Mark One Read online

  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.”

  MayAnn looked horrified.

  “I know, he’s a civilian and I’m suggesting we use him to trap a dangerous man. It’ll be up to you both to ensure his survival. Let me have a plan within twenty-four hours. Questions? No? Good.” She terminated the video connection.

  “Ouch, she really does have iron teeth,” said Schmidt with a smile.

  MayAnn felt as though she had been unjustly criticized after a very exhausting, yet successful, week.

  “No, MayAnn,” Oliver had discerned her loss of spirit. “If she really thought you’d done a bad job, you’d be back at your desk in Baltimore and someone else would be in charge. She doesn’t suffer fools, and I think she uses that British Prime Minister—Thatcher—as her role model.”

  “I agree, you’re doing a sterling job,” said Schmidt. “If anything, I dropped that ball, because I suggested the local LEOs could help.”

  “What about using Mark as bait?” MayAnn was very reluctant to pursue the suggestion—no, direction, she realized—set by her Director.

  Schmidt’s reply surprised her. “Oh, I think it’s an excellent suggestion. We’ve given him time to relax. We need his evidence; we shouldn’t indulge him any longer. So it’s time we reeled him in. We may get two fish to surface, if we are lucky.”

  “I didn’t realize you were that cruel.”

  “No, not cruel—pragmatic, perhaps. Now I want to talk with TEO.”

  ~~~

  The prisoner was waiting in the interview room, handcuffed, guarded by three FBI agents. Before Schmidt entered the room, another of the arresting agents handed him a bundle of papers, a laptop computer, and briefcase, the latter branded with the initials T. E. O. MayAnn was interviewing the man’s wife, and Schmidt was handling the Edgar-Osborne interview. They planned to compare notes when they had finished the two sessions.

  Schmidt stepped into the small FBI interview room and placed the material on the table. He sat without acknowledging their prisoner. He leafed slowly through the papers, studying them thoughtfully. There were two airline tickets to Toronto, business class, for Edgar-Osborne and his wife. There were other tickets for the two of them, including travel onward from Toronto to London, UK. Schmidt put the tickets aside. He read through some of the papers and set them down. Over five minutes had passed. He looked up at the nearest guard. “We are recording this? Sound and video?”

  “Yes sir. All running. Two sets, as requested.”

  Schmidt opened up the laptop and switched it on.

  “You can’t access my laptop,” protested Edgar-Osborne. “It contains confidential CIA data.” He struggled with the handcuffs. “I don’t know who you are, but be certain—your head will roll for this. You can’t arrest a CIA agent just like that. I want to protest—you haven’t allowed me to see my wife.”

  Schmidt ignored the man as he waited for the laptop to boot-up. It required a password. He smiled.

  “Password, please.”

  “No, certainly not. It’s an Agency computer.”

  Schmidt checked the computer make and model. “The Agency doesn’t use this model. It’s a serious offense for a CIA employee to hold confidential material on a personal machine. Password, please.”

  “No. I refuse. You can’t make me.”

  “Edgar-Osborne, you’re suspected of committing a number of crimes, all very serious. Some directly or indirectly involving murder and terrorism. So, in all likelihood, you’re going to be locked up for a number of years. You can either do this hard or do this soft. Hard, I like.” Schmidt stood and removed his jacket, placing it on the back of his chair. He rolled up his sleeves and sat back down.

  “Who are you?” whispered the prisoner.

  “Think of me as your worst enemy. We’re charging your wife with conspiracy to commit murder, with aiding a terrorist offense, and with accessing secret documents. Oh, and I think there are possibly some financial laws she’s broken as well. If the judge is kind, she’ll be out of prison after ten years, with good behavior. IRS will be interested—I suppose the offshore accounts weren’t declared? So she won’t have much money left. A pity. She seems such a nice woman.”

  “Leave my wife out of this—.”

  “Now, as for you—let me see. A life sentence for each death—that’s eight, no, nine life sentences. Plus other charges—conspiracy, terrorism, spying, tax evasion, unauthorized telephone tapping, the list just goes on and on. You’re not going to see daylight for a long time.” The prisoner was growing paler as Schmidt continued. “The terrorism component opens up the probability of Guantanamo. I could authorize your transfer there, today.”

  “I want an attorney.”

  “Guantanamo just increased in probability.” Schmidt stood and rolled his sleeves down and put on his jacket. He looked at the FBI agent. “Agent Harris, I need to prepare authorization to transfer the prisoner. I should be back in—oh, about twenty minutes. He needs to be in chains for the transfer.”

