Mark One Read online

  “Did she give you any trouble?” questioned Miss Victoria.

  “No, she was excellent. I think she knew if she misbehaved, it’d mean no more walks for her.”

  Mark completed his garage painting task by mid-morning, and was pleased with the result. Miss Victoria offered to pay him and Mark objected strenuously. “No, certainly not. I volunteered. So no, absolutely no.”

  ~~~

  Miss Victoria smiled as she watched her grandchildren through the kitchen window. They were playing happily on the newly mown lawn. Mark had mowed the grass after he finished painting her garage, and the entire garden was looking so much nicer. She sighed. He was an excellent tenant for her little apartment. She hoped he would be around for a while longer. She stood up on her toes and looked down. Betsy was sitting beside Mark’s outdoor chair and was wearing a garland of flowers, placed around her neck by one of her granddaughters. She smiled when she noticed Mark also was wearing a garland of flowers. Her granddaughters were enjoying their play time and making full use of their victims.

  She was interrupted by the front door closing. Her daughter-in-law had returned from her shopping expedition in Brunswick. She often dropped her children off, both to allow grandmother-granddaughter bonding, and to have some private time while she did her shopping. Trace came up to Miss Victoria and gave her a hug.

  “My goodness, you’re not letting my girls play out there with Betsy? You know I don’t trust that dog of yours. She’s just too big for little girls to cope with.”

  “Don’t worry. My new tenant’s in charge. Look for yourself.”

  Trace looked out through the window. She saw her three daughters playing teatime, pouring imaginary tea for a pretend visitor who was garlanded in flowers, as was Betsy. The dog was sitting beside the visitor, her tail thumping gently, as well-behaved as she had ever seen.

  “My goodness. I didn’t know you had a new tenant.”

  “Robin recommended him. His parents recently passed away and he needed somewhere to rest, to come to terms with life. He’s a nice lad, well-mannered. He’s tidied the garden and painted the garage for me.”

  “I noticed the new coat of paint. I thought you must’ve persuaded Tom or someone to do it for you.” Trace looked thoughtful. “Are he and Robin—?”

  “I don’t know. She phoned me last weekend and said he was on his way here. A very cryptic conversation. You know Robin.”

  “Indeed. Am I going to meet your new tenant?”

  “I’m making sandwiches for lunch, for your daughters and Mark. I daresay he’ll need some relief, soon. You can join us, if you like?”

  ~~~

  Mark stood; he dislodged his flower decorations he did so, and the three girls cried their protests at such sacrilege as Trace and Miss Victoria stepped down onto the garden path carrying plates and sandwiches. Betsy looked up and her tail thumped faster. Once their food burdens were carefully placed on the outdoor table, Miss Victoria introduced Mark, and he and Trace exchanged greetings.

  “Thank you for baby-sitting my tribe. I understand you have Betsy under control, as well. Magic,” Trace said.

  “Oh, the girls were no trouble. I just sat there and did what I was told.”

  “Yes, they’d enjoy that. Just like their mother,” commented Miss Victoria. “Poor Cody. Cody’s my son. He’s driven quite crazy by his house full of women. Or so he says.”

  “It’s just a ploy to get your sympathy,” explained Trace.

  Her daughters had gathered around the table, avidly eyeing the plates of sandwiches. The two ladies allocated rations and then sat down as the children raced away.

  “You looked very relaxed, Mark, with my daughters in charge.”

  “I’m enjoying—a holiday, I suppose you’d call it. I needed something like this,” he waved his hand at the garden, encompassing Betsy and the girls, “for relaxation.” Betsy nudged him, signaling she was interested in a sandwich, too. Mark broke off some crust and held it out. The dog took it very carefully, very gently. “I told her she needed to be gentle with the young children. I also mentioned she has a weight problem, so a diet is under consideration.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Mom,” interjected Carly, Trace’s oldest daughter. Mark thought she was about ten years old. “Betsy understands everything Mark says. He showed us.”

