Mark One Page 9

  Tom was sitting at a table, menu in hand, when Mark arrived. He wondered if all the remaining villagers were elderly. If so, and if Tom and Miss Victoria were examples, they were still very active. The shipbuilder was not that much younger than Miss Victoria, and she was probably in her early eighties, Mark thought—not that he was a very good judge of age. At Tom’s invitation he sat at the table with him and perused the menu which Ellie had handed to him as he walked in the door.

  “Anything you recommend?” he asked his dining companion.

  “Harry does a good steak; it’s his special, tonight.”

  “Sounds good. How’s your rebuild going?” he asked. Tom dismantled and rebuilt parts of his boat almost in equal portions.

  “I think I added half a dozen nails, today. I’ll add the same number on the other side, tomorrow, to keep’r balanced.” He was very serious, although Mark discerned a twinkle in his eye.

  “And the fishing? Do you ever catch anything in that water?”

  “Sometimes, on the flow of the incoming tide, and at full tide. Mainly for m’cat, though, he’s not very fussy. They say the fish’re OK to eat. Not sure I’d eat anything that has swum in all the murk. There’s a factory and one of those big refineries, other side of the estuary, they’re the cause.”

  They both ordered steak and each sat self-absorbed, while they waited for their orders to arrive. At last Ellie delivered two full plates followed by coffee. The silence continued as they ate their steaks.

  “Very good,” agreed Mark. “I enjoyed that.” He wiped his face with a paper napkin.

  “Worked up an appetite fixin’ Miss Victoria’s garden, didya?”

  “Does everyone know what everyone’s doing, in this village?” Mark asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Of course. It’s full of old gossips. Nat’ral consequence of life.”

  They both were silent for a while. Mark was about to reach for his check when Tom fixed him with a stare

  “Are you that Mark?” he asked.

  Mark frowned. In some ways the question was expected. Miss Victoria had probably discussed the news item with her village friends. “I could say I don’t know what you mean.”

  “And I could finish m’boat this week.”

  “Tom, seriously, it’s not a question to ask. From what I heard, there were some serious heavyweights in that attack.”

  “Yes, and a young man defended his home against a gang of terrorists and he won. Deserves a medal.”

  “Can we change the subject?” His request was as good as a confession, Mark thought, and hoped Tom would not pursue his question further.

  “Certainly. Of course, if it were you, everyone in the village would offer their support. For some reason, they seem to’ve taken a liking to you.”

  “Thanks.” The thought of a paramilitary attack here, against old villagers, horrified him. “Tom, don’t ever intervene in a fight like that. From what I saw on television, those attackers were very well armed and ex-military.”

  “Now it don’t seem right to promise such a thing.” Tom’s voice was firm and from his attitude he would brook no argument.

  ***

  Chapter 12

  It was late Thursday evening, and Charles Pickover was meeting with his employer. He watched, entranced, as Senator Harold Boothby, after shredding his cigar, pounded his desk with its remnants. He waited for the Senator to make his point. He stretched out his long legs—the soft leather chair was very comfortable.

  “Charles, I don’t give a flying fuck what Barker said. He’s responsible for this mess. So are you—you’re responsible for using him and his fucking Southern United Fundamentalists. I just won’t have it, I won’t.” The Senator looked at the battered shreds in disgust.

  Charles tensed, alarm bells ringing. “Harold, I must point out, you instructed me to have Barker use his team. If I may recall your words, you said the Reverend will need some of his men to do the job. I won’t be the football for you to kick because the Reverend’s people got screwed.”

  He could tell Boothby was momentarily taken aback. Normally the Senator indeed treated him as the football to kick when things went wrong. That, apparently in Boothby’s mind, was the proper order of life.

  The Senator tidied the shreds of his cigar. At last, disgusted with its destruction, he threw it onto the floor.

  “Very well. Barker lost—how many dead?”

  Charles counted them off. “Seven dead. One in intensive care. One escaped, and I haven’t heard whether he’s reported in yet. We lost four CIA resources. Carbon monoxide poisoning. An accident.” He knew there was a high probability the CIA deaths would be linked to the actions of Barker’s paramilitary team.