  “What?—no, wait, wait.”

  Schmidt looked down at the prisoner. He did not speak. After thirty seconds of silence, he moved, turning to the door.

  The prisoner appeared totally dejected. “All right, the password is my wife’s middle name. Roberta.”

  Schmidt sat back down. He entered the password and waited. The laptop displayed application icons across the small screen. Yes, he thought, it is a personal computer, not CIA. He checked and verified the applications were all defaulted to give direct access. He closed the laptop and spoke to the arresting FBI agent.

  “You can take this to Technology—tell them the password.” He handed over the computer. “Of course, some files might be secured or encrypted. However, I doubt it—I don’t think our prisoner was very security conscious. Instruct them to search for bank accounts and bank transfers, in particular. I want to freeze those funds as soon as possible.”

  After a moment of thought, he added the two cell phones from Edgar-Osborne’s briefcase. “Take these as well. We need details of all calls over the last two weeks. All the usual—who, when, where. Also, ask them to check whether the laptop was used to make calls, using Skype or other software.”

  Edgar-Osborne had recovered some of his equanimity. “You can’t do that—those are my personal property. You’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with. This is unheard of—there’re protocols you need to follow. The Agency will take action to redress this unauthorized interference with its employees.”

  Schmidt signaled for the FBI agent to leave.

  “Very well, Osborne,” Schmidt pointedly dropped the hyphenated surname. He stared at the prisoner. “Let me see. Age 55. Married ten years, to a younger woman. Your wife is English, and her family is what the British would call upper class. Unfortunately, she did not bring the expected fortune with her—at least, not for you to access. No children. Attended Harvard, mundane results. Attorney. Bit of a linguist. Employed by the Agency eight years ago. Managed the Caribbean (Latin) Desk for the last five years. No promotions recently. Those, as such, are the good parts.”

  “Rumored to have a gambling problem. Recently—bribed by Senator Boothby. Arranged for CIA agents to illegally use a drone in the US. To make it worse, the drone was armed with a missile. Objective was to protect and guide a terrorist-style paramilitary raid on a laboratory complex, and to use the missile to destroy and kill survivors, if needed. The affair went to hell in a hand basket, from your perspective, and four Agency employees were killed. We suspect you had a hand in that episode.”

  “Then,
you authorized—illegally instructed—three of your direct subordinates to arrange taps on five FBI cell phones. How am I doing so far?”

  His prisoner had paled as Schmidt delivered his summary. “Read me my rights. I want an attorney.”

  “Oh, no. Remember who your employer is—you’ve pointed that out to me a number of times. We’ll hand you over to the Agency, once we’ve obtained the information we need. I’m sure they’ll let you have access to an attorney. Eventually.”

  “You’ve no proof,” Edgar-Osborne shouted. “You can’t do this. I want to know your name—your career has reached a dead end.”

  “Fortunately for us, we have proof. Authorizations signed by you to tap five phone numbers. Sworn affidavits by three of your direct reports that you coerced them to implement the tapping processes. We’ll shortly have some bank details. We’ve already obtained details of Boothby’s transfer to your Grand Cayman accounts. You did very well out of working for the Senator—about five million or so. I daresay the CIA will discover links between you and their four dead drone operatives. Oh, and my name is Schmidt—Archimedes Schmidt.”

  Schmidt was surprised that the prisoner could grow paler. The CIA agent looked very confused and was struggling to articulate his response, his words making no sense. Then as the prisoner collapsed in his chair, Schmidt realized he was suffering a stroke.

  “Quick,” he instructed the guards, “get a medic here as fast as possible, tell him it’s a stroke situation. Have someone call for an ambulance—tell them the same thing.” While one agent was contacting the internal FBI medical team, Schmidt instructed the other agent to remove the prisoner’s handcuffs and he then lowered Osborne onto the floor, making him as comfortable as possible.

  “We’ve called for a medic and an ambulance,” he explained to Osborne. “You need to be still, for now. I think you’ve suffered a stroke. Don’t try to speak or move. The hospital will be able to treat you properly—there’s nothing we can do. We’ll let your wife know. She may be able to go with you to the hospital.”

  There was nothing else he could do except wait for the emergency responders.

