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

by John Hindmarsh

  “Mrs. Jones will help you,” Anna said as the two children headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Jones was the housekeeper. She and her husband lived in the small cottage just fifty yards away from the main house.

  “Schmidt told you our problem?” asked Mark.

  “He said you had some issue with the Child Protection Services? And the local police? You need two people who can act as parents to two young children, to prevent any further problems.”

  Mark nodded. “Has Sera received a full briefing?”

  “Yes—I’ve provided her with lots of background details. Schmidt also said you plan on traveling to London and want us to go with you?”

  “We’d have problems if we tried to take the two younger children with us, without their parents, so you’re invited.”

  Sera spoke up. “They appear to be delightful children. I assume they won’t cause problems?”

  Anna answered, “They’re both very advanced. I would describe them as precocious.”

  Mark chuckled. He said, “Scott, I know your background. Sera, can you tell us about yourself? On second thoughts, let’s wait until Niland and Gabrielle return. They’ll be upset if they miss this conversation.”

  Anna added. “They’re going to interview you, or so they said.” She reached out and gripped Mark’s hand. They both hoped the children would not object to their acting parents.

  Two hours later, both newcomers appeared exhausted, while Niland and Gabrielle were still fresh and eager to continue their interview. Mark took pity on their visitors. “Whoa, you two. Let Scott and Sera draw a breath. You’ll have weeks to find out all about your new parents.”

  Gabrielle regarded Scott and Sera in turn. “Are you both certain you want to take on this responsibility? We’re only five years old chronologically, but we’re eight-plus in maturity terms. I think our intellects are actually closer to ten or older. We’re a challenge, because we’re both aggressive learners.”

  Niland chimed in. “We’re both socially adept, though, and know right from wrong. We look alike, so we’re classifying ourselves as twins. We gave Schmidt the same birth date for both of us for our new documents. We like to plan ahead.”

  Scott’s eyes widened. He waited for Sera to respond. She said, “I think this is going to be an interesting assignment. I’ll take on the responsibility of provoking your intellects. Scott can do the bodyguard thing.”

  Scott said, “Well, did we pass the interview?”

  The children jumped up and down, shouting in unison, “You passed, you passed.”

  Mark said, “Good, I’m glad it’s settled.” He turned to Scott. “You came prepared to stay? You can move in now; rooms are ready for you. Mrs. Jones prepared them earlier this morning. Anna will show you.”

  ~~~

  That evening, after the two children had escorted the visitors on a tour of the house and the external buildings, and after an early dinner, they all sat in the same room as earlier. The open fire filled the room with warmth. Mark found himself focusing on Anna. He tugged his thoughts away. Everyone had settled down, although he noticed the newcomers occasionally exchanged glances that seemed to convey concerns about their task. He watched while Niland and Gabrielle played a game of chess.

  “Scott,” he said, when he thought the two children were otherwise occupied, “there won’t be any problems. You’re acting as parents for the purpose of coping with government officials and similar problems. The scope of the assignment doesn’t extend to full parental responsibility.”

  “Oh, but we’d enjoy doing that,” said Sera. “I think they’re sweet.”

  Mark wasn’t sure sweet was the word he would use.

  Scott nodded. “I agree with Sera. Yes, Schmidt explained it’s a need to provide parental cover, but I think this is going to be an interesting assignment. We’ve both encountered Cerberus children before, but I don’t think we’ve met anyone like Gabrielle and Niland. We both signed on to Cerberus years ago. I didn’t know Sera at that time, and we each participated in the post-conversion process.”

  A whisper tickled the back of Mark’s mind: We both like Scott and Sera. I think she’ll be fun. Niland agrees.

  “As soon as Schmidt gets documents arranged, we’ll head to London. I expect it will take a couple of weeks.” Mark raised his voice for all to hear. “I’ll let Schmidt know the response is yes to Scott and Sera, and ask him to expedite our documents. We’ll make travel arrangements once we have our passports, agreed?”

  No one dissented. Anna smiled her approval. Reb looked relieved.

  ~~~

  Junior Assistant Air Attaché, Colonel Alexey Grigoryevich, currently with the Embassy of the Russian Federation, Washington, DC, was experiencing a challenging day. He didn’t understand why his country’s internal security service, the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii, or FSB, was operating in the United States, conflicting with the rightful activities of the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Sluzhba vneshney razvedki. He’d been a senior officer in the SVR and hoped the Americans were still not aware of that role, and that they regarded him merely as a colonel in the Russian Air Force.

  Now he had an invitation to visit the State Department, a request that worried him more than it should. It seemed another FSB sleeper had been arrested after entering the United States illegally. The man, Nikita Yanovich, had managed to gain employment in one of the many American police forces, this one located in New Hampshire. And he, Alexey Grigorevich, was being called to account.

  The invitation had been brief as to its subject matter and the department was one he had not previously visited. The letter stated someone in the Office of Global Criminal Justice was “desirous of his presence.” He had provided the address to his driver and sat back, ignoring the press of Washington traffic. It had taken almost an hour to reach his destination. The building was nondescript, set in a block of five almost identical buildings, surrounded by parking spaces and the occasional budding tree. The driver stopped at the building entrance and waited for him to exit the vehicle. Alexey indicated he would return in an hour, and the driver drove off to find somewhere to park.

