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

by John Hindmarsh

  “Oh, yes,” said Evan. “It would provide a counterpoint to my other paintings. While I haven’t seen this artist’s work before, I think she has talent. It would be a good investment. And we’ve some wall space in our living room. Sam, what do you think?” He stood back to allow his sister to view the painting.

  Mark hid his surprise—the price on the tag was well over fifty thousand dollars. Evan was an attorney with a well-established law firm, at managing partner level, so presumably he could afford the investment. Mark waited while Evan and his sister engaged in a discussion; he thought Katrina was somewhat taken aback as well. He drifted along to the next painting and examined it, trying to comprehend how these works of art could command such high prices. He was oblivious to the other gallery guests until suddenly a voice interrupted his concentration.

  “Daddy, that’s him. That’s the man I told you about.”

  Some element in the timbre of the excited voice jarred Mark, catching his attention. He had heard that voice before, recently. He felt an urgency to remember when and where. Recollection hit him like a blow to his solar plexus. He started to turn towards the speaker and then as reaction set in, realized he needed to leave, to get out of the gallery as quickly as he could. He moved towards Sam, keeping his face turned away from the speaker. He purposefully blanked out any further comprehension of what she was saying.

  “Sam, I need to go outside. Do you mind?”

  Sam looked startled. However, when she realized Mark was not joking, she nodded. She addressed her brother. “Evan, I agree. Go ahead. Mark and I’ll be outside.”

  Mark was already on his way to the front door, hopeful that Sam was following. He stopped on the street just outside the gallery and waited. Sam caught up to him, a worried expression on her face. She placed her hand on his arm and looked up, into his eyes.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I just had to get out, into the fresh air. Can we walk?”

  They didn’t have a chance to move before a young woman rushed out of the gallery, almost stumbling on the single step. She was as tall as Sam, her hair was blonde and she had a strawberries and cream complexion. She headed straight for Mark. Before he could do anything, the young woman reached up and gave him a hug and a kiss. Both lasted longer than a token, polite greeting should.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said at last, still holding onto Mark.

  Sam coughed. The young woman looked at Sam and colored slightly.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I owe a huge debt to—” She stopped, growing redder.

  “Mark,” said Sam.

  “Yes, to Mark.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” asked Mark, trying to establish that he was not whoever the young woman thought he was.

  “No, but you rescued me,” said the young woman. “I apologize—I didn’t think. My name is Paula.”

  Mark stepped back and shook her hand. “You know my name, now. This is Sam,” he said, very formally. The two women did not shake hands.

  “OK,” said Sam, her hands on her hips. “Can someone tell me what this is all about?”

  As Sam asked the question, they were joined by Evan, Katrina and an older man. The three had exited in a group, in deep discussion. They joined Mark and his two companions before Mark or Paula could respond to Sam’s question, not that Mark was able to give voice to an answer.

  “Hello,” said the older man. “My name’s Julian, Julian Kelly. According to Evan, you must be Mark, and you must be Sam.” He held Sam’s hand for a moment. “I trust my daughter has not been too impetuous?”

  Sam swallowed. She had recognized the man’s name. “The Julian Kelly?” she asked, almost awed.

  “Indeed.” He bowed in acknowledgment. He turned to Mark. “I would appreciate some of your time, Mark. I just heard a strange story from my daughter, contradicting an earlier version she had provided to me. I’d like to discover the truth. You may be able to help me.”

  Everyone stared at Mark and he almost turned away from the intent expressions. “Sir, I’m sorry—but I don’t know your daughter, nor do I recognize your name.”

  “Well, rather than stand here in the middle of the street for this debate—and I understand why you would respond that way—I suggest you all come with me, to my apartment. It’s not very far. I can offer some excellent wine, perhaps another glass of champagne, and some hors d’oeuvres, if my housekeeper lives up to her reputation. Shall we?” He led the way, obviously accustomed to people agreeing to his requests.