  “Pah. That was no accident. Four operatives controlling the drone in support of the attack died at the same time as the Fundamentalists. Of course they’re linked. Don’t be naive. It’s God’s message, we must do more.”

  “They destroyed the LifeLong operation, though,” defended Charles, shifting in his seat.

  Apparently Boothby was in no mood to be mollified. “We lost twelve men, if this Casey doesn’t survive. For what? A trashed laboratory, some deaths, but no papers, no research material, and this—this genetic monster’s still at large. There’s probably enough evidence to drown all of us if we’re not careful. We need control over the FBI investigations. Counter Terrorism. Pah!” He thumped his desk. He stood up, restless.

  “Harold, Counterterrorism will be tough to penetrate. I don’t have any links, there.”

  “What about this Schmidt? Any idea who he is?”

  Charles considered for a moment before replying. “No—no. He seems to have come out of the woodwork. The Agent in Charge was transferred from her normal FBI duties and is reporting directly to Oliver Stewart. My sources say she’s very bright, effective, squeaky clean, and dedicated to her job. The AD—Stewart—is just as bad; he’s dedicated and straight. Apparently they’re checking individual backgrounds very thoroughly before allocating agents to the task force.” He shifted in his seat again.

  “What about our remaining Agency resources? Are they getting anywhere?” The Senator paced back and forth in front of his desk.

  “CIA has been warned off. From what I’ve heard, the President instructed them to stay right out of the investigation. They’re squealing like stuck pigs. He apparently said any obstruction would be dealt with extremely harshly. Guantanamo’s been mentioned, subtly, of course.” The details had filtered down to Charles via his Secret Service contacts.

  “Is there nothing positive in this mess? Can we get alongside any of the local LEOs? They’re always open to reason.” Boothby stopped his pacing and looked down at his employee.

  Charles shrugged. “They’ve handed over total control to the CTD task force. The sheriff was very eager to transfer responsibility. He’s provided a deputy for local knowledge and related assistance.” He thought there was very little he could do for the Senator this time.

  “Can we get to him? Perhaps Barker’s Fundamentalists can discover a like-minded soul?” Boothby reached for another cigar from the humidor on the side of his desk. He snipped off the end and struck a match. Charles watched as it burned down to Boothby’s fingers before he tried to light the cigar.

  The Senator swore. “Can nothing go right?” He lit another match and this time succeeded in lighting his cigar.

  Charles did not immediately reply. He was deep in agonizing thought, trying to identify a course of action to somehow ameliorate the more negative impacts of the weekend disaster.

  “I’ll check with the Reverend whether the last man’s reported in. We need to debrief both him and Casey, once he’s out of intensive care. Pity I can’t do it myself.” He was thinking aloud, at the same time realizing it would be extremely risky to be too close now to Barker and his surviving team members.

  “What? Don’t go anywhere near those people. I wonder—should we increase the insulation between ourselves and the good Reverend, as well? I
f his involvement is revealed, he’ll talk. That will lead to you, and then—” He frowned at Charles.

  “You want to terminate Barker? It sounds extreme.” Charles shook his head. “This is a mess.”

  “That’s a point, a good point. We need complete separation, not just insulation. Do you have anyone—?”

  “No.” He was deep in thought. “No,” he said, at last. “The situation’s far too delicate. Do you?” Charles thought it was more than likely the Senator could find someone to eliminate Barker.

  “Let me think about it.” The Senator puffed on his cigar, sending clouds of heavy aroma across the room. “What about our Agency contact—TEO? He’s exposed, and maybe he’d help?”

  Charles’ thoughts raced, chasing each other in decaying circles until he felt his brain would implode. Boothby was absolutely correct—their Agency contact was definitely exposed. The agent had generated a number of events linked to the drone and its loss, and these might be traceable. He stared into space, silent.

