Mark One Page 11

  “Likewise. Coffee’s there,” MayAnn indicated the pot. “Help yourself. No donuts, I’m sorry. I checked the marshals. They’re both awake and say there were no noises in the night. Oliver’s recovering, he’s expected to be alert enough by midday to talk to us. No trace of Alexis or of Boothby. Oh, and I need breakfast.”

  “Nice update, especially the parts about coffee and breakfast—donuts, I hope. Good to hear Oliver’s OK. What about the guy you shot?”

  “Out of surgery. Still in a serious condition. I apparently hit lower than I intended—he was moving, after all—and he lost a lot of blood. He’s Russian and a fingerprint at Alexis’ apartment also links to a Russian. Boothby has some interesting friends—American paramilitary and Russian enforcers. I’m trying to make sense of this before we have a conference call with the Director and some of the ADs. Reporters are screaming for details and the right-wingers are up to here with conspiracies, while the Left are blaming the Right. She—the Director—wants to speak with us at 10 a.m.”

  “I got some of that from my lot, as well. We need to drain Pickover of information—that should give us Boothby, and hopefully will lead us to the paramilitary connections. Now breakfast. I should be able to go and get basics, don’t you think? Decent coffee. Oh, and donuts. I know, there’s always a risk, but donuts are an important food group.”

  ~~~

  After they had eaten a proper breakfast and the day shift of marshals was in place, MayAnn and Schmidt had sat down with Pickover. He was still in a state of shock. He told MayAnn he understood how close he had been to death the previous evening and that had thoroughly shaken him. Alexis’s disappearance had exacerbated his fears.

  MayAnn explained. “We need to catch Boothby and we want to build a solid case for his prosecution. So give us everything you can. With hard evidence.”

  MayAnn was sitting opposite Pickover. Schmidt was off to the side. Pickover frowned and stared into his coffee cup. “I’ll give you everything I have. He has—I am sure—killed Alexis. Or had her killed. For associating with me.”

  “Tweaking the tiger’s tail, huh?” interjected Schmidt. Pickover glanced at him, fleetingly.

  “Not really. We were starting to care for each other.”

  “Tell us what you have.” MayAnn wanted focus.

  “I have worked for Boothby for six, nearly seven years. At first, just as his political advisor. We won a good election in 2010. After that he moved me into his inner circle—well, I became his inner circle. Over that time—I’m sure his personality has been changing—very gradually—he’s becoming more and more extreme—psychopathic, possibly. For the last four years I’ve been a conduit for communications with some of his major contacts.”

  “Give me an example, Charles. What are Boothby’s links to this LifeLong attack?”

  “He ordered it. Told me to contact the Reverend Barker—you know?—Barker had some adverse publicity last year—he’s supported by a group called the Southern United Fundamentalists. Their members are probably all ex-military, of one kind or another. Often with bad conduct, other than honorable, or dishonorable discharges. At Boothby’s direction, I provided details to Barker and to Arthur Greenwood. Greenwood leads the Fundamentalists. They agreed to attack, to destroy the complex, to kill the people there. I arranged the transfers of funds—from Boothby’s account—with a bank in the Grand Cayman—to the Reverend Barker’s account, here in the US.”

  “You have documentation? Proof?” snapped Schmidt.

  “I’ve a voice recording of Boothby giving me instructions. Video and voice recordings of my meeting with Barker and Greenwood—I used a very small video camera, the kind you can hide in your lapel. Their fingerprints will be on the briefing file. It’s in my safe deposit box. Plus copies of bank instructions transferring two million dollars to Barker’s private account. That was for expenses in advance.” Pickover paused. “I need witness protection, that’s critical. Also, I need an irrevocable undertaking that I won’t be prosecuted for anything I’ve done while working for Boothby.”

  “Charles, we need to see and hear some of this evidence. Can you arrange that?”

  “Yes. I need access to a computer with a secure internet connection.”

  ~~~

  “Absolutely genuine, Director. I’ve sighted copies of documents. I’ve watched a video of Boothby giving instructions for the attack on LifeLong. I’ve also watched a video of Pickover communicating Boothby’s instructions to Reverend Barker—yes ma’am, that’s the one—and to Barker’s accomplice, Arthur Greenwood. Oh, and I’ve seen copies of bank remittances for millions of dollars, from an account at a Grand Cayman bank to Barker’s account here in the US. There is a lot more detail to come.” MayAnn paused, listening to the Director’s reply.