  Sam looked at Mark, shrugged, and took his arm. Paula took his other arm. Two sets of bright red fingernails made a statement; he was unsure of the message. Mark, with his two firmly attached ladies, followed Evan and Katrina, who both had unhesitatingly accompanied Julian, and the three were in deep discussion; the topic apparently centered on the Polish artist and her exhibition.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  MayAnn followed Schmidt and the other six or so passengers into the tiny airport building for immigration and customs clearance. The short walk across the tarmac from the small passenger aircraft provided an intensive introduction to Caribbean weather. She pushed back a lock of hair and dabbed at the perspiration beading her forehead. The humidity was a surprising element of her welcome to Beef Island, where the British Virgin Islands’ very small international airport was located. This was her first visit and one of her work colleagues had told her that before planes could land, the sheep and goats had to be cleared from the runway—she suspected the story was an island myth because today’s landing seemed straightforward. She neither admitted to disappointment nor mentioned the story to her traveling companion.

  She stood by while Schmidt submitted their US government-employee passports to immigration. The chubby woman who had the duty of inspecting their documents was full of mirth, albeit with a slight Trinidadian lilt in her voice.

  “You be happy here, I know,” she said. “How long you stay, mon?”

  “Only a week, unfortunately,” replied Schmidt.

  The immigration officer stamped their passports. “No work, you mind,” she cautioned.

  “No, we’re only sailing. Just around the islands,” explained Schmidt.

  “Well, almost,” he added in a quiet aside to MayAnn. “My meeting will take only thirty minutes out of our vacation, that’s all.”

  “Enjoy yourselves,” said the officer as she handed back the documents.

  Their next task was to collect their luggage. Schmidt had debated bringing weapons and decided the paperwork and related red tape would be too onerous, without any real benefits. As a result, they had both left their weapons in D.C. and MayAnn felt somewhat undressed without hers. Schmidt had been more blasé about his weaponless state, and had explained they were going on a vacation, not an investigation.

  Customs clearance was rapid and within minutes they were heading by taxi to Road Town, the main town on Tortola, which itself was the main island of the BVIs. The trip to their resort hotel, the Village Cay Marina Resort, took twenty minutes and MayAnn was relieved at last to be in an air-conditioned room. Her relief did not last long when Schmidt explained most of the restaurants on the islands were open air, which was simply another way of saying they did not have air-conditioning.

  Schmidt was eager to visit the marina to inspect his sailboat. He explained to MayAnn as they walked along the dock. “She’s a pilothouse ketch, a Fisher 37, built in England by Southerly Yachts—I’ve sailed a similar sailboat a few times on Chesapeake Bay, very enjoyable. They delivered her last week from their base in Maryland. I checked with the delivery skipper and he said it was an excellent voyage. ”

  “She’s yours? I didn’t know you were a sailor?”

  “I’ve managed quite a bit of sailing, over the years. I made my decision last month. I just couldn’t resist, so decided to buy her.”

  “Where will you keep your new possession?”

  “I think I’ll make St
. Thomas her home port. There are good marinas there, and it’ll be easier to get to and from the mainland, if she’s moored in the US Virgin Islands.”

  They reached the sailboat and MayAnn stood with Schmidt on the dockside, her eyes wide open. The vessel was sparkling new. The hull was a deep blue and the pilothouse white. The deck was teak. She was a powerful motorsailer, looked as though she would be at home in any sea conditions, and was ready to go. The design of the Fisher yachts was derived from the sturdy North Sea fishing trawlers, and then modified and improved over the years since introduction of the design.

  “Wow. She’s marvelous. What did you call her?”

  “MayAnn, I’d like you to meet Ad Astra,” introduced Schmidt.

  “Ad Astra? To the stars? Archimedes, you’re a romantic.”

  “Come aboard, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Schmidt assisted MayAnn as she clambered over ladders and ropes. They spent the afternoon exploring Ad Astra and Schmidt was more than pleased with the condition of his sailboat, and with MayAnn’s delight in the promised sea voyage.

