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

by John Hindmarsh

  Reluctantly Mark raised his head. There were three bodies along the wall—Miss Victoria, Susie, and Robin. Each had been shot, execution style. The men—Boothby and this stranger—obviously had asked questions for which the ladies had no answers. Mark checked each victim carefully and could find no signs of life. His eyes flooded, he felt like shooting Boothby and the stranger again, simply to alleviate his anger. He walked back through the house. It was quiet, a hush wrapped it and insulated it from outside influence.

  ~~~

  Mark was halfway to the highway when two sheriff’s vehicles passed him, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They were followed by two black SUVs, also with lights flashing. Mark continued on away from Jekyll Yards. He wound the bike’s throttle up as he reached the highway. He had no interest in returning to the scene of so much death.

  oooOOOooo

  Mark Two

  Prologue

  The Chairman of Cerberus sat back and sipped his coffee, enjoying the aroma wafting up from the cup. He studied his three companions as they chatted. The subjects of their conversations were inconsequential and would revert to organizational business once the steward completed clearing their luncheon dishes and left the dining room. The steward was dressed in lightweight navy blue polo shirt and shorts; it was the unofficial uniform for the Hammer’s crew. The skipper had moored the motor yacht just off Peter Island on the edge of Sir Francis Drake Channel, where the sea was calm, sheltered by the island.

  Dr. White was the only woman attending the meeting. She was of sturdy build, in her fifties, with a very sharp intellect. Her qualification was medical, her expertise genetic engineering, and she was responsible for the effectiveness of Cerberus’s Genetics Center. Mr. Davis, sitting next to her, was an older man, military in his bearing, and appeared to be very fit. His focus was marketing maritime anti-piracy teams and armed shipping escorts. Mr. Jones was younger, one of the more recent genetically modified members of Cerberus. He was responsible for the organization’s military contracting operations. He, too, had a military bearing and was in prime physical condition. Both men had their hair cut very short, emphasizing their military appearance.

  They all were dressed in tropical summer clothes—Hawaiian shirts, shorts, deck shoes—suitable attire for a long weekend on board a luxury yacht. After all, this was supposed to be a Caribbean break, away from the pressures of the mainland. The Chairman smiled to himself at the thought. He was in his sixties, and like his companions, very fit. His hair was gray, cut short. He was suntanned.

  The steward checked if he required anything more.

  “No, thank you, Thomas. Please ensure we’re not interrupted for the next hour.”

  “Yes, sir.” The steward quietly closed the door as he exited the dining room.

  The Chairman coughed. The conversations halted, almost in mid-word. He said, “Please summarize, Mr. Davis.”

  “Yes, sir. We have numerous assets in the US and Europe and our product has had increasing acceptance. I can’t keep up with requests for anti-piracy teams—every resource I have is allocated to commercial shipping for the next year. Revenue is 20 percent above our projections, same with net.”

  “Similar situation for me,” said Jones. “Anyone I have with military experience is contracted out, in some cases for the next two years. We’re guarding embassies, providing contractors for some operations that will never be publicized, supporting anti-terrorist operations—demand is extremely high. Revenue is coming in at 22 percent over budget and net is 20 percent over.”

  “Very good. If I recall the number correctly, that means our revenues are going to break 100 million this year. Well done. Now, I think we’ve reached Other Business, on the agenda,” the Chairman said. “There are two items. The Russians, first.”

  “Then Mark Midway,” said Jones. The other two nodded.

  The Chairman said, “What’s the latest with the Russians? Mr. Jones?”

  “We’ve a transcript of the latest operational meeting of the Russian Federal Security Service—the FSB—dated last Wednesday. The meeting addressed some concerns of their Spettsgruppa A chief. Apparently they lost two of their retired operatives—what they call shadows—last month. They were both located in Washington, D.C.”

  Dr. White interrupted, “Doesn’t DHS block these people?”.

  “They try. The Russians are very good at hiding the service histories of their people,” said Jones. He paused to take a drink of water, rattling the ice in his glass.

  He continued, “One of their losses was Major Dmitry Yazov. You might recall—he was the leader of the Russian gang that kidnapped FBI Director Donnelly, although she’s resigned since. Major Yazov was killed in the raid to rescue her. We suspect Mark Midway shot him, although Schmidt is on record for that deed. The other shadow, a captain, was also killed in this raid. As an indirect result, the FSB approved a budget of one million rubles for a preliminary study on how to find Midway, and how to obtain Dr. Weinek’s research records.”

  “So now we’ve a Russian agency involved in the Midway search. Damn Boothby and his stupidity,” said Dr. White.

  “The Russians will need to spend a lot more than a million rubles,” said Davis. “That’s what, thirty thousand dollars?”

  The Chairman steepled his fingers and looked at the man sitting across from him. “Is that all for this topic?”

  Jones continued, “No. We’ve identified another Russian of interest. He’s changed his name, making him difficult to trace. His base is Boston, where he runs a security company. We intercepted messages between him and Moscow—the FSB office. Innocuous contents, at least given our limited knowledge; however, my analysis team advise that he needs watching. He’s using his security business to build a small, quasi-military force, the majority of whom are Russian émigrés. We’ve not been able to identify links between him and the Russians in Washington, and he doesn’t appear to be actively directed by the FSB—either the links are only activated in an emergency or we need to continue searching.”