  ~~~

  Later, after the prisoner had been taken to hospital under guard and accompanied by his wife, Schmidt met with MayAnn and they reviewed the interview tape. “We won’t know how serious Osborne’s condition is until they stabilize him and then carry out tests. In the meantime, the Technology guys’re going through his laptop and cell phones. I want to find out how he and Boothby have been communicating these last few days. How’d you go with his wife?”

  “She seemed genuinely bewildered by everything. I believe she had no idea that he was working for Boothby, or that he was doing anything wrong. Osborne told her he had an urgent task to carry out in Europe. They were heading to catch their flight when we arrested them. She’s made a statement. Oh, and the Agency is screaming—claims the FBI’s unduly interfering in Agency matters. The Director provided Oliver and me with written instructions to continue our investigations, wherever they might take us.”

  “Ha. I wondered when the fan would get impacted.”

  “I spoke with our legal people this morning,” said MayAnn. “They work weekends if needed. They’re enthused about the idea of issuing subpoenas on the US correspondent banks for the Grand Cayman bank. Their excitement levels increased remarkably, in the meeting, as they discussed how to approach it—I don’t think our Criminal Justice people get out very often.”

  “Good—needless to say, I haven’t yet caught up on my side. I was planning that for Monday,” said Schmidt.

  “You’re slowing down.”

  Schmidt ignored the comment. “If FBI legals are prepared to run with issuing these subpoenas, it provides a good starting point.”

  “As I said, they don’t get out much.”

  “I’ll get the Office of Foreign Assets Control on the case as well. If the bankers know OFAC is involved, we’ll get faster responses—they don’t like upsetting the Treasury. If we add Boothby to OFAC’s Blocked Persons List, we might drive him out of cover.”

  “I’ll leave the Treasury areas to you. Pickover wants Alexis included with him in the Witness Protection Program, so let’s talk to them separately. Alexis may have details we can use,” said MayAnn.

  “Agreed. Monday I’ll cover Treasury and OFAC.”

  As they were about to address their tasks, a senior agent interrupted. “Agent Freewell—our Atlanta team found Reverend Barker. He and his associate—Arthur Greenwood—were arrested an hour ago, apparently without a struggle. They’re being transported to Quantico and should be here late this afternoon.” He gave a thumbs-up.

  “Excellent news,” said MayAnn. She turned to Schmidt. “That makes our day even busier.”

