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

by John Hindmarsh

  Midway had been right to publicize the attack, she thought, to ensure his own safety, even if it meant major exposure of the UK operation. The genetic engineering aspects had been buried in the subsequent debate as to whether the news channels had transmitted fact or fiction. Of course, British authorities said it was all fiction. The disappearance of Midway and his friends after the TV program had strengthened that notion. It was perhaps unfair, though, of the public to accuse the media of pulling a ratings stunt.

  Maeve finished reading the report: Midway was recovering in a private hospital, Reb had joined the crew of a yacht, Anna and Scott were looking after the children. Once Mark was able to travel, they intended to return to the US. Mark’s proposed involvement in Cerberus UK was currently unresolved. She would address that when Mark was back in the country.

  A rustle of bedclothes caught her attention. She stood and moved closer to Schmidt. Had he moved? As she watched, Schmidt opened his eyes and tried to speak. She moved closer, to hear his faint whisper.

  “Who are you?” he asked, a bewildered expression on his face. Without waiting for her answer, he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

  oooOOOooo

  Mark Four

  Prologue

  The eavesdropping swallow look-alike perched under the eaves, its visual and auditory sensors on the highest setting. It had earlier recorded and transmitted the arrival of a vehicle into the dusty courtyard. Now it reported that three travel-weary men, carrying their weapons, had disembarked and headed towards the front door of the building. Its position enabled it to capture an image of each face, which it transmitted to the Wyvern drone circling above, the short burst of data guaranteed to be undetectable. Now it was trying to eavesdrop on conversations inside the Islamic State-controlled safe house.

  Three men, soldiers for Daesh, bearded, wearing camouflage jackets and pants, and in dire need of a meal, placed their rifles inside the small room. Their weapons were M16s, the A2 variant, looted from Iraqi military warehouses. They dropped heavy backpacks containing a number of STANAG magazines, all 30-shot, filled with 5.56 NATO cartridges. The packs, too, had been looted from the Iraqi Army. The house, a fortress with its high walls and armed guards, was on the eastern outskirts of Ar Raqqah, a town of a quarter of a million or so Syrians. The town was currently under the control of Islamic State forces. The men had traveled from Aleppo to report to one of the senior commanders. The journey of barely two hundred kilometers had taken them all night instead of a more typical four hours, due to their driver’s extreme caution. Russian overflights posed a continuing danger.

  The large room was stone-floored and bare of furnishings except for a heavy wooden table and a scattering of worn wooden chairs. A narrow window overlooked the front courtyard. There were containers of rice and meat stew and a plate of pita bread in the center of the table and the odors drifting from the hot food were a reminder that they had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours.

  The youngest of the trio, tempted, moved towards the table, only to be stopped in his tracks by a comment in Arabic.

  “Wait until you are invited.”

  He turned to the speaker, the senior member of their team, a questioning expression on his face.

  “Westerners. You have no manners. Just because you can shoot—”

  The softly spoken commencement of a disciplinary tirade was abruptly halted by the entrance of two men. One man was elderly, his long beard was all white, and he shuffled forward in his open leather sandals. He carried a copy of the Koran, its pages well-thumbed. He leaned on a heavy walking stick, a worn branch of a tree, as tall as he. Despite the heat of the morning, his heavy robe did not seem to be unwelcome. The other man was middle-aged, balding, clean-shaven, and had the air of a person accustomed to command. He was dressed in a finely tailored Western-style suit, with a pale lemon-colored shirt and a red striped tie. He wore a strongly scented aftershave lotion. There was a glimpse of a holstered handgun under his jacket.

  The three soldiers stood silently, waiting—they were there to receive details of a new assignment. The mullah was one of the State’s senior religious advisers and the other man, although a Russian, was a trusted and senior State commander renowned for his military skills. At last the commander indicated the food.

