“Departure time?” He shrugged. “I’m waiting on approvals. I think fifty or so men will suffice, so we’ll keep it to two platoons plus officers. You and I will go, plus platoon officers. We need the most level-headed. The remainder can remain here or we can set them additional protection duties until we settle this. Maeve, Linda, Julian, and Anna, and their families, are all at risk.”
“Agreed.”
“We need to file dummy flight plans. A flight from our base of operations to Gitmo will raise all kinds of alarms for O’Hare.”
“The word is we’re heading to Fort Bragg. We can file a variation while we’re in flight. We might have some please explains when we return. I’ll let you resolve those.”
“I’ll do that with pleasure,” agreed Schmidt.
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the three captains Helen had scheduled to meet with Schmidt. Planning was about to enter the intensive stage.
###
After the flight plans and strategy were agreed with Helen and her team, Schmidt arranged to question the Russian illegal, Zarina Gorky. He had an hour or so to spare before he was scheduled to return to Washington. He waited in another room adjacent to the interview room where the Russian woman was delivered by a guard. Schmidt had instructed the guard to not to tell the Russian of his presence. He let her wait for twenty minutes before he entered the room. The room was wired for sound and video.
He opened the door and sat down at the interview table opposite the Russian. She was—he agreed with the file note made by a member of the ICE team—an attractive woman. He wondered for a moment if that was O’Hare’s motive. However, that did not align with what appeared to be a regular monthly visit. She was blond, fit, and her smooth complexion and trim figure were all the attributes to make a man forget his objectives, if he was careless. Her face was showing strain and fatigue. He dropped his file on the table and flipped through the pages, stopping every so often to read details. He’d already read the papers in the folder and could probably repeat the contents verbatim. At last he allowed himself to look at the prisoner.
“Well, Ms. Gorky, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“What do you mean? Who are you? Why hasn’t my attorney made contact? Why are you keeping me in isolation? What are you, a general?” She had examined his shoulder badges and for a moment seemed alarmed.
“Isolation? This is a military base and we don’t have facilities for many prisoners. Conditions on Guantánamo may be more to your liking, perhaps?”
“Gitmo? That American embarrassment? Why would you threaten to send me there?”
“I don’t threaten. We’re preparing an aircraft to go there; you could be a passenger.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are? I want to contact my attorney—you can’t hold me like this.” Her face was not so pretty when she snarled.
“Ms. Gorky, our investigations have been rewarding. While your grandmother—that is, your maternal grandmother—has been difficult to trace.” He tapped the file folder. “I don’t believe this nonsense for an instant. We think there is a Saudi link—there was a Saudi presence at her funeral, we know that much. Your paternal grandmother—your father’s mother—was Chechen. Killed by a Russian hit team when they tried to assassinate your father. He continued his terrorist activities and eventually was killed in Syria, a year ago, no?”
Zarina cursed, both in Russian and English. Schmidt’s expression did not change. He was impressed by her vocabulary. He ignored the outburst and continued, “According to our records your father was advising Daesh. His involvement with terrorists makes you a candidate for questioning at Gitmo and for you to be held in isolation. Also, without an attorney. Understand?” Schmidt was sailing close to the wind on this, he knew.
“Your constitution doesn’t allow—”
He shrugged. “Our constitution applies to Americans. It provides no relief for foreign terrorists.” He did not wait for a response. He opened the file and silently re-read a report. He looked back up at the prisoner and said, “It seems you were in Syria last year, visiting with your father. You departed only minutes before an explosion destroyed the house where he was hiding. You went to Turkey. Perhaps the authorities there would be interested in talking to you about an Iraqi who was murdered in Diyarbakir—in the Hilton, of all places. Assuming, that is, we make such a suggestion.”
Zarina’s face was pale except for a pink spot on each cheek. She spat out her words. “You American terrorists fired missiles that killed my father and his friend. Now you want to kill me, is that it?”
“What I want is simple enough. Some truth and honesty, for a start. I have two questions and I want answers. What are you doing in this country? What is your relationship to O’Hare?”
Her eyes brightened as she solved the puzzle. “Aah. So you’re the infamous General Schmidt.” She sat back in her chair, a satisfied expression on her face.
Schmidt wondered whether he should turn off the camera and sound recorder. After a moment’s reflection he decided that would be imprudent. “Yes. I could be even more infamous, I assure you. Now my questions. Let’s start with the first one. What are you doing in this country?”
“It’s such a lovely country—anyone would wish to be here. Isn’t that why you have so many illegal immigrants?”
“You’re one of millions. So you had no particular reason for coming here? Not, for example, to avoid Russian authorities? FSB, your infamous Russian internal secret police, for example, who might be interested in your activities—or more likely, in your father’s activities?”
“Bastards. They are bastards. They have even less decency than you and your Gitmo. You should know.”
Schmidt didn’t comment. He thought the woman was well-informed. He had encountered the Russian secret police and the experience had not endeared them to him. “So your presence here is entirely innocent? Nothing to do with Dr. Chaborz and his intelligence operation?”