  “Now this I have to see,” said Trace. She turned to Mark. “You’ve won my daughters, that’s easy to tell.”

  “Mark, show Mom, go on.”

  “Betsy’s relaxing. Do you really want to disturb her?”

  “But you said she needs exercise. It won’t hurt her, go on.”

  “Very well. Betsy,” Mark commanded. The dog looked up at him, tail thumping the ground. “Fetch the ball for me, please.” Betsy looked as if she wanted to refuse. “Go on, you heard the girls, you need the exercise.” Betsy stood, taking her time, perhaps hoping Mark would forget his instruction. “Hurry up, Betsy. Fetch the ball to me.”

  Betsy walked over to the first tree and nosed a ball on the ground. “Yes, that’s the one. Bring it here.” The dog carefully picked up the ball with her mouth and carried it over to Mark. She dropped it at his feet. Mark rubbed her ears. “Good girl. Now, take it back to the tree for me.” Betsy held her head on one side for a moment, as though commenting on the instruction. Then she picked up the ball and carried it back to the tree and dropped it in almost the same position as before. “Now come here, Betsy, and get your praise.” Betsy, tail wagging, raced over to Mark, and he rubbed her ears again. Trace’s three daughters lined up to repeat his action, and Betsy wagged her tail violently, enjoying the attention.

  “Well,” said Trace, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. Cody won’t believe a word of it.”

  “She seems to understand what I want her to do.”

  “And Robin said her horse understood you, too,” added Miss Victoria.

  “Did she? The horse was tired and wanted to get to her stable, I think.” He explained to Trace. “I helped Robin when she drove her horse home in the horse float. Robin wanted me to be the one who got kicked.”

  “That’s Robin,” said Trace and they all laughed.

  ~~~

  Cody arrived later that afternoon and was welcomed by his three exhausted daughters. Trace introduced Mark and they shook hands. Cody, a deputy sheriff, was Miss Victoria’s youngest son. His wife explained to her husband.

  “The girls spent the morning in the garden, training Betsy, and then walked her around the village. In between making perfect nuisances of themselves with Nan’s new tenant.”

  “Thank you for helping with our children,” said Cody. “I trust it wasn’t too arduous?”

  “Certainly not. They’re very good girls and they enjoyed the discipline demonstration with Betsy.”

  “Robin sent Mark here,” said Trace. “He needed to find somewhere to rest for a while.”

  “You know Robin?”

  “I helped her drive her horse float home in the middle of a blizzard. She rescued me from freezing to death, as well. She suggested I come and stay here and rent Miss Victoria’s apartment for a while.”

  “Sounds like a story?”

  “Yes. Fortunately we all survived. I’m relaxing here. Gardening. Painting a garage. Debating philosophy with Tom. Inspecting his boat repairs. Disciplining Betsy. Oh, and babysitting. It’s an exciting life.”

  ~~~

  Cody returned two days later and, after a quiet word with his mother, found Mark working in the garden.

  “I spoke with Robin. She’s very impressed with you.” Mark looked at him and Cody continued. “I worked out who you are. There was an APB for a Mark Midway which was quickly withdrawn, after that terrorist attack on the laboratory—what was it called—LifeLong.”

  “My name is Nicholls, Mark Nicholls.” Mark said.

  “It’s OK. I checked with the FBI—a friend of mine is an agent—he says you’re as good as gold.”

  Mar
k’s face dropped. “You contacted the FBI? Did you tell them where I am?” He realized there was no sense in pretending.

  Cody frowned, unsure why Mark was concerned. “No, I just asked if the APB was a mistake, and my friend said yes, there’s no warrant, no record, nothing outstanding, on Mark Midway.”

  “Cody, you’ve got me worried. Did you see the FBI make that announcement on Friday, about the Senator who arranged the attack on LifeLong?”

  “Yes, Harold Boothby. There’s an APB out, we get those.”