  “We’re just going island hopping,” explained Schmidt. “We’ve only seven days, so we can’t go too far. We need to buy some provisions and then, this evening, I’ll plot out a tentative course on the charts, and show you where we’re going.”

  Early next morning they motored out of the marina, and once clear of the harbor, Schmidt, assisted by MayAnn, turned the yacht into the wind, raised the sails, and cut the engine. The balmy Caribbean breeze filled the sails and soon Ad Astra was pushing along at a reasonable speed.

  “She’ll cruise at about seven knots in this breeze,” predicted Schmidt, from the helm. He indicated the chart where he had laid out their intended course the evening before. “We’ll head towards Salt Island first, just to let you do some sightseeing. Then we’ll set course to the western end of Tortola—Sopers Hole. For some reason the locals call it West End. There’s a restaurant called Pusser’s Edge. It’s all very tropical with white sand, clear water, and coconut palms. There are stories about pirates, slave rebellions, and so on. I think most of the pirates have left and now it’s known for rum-based drinks, especially painkillers.”

  “What’s a painkiller?”

  “The base of a painkiller is Pusser’s Rum—it’s a dark rum, and each bartender has his own recipe for additives. After three or four painkillers, whatever pain you had is long gone. Very popular.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You should have one. Just one. Any more than that and I’ll have to carry you back to Ad Astra. West End is very popular with charter sailors. You just sail in; moor your yacht, dinghy across to the jetty, and walk up to the restaurant. We’ll have dinner there.” Schmidt set the autopilot and led MayAnn out of the pilothouse.

  “Come on, we can sit on the deck and get some sun. Radar will signal if anything comes close, the autopilot will keep us on course, so we can relax for an hour or two.”

  MayAnn looked intently at Schmidt. “Relax for an hour? We should be—we’re supposed to be on vacation. The entire week should be relaxing. You’re pushing hard to get to this place—Sopers Hole, West End.” She paused, deep in thought. Schmidt said nothing. “Who are we supposed to meet there?”

  Schmidt was silent for a few seconds. “An associate of mine contacted me, said there was someone I should talk with. He set up the meeting. We’re going to meet an Australian; until recently he was a crew member on the Hammer, a motor yacht. This Australian is leaving tomorrow morning, on another yacht—it’s headed to the Azores and then on to the Mediterranean. If I don’t catch up with him today, it will be weeks before I have another opportunity to see him.”

  “And you want to talk to him because—?”

  “The Hammer belongs—only 80% probability—to a member of the Organization that you’re looking for, the one that sprung your key witness from the safe house.”

  “Wow! I’ve said it before—you sure know how to show a girl a good time. Tell me more.”

  “Can’t. Don’t know much. We may know a lot more once we talk to this guy—Pete. He crewed onboard the Hammer for almost a year, had an argument with the skipper, I believe, and was dismissed four or five weeks ago. He’s nursing a grudge—says the skipper short-paid him. The skipper is known to us, for other reasons.”

  “I have to ask – who’s ‘us’?”

  “If I told you that—” he paused.

  “You’d have to kill me,” completed MayAnn. “So you have your own investigative team now?”

  “Just me and Maeve.”

  “What?” MayAnn was shocked. Maeve Donnelly had resigned from her position as Director of the FBI, two months after she had been kidnapped by a gang of Russians; Schmidt had been an unofficial member of the FBI team that had rescued her. “Well, I knew she was a friend of yours. So what is she doing?”

  “You know how stressed she was—her personal guard had been shot and killed by the Russians, you and I had injuries—OK, me not so much, but you were hospitalized—and with Midway shooting the Russian gang leader while he was holding a gun at her head—I know, it was her decision—it all weighed her down. She spoke to me about the stress. I think the opportunity to discuss everything without having to worry about security or secrets, provided her with a form of catharsis.”