“How—?” She shook herself. “I don’t know how you could link me with Saudi operations of any kind. I have been living quietly in this country for a year, and once you release me, I’ll continue to do so.”
“Zarina.” Schmidt’s voice was soft. “I didn’t mention a Saudi operation. You had better rethink what you wish to tell me, and quickly. Our aircraft will leave for Guantánamo in the next day or so. It could be unpleasant for you, there.”
“Bastard.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m immune to crying. Help me, and I’ll prevent your transfer. Talk to me, about O’Hare, about his Saudi connection.”
“He’ll kill me,” she sobbed. “It’s a devil’s choice—Gitmo for torture or O’Hare for my death.” She wiped away a tear.
“We can protect you. I can offer you indemnity and even obtain approval of a new green card for you.” He reached out and touched Zarina’s wrist. “Talk to me.” Schmidt’s voice was soft, his gaze intense.
He was learning.
“You’ll be safe, you have my word.”
Her expression troubled, Zarina started to speak. Her voice was low, nearly out of Schmidt’s auditory range. She seemed conflicted, as though she was saying things against her will. “They—the Saudis—have a video of him. Compromising. With Daesh leaders. There’s more. I don’t know what. They blackmailed him to help with my visa and to protect me—he’s being paid large sums of money. He’s firmly in the grip of the Saudis.”
###
Later, in his telephone conversation discussion with Maeve, Schmidt said, “I think I experienced one of the more subtle effects of my Cerberus change. I’ve noticed how Mark can influence people, same for Anna, and the children. Well, I touched the Russian’s wrist when I was trying to convince her to talk. Up until I did that she had been totally bulletproof. She changed completely after that, told me more. I doubt she revealed all that she knows—she’s a strong-willed woman. Of course, Linda’s team can do their research. I’ve uploaded the tape to her cloud environment; you
can watch it at your leisure. O’Hare has interesting friends. He’s working some project with Saudi intelligence. Perhaps because NSA has had links with the royal family dating from when they originally trained their intelligence people, the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate.”
“What’s her relationship with O’Hare?” asked Maeve.
“Nothing personal, as far as I can determine. He was hired by her father or Daesh to provide protection in addition to arranging her green card. She’s inherited her father’s wealth—he controlled a lot of the oil flow managed by the terrorists. There’s probably more. I’ll arrange further interviews and some of Helen’s people can take part.”
“A worthwhile interview.”
“Yes. I’ve promised we’ll release her back to Homeland Security if she continues to help us.”
“I agree. Next subject. I’ve confirmed your other meetings now the president has approved your flight. It’s SECDEF, followed by ARMY and after that you have Angus Jensen, the new director of the NSA. Before I forget—there’s a meeting also with the admiral heading up the Gitmo Joint Task Force. I’ll send you the schedule; tomorrow is all meetings, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks. I’m waiting on the chopper. Do you have an update on O’Hare?”
“He was with Brown Aviation, according to the last report. That was an hour or so ago. I understand he’s trying to sort out his missing FAA certificates.”
“O’Hare has to arrange re-financing. He’s receiving Saudi funds; he could use some of that money. They’d be offshore, of course,” Schmidt said.
“He could still surprise us,” Maeve added.
Schmidt muttered under his breath. O’Hare was starting to more than annoy him. The man was a criminal and possibly a traitor.
He said, “Please tell Linda to continue the search for pressure points. Ask her to backtrack the origin of the funds he used for his own home purchase and for his deposit on the helicopter. If we keep digging, something might show.”
Chapter 33
Mark was conscious. He was intrigued. O’Hare’s tame psychologist had stopped the shock treatment and reduced the drugs. He wondered if the change was a prelude to a new battery of attacks, although he could not imagine what would be worse. His body ached, his muscles felt as though they’d been beaten incessantly for days, and he was fighting against the effects of various drugs in order to regain coherent thought. He did not know whether it was night or day. He didn’t even know what day it was. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He was in dire need of a proper wash. He wanted to get off this autopsy table. He wanted to be with Anna and the children.
For the moment, his problems had no obvious resolution.
A clatter of noise disturbed his worries.
“Aah, it’s clean-up time, again.”
The soft, feminine voice was totally in conflict with the torture the psychologist regularly inflicted. The splash of cold water was welcome. She hosed him from head to toe. The water flow cut off abruptly and—he forced himself to recall the woman’s name—ah, yes, Emma. She threw a towel over his body.
Emma said, “I’d say dry yourself but even I can see the difficulties with that.” She rubbed some of the water off his face and chest and draped the damp towel across his lower body. “There. I’ll bring you some water to drink and a cup of the gruel you love so much.”
She was gone for what seemed an age but which was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes. He’d managed to open his eyes and keep them open. They had adjusted to the soft light and were now relatively pain free.
Emma held a straw to Mark’s mouth. “Drink this. It’s warm tea with some vitamins added.”
Mark clenched his teeth tight against the possibility of more drugs.
She hastened to reassure him. “No, I promise. I only added some vitamins. I’ve stopped your—ah—other medications; they weren’t having any effect, anyway.”