  Boothby pointed his cigar at Charles. “You could talk to him. Explain the risks if Barker is arrested or makes a statement in a press conference. TEO also needs to ensure his links within the Agency are erased. Yes, that could work.”

  ‘“It’s far too risky,” Charles protested, looking up at Boothby.

  Boothby waved his cigar in dismissal and the ash spread across his desk. He was back in his deep chair, trying to plan how to regain his usual control of events. He directed Charles, as though his decision represented the only valid course of action. “I know it’ll cost. Worth every penny. Use the Grand Cayman account, as usual. Make contact as soon as you can. Keep me informed.”

  Charles Pickover did not wait to be dismissed. He stood and quietly fumbled his way into his overcoat. He needed its insulation; the freeze was still influencing Washington. He was deep in thought as he left, barely acknowledging Boothby’s farewell. He had dismissed his driver earlier in the evening, and now had to wait at the curbside for a taxi to respond to his raised arm. He gave the Willard as his destination.

  The cab journey was short and he soon was settled in the Scotch Bar, upstairs from the Robin. The barman served his usual dram. Charles sat in thought, slowly sipping the imported spirit, enjoying its burn in the back of his throat. Boothby, he suspected, had a variety of contacts and probably could reach further into murkier depths. He also suspected the Senator’s like-minded associates, providers of most of his offshore funds, possibly had similar contacts.

  At last Charles stood, his decision made. He walked back to the lobby and sought a quiet location where he would not be overheard. He had the telephone number in his address book—he believed in being prepared. When the call was answered, he introduced himself.

  “I need to talk with you,” Charles said. “It concerns the LifeLong matter. I suspect my life is at risk. I’m at the Willard, at the Scotch Bar. I’ll speak with you, Oliver, not with any assistants.”

  Charles listened and responded to a question. “Yes, I can stay in the bar, at least for a while—it won’t be a problem. It’s open until 1.00 a.m., I think”

  He disconnected and returned to the Scotch Bar, to a corner table. The barman served him another dram. Pickover downed the scotch in one hasty gulp, the alcohol burning the back of his throat. He set the glass back on the table, and waited. His life was unraveling, and he could see no way to rewind the film.

  ~~~

  Boothby sat back in his office chair and deliberated as he smoked another cigar. Danger flags were flying in his mind, and possible disaster was threatening his entire way of life. Tonight was the first time he could recall Pickover fighting back, challenging him. While he’d been careful to never deal directly with either Reverend Barker or with the Agency contacts, there undoubtedly were threads, which would lead astute investigators back to him. Even if he survived a criminal investigation, his reputation would be sullied and his resignation from public office inevitable. He sighed, his decision made.

  He checked through his list of contacts, looking for a coded name and telephone number. He had contacts, well established, outside Pickover’s knowledge. He repressed a humorless chuckle. Pickover would indeed be surprised. At last he found the code he needed. Good, he thought. Tomorrow morning should be soon enough for him to make arrangements. It would be costly, he realized. However, that was far better than the alternatives.