  “I didn’t realize it had affected her so much. Well, obviously I knew she had retired—”

  “She felt personally responsible. She had a lot of guilt: totally unwarranted, of course. However, retirement proved to be far too boring—you can’t stop work just like that, busy one day, doing nothing the next. She said sitting in her apartment talking to her cat was driving her crazy and it wasn’t impressing the cat. So we talked it through, and Maeve started working for me two months ago. She has a tremendous analytic ability and she’s enjoying the task of finding the people—this organization—who penetrated the FBI computers. She’s reveling in the challenge.”

  “Why are you trying to find these people?”

  “The President said—”

  “I suppose there’s a large fee involved?”

  Schmidt looked surprised. “Of course, if we succeed. Cost recovery if we don’t. We’re cautiously optimistic.”

  “Good luck with that,” said MayAnn. “There’s an FBI team doing the same thing and they’ve got nowhere.”

  “Aaah—but I’ve got Maeve—she’s far better than nowhere. We’ve managed to intercept some interesting communications. Well, our friends at NSA did the intercepting. They didn’t recognize the importance of what they had. Of course, they also don’t realize they’ve handed the data to us.”

  “I don’t think I want to know the gruesome details.”

  “Why ever not? You could have done the same thing if you weren’t tied up with the LifeLong case—a small amount of computer programming, full access to big data streams, add dynamic data flow analysis and wham—there you are.”

  MayAnn ignored his oversimplification. “So how many do you have working on this project?”

  “Five or six.” Schmidt did not mention they were five of the best data analysts/developers he could find, and now they all were working under Maeve’s guidance.

  “So we’re here because of Maeve?”

  “Oh, no. This is a different line of thought, although the two may join up at some point. As I said, we think this Australian may have crewed on a motor yacht belonging to the organization. We’ll see.”

  MayAnn handed Schmidt a tube of sunscreen. “Enough work—you told me this would be a relaxing vacation. Rub some of this on my back. Then I’ll do yours. We can’t have you getting sunburn.”

  ***

  Chapter 4

  The two young ladies maintained their hold on Mark’s arms as the group walked along Newbury Street; there definitely was a territorial aspect to their actions, as though each were staking their claim. Mark was silent and neither of his two companions spoke. They reached their destination, just yards behind Sam’s broth
er, Katrina, and Paula’s father. The entrance required a keycard and input of a code before the heavy glass door would open, and security cameras were very obvious. The apartment building gave off a feeling of luxury with high vaulted columns and marble flooring at the entrance and there was only one apartment to each floor. Julian Kelly held the door open while his guests walked through to the lobby and Mark stood back to allow Katrina, and then Sam and Paula, to enter ahead of him. He thought about running and decided the expressions on each face were promising retribution if he attempted. He stepped into the lobby and nodded his thanks to Julian. The two young ladies apparently decided they could not continue to demonstrate their territorial possessiveness and did not resume their hold on his arms.

  The elevator also required a keycard and code before it deigned to move and Paula took responsibility for that input. The car’s movement was almost imperceptible as it rushed to its destination. No one spoke; it was as though the silence of the ride were contagious. Illuminated numbers above the door flashed each passing floor until the elevator slowed and stopped on the eighteenth floor.

  Julian opened his apartment door and welcomed his visitors. “Come on in, everyone. Paula, tell Mrs. Higgs we have visitors and we’ll be in the main sitting room. Please entertain our guests for me—Mark and I will join you all in a few minutes.”

  Paula led Sam, Evan, and Katrina down a long marble-floored hallway while Julian beckoned Mark towards an adjacent doorway. “This way, Mark. My study is through here—we can talk without being disturbed.”

  Mark followed his host. The study was larger than his apartment. Bookcases filled with apparently well-read books lined two walls, a large television screen took up most of a third wall, and the fourth wall was a floor to ceiling window that provided a view of portions of the Boston skyline. Julian indicated a soft-cushioned chair.

  “Please sit. Now, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, nor do I wish to leave my guests for too long in the hands of my daughter. From what I observed, she and Sam may not be totally compatible.” He sat down opposite Mark.