Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  ~~~

  They were just over halfway through the course—seven weeks in, six to go. It was a mat session afternoon, focused on self-defense. Under Sam’s supervision, Mark was training with Lee Yu, working through a series of unarmed combat moves. The two young men, along with MayAnn, were far ahead of the other students in this section of their physical training.

  Toby Miles, who apparently relied predominantly on bluster and weight, could not accept his looming failure and reacted accordingly.

  “Hey, Wonder Boy,” he challenged, his sneer reflecting his bullying manner. Toby had taken to addressing Mark in this way in an attempt to disparage and demotivate at least one of the course leaders. “That all looks like fancy dancing. Why don’t you try a real man’s way of fighting?” He shaped up to Mark, his intention obvious.

  Mark looked questioningly at Sam, who nodded. Mark straightened and moved away from Lee and their instructor, towards the center of the training area. He realized his best approach was to try to defuse the situation.

  “Toby,” he commenced, “I don’t think this is prudent—”

  Toby reached out a powerful arm and pushed Mark. “Afraid?” He stepped closer, crowding his intended victim. “Maybe I should show you what pain feels like, huh?” He jabbed again, pushing.

  Mark was patient. He relaxed, falling back, keeping just out of reach of any real force from the repeated jabs. “Toby, listen to me,” he tried once more to divert the deputy sheriff’s attention from his chosen path. “This won’t add merit points—I think it’ll generate demerits.”

  “Shove the demerits where the sun don’t shine, you little pissant salt licker.” Toby swung without warning. There was no finesse in the blow. It was powered by frustration and guided by envy; but if it connected, it would do serious damage.

  Mark stepped to one side, grabbed the deputy’s arm and added momentum to the ill-aimed haymaker. Toby spun, stumbled and tripped, falling onto the mat, cursing. Mark stood back, relaxed, hands by his side. Toby regained his feet and rushed towards Mark. Again Mark’s speed and agility kept him away from his attacker’s long arms, and the deputy tripped on the edge of the mat. Mark knew he had to avoid close quarters with the young deputy sheriff. Toby outweighed him by upwards of one hundred pounds and the man was exceptionally strong.

  Toby recovered and turned and stared at Mark, his venom poisoning his better judgment. Before he could move again, Sam stepped forward.

  “Enough. Toby. This behavior isn’t acceptable. You can either withdraw from the course or opt for counseling—your decision.”

  “What—?” roared Toby and took a wild swing at the instructor. At last, his good sense at last had escaped its inadequate confines.

  Sam floored Toby with a swift maneuver, and then lifted him back onto his feet. He kept a firm grip of Toby’s wrist in a potentially extremely agonizing wrist lock which already had the deputy grimacing with pain. He addressed the group.

  “A wrist lock’s an effective pain-inducing compliance hold, banned from most competitive sports, but used by law enforcement officers for obvious reasons. Be very careful when you use it. You can tear ligaments or even cause bone fractures. Team, please carry on. Mark, MayAnn and Lee will work with you.” He turned to Toby. “We’ll confer with Schmidt. I’ll release you if you agree to behave?”

  Toby snarled and nodded his head. His desire to continue his assault was overcome by his realization that he was outclassed by the instructor. He glared at Mark as Sam released the wrist lock and he rubbed at the pain. “Never, ever let me see you in my town.” The threat was full of venom.

  Later that evening, Schmidt later addressed the group of trainees. “After Toby and I had a discussion with Toby’s boss, Toby agreed his only option was to withdraw from the course. Disappointing.” He paused and looked at Mark. “Mark, your responses were correct. You avoided injury—to either yourself or Toby—and tried to reason with him. Toby had built up a load of negativity, which prevented him from identifying the additional issues his conduct was creating. Questions? No? Good. Dismissed.”