  ~~~

  “Schmidt? Oliver. How quickly can you get to Washington? I can arrange a helicopter. Yes, it’s that urgent. I need Freewell, both of you. Yes, it concerns the LifeLong case. We’ve a potentially explosive situation. Good, I’ll make arrangements. The helicopter will be there as soon as I can arrange it. No, no one else, just you and Freewell. Good.”

  ~~~

  MayAnn looked up as Schmidt entered her small working space in the LifeLong laboratory complex. “Can you clone me please?” It was a plaintive plea, borne from near-exhaustion.

  MayAnn had hardly slept Sunday, the subsequent days had not helped, and it already was Wednesday evening. Two LifeLong laboratory workers had reported for work Monday morning and immediately had been placed in protective custody. They had been questioned all day by relays of specialists trying to identify the activities of the laboratory complex. In addition, she had reams of crime scene and laboratory reports and was trying to absorb a summary of the experts’ findings.

  MayAnn continued. “I don’t think LifeLong was cloning people. It seems their objectives were genetic customization of humans, plus artificial birth. Mark’s a very early, pre-LifeLong, genetic engineering experiment. The LifeLong people don’t know very much about him. Probably the only people who knew his real background are now dead. The main item they mentioned is that he ages quickly and suffers bouts of extreme growing pains. They think his physical age is probably between ten and twelve years. Amazing. He appears to be in his early twenties and that matches his mental age as well.”

  Schmidt stopped her as she selected another report to review.

  “Our day just got a lot longer. Oliver wants us in Washington as soon as possible. He’s sending a chopper. Pack an overnight and trust you’ll be there one night only. I’m coming, too. We can discuss Mark on the way. Go and get ready.”

  “Oh, no.” There was intensity underlying the small objection. “How can I supervise here, if I’m in Washington?”

  “Delegate.”

  “Done that. Someone needs to overview, to provide direction.”

  “Assume we’ll be back in twenty-four hours.”

  MayAnn shrugged. “I suppose there’re enough senior people here to carry on for twenty-four hours without my supervision. It’ll take me ages to catch up.”

  The helicopter got them to Washington just after midnight.

  ***

  Chapter 13

  Pickover sat in the corner of the bar, lost in the gloom of his thoughts and, he hoped, in the low lights of the bar. He saw two men enter, but he did not notice they sat where they could fulfill two tasks—watch him and monitor anyone entering the bar. They wore dark suits and a very alert observer would have noted that one had a shoulder holster when the leather strap was displayed fleetingly as he straightened his jacket. They each ordered a scotch and left the untouched glasses sitting in front of them. It gave them a reason to stay in the bar without undue comment. Apart from the two men and Pickover, the bar was empty—it was a slow night and the usual patrons had left early. The cold weather was undoubtedly contributing to the dearth of custom.

  Pickover was single. He had been involved in serious relationships in the past, but his work demands always seemed to have a priority. While he and Alexis found some common ground in their relationship, he doubted she was fully committed to him. He suspected she was using him as a way of rebelling against her father. He was certain some day she would make sure the Senator discovered their relationship. Although he had hopes.

  That future problem was minor compared to his current situation. Boothby was a
tyrant, very arrogant and with a psychopathic profile, and like all tyrants, could not tolerate opposition. The Senator had gradually inveigled him into his affairs, assigning that increasingly tainted both of them. His reaction this evening—the way he rejected Boothby’s attempt to allocate responsibility to him, for the failed attack on the LifeLong laboratory—would have set the Senator’s alarm bells ringing. Pickover surmised Boothby already had initiated steps to not just sever their relationship, but more likely, to arrange an accident, a fatal accident. The insurance he had prepared, like life insurance, was something that would pay out after his death. That was not enough, Pickover concluded; he needed something to help protect his life, not end it.

  He could obtain funds—illegally, he admitted to himself, but he was so far down that path, another step would not bring about his total destruction. He could tap into Boothby’s illicit Grand Cayman accounts. As soon as the thought occurred to him, he turned on his tablet and logged on to the offshore bank’s secure web site. Money was going to be important if he was to survive Boothby. Besides, thought Pickover, it would be poetic justice if Boothby’s funds gave him leverage to do just that.

  He keyed in instructions with the necessary passwords and authorization codes. Fortunately, the bank would action the transfers immediately. It maintained a twenty-four hour operation for its international clients. His withdrawal almost emptied Boothby’s main account. He left just enough money on the account for the bank to consider it to be still active.

  Of course, Boothby had other accounts in other banks in other jurisdictions. Pickover, while he had access to more accounts, considered he had withdrawn enough money to ensure his survival. He considered the transfer as a retirement bonus. He monitored his tablet’s email application until he saw the bank’s confirmation. Deed done, he thought. He spent the next ten minutes distributing the funds through a series of banks and into his own anonymous offshore accounts, away from the Cayman Islands’ jurisdiction, until he was confident he had built a protective wall around what he now regarded as his severance bonus. The transfers had gained him almost ten million dollars. Boothby would explode when his loss was discovered, Charles thought, feeling more than an edge of nervous discomfort mixed with a perverse glee.