  “Yes ma’am, we’ve a very strong case for Boothby’s arrest. We can add Barker and Greenwood. No, they’re mainly digital files—PDFs, jpegs, sound, and video. A physical briefing file apparently will have fingerprints of Barker and Greenwood, we’ll have that file shortly.” She paused again.

  “Yes, Witness Protection. No jail time for his involvement,” she replied to the Director. “I recommend and so does Schmidt, that we do this. We get Boothby for terrorism, for the LifeLong raid. Also, I suspect, for having his daughter kidnapped. In addition to Boothby, there are some serious names involved. Yes, senior levels, both political and corporate—some of Boothby’s contributors run offshore accounts, and we can get evidence of tax evasion, bribes, conspiracies, secret commissions, and possibly more.” She listened again.

  “No, at this stage we’ve not explored Agency involvement, that’s our next topic. Yes, I’ve commenced the process. Atlanta will carry out the arrests of Barker and Greenwood, once I give the go-ahead. I initiated a watch for Boothby, and Quantico is looking for him. No, that’s all. Do you wish to speak with Schmidt? Please hold a moment.” She passed her cell phone to Schmidt.

  “Good afternoon, Director. Yes, I heard Agent Freewell’s side of the conversation. I agree with her comments and recommendations, and I’ll include my approval in my report. Yes, I’m disappointed, we need the Agency link. I’m confident we’ll get it. Certainly, Director. Either—both of us—will report anything new. Thank you.” He disconnected and gave the cell phone back to MayAnn. “Your director’s going to hold a press conference at 6 p.m. She said she expects it’ll be a circus. Once you advise Atlanta and confirm the warrant for Boothby, we’d better continue with Pickover. She’ll need our reports well before she talks to the media.”

  ***

  Chapter 15

  It was one of those spring mornings with a slight coolness to the air and a blue sky for which a painter would give his soul, and the sun was preparing to warm the day. Mark had discovered the diner’s secret and every second or third morning indulged in one of their larger, cholesterol-laden breakfasts. The diner opened at 7 a.m., and he was inside and seated at five minutes past the hour. Tom arrived thirty seconds later. Not that they had a competition, but rather neither could resist the temptation of the diner’s morning offerings.

  Mark ordered French toast, bacon, juice, and coffee. Tom decided on the same, with ham instead of bacon. They sat, comfortable in the knowledge a large breakfast would soon arrive, for each of them. They remained silent until they had finished their meal.

  “What mischief are you planning for this morning?” inquired Tom, speaking at last, after he wiped his face.

  Mark looked surprised. “Mischief? I’m still exploring trails. I think I’ll continue with that, today. Not much like mischief, though.”

  “I was using the softer definition,” explained Tom. “Like all words, mischief can have five or six meanings, at least.”

  “Now, Tom, it’s far too early for one of your brain-stretching philosophical discussions,” interjected Ellie as she poured them each a fresh coffee. She smiled at Mark. “Don’t let him get started. Do either of you want anything else? No?” She placed two checks on the table. “Enjo
y your day.”

  After they paid, Tom led the way out. The morning was maintaining its springtime promise. Tom was silent for a moment. “If you head out past the blue house up there on the right—use their drive, go through their yard, the owners are away—you’ll see a trail about fifty yards from their back fence. Follow it east for about half a mile and then it winds north. All kinds of trails run off the main trail. I think it dates back to before Prohibition—probably a smugglers trail used when boats actually could navigate the estuary here.”

  “Thanks. I find it interesting to explore.” Mark did not mention it was also prudent to know the trails in case he needed to quietly disappear from the village. He continued to be vigilant in case the paramilitary group was still seeking him. He headed back to his garage apartment and gathered supplies—some fruit, water, a hat. He also carried his Glock when he went exploring, just in case.