  “Help yourselves,” he said in Arabic. His accent had a slight Russian burr. “You must be hungry.” He watched as the three newcomers scooped stew onto pita bread. As the youngest of the three, the one referred to as a Westerner, was about to take a bite of the wrapped bread, the commander spoke again, this time in English. Pointing, he said, “Except you.”

  Startled, the Westerner paused and held his food an inch or two from his mouth.

  “What name are you using? Yes, it’s currently Brent, isn’t it. Not Eric, Eric Ferguson? Lieutenant Eric Ferguson?” The commander turned his attention to the older of the other two men. “Rashid—you understand you’ve been tricked? Brent— or Eric—is an American spy. He is a member of their Special Forces.”

  The oldest of the trio cursed and drew his knife; it had a long hunting blade and he had used it before on nonbelievers. His companion, closer to the door, dived for his M16.

  The Westerner tried to protest. He dropped the stew-filled bread and held up his hands. “Whoah,” he cried out. “It’s not true—”

  His protest was cut-off by a three-shot burst from the M16. He fell to the floor, now forever silent.

  The Russian smiled. The mullah thumbed his Koran. The two men in camouflage stared at each other. Blood mixed with dust on the stone floor.

  ###

  The operator of the Wyvern drone circling three thousand feet above the collection of buildings on the edge of the small Syrian town replayed an audio file, increasing the volume as he did so. He listened carefully. He signaled his duty officer. The man, a lieutenant, walked over to the operator’s workstation and said, “Yes, Corporal?”

  “Sir, I think we might’ve lost our resource. The sparrow-spy we put in place last night has transmitted an audio clip that includes a burst of weapon fire. There were some voices before the shots were fired and one sounded like our man. I think he said something like “It’s not true.” The other voices are too indistinct and I can’t identify the speakers. They’re all silent at the moment.”

  “Poor bastard. Drop your drone to a thousand feet. Copy the file to me and to Fire Command. We know the Russian is there with his religious adviser, one of the senior Daesh mullahs. FC may want to launch a Hellfire.”

  It was less than five minutes when the lieutenant returned to the drone operator. “Anything more?”

  The corporal flicked his attention back and forth, between the screen showing the images relayed by the drone and the officer. “Yes, sir. Three vehicles just arrived. They’re Range Rovers as far as I can determine. The drivers haven’t exited. I suspect they’re waiting for passengers. Yes, look, there’s movement, people heading towards the vehicles. Two men wearing camouflage and a third person in a robe. It’s a woman, wearing a hijab.”

  The lieutenant spoke to someone via his wireless mike. He listened. “Yes, sir. Will do.” He returned his attention to the drone operator.

  He said, “They’re going to call back. Watch for any other departures.”

  It was ten minutes before the lieutenant returned to the drone operator’s station.

  He said, “Corporal, we’ve been authorized to drop two Hellfires, as long as we’re sure the Russian is still in the house. What do you think?”

  “Sir, only those three vehicles have departed. The Russian is still there, I’ll bet on it. Both our targets—the Russian and his imam advisor—I’m sure they’re still there.”

  “Good. FC is sending their authority reference to you. When you receive it, fire immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” In less than a minute, two missiles were on their short journey to the small collection of buildings. There were no survivors from the resulting explosions and inferno. At least, n
o bodies were found, although the searchers, locals, were not all that thorough. The resulting rubble from the buildings and protective wall was suitable only for road repairs.

  ###

  Zarina was anxious. Her contact, when she phoned, did not seem eager to respond to her requests. Also, Rashid, her escort from Ar Raqqah, was proving difficult to disengage even though his duties were now at an end. It was not her fault his companion had been killed in an ambush along the highway to the Turkish border; it had been a negotiable situation, she was convinced. The man had been careless, exposing far too much bravado in his actions. For some reason, the older of her two-man security escort was blaming her for his companion’s death.