  Schmidt watched as the group dispersed. Not bad, he thought. Six weeks to go, and eight trainees remained. Hopefully they would not lose anyone else.

  ~~~

  It was the last night of the course. Schmidt stood in the center of the recreation lounge with his fellow instructors and addressed the smaller group of attendees, the six who remained of the original ten. Two more had dropped out in the second half, one unable to maintain the physical pace and the other unable to cope with the study pressure.

  “Congratulations everyone. Of course, MayAnn, Mark, and Lee Yu topped the course. I understand there’s not a point between them. Also, the remainder of you did very well. We’ll complete our reports through next week, and send them to your senior officers or employers. We need your feedback as well. We’d like to know what you think was good, bad, what worked, what didn’t work and so forth. We’ve prepared some assessment templates and want you to complete them and share the results with us and with your employers. Yes, we’re a commercial operation. This course—possibly amended based on what we’ve learned—will be available to law enforcement and other interested organizations. Questions?”

  Mark listened to the exchange of comments that followed. MayAnn and Lee came over and congratulated him. Both were encouraging Mark to either join the FBI or enlist in Singapore’s armed forces.

  Lee urged, “I’ll provide recommendations all the way to the top. We need people like you in Singapore. You have my card, contact me anytime.”

  MayAnn laughed. “While I can’t provide references all the way to the top, I certainly can introduce you to the FBI. Also, you have my card. Call me, and if you are in Washington, let’s meet.”

  Schmidt intruded into the light-hearted discussion. “I’m very impressed with each of you and my reports will state that. Lee, you are a credit to your country. MayAnn, I admire how you kept up with these two. Very well done. Mark, I’ll be in contact with Dr. Weinek. I believe we can use you for testing some of our other courses, at least until you commit elsewhere. Now I’ll bid you all good evening. Transport will be available tomorrow morning, after breakfast. I wish you all success. Thank you.”

  The chorus of replies concluded the evening.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  Pickover stretched out his long legs. He was sitting comfortably on a leather settee, enjoying an evening brandy. A thin man, in his mid-forties, he was a political science consultant and had worked with Senator Harold Boothby for almost seven years.

  “I don’t care about the cost!” Boothby thumped the antique walnut Wooton partners’ desk, which was the main feature of his study. “My action group has agreed it’ll provide necessary funds.” He was referring to a group of politicians and businessmen, very wealthy, and with a common purpose—to establish their particular beliefs on American politics. Pickover surmised Boothby’s influence in the action group was not as strong as the Senator imagined.

  The Senator continued. “They know it’ll be expensive. We can’t allow this blasphemous effort to continue. Darwin with his theories was bad enough. Now we’ve someone claiming to clone, to artificially breed, designer humans. The action group wants an elimination team in action as soon as possible. Use Reverend Barker’s Fundamentalists, they are always looking for ways to redeem themselves. Let’s get rid of this—what do they call themselves?—LifeLong—and be done with it.”

  The Senator was in his early sixties, almost completely bald. He tipped his cigar ash into a gold ashtray on the corner of the desk. Most of the ash had already spilled across his desk. He waved at the ash half-heartedly and then ignored it. Boothby puffed again on the cigar and an aromatic cloud drifted across the room. He removed the cigar from his mouth and used it as a pointer.

  “Well? Well?”

  “As you say, Harold.” Pickover paused, sipping his brandy. “Are you sure—?”

  “We have the reports, Pickover
. You’ve read them. This LifeLong organization claims they’ve created artificial life. Some kind of instant soldier. Bah! A foreign doctor—what does he know? And they have more on the way. We—the United States—must be funding this in some clandestine manner. I won’t—the group won’t have it.” Boothby’s face was turning red.

  “Yes, I know—black ops funded, I’m sure. Probably Army, as you say. Why don’t you check with some of the other Senators? You have a good friend on Intelligence?” He was referring to the U. S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “This Tea Party fellow—Guy—the one the group funded—?”

  “No, no, Pickover—we can’t make enquiries outside the group. It would taint us—when news gets out that this LifeLong has been destroyed. Besides, Guy thinks the funds came from me, personally. No, I want you to talk to Reverend Barker.”

  “Very well. I’ll contact the Reverend in the morning. He can come to Washington, I’ll brief him then. It’ll take a week or so, I daresay, to get a team together. Costly.”

  “Call him tonight, not tomorrow morning. I said I don’t care what it costs.” He stubbed out the cigar end. “Use the Grand Cayman Number Three Trust Account.” He attempted to dust more ash off his desk, waving his hand futilely at it. “This LifeLong’s an evil operation, its existence is against God’s wishes. Its activities will taint the United States. The Reverend’s team will have to search for research papers and financial records. We need to find out who’s backing LifeLong, where their funding’s coming from. The Reverend will need to ensure his men recover as much information as possible before they destroy the complex.”

  “And the LifeLong people?”

  “They must be eliminated. All of them. They’re working hand in hand with the devil. They’re contaminated.” He waved his hand at the cigar ash again.

  “What about the clone?”

  “Hmmm. I see what you mean. We could make use of this genetically engineered specimen—what’s his name—Midway—perhaps as a Senate enquiry witness. The President would be embarrassed—weakened, perhaps we could get him impeached. Or else we could force him to resign. We’d be able to get our man in, the country would be strengthened. Very good. They need to capture Midway, keep him alive. At least until we’ve finished with him.”

  A soft knock on the study door interrupted the conversation. Boothby waited as his wife opened the door. “Yes?” he grunted.

  “Harold, is Chuck staying for dinner?”

  “No, no, he’s too busy. He can’t sit around here all night, gossiping.”

  The door was closed without comment. Pickover stood and stretched.

  “As you say. Lots to do. I’ll talk to Barker and get this moving.”

  “Good. Don’t forget we need all the evidence we can get.”

  Pickover stepped out into the night and wrapped his coat more tightly around his body. Washington was turning cold again; winter was still in power. His car was waiting, and he gave his driver directions. As they traveled the short distance to his destination, he used his Blackberry to make a number of calls, attending to routine business. Then he reached into his briefcase for a second cell phone. This was a cheap, ‘pay as you go’ model, intended for one purpose. He dialed a number and waited patiently for the call to be answered. The ringing tone stopped; someone was listening.

  “I’m on my way. About twenty minutes.” No greetings, no names, nothing to identify him or the person who answered the phone. He disconnected.

  His driver dropped him at the Willard on Pennsylvania Avenue. He entered the lobby, oblivious to the grandeur and marble columns. He bypassed the desks and waiting staff, ignored his favorite bar, and exited via a side door onto Fourteenth Street. He waited for the lights to change and crossed the intersection to the Marriott, where the hotel valet signaled a waiting cab. Pickover gave the address for his destination and tipped the valet, who instructed the cabbie. Once the cab was underway, Pickover seemed to change his mind and gave the cabbie a different address. He sat back and reviewed the tasks he had to complete before the day ended.

  The cab stopped in front of a small condominium block on Connecticut Avenue. Pickover paid and tipped the cabbie, and waited for him to drive off. He walked fifty yards to the neighboring building and entered the front door, stepping into a small lobby. There was no doorman. Pickover selected and pressed the button for an apartment on the fifth floor. He waited until the door clicked open and then took the elevator to the fifth floor. He used his key to open the door to the second condominium.

  “Chuck!” Her embrace was warm, her kiss warmer.

  Pickover returned her passion and after a minute, pushed away. “I want you too, Alexis. Are we eating in tonight?”

  Alexis pouted as she straightened her blouse. “Typical male. You were with Daddy?”

  “Yes, and he’s keeping me busy, as usual.”

  “I think he treats you as though you were his office boy.”

  Pickover inwardly flinched. He agreed with Alexis’ observation. He often wished he could break away from Boothby, but knew he was too entangled in the Senator’s affairs to do so easily. He probably also knew too much about the affairs of the so-called Group, and even could guess at some of the members. He had an uncomfortable certainty that if he did severe his relationship with Boothby, he would meet with a sudden accident shortly afterwards. Indeed, his affair with Alexis was risk enough. If the Senator discovered this indiscretion the accident might happen sooner rather than later. He would have to increase his self protection—insurance against a fatal accident—and arrange for some more material on Boothby to be copied and hidden away, to be revealed in the event of his death or disappearance. He wondered for the hundredth time whether he should be the first to arrange an accident.

  Alexis brought his attention back from his black thoughts. “Chuck, that’s twice I asked whether you wanted a drink. Where were you?” She had a worried expression.

  “Just thinking, my dear.”

  “Not sure I want to know the details—far too gloomy for me, I think.” She poured a glass of red wine and handed it to Pickover. It was a Valentino cabernet sauvignon, one of his favorites from Napa Valley.

  “Do you know Daddy has an interest in this vineyard?”

  Pickover, taking a sip from the glass, spluttered. “Damn. You’ve ruined this wine for me.” He sat the glass on the sideboard and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  Alexis giggled. “Come on, I have a steak ready. It won’t take more than five minutes to cook. We can have our dinner, and then you can go. As long as you promise me you’ll stay tomorrow night. All night.”

  “You’re far too generous to me.”

  “I know.” Alexis smiled a temptress smile over her shoulder. “Do you want to hear the latest? I can talk and cook at the same time, you know.”

  “Yes, indeed. I may be able to share some of my misadventures…you never know.” He followed Alexis to the kitchen and watched as she prepared their meal. Alexis was an attorney employed by a large investment bank in Washington DC.

  “Apparently, one of our clients won’t make their third quarter earnings. Our ‘button’ client, if you know who I mean.” Pickover did know and did not hide his surprise. Alexis continued. “Their CFO visited us today, reviewing their stock issue documents. Pass the plates, there’s a dear. Their earnings drop will have an impact on the issue price and subsequent market. They’re looking to us—to me—for ideas. I could do with some help, brainstorming.”

  “Another reason for me to stay tomorrow night.” He was watching Alexis as she checked the steaks.

  Alexis dug him in the ribs. It was not a gentle dig. “Here, your steak’s just as you like it. Come on, let’s eat.”