  The entry to the building was almost security-free, a most unexpected openness given the American penchant for searches, identification requests, and other indications of paranoia. Indeed, they often were almost as bad as his fellow countrymen. He was directed by a receptionist in the lobby to an elevator bank, and ascended, unescorted and as far as he knew, unheralded, to the tenth floor. There, a young intern, male, formally suited, unsmiling, greeted him at the front desk and led him to a small, glass-walled meeting room. One long wall showed an exterior view while the other glass panels were opaque. Alexey sat at the table, his back to the view. He wanted to be able to see the facial expressions of whoever had requested his presence. He waited with uncharacteristic patience. A young woman entered the room after a few minutes, with a tray laden with a coffee pot, cups, and sugars of various kinds. She placed the tray on the table and departed, without a word. He poured himself a cup of coffee, black, without sugar. He sipped, enjoying the familiar aroma.

  Five minutes after his arrival, the door opened again and a stranger stepped into the room. He was unaccompanied, carried no papers, and did not have a laptop. Most unusual, in Alexey’s experience.

  “Colonel Grigoryevich,” enthused the stranger, extending his hand. He spoke in Russian, fluent, colloquial, reflecting a Moscovian accent. “So good to meet you. I must say, you produced an excellent paper last month on the current state of American aircraft manufacturing. What was the title? Oh yes - Stasis in the American Fighter Program. I’ve said for years the corporate-based revenue burdens on our defense program are excessive. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Robert McCarr. I’m a senior manager in Global Criminal Justice.” He fumbled in his pocket. “My card.” He proffered the crisp white card, which Alexey accepted. The man sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. It also was black, without sugar.

  “I trust
you like the coffee? I believe it’s your favorite.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Alexey thought he concealed his surprise.

  “Alexey—you don’t mind if we’re informal? Please call me Robert. Over the last year or so, we’ve had more problems than we need, with the incursions of the FSB into America. We both know the FSB is domestic and should remain that way. You, as a senior officer in the SVR, must be aware there’s a need for professionalism in these matters, no?”

  “Mr. McCarr—”

  “Robert, please. We’re being informal, here.”

  “Very well. Robert. I know nothing about these FSB people—”

  “Surely you’ve identified the problem. If they weren’t here, intruding into your sphere of influence, this wouldn’t be an issue. I can give you a list —it may not be all, but it’ll be most of these FSB sleepers—and perhaps you can arrange for them to leave the United States, say in the next month or so? They can go somewhere else. Let the Special Branch or MI5 worry about them, for a change.”

  “I can do nothing about people who appear to be in your country legitimately, from countries you have friendly relations with. If you permit someone from, say, the Ukraine to legally settle here, it must be your problem.”

  “We know, we know. But when they’re Russian nationals, they become your problem, since you’re the key SVR officer here.”

  “You’re wrong—I’m not SVR.”

  The American pulled a bundle of papers from his inside suit coat pocket. He searched for one, found it, and dropped it on the table, aligned so Alexey could read it. He hid his surprise; the Americans had more knowledge of him than he’d realized. The sheet of paper listed his service history, with precise dates, ranks, and duties. He pushed the paper away.

  “Anyone can draft a sheet of paper and photocopy it a few times,” he said.

  “Well, this might be more, shall we say, insightful.”

  The American selected and dropped another sheet of paper on the table. Alexey glanced at it, looked away and then looked again. The paper was headed REICHNING ET CIE, which was a small and secretive private bank based in Zurich. He felt the blood drain from his face. The paper listed details of his deposits over the last two years. He pushed this sheet away, too. This time his fingers were trembling.

  “Yes,” said Robert. “I fully understand your reactions. Now, can we get down to serious matters?”

  Alexey nodded, his mouth dry, his throat clamped, his heart racing.

  “Good,” said Robert. “I want to discuss a troublesome organization—called Cerberus.”

  ***

  Chapter 10

  They traveled as a group, and the almost tangible excitement of the two younger children gave Mark cause to reconsider the suitability of the arrangement for future trips. Fortunately, the in-flight movies held their attention once the flight was underway. It would take nearly seven hours to fly from Boston to London. A worry bubbled in the back of his mind. The UK authorities might balk at the arrival of so many genetically modified people, even if two were young children. He had discussed traveling in separate groups, a spreading-of-risk approach, but no one had identified any advantage in his suggestion.

  He decided to relax and stretched out, relieved to have so much space. They were seated in the upper deck of a 747, empty of passengers apart from him and his companions, and the cabin crew was enjoying the presence of the two children—at least for now. Mark thought the novelty might wear off before the flight concluded. Anna, in the seat beside him, appeared to be sound asleep. He tucked her blanket more firmly around her shoulder. She stirred and smiled at him, immediately falling back to sleep. Reb was reading the in-flight magazine and Scott and Sera were watching Gabrielle and Niland, who had no intention whatsoever of sleeping even though the flight had departed from Boston at ten p.m. Mark sighed and closed his eyes.