  At least she had entered Turkey without further difficulties. The bribes had been modest and her reporter credentials had been accepted without question. It had taken another two hours to drive to Diyarbakir where her contact had arranged accommodation. The hotel was a four-star Hilton, which was impressive given that most hotels in the town scored three stars or less. Her room, newly furnished, was on the tenth floor and had views across the old part of the city.

  She had checked into the hotel using an American passport matching her cover as a journalist, the same documents she had used at the border to enter the country. The following morning she planned to fly to Istanbul; that is, as long as her contact delivered her tickets and replacement documents. She would revert to her Russian identity, her real identity, when she caught the flight and was waiting on her contact to deliver her genuine passport with the American green card visa and her other personal items.

  Zarina folded her hijab and dusty clothes she had worn on the journey from Ar Raqqah into a small bundle. She planned to dispose of these; she had no intention of wearing them again. She had changed into jeans and a light blouse that she had carried on her trip, and which she had held in reserve. Later, she would change again, into far more formal dress, consisting of a skirt, blouse, and jacket, and heels instead of her favorite boots—another reason she needed her contact to follow through on his tasks. Not only did he hold her documents, he also had her suitcase containing her clothing and makeup.

  Her ruminations were interrupted by a heavy knocking on the door. She checked via the spy hole. It was her escort. Cursing softly, she opened the door. The man pushed through and then sneered when he observed her jeans and blouse.

  He spoke in English; she had not informed her escort that she was Russian and spoke fluent Arabic. “So you’ve reverted to harlot, yes?”

  Zarina did not know the man’s origin; she thought he was Iraqi. He had disclosed few personal details on the journey. She stood her ground as she lifted the dusty bundle of clothing. There was a knife hidden in the folds, its blade long, thin, and razor sharp. Her trainer had spent hours ensuring she was proficient in its use. She grasped the handle. She suspected the Daesh soldier was going to be more than a nuisance.

  “Rashid, I don’t like that attitude.” Zarina was aware her words could provoke the man; however, she felt a passive approach would endanger her even more.

  “Deny, if you can—you are the Russian’s whore, no?” He grabbed at her arm.

  Zarina stepped back, successfully avoiding the move.

  She said, “Don’t be ridiculous.” She wasn’t going to tell him the truth, that the man she had visited was her father.

  “Ha,” jeered the Iraqi. “It doesn’t matter now. The Russians—or maybe the Americans—bombed the house, fifteen minutes after we left. Your lover—he’s dead, for sure.” He made another grab and caught her arm.

  Shocked, speechless, not knowing whether to believe the man or not, Zarina dropped the bundle of clothes and spun towards her assailant. As she moved in closer, she used her momentum to push the knife as powerfully as she could, the sharp point penetrating up from under his jaws just above his larynx and finally penetrating his brain. He was dead before he had an opportunity to realize he was under attack.

  Zarina stepped back as the Iraqi’s body fell to the floor. She had to move quickly. If her contact wasn’t coming to the hotel, she would have to go to him. She spared five minutes of her critical time to wipe off surfaces she might have touched. With luck, it would be morning before anyone discovered the body. There was a trace of blood on her hand and she washed it off. The knife she left where it was after wiping her fingerprints from the handle. She left the room, taking her folded bundle of clothes with her, making sure the door was closed and the Do Not Disturb sign was in place, hanging on the doorknob. She descended from the tenth floor using the emergency exit stairwell, controlling her panic to insure it would not override the necessary caution. Once she exited the hotel she would walk for a few minutes before hailing a taxi; she could not appear to be fleeing from the hotel. She would call her contact and force him to meet her, perhaps at a restaurant, somewhere public. She needed her papers. Her focus was on survival; it would be time to mourn later, if truly her father had been killed.

  Chapter 1

  Mark Midway examined the sagging metal gate; at least, he examined the bent metal remnants of the gate, which had once protected the entrance to his property.