  “Are you sure he’s one of their shadows?” asked Dr. White.

  “He definitely was a member of the FSB,” said Jones. “Either major or colonel, we’re still not sure. Of course his immigration paperwork did not disclose that information. We’ve been trawling through Russian records. Our Boston people are monitoring his activities but they need to be careful—as usual they’re accessing sensitive government data.”

  “What do you propose?” asked the Chairman.

  “I’ve reviewed the profile produced by our Psych Department. I think he’s a potential danger to us, if he continues to build a quasi-military force. We should monitor him closely, and if necessary, eliminate him,” said Jones. “Additionally, we’ll have to monitor all the Russian shadows who we’ve identified and neutralize their potential to damage Cerberus. Alert our people in the DHS, if necessary, to get them out of the country.”

  “I agree. We should allocate a blue team—Boston has the capacity, at least to commence this task. We’ll need to form a team out of Washington, as well,” said Davis.

  Dr. White nodded her head.

  “In favor?” asked the Chairman.

  The three people around the table each signaled their positive vote.

  “Motion passed,” said the Chairman. “Your action, Jones. Next?”

  “Midway,” said Dr. White.

  “Our Lieutenant Colonel Buchanan—any comments?” asked the Chairman.

  “If I may?” replied Davis. He was sitting furthest away, almost opposite the Chairman.

  “Certainly,” said the Chairman. The two other attendees nodded their assent.

  “We need to consider a censure for Colonel Buchanan—his actions with regard to Midway were completely out of order. The censure should be formal and recorded—the impact will halve any bonus he’s allocated—and must remain on file for at least ten years. His actions were foolhardy, to say the least. I cannot identify any benefit to Cerberus arising as a result of excisin
g records from FBI computers and files. His action revealed, in a very definite way, our existence, some of our abilities, and our reach. It’s created an intensive, ongoing search within the FBI to discover who we are and how we accomplished the deletions. They’ve increased their internal security. Major cost, zero gain, for us.”

  “I agree,” said Jones.

  Dr. White nodded.

  “I agree, also,” the Chairman said. “Prepare a censure recommendation for my approval. I’ve heard Schmidt has the task of uncovering Cerberus on the top of his action list and that’s a bad place to be. He calls us the Organization. Do we have other Midway material?” He looked at Davis.

  “Yes, although I daresay the answer should be no—we’ve failed so far to discover the whereabouts of that individual,” said Davis.

  “What do you suggest?”

  Davis shrugged. “We need to continue searching for Midway. When we find him, bring him into Cerberus—one way or another—a hard play, rather than a soft one. Our people could utilize the LifeLong research material, as well. The late Dr. Weinek was probably the leading expert on genetic engineering, at least in the US.”

  Dr. White previously had shown little remorse at the news of Weinek’s death—she subsequently could lay claim to his leading position. “How’s progress with the search?” she asked.

  Davis grimaced. “It’s sometimes difficult to remember he’s only twelve or so in elapsed years, although his physical appearance and mental age are twice that. He has a surprising ability to simply disappear. We kept a reference image of his face from the deleted FBI files. We’re continuously accessing DHS passenger images and running facial recognition scans, in case he uses a commercial flight. We’re searching images from Automatic License Plate Recognition cameras for his motorcycle, which assumes he hasn’t sold it or changed his license plate. You’d be surprised how many vehicle images ALPR cameras capture each day across the country. Nothing and nothing.”

  “What about cell phone use? Has he contacted Schmidt or the FBI agent, Freewell?” the Chairman asked.

  “No, nothing there, either. What makes our task more difficult is Midway’s isolation. He has no known friends, no relatives, no typical habits, at least none that we’ve identified.”

  There was silence around the table, except for some pencil tapping, as the small group digested the problem of finding Midway.

  “It’s a pity you can’t add him to the OFAC Blacklist,” said Dr. White.

  “Schmidt would see that very quickly, and pull it,” replied Davis.

  “And it would reveal another facet of our reach,” cautioned Jones.

  The silence continued for another minute.

  “Continue your searching,” affirmed the Chairman. “Monitor genetic biotech companies, in case Midway tries to market his parents’ material. Do the same for universities with well-established genetic research departments. They’re long shots, I know.”

  “Worth while trying,” said Davis. “Very well.”

  “What about property? Did Midway inherit the LifeLong complex?”

  “We believe the property was sold earlier this year. The title was in the name of a Panama foundation,” explained Davis. “We tried to trace ownership, but it’s a dead end. There’s an attorney in New York who deals with an attorney in Panama. They receive and act on coded instructions. They don’t have names or addresses. Well, that’s it. Midway was the last item on the agenda.”

  “Anything else? Anyone?” asked the Chairman.

  There were negative responses from the three.

  “Good. The weekend was well spent.” The Chairman checked his watch. “It’s just after two. Let’s relax for the remainder of the afternoon.

  “We’ll meet in D.C. next month?” asked Dr. White.