  The next thing he knew, one of the cabin crew gave his shoulder a gentle shake, waking him from an elusive dream. “Do you want breakfast?” the flight attendant asked. “And should I wake the others? We’ll be landing at Heathrow in an hour.”

  “Let the two children sleep, please. The adults, yes.”

  Reb yawned, lifting her eye mask. “I’m awake.”

  Anna said, “Me, too.” Sometime through the short night she had reached out for Mark’s hand. There was silence from Scott and Sera.

  As they ate their breakfast, Mark chatted with Anna and his sister, trying to plan the day. “We land just before ten a.m. That’s local time. We should be through Immigration and Customs in about an hour, although I’ve heard it could take a lot longer. Another hour to get to the hotel. Another hour to sort out where we are. So lunch around one p.m., I think, if it all goes as planned.”

  “Sounds good,” Anna said, her hand on his arm.

  “When are we going to visit my friends?” asked Reb.

  “Let’s see how we go. Passport Control is our first hurdle. We may wait two or three days before we see them. I’d like to do some hands-on research, scout around, find out where everything is, before we knock on their door.”

  Reb frowned. She had stated she wanted more immediate action, but everyone in the planning meeting before they left had agreed to Mark’s timeline. She sat up as she returned the airline seat to the upright position, her expression challenging. Mark frowned and his sister looked away. He suspected she wanted to revisit the group’s decision but seemed to realize no one else would agree to vary their plans.

  An hour later they were among the first passengers to disembark the 747. Mark led the way down the narrow stairs to the main flight deck and through the exit door, nodding his farewell to the flight attendants. He slowed his pace to ensure he didn’t leave anyone behind. He searched for signs and headed in the direction indicated for Immigration. After five minutes of walking and following signs along almost empty corridors, he heard Niland complain.

  “I think we’re going around in circles. It must be a British challenge for new arrivals, to see if they can discover the quickest way out of Heathrow.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Gabrielle, “we should try one of these doors marked NO EXIT?”

  Unsure whether her suggestion was serious or not, Mark looked back. Sera was guiding Gabrielle away from an emergency exit, to the young girl’s obvious reluctance. They arrived at a T-junction and as Mark was about to turn to the left, as indicated by the sign, two men stepped forward. They seemed to be officials of some kind, in plain clothes, and of serious mien.

  “Mr. Midway?” one queried.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Mark replied.

  “I’m Sergeant Taylor, SO15. We’re Special Branch. Can I see your passport, please?” Mark had no idea what organization the officer was talking about, but handed over the requested document. The sergeant examined it briefly and handed it back. “Thank you, Mr. Midway. Please follow us.”

  As the two men headed in the direction opposite to that indicated by the sign, Mark wondered if they were being led back to the aircraft they had just left. He kept pace with Taylor and everyone turned to follow. Mark noted another two men had closed in behind his small group.

  “Where are we going?” Mark asked.

  “We have a special process, sir,” stated the older of the two men. “It won’t take long.”

  The directional signs had been reduced to code numbers and warnings of improper use of emergency exits. After a few more minutes, the sergeant stopped at a door, knocked, and opened it, standing aside to permit Mark to enter, followed by the rest of his team. None of the police officers entered. At least, Mark assumed they were police officers.

  The door snicked shut behind Niland who was last to enter. The room, decorated in soft, bland colors, was large enough to accommodate about fifteen people. There were comfortable-looking chairs against the walls, and a coffee percolator burbled on a corner table that also displayed milk, sugar, cups and saucers, and a plate of English biscuits. Vases, five of them on small tables, were filled with fresh flower
s, and the flowers added their delicate scent to the room. A medium-sized television hung on the end wall, an image of Big Ben on its screen.

  Scott broke the silence. “It looks pleasant. Come on,” he directed Niland and Gabrielle, “sit down and relax.”

  Everyone followed his suggestion, although Anna first poured Mark a cup of coffee. Gabrielle retrieved two biscuits, one for herself and one for Niland. Mark was sipping his coffee as a woman entered the room through another doorway. She was tall, dressed smartly in a dark suit with lightweight brogues polished black and shiny, and her hair, graying slightly, was brushed back, disclosing a broad forehead. She wore minimal makeup. She smiled at everyone.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Goodwin. Please help yourselves to coffee. We can make tea if you prefer. There’s more milk for the children in the refrigerator, and biscuits. This won’t take long. Let me see.” She scanned the room and addressed the children first. “You must be Gabrielle and Niland. Welcome, my dears. Scott and Sera, likewise. Anna, Reb and Mark, of course. Welcome to the United Kingdom and to London. I thought I should give you each a personal welcome. Oh, don’t worry, it will be another thirty minutes before your luggage is available. We’re collecting it for you. I’ll arrange for your passports to be stamped, it won’t take a moment. No, it’s no trouble, at all. You’ll be out of here before any of the other passengers have managed to find their way through Immigration.”

  “Er, Detective Inspector, what is this all about?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, call me Lizzie, please. Why this VIP treatment? Well, to start with, we know who you are. Yes, even you, Reb, my dear. Our resources in America are well informed. We need to understand why you’re all here, though. I should mention—I’m Cerberus, too.”