  He shrugged. “Add their interviews to our schedule. This could end up being an all-nighter. Then we should go talk with Pickover first and then Alexis. Later we can interview Barker and friend.”

  ~~~

  At the very least, thought Schmidt, it would be fair to describe Reverend Barker as a hostile prisoner. The man was almost foaming at the mouth, claiming he was beyond the law of man, that only God’s law applied to him. Schmidt hid his perplexity at the prisoner’s behavior.

  Schmidt tried again. “Barker, you’ll soon discover your attitude’s totally counter-productive. Now, according to the arresting officer’s record, you claimed Boothby had given you directions through Pickover. Is that correct?”

  “I’ve no idea of who this Boothby is, and I don’t know anyone called Pickover.” Barker sat back, his lips pressed tight.

  Schmidt thought he would try a totally different approach. “We ran a software file recovery process on your laptop and found some very interesting deleted files. I’ll have someone search through your cell phone—it probably has some revealing images as well. So you’ve a liking for young ladies? I am sure your parishioners aren’t aware of this.”

  Barker grew red in the face. “Don’t you dare malign a man of God. You’ll be struck down if you continue this blasphemy.”

  Schmidt ignored the pending lightning strike. “I’ll need to arrange for agents to visit your neighbors and parishioners, to see if they know any of the young ladies. We’ll need to identify them and check their ages—some looked to be very young.”

  “Aah—did you say Boothby?” The remainder of the interview was very revealing and very incriminating, for Boothby, Barker and Arthur Greenwood.

  ***

  Chapter 20

  Robin carefully parked her truck behind her grandmother’s Prius. She would need to move it, if Nan planned to go anywhere in her car. However, Robin wanted to be as close to the house as possible. She turned to her passenger who was huddled in the corner formed by the front seat and passenger’s door. She reached out and touched her friend’s arm.

  “Come on, Susie, we’re here, this is my Grandmother’s. She’ll take care of us for a few days.”

  Susie raised her face and hesitantly smiled. “Thanks, Robin. You’re an angel.”

  Robin examined her friend’s bruised face. “I couldn’t do anything else, now could I?” Susie had turned up on her doorstep in the very early hours of the morning, seeking shelter. Robin had tried to persuade her to contact the police, to no avail.

  “No, it didn’t work last time. Ross has too many contacts. The police just don’t believe he could do the things he does,” her friend had explained. So Robin decided to drive to Jekyll Yards, to find shelter for her friend. Her thoughts were interrupted by excited barking. She looked out to see Betsy slobbering all over the front of her truck and furiously wagging her tail.

  “I told you about Betsy—you sure you’re OK with dogs?” she asked.

  “Yes. I don’t mind them.”

  “Well, let’s go talk with Nan. Stay there, I’ll come around and help.”

  Susie moved very cautiously, protecting her bruised ribs. Each step was agony. Robin took her friend’s arm after telling Betsy to sit. The do
g seemed to understand Susie needed gentle handling, and backed away and sat, watching as the duo make their way slowly to the back door of the house.

  The sounds of Robin and Susie struggling up the short set of stairs disturbed Robin’s grandmother at her breakfast.

  “Robin. What are you doing here?” Her voice was full of concern. She opened the door wider to allow her visitors to enter. Robin helped Susie to a chair.

  “Nan,” said Robin. “This is Susie—we went to college together, and we’re both teaching at Fort Junior.” Susie smiled at Robin’s grandmother. “Susie needs sanctuary for a few days. Her partner’s an abuser—this time he really made a mess of her. Is that OK?” She anxiously watched her grandmother’s face and relaxed when she saw her welcome expression.

  “Of course it is, my dear. Pleased to meet you, Susie. Call me Miss Victoria, there’s a dear. Yes indeed, I’ve some spare room, and you’re welcome to stay.” Susie moved and flinched with pain from her ribs. “Do you need emergency treatment, Susie?”

  “No, Miss Victoria. I think I’m just bruised. At least I hope nothing’s broken. Thank you very much, you and Robin are so kind.” Susie started to cry and her tears fell unheeded and unstoppable.

  Robin held her friend’s hand while Miss Victoria set about brewing a soothing cup of chamomile tea for her young guests. When that was done she prepared their breakfast, while Robin brought in Susie’s small pack of belongings and settled her friend in the spare room indicated by her grandmother. They had just completed their breakfast when Mark tapped on the back door.

  “Miss Victoria, is that Robin’s truck—?”

  Robin jumped up, pulled the door open and gave Mark a hug. He smiled with delight as he returned her greeting. “You didn’t tell me you were going to visit?”

  “And you still haven’t given me a number to call,” said Robin. “It’s an emergency, anyway.” She led Mark into the kitchen. “Susie, this is Mark. I told you about him. He’s my horse whisperer.”