Mark drank deeply through the straw and choked.
“I’ve told you before, drink it slowly.”
Chastened, he followed her instruction and sipped more sedately. The paper cup gurgled as he drained it.
“Good. Now the Oliver Twist soup. Here, it’s thin enough for a straw, so I don’t need to spoon-feed you. Take. It. Slowly.”
Again, Mark followed instructions and soon emptied the larger container of warm soup and other small items, the identities of which he preferred to remain in ignorance. His stomach protested.
“Can you let me get up? I need to go—” His voice was croaky and strained. While he needed the washroom, he did not know if he could walk.
“We’ll try. Promise first you won’t attempt to attack me.”
Mark said, “Yes, I promise.” He considered his promise meaningless; it was given under duress and he’d do anything to escape this prison.
Emma released the straps holding him in place on the zinc table. He tried to raise his head. She placed her hand at the back of his neck and supported his effort. He lifted his body off the table and swung his legs over the side. His world spun. His eyes closed and he fell back onto the metal surface.
“Here, let me help more.”
The psychologist was surprisingly strong although, on reflection, Mark thought, it might be that he was surprisingly weak. He opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on his task. Feet onto the floor. Stand. Ignore the fierce piercing flames of pain streaming up his legs as they supported his weight. He focused, taking control of his pain receptors. Damp towel around his waist. He moved a foot forward, along the floor. He hoped it was in the direction of the washroom.
“This way,” Emma directed.
He moved his other foot, followed by the first one again, establishing a hesitant, sliding gait. He held onto Emma’s shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body and a memory surfaced. He had tried to influence her once before and seemingly had failed. He moved his hand closer to her neck, to touch bare flesh. He didn’t speak; his mind had two chores and he didn’t want to risk a third. He shuffled his feet, blocking out the pain. He leaned on Emma, trying to silently establish control. After more shuffling, she stopped and Mark glanced up; the washroom door was only a foot away.
“I’ll wait here. Yell for help only if you really need it.”
He released his handhold and gripped the door for transitory support. He collapsed onto the toilet seat.
“Are you all right?” Emma inquired through the half open door.
“Yes.” His voice was still hoarse. Mark was washing his face a degree more thoroughly than Emma had managed with her hose. He dried his hair and face and checked the mirror. A gaunt, unshaven, and unkempt reflection peered back at him through bloodshot eyes. He had not realized his whiskers would grow that much in—what, a week? Ten days? He had lost count. Mark closed his eyes momentarily and turned away. He hung the towel back on the rail and set out on a shuffling journey back to the other room.
Emma was waiting outside the door and grabbed his arm to steady him. She said, “I won’t ask you to climb back onto the table. I think we’re past that, for now.”
Mark did not respond to her words, but his mind raced. What was happening? He fumbled his way and reached out again for support. He used his contact on her bare skin to continue his attempt to establish control.
“Where do you want me to go?” he asked, as he shuffled past the table and appeared to be heading towards the exit door into the office area.
“There’s a comfortable chair in the next room. You can sit there for a little while and build up your energy. I’ll get some more food for you, which will help.”
He uttered words, matching the sequence of his shuffling steps. “Why? Why have you released me?”
“I’m not really sure. I’ve been worried ever since Ken did that video. I’m not sure he intends to keep you alive. I decided I’m not going to be party to anyone’s murder.”
Mark thought, I could murder a couple of people, if I had more energy.
“Here, sit in this chair. Wh
ile I’m getting some more food for you, I’ll try to find your clothes, too.”
###
The second meal was more substantial although still not far removed from some kind of basic gruel. Emma spoon-fed him, slowly and patiently. She was sitting in a chair beside Mark. When she finished, she said, “That’s about two thousand calories so far. You’ll have to wait for a few hours before I give you any more.”
“Thank you.” Mark’s voice was stronger. He was sure he could feel the reaction of his nanites and knew he’d need more sustenance in less than four hours. A steak, he thought, in about two hours, was more to his inclination.
Emma had found his clothes; they had been laundered and stuffed away in the bottom drawer of a spare desk. Mark planned to shower and change, as soon as he was confident of his strength.
“Tell me again, why you released me from the table.”
“I—I told you. Ken’s attitude on his last visit frightened me. I’ve tried to speak with him since and he’s been short-tempered. That is, when he does answer my calls. He’s not his usual self.”
“Perhaps Schmidt has been pressuring him. He—and my friends—know who he is, you realize?”
“How could they? He wasn’t in the video and his voice was altered. There’s no way your friends could know.”
Mark reached out and took hold of Emma’s hand. She had discarded her medical gloves and he could feel the warmth of her skin. He added to the control links he had established earlier.
“Emma, I assure you they know about O’Hare’s involvement. They know he is NSA. They don’t know your name; however, your anonymity won’t last. The penalties for kidnap and torture are severe. You are involved, right up to your pretty neck.”
“But it’s Ken—I’m working for NSA and following his directions.”
“I think we might have touched on this issue before. I’m not a terrorist. O’Hare has his own personal agenda that he’s following.”
Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four Page 86