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

by John Hindmarsh

  “I think I know what you mean.” He struggled to prevent himself sinking further into the chair.

  “Tell me. Did you rescue my daughter from her kidnappers?”

  His questioner’s blunt approach surprised Mark. “It’s very easy for people to be mistaken, especially when they are in fear, perhaps panic stricken.” Mark did not wish to lie, and he was aware that Paula had recognized him.

  “Don’t equivocate. Tell me the truth.” Julian made full eye contact with Mark. It was as though he were victim of the full force of a lighthouse beam.

  Julian’s eyes were a piercing blue, their intensity so great that Mark was tempted to look away. He could almost feel the force of the man’s personality. He wanted to hedge, he wanted to deny his role, yet knew he needed to answer honestly. He thought furiously, trying to determine how he could deny his involvement. He had rescued a kidnap victim: he could have ignored the terror on Paula’s face, he could have attempted to talk the men out of their criminal endeavors—that would have been futile, he was certain. His solution had been effective. There was, he decided, no reason for him to continue his denial. He could not look away from that intensive gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I owe you an enormous debt, one that I may never be able to repay.”

  “Sir, I didn’t, and don’t, expect any payment or reward. Your daughter was in danger, and I couldn’t ignore that her life was at risk.”

  Julian sat back in his chair and regarded Mark, his body language less intense. “I believe you. Who are you, where are you from, what do you do?”

  “My name is Mark. Mark Darrow. I live here in Boston—Evan’s my landlord. I’m studying computer software courses. I’m typical, I suppose, of people my age. Nothing else, really, that I can add.” He did not say there was nothing else he wanted to add.

  “I suspect there’s more, a lot more. You shot two men in very challenging circumstances with extraordinary accuracy and then disappeared, with everyone assuming it was Fergo—Paula’s bodyguard—who somehow fired his weapon twice after he had been killed. It was inexplicable—the FBI are finding it difficult to explain.”

  “Sir, I wish it had been otherwise, that Fergo had survived.”

  “We felt his loss—he’d been with me, with the family, for over ten years. Paula is still upset.” Julian thought for a moment. Mark waited. Then Julian said, “Tell me again what your name is?”

  “Mark Darrow.”

  “There’s something—” He stopped. “I’ll follow that up later. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Mark saw an opportunity to reveal the results of some of his research. “Yes—I don’t think the two men were the only people involved.”

  Julian sat up straight in his chair, now very alert, and stared at Mark with those piercing blue eyes. “Why do you think that?”

  “There was a man at the scene—some distance away—who was unaffected by the panic around him. He didn’t try to get away from the scene. Nor did he come to your daughter’s assistance. He just stood and watched. He was the classic observer: either there to watch and then report to someone, or because he was the primary instigator of the kidnap. I’ve spent hours hacking into image files from surrounding cameras, trying to discover more details.”

  “And?”

  “I found an excellent full frontal image of his face. And an image of a vehicle, an SUV, that he was using.”

  “Do you have copies? Here? With you? On your cell phone?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t use a cell phone.” He did not mention his need to avoid detection. “I can arrange—”

  “Yes, I’d like you to bring me copies, as soon as possible. Do it this evening, no matter how late. Just buzz the apartment number at the entrance, and I’ll let you in. Come, we should join your friends and my daughter, now.” Julian rose from his chair and led the way to the living room where his other guests were waiting.

  The small gathering was very quiet. Apparently Paula had exhausted her ability for making small talk and her father’s sudden entrance sparked life back into her expression. Julian was affable, welcoming, and apologetic. He did not mention again his desire for the images. Mark could see his host was restraining himself, that learning of a possible third person had increased his awareness of the dangers his daughter still faced.

  “Everyone, it was most remiss of me to leave you. However, Mark and I needed to clarify a matter of identification, which task we have completed. Evan, did my daughter show you my latest acquisition? I collect paintings too, and have a particular liking for a couple of artists, one British and the other German. Whenever one of their works is available, I try to buy it. My collection is starting to grow quite large. I realize this is ostentatious, but I have a secure art room, where I keep my more important pieces under controlled temperature and humidity. Please,” he beckoned. “I’ll show you.”