  The trail wound its way around small hills, dipping down to wet, marshland areas and back. Occasionally, he had to trust an old log bridge to avoid wading through muddy water. Reeds grew high where the trail edged the estuary. Sometimes a startled bird took off with a fluster of feathers as it strived for height to avoid the earth-bound intruder. Others just chirped their annoyance at being disturbed in their daytime activities. Anonymous rustles in the long grasses gave no identification of their cause. He felt as though he was miles away from any civilization. His pace was consistent, distance-consuming—he tried to average four miles an hour, and now estimated he had covered twelve miles. Once he knew the trails, he would travel them at a faster pace. He stopped for a short break and marveled at the silence, broken only occasionally by bird calls. He was feeling relaxed and fit, and to his relief, his growing pains had not re-surfaced.

  Back at his apartment, he decided to spruce up the outside of the garage. He had discovered cans of paint in a storage box built into the side of the lean-to where he parked his motorcycle. He spent most of the remainder of the day sanding and cleaning, and in the afternoon he painted the old doors and the garden-facing side wall of the garage. Miss Victoria supervised from a distance, and provided him with sandwiches and iced tea. Betsy wanted to join in, until he persuaded the Rottweiler to sit in the shade. He thought the result of his brushwork was acceptable, given his amateurish approach.

  “You’re settling in,” said Miss Victoria. She regarded her dog. “I’ve never seen Betsy behave like that, for anyone.”

  Mark looked over at the dog. She thumped her tail in delight at being noticed. “She’s a nice dog. Needs exercise, probably. Could I take her with me on my walks?”

  Miss Victoria glowed her pleasure. “Would you? I agree, she needs exercise. While this is a large yard, it’s not big enough for her. I’m beyond all that walking, now. You’ll need to take her lead, which she objects to—I’ll be interested to see her reaction.”

  Mark laughed. “We’ll sort that out. I can finish painting the rest of the garage tomorrow, after Betsy and I have our walk.”

  ~~~

  In the afternoon he rode his motorcycle into Brunswick and purchased another cell phone. He shopped in a different store so his repeated purchases would not cause comment. He then rode north and found a side road where he could stop. He used the charged battery from the previous cell phone and called MayAnn. His call was immediately directed to voicemail, so he disconnected and called Schmidt.

  This time he got through. Schmidt said he had carried out Mark’s instructions for the service for his parents. He also provided an update on progress with the investigations. “I’m pleased you called. We’ve made advances, Mark,” he said. “The raid on LifeLong was at the direction of Harold Boothby, a US Senator. We don’t know how he discovered LifeLong, or how he heard of your existence. He paid for a paramilitary religious group to attack and destroy the lab complex. His instructed them to kill your parents and anyone working there, and to capture you.”

  “Capture me?” Mark’s voice almost squeaked.

  “Yes, he’s a real case. Apparently he thinks genetic engineering’s the work of Satan and so forth. We’ve an APB out on him. He’s gone into hiding, so we now have a major manhunt underway. We’re have issued warrants to arrest key members of the paramilitary group. They call themselves the Southern United Fundamentalists. We have a survivor—one of the men who participated in the raid—he’s under guard in hospital. He’s in intensive care. There’ll be a major press announcement early this evening, by the Director of the FBI.”

  “How long—when do you think I’ll be safe?”

  “We can protect you here. If you stay where you are and somehow, Boothby discovers you before we arrest him, you’ll be at risk.” Schmidt tried to be persuasive. “We’ve a very effective Witness Protection program. We’ll keep you safe.”

  Mark struggled to find words to explain. He was enjoying his taste of a normal life, away from the laboratory, away from tests and medical examinations. He was being treated as a typical young person, and enjoying the experience. Also, he felt safe.

  “Schmidt, thank you. I understand the risk. We both know, as soon as I appear, the risk will increase. There’ll be media exposure. Even in the Witness Protection program, there’ll be a temptation for some people to treat me as a laboratory rat. If my identity was exposed, associates of this Boothby would tear the walls down trying to get to me. Even the government would be tempted. This way, I feel safe.”

  “Very well. Keep our offer in mind. Do you need money?”

  “No thanks, I have enough to keep me going for now.”

  “Both MayAnn and I’d like to be able to contact you, if necessary, either by phone or email.”

  “I dumped the first cell phone and I’ll dump this one as soon as we finish here. Cell phones are too easy to track. I can open an email account, and check it every couple of days, whenever I find a wireless connection. Would that work?”

  “Works for me.” Schmidt reminded Mark of his email address. “Use that, send me a message as soon as you have your account arranged. Subject line—what did they call you?—Wonder Boy. I’ll give your email address to MayAnn as well.”

  Mark laughed. “Thanks very much for the memories.”

  They ended the call and Mark rode back south, disposing of the cell phone in sections—sim card first, then the phone, the latter dropped into another creek. He kept the battery. He did not realize that even with his calls as short as they were, he was leaving a trail.