  “Indeed, yes,” affirmed the Chairman. The other two men nodded their agreement. He continued. “Let’s go up to the sundeck. The awning will protect you from the Caribbean sun. You can sit and enjoy views across to Peter Island behind us, and to Salt Island, and over towards Tortola. The water is warm, so you can swim, snorkel, whatever you want to do, to relax.”

  As the meeting concluded, each attendee, as a security measure, carefully fed their paper notes through a small shredder. Led by the Chairman, they left the dining room on the main deck and ascended the stairs to the top deck of the yacht. The Hammer was a customized Princess 40M Motor Yacht, purchased by the Chairman from a relatively impoverished Chinese oligarch who resided in Cyprus. The man had been enmeshed in the Cyprus banking crisis and needed access to immediate funds outside the scope of that jurisdiction. The price had been irresistible to the Chairman.

  The steward re-entered the now empty dining room after the conclusion of the afternoon meeting. He gathered plates, cups, and glasses and stacked them onto a tray. He also deftly removed a small video recording device and placed it in his pocket. He had positioned the camera on top of one of the cabinets, after the Hammer’s skipper had performed his security check of the meeting room. He hoped the video was clear and the sound audible. If so, he thought, he would find a ready market for the contents of the small memory card.

  The four senior members of Cerberus’s executive team sat under the canvas shade, enjoying the fresh warm Caribbean air, a welcome relief from the cold temperature of the air-conditioned dining room. Behind them was Peter Island, an emerald jewel in an azure sea. Salt Island was further to the east, and then a string of smaller islands pointed to Virgin Gorda. It was a sailor’s paradise.

  It was quiet. It was relaxing. It felt, somehow, like the calm before the storm.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  Mark paused for a few seconds before entering the bank and checked again that he had everything he needed. He walked through the heavy metal-framed doorway and joined a customer service line. When he reached the banking window he handed across the cashier’s check he had received for the sale of his motorcycle—he had decided it would be safer for him to use city transport instead of his bike.

  “Please swipe your debit or credit card and enter your pin,” directed the service agent.

  Mark did as instructed and the man read the details on his screen.

  “Thank you, Mr. Darrow. Which account do you wish to credit?”

  “My checking account—the one that ends in 6005,” said Mark.

  “Yes, sir.” The service agent completed the transaction and handed Mark the receipt. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Would you like to make an appointment with our investment advisory team?”

  “No, thanks. That’s all I need, for today.”

  With an exchange of polite farewells, Mark turned to exit the bank. His identity was unquestioned; he was using the third and last set of identity documents that his late father, Dr. Weinek, had arranged. The bank had accepted his personal details some months earlier, when he had first arrived in Boston. He still did not know how his father had obtained two additional sets of identity documents for him, both apparently genuine—his current driver’s license matched a record in the New Hampshire State’s database. At least that appeared to be the case. Highway Patrols had stopped him twice in the last month, once in New Hampshire and once in Vermont. Each time the trooper had requested his license and insurance details. Each time, after confirming the information, the trooper had waved him on. Mark realized he had to be cautious; he did not have another set of documents and needed to preserve his current identity.

  Mark walked out of the bank through the same heavy metal doorway, down the broad steps to the sidewalk. It was a busy Boston summer Friday, mid-afternoon. He had the remainder of the day available and planned to explore Harvard University. As he moved away from the stone steps, a sudden and noisy altercation caught his attention. People, some in panic, were hurriedly moving away from the main participants, opening up a space around them.

  A young woman, possibly eighteen or so, was struggling with a man; she had a fear-stricken expression on her face. She was trying to
free herself from her assailant’s grip, and at the same time she was screaming for help, shouting that she was being kidnapped. Her fear was almost palpable. The man was holding the girl with one hand and threatening her with an automatic handgun, pressing it against the side of her head. There was a vehicle some ten yards away from the struggling couple; it was an old Ford sedan, illegally parked, that appeared to be the kidnapper’s destination. Mark froze in place as the man’s accomplice fired a shot at a third man who was standing only a yard away. He surmised this third man was a friend or family member of the girl. The shooting victim collapsed with a moan, falling almost across Mark’s shoes. As the man fell, he dropped a weapon—a Glock, Mark noted—onto the sidewalk. Blood quickly spread out from the fallen body, pooling and discoloring the concrete. Pedestrians, some now screaming, rushed away as the alarm spread. The fallen man was unmoving, possibly dead. The Glock was very close. Tempting and immediate.

  Mark did not hesitate. He dropped to the pavement, grabbed the Glock, and fired two shots from his prone position. The two kidnappers fell, both dead. There were more screams from bystanders, and their increasing panic drove them further away from the scene of death. The girl had nearly fallen as her assailant collapsed; however, she managed to keep her footing. She rushed to the body of the man beside Mark.

  “It’s Fergo. He’s my bodyguard,” she cried in distress. She brushed away tears as she held the fallen man’s hand. She tried, without success, to find a pulse.

  “Emergency vehicles and police will be on the way,” said Mark. He was now standing. He wiped the Glock carefully with his handkerchief. When he completed that task, he placed the weapon beside the bodyguard, almost precisely where it had initially fallen. “You’re not hurt?”