  He led the way, followed by Evan and Katrina. Sam looked at Mark, a worried expression on her face. However, she said nothing; although Mark could almost feel the questions she was holding back. Paula just looked concerned.

  “Ladies,” Mark urged, indicating they should precede him. He had one experience of being tethered by them both and did not wish a second. Paula led the way and Sam followed, mouthing what Mark assessed as a promise to question him in-depth once they were in private.

  Later, as they made their way home, Sam held firmly to Mark’s arm. “Tell me,” she instructed, “what that was all about. I was worried about the sudden interest both Julian and his daughter were showing in you.” Evan and his girlfriend were walking ahead of them, although within hearing distance.

  “Julian’s daughter thought she’d recognized me. As it turned out, it was a case of mistaken identity.” It was a soft lie, although necessary, he thought. He hoped it would not later get him into trouble with Sam.

  “She was the girl who was nearly kidnapped last week, I believe.” The comment came from Evan. “She seems to be coping well.”

  “I thought she was a nice person,” said Katrina. “She seemed a bit shy.”

  “She certainly wasn’t shy when she introduced herself to Mark,” said Sam.

  Mark thought silence was more prudent than adding to the conversation.

  Sam continued. “Evan, did you buy that painting—the one you liked?”

  “Red-tagged. I’ll have to settle for it sometime through the week—you can handle that if you like. Save me from taking time away from the office.”

  Their conversation moved into more domestic and casual matters and Mark participated, pushing aside his more somber reflections about the kidnapping. The walk back to their apartments was a relaxing conclusion to his outing with Sam, and he hoped she would not pursue any of her remaining questions.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Ad Astra kept her heading under control of the autopilot, while Schmidt and MayAnn relaxed and enjoyed the tropical sunshine. MayAnn had claimed a deck chair and was almost asleep, while Schmidt continued to be alert in case of navigational hazards. This was her first opportunity to relax since she had been given responsibility for the LifeLong case. She dozed until Schmidt disturbed her when he adjusted Ad Astra’s sails. She watched him for a few minutes.

  “Why did you wait so long to invite me to come sailing?” she asked.

  “What?” Schmidt was up forward, checking the jib. He walked back to MayAnn.

  “I asked why didn’t you take me sailing before now?”

  “You were busy. And so was I.”

  “Don’t stand in my sun.”

  “Sorry.” He moved. “We’ve another hour before we reach our destination. Would ma’am like lunch now?”

  “Oh yes, please. Do you want me to help?”

  “I think I can manage making sandwiches. Keep an eye open for other boats while I’m below.”

  It was another two hours before they reached their destination; the wind had dropped, spoiling Schmidt’s navigation estimates.
He had refused to start the engine; he said the noise would spoil his sailing experience. When they were just outside the small bay, he pointed Ad Astra into the wind and reluctantly turned the starter key. With the propeller turning just enough to provide forward motion, he dropped the mainsail into the lazy jacks, a rope cradle designed to guide and constrain the large sail. He then furled the jib.

  “Thank goodness for electric winches,” he said. “Now, if I were a real sailor, I would’ve taken Ad Astra up to her mooring under sail. However, because I’m not, we’ll motor in. You can tell me if we’re going to hit anything.”

  Catamarans, gigantic and futuristic, crowded the mooring pontoons along the southern edge of the bay. The setting was tropical, with tall coconut palms along the waterfront and dense green foliage on the hillside above the buildings that rimmed the shore. Pastel colors were obligatory; shops, restaurants and commercial buildings were mainly two-stories high, and—from front porch to rooftop—were painted in soft mauves, yellows, pinks and other light hues. The water was exceptionally clear and MayAnn watched schools of small colored fish swim casually past the slowly moving Ad Astra. Schmidt was taking care and cautiously maneuvered the sailboat up to a mooring buoy. He had charged MayAnn with the task of hooking the pick-up line and she reached over with a boathook and by chance rather than expertise, caught it on her first attempt. Schmidt reversed and then stopped the engine and their forward motion ceased as MayAnn clung to the line. He rushed forward and soon had Ad Astra moored to the buoy.