  ~~~

  Back in Jekyll Yards, Mark wandered down to the jetty, his mind busy. He knew that if he made himself available to the FBI, there would be temptation for people to explore his background, to examine his body, to analyze his genetic background. With Dr. Otto, there had been little need for those explorations.

  Yes, the Doctors had continued to monitor his growth and check his health, both mental and physical. But it had been conducted in an unobtrusive manner, done with sensitivity, with parental care and affection. When the headaches and pains arrived, his parents had helped him cope and recover. As Mark had matured, they had told him some details of his background. Nowhere near enough, of course. He wondered whether Dr. Otto knew it all; sometimes, there seemed to be gaps or contradictions in the details he provided.

  Mark knew nothing of his real parents. He had only dim childhood memories, providing discontinuous glimpses of a past, which made no sense to him. He remembered a car ride to a city—Amsterdam, he thought. He could recall a strange woman who described herself as his grandmother. Further back there was another strange woman—she had not treated him kindly. No matter how much he tried, he had no recollections prior to that. He could remember a flight with his grandmother. It had been a long flight, followed by another car journey, at the end of which she had handed him over to his new parents. It all seemed so long ago.

  Now, here in Jekyll Yards, he was starting to relax. Oh, he still felt sad at the loss of his parents—that mourning would continue. Mush stronger was his feelings of anger, directed at the ki
llers of his parents, and at whoever had arranged the attack. He had decided he would do it all again. He felt no regret at killing the intruders who so callously ended the lives of his parents. Mark wondered about this Boothby, who was wanted by the FBI, and about the man he had shot, who was under guard in hospital. He felt no forgiveness for either. Indeed, he could feel anger stirring, prompted just by his thoughts. It was the same anger that ruled him when the intruders attacked the laboratory complex and murdered his parents and the Longs, the couple who had worked and lived on the complex. He did not realize he was scowling as he approached Tom’s boat.

  “Wow. What got you all stirred up?” Tom backed away, part joking and part serious.

  “What? Oh, sorry, Tom. I was thinking.”

  “I wouldn’t like to be the subject of those thoughts.”

  “No, indeed.” Mark struggled mentally and adopted a more relaxed, peaceful mien. “Again, my apologies, Tom.”

  “That’s all right, lad. Sometimes black thoughts just can’t be avoided. How did your walk with Betsy go?”

  Mark marveled again at how news traveled so fast in such a small community. “She’s an angel. I told her I would be very disappointed if she misbehaved.”

  Tom chuckled. “Miss Victoria’s told her more’n that. The dog didn’t take a lick of notice. You have a magic touch with that animal. Rotties are marvelous, but they’ve a mind of their own, and they’re renowned for their strength. She’s far too strong for Miss Victoria to handle.”

  “I’ll give Betsy some more exercise, and also explain to her why she should behave. That might work.”

  Tom regarded his young friend with concern. “Come and sit here, out of the sun.” He indicated a bench on the deck of his boat. “Be careful though, there might be some nails on the deck—spilled some earlier, haven’t picked’em all up, yet.”

  ***

  Chapter 16

  Immediately after his muesli breakfast, Mark called Betsy and explained she needed to wear the lead while she was walking. She turned her head sideways, looked at him quizzically, and slobbered. Miss Victoria watched, intrigued. Mark attached the lead to the dog’s collar and tugged it, tapping the side of his leg as he walked. Betsy followed, her nose at his knee. She kept at Mark’s side without faltering. He returned after an hour, and Betsy, panting heavily, collapsed on her bed in the kitchen after slurping a gallon of water.