again, and strapped him into position. Something in his food, he supposed. He felt totally stupid. That’s what comes of being overconfident. His right arm, which he had freed, now was firmly held down. He tested the restraint. This time there was no movement, no give, no weakness, in whatever held him.
Unless, he mused, it had all been a delusion, a dream, a result generated by whatever cocktail mix of drugs they were drip-feeding into his arm. It had been so real. She had brought him a meal. Water. His mouth was dry. So dry. He fought against the natural inclination to dwell on his thirst and succeeded in shutting down, for the moment, the subconscious alarms his body was generating. He knew he needed to escape—he did not need reminding.
A door opened and closed. Voices drifted closer.
“Let’s have some light.” The man’s voice was familiar. He couldn’t recall, yet, where he’d heard it before.
Mark squeezed his eyes shut against the painful glare.
“You’ve eased off the dose?”
“Yes, sir.” This speaker, he thought, was Emma. The nurse—no, she was a psychologist, she said. Mark dug into his memories. Yes, she had said she reported to Ken O’Hare, a senior NSA employee. Therefore the other speaker must be O’Hare.
“Clean him up. Give him some water. He can have a meal. Something light. Free his head so he can eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Add a vitamin mix to his IV. We don’t want him to die on us. After he’s eaten something I’ll ask him some questions, see how he’s reacting. Let me know. I’ll be in the Strawberry Fields building.” There was the sound of a door opening and closing. Strawberry Fields struck a chord. If his memory was correct, it was some kind of black site, in Guantánamo Bay. So he was in Cuba—perhaps he was not being delusional.
“Yes, sir. No, sir. We’re now a catering service. Wash time.”
The flow of water was welcome. It somehow helped to fight his feeling of extreme dehydration. His hose-down was followed by a repeat of the rough towel treatment. At least his face was clean and dry. Again, the towel was draped over the lower part of his body. The table was cold and wet. He wondered if pneumonia was intended to be part of his treatment.
“There.” The psychologist released the strap holding his head in place. “Use this straw. You’ll have to turn your head to this side—you can do that? Good. Drink slowly, otherwise you’ll choke.” She held the bottle while he drank the water.
The water was a relief; the body did not care for dehydration.
“That’s four ounces, enough for now. If you promise to keep still, I won’t strap your head back down. I need to get you some food. I’ll be ten to fifteen minutes, okay? It’s part of the new catering service.”
“Yes,” Mark managed after a number of attempts to speak. “Do you have a menu?”
“Smart ass. It’s whatever the mess will give me. It will be suitable for someone who hasn’t eaten much for days. Soup. Oliver Twist gruel. Who knows?” The door opened and closed with a bang.
Mark, partly refreshed by the small amount of water, tried to think. He needed to stop the flow of drugs into his system. He’d managed that once, he was sure. The nanites had been effective. His thoughts leapt from subject to subject, randomly. He struggled to focus. He lifted his head and dropped it down, hard, onto the metal table. He shuddered with pain—his nerve ends were still affected by whatever pain enhancement pharmaceuticals remained in his nervous system. He cursed. He tried to focus his thoughts. Stop the drug flow. Use nanites to block the needle. Nanites. Yes, they were the answer. He struggled. He visualized the result he required, copying his commands from a day—only a day?—before.
The cell door opened and closed again. It was Emma; he could tell by her lighter footsteps. She was accompanied by the odor of warm food. Mark could not determine what food the odor represented. He turned his head sideways on the table and watched. She set the food containers down on a small table and rolled it across to his bed.
“What is it?”
“Nutritious. The kitchen, when they know it is for a patient, make up a special mix. I have no idea what it is—proteins, carbs, about 2,000 calories. Semi-liquid, to make it easier to eat and digest. It’s not what I call human food. I can’t release you—you’ll have to enjoy Emma’s feeding service.” She raised a spoon full of a gray, unclassifiable mixture.
Mark opened his mouth and eventually swallowed. He was unable to identify the food category. Emma raised another spoonful. Mark opened his mouth. The feeding process was repeated until the container was empty.
“I brought you a hot drink. It’s milky and well-sugared tea. Do you want that?”
“Yes, please.”
Emma placed the straw in his mouth and held the container for him. It was, he thought, a form of nectar. Either that or his taste buds had been utterly corrupted. When he was finished, Emma placed the plastic mug back on the small table.
“You’re looking better,” she said.
“It’s the water and the food—although how that —gruel, you called it—could improve anyone is a mystery.” It was also, he thought, because he’d managed to reduce the inflow of her pharmaceutical corn
ucopia.
“Can you ease some of these straps? The pressure is causing too much pain.”
“Remember what happened before? No. Ask me again after my boss goes back to Washington. Or wherever he comes from, somewhere hot, I’m sure.”
So it hadn’t been a dream.
“You don’t like him?”
“I need to survive. I also need to let him know you’re ready.”
It was, Mark estimated, an hour before Emma’s mysterious boss re-appeared. In the meantime he had tried to relax, even though he was strapped down to an autopsy table. The nanites had stopped the drug flow. The food had revived him to a degree. His mental state was still affected by the drug intakes.
The door opened and closed. Two sets of footsteps approached. He was facing away from the door to his cell and could not see his visitors.
“Midway, Mark Midway.” The speaker was the man who had given Emma instructions earlier. Mark did not respond. His head was lifted up as far as possible and pushed with force back onto the table. The pain was excruciating. He assumed his assailant was O’Hare. He embedded the man’s name in permanent memory.
“I said Midway, Mark Midway. I expect a response.”
“Yes.” Mark blinked through the flashes of lightning.
“Good. As long as you behave, you’ll survive. Behave, in this context, means comply with my orders. You’re in my world, understand?”
“Yes.” The lightning flashes were easing.
“You’re Cerberus?”
“No.”
His head was lifted and Mark expected another bruising slam into the zinc tabletop. Instead his head was, to his surprise, lowered gently.
“My error. You know of Cerberus?”
“Yes.”
“And you work with them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you Cerberus-engineered?”
“No, I’m not.”
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