  A private militia member had used a slab of C4 to demolish the gate; it was an illegal act that had subsequently attracted both Mark’s ire and the attention of the law. Once the small militia team gained access to the property, the members fired his home using hand grenades. The attack on the property, in return, garnered a number of .50 caliber bullets aimed and fired remotely at the attackers. Mark previously had mounted experimental, software-controlled “Cutter” weapon systems on top of each of the two now burnt-out farm sheds. When the men attacked what they thought was an occupied house, Mark, alerted by his security system, had aimed and fired the weapons from his London hotel room some three thousand miles away. The attackers were overwhelmed by his aggressive and accurate fusillade. He ceased his defense only when first responders, firemen and police alerted by smoke from the burning buildings, arrived.

  Mark pushed the metal bars to one side to clear the entrance and returned to his vehicle. He drove towards the charred skeleton of the house; its carbonized chimneys and timber supports reached towards the sky like the blackened bones of a large prehistoric animal.

  He was here to meet with an architect referred by friends in Boston. Mark intended they both would inspect the property, following which he wanted the architect to design and possibly supervise the construction of a new house. He had checked and the insurance company had agreed: there was nothing to be salvaged from the burnt-out remains.

  Mark avoided the glass shards of shattered windscreens along the blacktop, the results of his marksmanship with the Cutter systems. Someone, he supposed the FBI, had retrieved the attackers’ vehicles, which he had shot at and immobilized, presumably as evidence to support their prosecution of the militia members. He stopped short of the turning area in front of what used to be the entrance to the house and exited his SUV. He sniffed. Even though the fires had been months ago, he could still smell the smoke and ashes from the destroyed buildings. The odor of chemical residues from the weapons and grenades used in the arson attack added an acrid, pungent overlay. Mark stood for a long moment, trying to control his anger as he took in the results of the senseless, fire-driven destruction. This had been intended to be home; home for him and his partner, Anna, and for two Cerberus children who were in their care.

  He frowned at his memories. He was not yet convinced that he should rebuild the destroyed structures; perhaps he should sell the property.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle penetrated his introspective mood, and he turned to watch the newcomer carefully thread his sports car, a white Jaguar, along the access lane to park next to his Touareg. The rumble of the Jaguar’s exhaust was counter-pointed by a roll of thunder from a looming thunderhead. Mark waited for the driver to exit his vehicle. The storm was receding, he hoped.

  “Mark? Mark Midway?”

  “Yes. You’re Clancy—Joseph Clan
cy?” Mark unconsciously rubbed his fingers along the scar on the left side of his head. His hair had not yet fully grown back over the crease in his scalp caused by the bullet that had nearly killed him.

  The newcomer stopped and examined the burned remnants of buildings: the house, two barns, and a small cottage. After a minute or two he continued around the vehicles to Mark. They shook hands.

  “Indeed. Call me Joe. Julian warned me to expect complete devastation, and I thought he was joking.” Clancy was tall, thin, and exuded energy. He had a buzz cut and wore rimless glasses, jeans, and a Red Sox T-shirt.

  Julian Kelly had provided Mark with an enthusiastic recommendation for the architect. “The man’s a genius,” Julian had said. “He will understand your needs and will deliver, I guarantee it. I like him. He works with ghetto children on most weekends; has a marvelous following.”

  Mark, the year before, had rescued Julian’s daughter, Paula, from a possible kidnapping and they had more or less adopted him. Julian’s opinion of the architect was a major plus.

  He reached into his SUV and extracted a portfolio, which he handed to Clancy. He explained, “These are aerial photos before and after, images of the original buildings with interior shots of the house, approximate floor plans, and a map of the grounds. There’s a memory stick with some aerial videos. It’s the best of what I could get my hands on. It’s to show you what we had, not necessarily what we want.”

  “Thank you. Let’s walk around. I want to visualize the possibilities.” The architect shook his head. “Such destruction. Sad. Why, do you know?” He walked to the left of the house remnants.