  “There—you’ll soon be an expert,” he said. “We’ll use the dinghy to get to Pusser’s.”

  Schmidt rowed the small tender across to Pusser’s Landing and tied the craft to a bollard. He assisted MayAnn out of the boat and they headed up towards a bar and restaurant. There were a dozen or so tables on the lawn, lightweight, with plastic chairs. Coconut trees and umbrellas provided shade. “I’ll see first if this Australian—Pete—is around. Sit out here while I chase him down.” He held out a chair for MayAnn. “The breeze is pleasant and the trees will keep the sun off you. Watch out for falling coconuts.”

  He left MayAnn and continued up to the bar. He returned a few minutes later carrying two moisture-beaded glasses, accompanied by a young man, who was tall, tanned and fit.

  “MayAnn,” said Schmidt as he sat down their drinks. “I’d like you to meet Pete. Pete, this is MayAnn.”

  They shook hands. Pete sat down opposite Schmidt and MayAnn.

  “Pete, we’ve come a long way to talk with you, before you leave for the Azores. MayAnn and I work together. I run an intelligence analysis group and we’re always looking for information.”

  “It’ll cost ya. I’m stoney, and that bastard skippa on Hammer held back half me pay.”

  “Can I ask what the problem was?” said MayAnn. She had no idea what ‘stoney’ meant—as far as she was concerned, Australian slang was impenetrable.

  A metallic sound, a short, stinging zip, caught Schmidt’s attention. A second metallic zip followed almost immediately and a waitress fell, clutching her leg, screaming. A third zip ended abruptly as the sniper’s third bullet hit Pete in the mouth, pushing his body backwards, off the chair. The crack of rifle shots followed, echoing across the bay.

  “Down!” Schmidt shouted belatedly to MayAnn, as he dropped from his chair to ground level. Passing tourists screamed and ran, leaving the small outdoor area deserted. He realized the chairs and tables were cheap plastic and would be no defense against a sniper if he continued his assault. He checked that MayAnn had dropped to the ground and then clambered across to the fallen Australian. He checked vital signs, however, the extent of the head injury left no doubt; he was dead. The sniper’s bullet had blown out the back of the man’s head. His body had fallen back, both it and the chair tumbling onto the grass. Schmidt knew the sailor had something to sell, he just didn’t know in what form. He rapidly searched the man’s pockets in case he had notes or a memory stick. He found nothing. He could hear the sobbing of the waitress and the panicked and inept first aid instructions as people in the bar reacted. A heavy, black cloud appeared seemingly from nowhere, blocking the incessant sunshine, darkening the day. Schmidt felt the chill of death. He reached out for MayAnn and held her hand.

  “We can move,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “The shots came from across the bay, and presumably our Australian friend was the only target. I suspect the waitress was an accident.” He tugged a bulky satellite phone from his pocket. “I need to make a call.”

  “What? Who are you calling?” She did not wait for his answer. “I’ll check the waitress—I don’t think anyone here has any idea what to do.”

  Schmidt walked with MayAnn as he keyed in a number. He turned away as he held the phone to his ear; she could not hear his murmured conversation.

  MayAnn politely pushed aside one of the women trying to help the injured waitress. She knelt and quickly checked the wound; it was somewhat more than a graze, undoubtedly painful, although not life threatening. She turned to the two women trying to help their workmate. “Do you have a first aid kit? Bandages? If so, please get them.”

  One of the women nodded and left, heading to the back of the bar. MayAnn’s attention was divided between the waitress, and Schmidt and his phone call. She spoke to the injured woman as she padded her handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. “Don’t worry. It’s painful, I know. The bullet only grazed your leg, though. You’ll have a scar to impress your friends. I’ll bandage it and then you should go to the hospital.” She turned to the other woman. “Is there an ambulance available?”