  “If he finds out where I am, he might try to arrange to have me killed, too.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be a link. My contact was adamant your APB was an error and he didn’t ask for any details. I didn’t say I’d seen or met you.”

  “He may make a record of your call. I suppose I’m just being cautious. It’s a worry.” Mark shook his head. The sky, cloudless, strangely had grown dark even though it was only mid-afternoon.

  “You think?”

  “Boothby is crazy. For some reason he had my parents killed, and I was fortunate to escape. I just hope the FBI catch up with him.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve caused difficulties. I know you’re very welcome to stay here. However, if you think there’s a risk, why don’t you talk with the FBI?”

  “I know the agent in charge and she has offered witness protection. I may take them up on that. I just need to think about what to do.”

  ***

  Chapter 17

  MayAnn listened intently to the caller, her body language indicating it was bad news. When the call was completed she turned to Schmidt.

  “The survivor from the assault on LifeLong—Casey—died this morning. Apparently—to be validated—an intruder interfered with his IV drip. Hospital personnel suspect it was contaminated—we won’t know until we get the autopsy results. The guard, a deputy sheriff, is missing. Our local agent thinks he was lured away from the hospital. Hospital cameras show him leaving, and the hospital’s monitoring equipment indicates the patient was still alive at that time. Ten minutes later, again according to cameras, another person, male, entered the hospital and gained access to the patient’s room. Casey’s vital signs terminated approximately five minutes after the intruder departed. We’ve enough images to identify him. Murder of a perp on my watch isn’t good—this is starting to have the makings of a disaster.”

  Schmidt sat back in his office chair and considered. “It probably was one of the Russians. They seem to be Boothby’s back-up enforcers. We need to review our protection of Pickover. Let’s find some space at Quantico and move everyone here—our key witness, the investigation team, even Mark if we can persuade him. If we can’t protect Pickover here, we should all retire to a desert island somewhere.”