  ~~~

  The steak was excellent, even if his enjoyment of the cabernet sauvignon had waned. After dinner, Pickover remembered he still needed to contact Reverend Barker. While Alexis tidied the table, he used his cell phone to call the Reverend. After two or three seconds the call was an
swered.

  “Good evening, Charles. What can I do for you?” The Reverend had caller ID.

  “Ah—I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. The Foundation is willing to make a sizable contribution to your church and I need to discuss some details with you—here in Washington.”

  “Very well. Tuesday—I can cancel—it’s nothing urgent. I’ll let you know the flight and arrival time.”

  “Ah—good. I’ll arrange a limo for you. You might like to bring—what’s his name? Arthur?”

  “Yes, that also can be arranged. Goodnight.”

  “Ah—yes, goodnight.” Pickover disconnected the call.

  “Who were you talking to?” He had not heard Alexis approach.

  “Reverend Barker.”

  “That creepy man. I don’t know why Daddy has anything to do with him.”

  “We sometimes have common causes. He’s very dependable. Supports the Senator in the electorate.”

  “Politics! I still think he’s creepy. He tried it on with me, once. I bruised more than his ego.” She smiled at the recollection. “I bet he had difficulty walking for a few days afterwards.”

  “You’re a cruel lady. I hate to say it—but it’s time I left. I still have a lot of work to get through.”

  They kissed, and Pickover left the condominium, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ***

  Chapter 4