  “We have five on Tortola,” she replied. “Unfortunately, only one is drivable, and it’s always busy. We’ll have to use a taxi. Or maybe I can drive the boss’s car.” She also left and MayAnn was alone, holding the girl’s hand as she pressed on the handkerchief. She was trying to hear Schmidt’s conversation while comforting her patient.

  “Yes, a sniper. We’re at Pusser’s Edge. Did the overwatch team see anything? I assume the sniper has already left. If they observed any fast moving vehicle on the northern side of the bay, that would be our target.” He listened for a moment.

  “Good. He stopped? Can they track the individual? Ahuh. Ahuh. A high-speed motor boat? Are you sure? Probably stolen. OK, good.”

  The lady tasked with finding the first aid kit returned with a box full of items. “It’s a good kit,” she said. “We sell it to all the yachties.”

  MayAnn explored the container and found gauze pads, bandages and a roll of tape. “I’m going to cover the wound. It needs professional treatment as soon as possible.”

  The second woman returned while MayAnn was completing her first aid. “The boss’ll drive Mandy to hospital,” she said. “Me an’ Torrie’ll look after the bar while he’s gone. He phoned the police as well—they’ll be here soon. There’s a local police station just a mile away, although the CID is in Road Town.”

  When MayAnn looked at Schmidt, the satellite phone was back in his pocket. He shrugged when she looked at him.

  “Later,” he said.

  The bar manager helped Mandy to her feet and thanked MayAnn for her first aid expertise as he assisted the wounded woman.

  “Police coming, mon,” he said to Schmidt. “Only a constable, here, for West End.” He shrugged. “He’ll call out an inspector from Road Town. Allyo wait, now.”

  Schmidt nodded. “We’ll be here.”

  MayAnn turned to Torrie and said, “Can we have a cold drink? Non-alcoholic, I think.” The woman scurried off to the bar to organize the requested drinks.

  ~~~

  Schmidt sat next to MayAnn at a table far from where Pete’s body lay sprawled on the ground. Someone had covered it with a sheet or tablecloth, Schmidt was not sure which. The onlookers had moved away, and a hush had fallen on the usually noisy tourists. He studied MayAnn, checking that she was coping with the Australian’s sudden death.

  “We weren’t the target. The sniper may have
been inexperienced; I suspect the first two were ranging shots, to get his eye in.”

  “What’s the story with the satellite phone?”

  “More of what I haven’t told you.”

  “You really are after this organization, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the overwatch team?”

  “You were listening?”

  MayAnn nodded.

  Schmidt continued, “I learned from the Cherry Hill UAS debacle. The Navy’s testing a drone and I persuaded them to fly it along this part of the coast. Unofficially, of course, because this is not US territory. I arranged for an overwatch team to keep an eye on us. The drone is one of my—that is, one of our—test units. We lent it to the Navy as part of an evaluation process. It doesn’t have missiles or weaponry; it’s more a domestic unmanned stealth aircraft.”

  “You never cease to amaze me. I’m not even going to ask who ‘we’ are.”

  “Thanks.” He grasped her hand. “The sniper fled to the other side of the island, to Belmont Bay. There was a motor boat waiting there; it picked him up and it’s heading south. The team is tracking it and trying to arrange a Navy intercept, probably by helicopter. They’ll keep us informed.”

  “I think, in the future, you’d better tell me everything in advance.” MayAnn admonished.

  “Yes, you’re right, I apologize. I didn’t expect this to happen. I was being extra cautious. This part was unplanned. We—and poor Pete—will be the center of attention for a day or so, with the local CID.”

  “CID?”

  “The police force here is based on a British structure—they’re the Royal Virgin Islands Police Force. I believe they have a very small Criminal Investigation Department. Remember, there’s only 25,000 or so residents on Tortola.”

  While MayAnn and Schmidt sat in the shade and sipped at their cold drinks, a small police car arrived and a uniformed policeman got out and spoke with the two ladies at the bar. There was a lot of excited talk and faces kept turning towards the dead body and the two visitors. At last the policeman came over to Schmidt and MayAnn.