  “Good suggestion—would it be difficult to find a suitable island?” She thumped a file with her fist. “Can you talk to the marshals? Perhaps they should add more guards at the safe house while we organize? I’ll talk to Oliver. He said he’s fit enough to work, even though he’s resting at home. I need his approval.”

  ~~~

  Their Quantico accommodation was hurriedly arranged after Oliver authorized the move. The nominated building, in addition to offices, had two small apartments and a number of temporary holding cells, one of which Pickover occupied instead of the safe house. He was under heavy guard. While he had not yet been released to the Federal Witness Protection program—it was managed by the Department of Justice, and once he was placed in the program, the Federal US Marshals would ensure he disappeared from sight—US Marshals continued to provide guards.

  “Charles,” explained MayAnn again. She and Schmidt were in an interview room with Pickover. “We need every item of information you have. Every item. Then we can let the marshals take you under their wings.”

  Pickover paced the small room, deep in thought. “I—I gave you all the files I have on Boothby.”

  “Yes, we agree. Our investigators are reveling in the sheer mass of detail,” said MayAnn.

  “There’s an Agency component that you’ve not touched on,” added Schmidt. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, making notes. A quick examination of his pad would have identified more doodles than writing. It was his way of maintaining focus.

  Pickover stopped his pacing. He stared at the wall. “Agency?”

  “CIA,” said MayAnn.

  “Yes.” Schmidt was watching Pickover.

  “I—I don’t know. You’ve got Boothby. Plus two Congressmen and a state governor. A slew of corporate executives.” Boothby’s wealth had been sourced substantially from corporations, mainly pharmaceuticals and a major bank, all seeking favors and legislative influence, all willing to pay money into the Senator’s Grand Cayman bank account.

  Schmidt applied pressure. “Quit stalling, Pickover. We can always arrange some jail time prior to your release into the witness program.”

  Pickover turned abruptly towards his inquisitors. “No, you can’t do that. You promised. You also promised to find Alexis for me. I’m starting to doubt whether you can deliver.”

  “Charles, we’re doing everything we can to catch whoever has taken Alexis” said MayAnn. “We both know there’s Agency involvement in this crime. We have four dead Agency operatives, killed—presumably murdered—while working on a clandestine operation within the US. We need details. We need to find out who controlled them, and who killed them.”

  “You know you will tell us, eventually.” Schmidt smiled, but his expression was totally without humor. MayAnn looked away. She was reminded of a tiger stalking its prey.

  “I’m dead if I speak. This is far riskier than giving up Boothby.”

  “And you’ll be dead if you serve jail time,” predicted Schmidt.

  Pickover commenced to pace again. Schmidt and MayAnn waited. They had very good cases against Boothby and his key associates. However, MayAnn’s investigation team had encountered two impenetrable barriers: one was identifying the Agency link and the other was discovering who had finagled the gas heaters, thus causing the deaths of the drone crew at Cherry Point.

  “Let’s talk about this, Charles,” directed MayAnn. “Four people died. They were Agency employees engaged in using a drone to help the team attacking LifeLong. Someone arranged for them to do that. Was it Boothby, either direct or via you, or via someone else? We want to know if Boothby requested it, and the name of the Agency person who controlled them.”

  “All right. All right. Boothby, just over a year ago, gave me a phone number and a first name. Theo—that’s all I have. Most of the time Boothby dealt directly with him. I just had secondary involvement.”

  “Did you record any of your conversations?” asked MayAnn. Schmidt was doodling again.

  “Ah—yes, one or two. I can get copies if you give me access to a computer.”

  “And how did you pay him?” Schmidt stopped doodling while he waited for Pickover to answer MayAnn’s question.

  “Boothby gave me account details for Theo. It was a numbered account at the Grand Cayman bank. My contact with Theo was only to advise him when I made payments, when I transferred funds from Boothby’s account to his. I have copies of transactions—I’ll need to access my computer.”

  “Did you ever meet this Theo?” Schmidt asked.

  “No. All my dealings with him were by phone.”

  “Do you have details of any meetings between Boothby and Theo?” Schmidt again.

  “No, the Senator kept his personal diary to himself.”

  “OK. We’re not giving you direct computer access. MayAnn or I—your choice—will sit at a computer and you’ll provide your file storage details—URL, account name, password, directory, file names, encryption key. We’ll download everything to a local disk and explore the material.”

  Pickover was visibly disappointed. MayAnn suspected his cloud facilities held other files which he wanted to hold back in case he needed further bargaining leverage. Pickover began to pace again. Then he s
topped and stared at MayAnn.

  “What about Alexis?” There was restrained frustration behind the question.

  “As I said, Charles, we’re doing everything possible. We suspect she’s being held by Boothby’s Russian contacts, or else they’ve already handed her over to her father. We’re working on this as a top priority. We want Boothby, and you want Alexis safe—we have common objectives.”

  Pickover sat down at the table. He looked at each of Schmidt and MayAnn in turn. “I’ll give anything you need, to see Alexis safe. Anything.”

  MayAnn reached over and patted his hand. “We understand, Charles.”

  ~~~

  “What do you think?” Schmidt asked MayAnn when they finished reviewing the files Pickover had surrendered. He was back in his temporary cell.

  “We have audio files of telephone conversations. All very cryptic and in isolation, interesting but not incriminating. Copies of bank transfer instructions and acknowledgments support Pickering’s story. There’s more here than he indicated. This other material’s interesting, although nothing to do with the Agency contact. So the Reverend had other interests—quite a ladies’ man—I wonder if his wife knows? I had a question mark, there.”

  Schmidt laughed. “It’s always surprising what you find under rocks. I agree with your assessment. So we need more. Difficult to search the Agency HR files for someone with the first name of Theo or Theodore—we don’t even know if it’s his actual name or a code name.”

  “We have voice prints. So, if we get a lead, we can make a connection.” MayAnn thought for a moment. “What about a subpoena on the offshore bank? Do you think we could manage that?”