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

by John Hindmarsh

  “Mr. Midway, we’re going to clean you up. Afterwards, we can have a little talk, yes?”

  He was beyond anger. His captors had strapped him to a bed of some kind—he suspected, from the fragile impression he had gained, it was a zinc autopsy table with drain holes—and they hadn’t released him for toilet purposes. Now someone was hosing him down with cold water. It was fortunate, he supposed, that he had not been given anything to eat or drink while he was strapped down. Perhaps the IV had helped.

  His jailer—or nurse—it made no difference—turned off the cold water. He’d kept his eyes closed; he knew the glare would be blinding. He waited for her to approach.

  He did not know how long he’d been strapped down. The total, isolating darkness of the cell had prevented him from estimating the passage of time—days may have been hours or hours may have been days. He was hungry. Thirsty. Tired. His entire body felt bruised.

  Next, someone threw a towel over him. It covered most of his body. Still there was no conversation. How he was supposed to dry himself he had no idea. His arms—well, except for the one he had managed to free and so far his captor had not noticed—and his body and legs were firmly strapped down. He couldn’t raise his head more than an inch, if that. He waited and listened. It sounded as though someone was rolling up a hose. He tried not to shiver.

  There was silence for a couple of minutes. At last there was a voice, the same one, female, who had spoken before the hosing began.

  “There, that’s an improvement. For me, anyway.”

  She was talking to herself, Mark thought, rather than to me. Perhaps she does have a conscience and is trying to hold it in check, by ignoring me. He did not move. He did not speak.

  “I suppose you can hear me? It would be difficult to continue if you’re deaf. No one mentioned that possibility. I suppose I can dry you. Well, at least your face. This is not a full body wash service center.”

  The speaker rubbed his face with the now semi-damp towel. The fabric was harsh and his nerve ends sensitive. Still he did not move. She partly dried his chest and left the towel covering the lower half of his body. As he sensed her moving closer, he opened his eyes. He ignored the pain. She was close, very close. She was probably in her late twenties and was wearing a white uniform. He reached out with his free hand and grasped her arm.

  “I didn’t see that coming.” She tried to shake her arm free from his grip.

  She was wearing gloves that reached up to her elbows. The thin latex had stopped him making direct contact with her arm. The sleeves of her medical uniform reached down to the top of her gloves. He pulled her down, towards him, and shifted his grip. He tugged the edge of the glove and pulled it down. When his hand touched her bare skin, she froze and did not protest as he continued to remove the glove. Her eyes were moving back and forth, their movements fed by anxiety. There was no worry, yet. He examined her as best he could while he took control.

  “Don’t speak unless I tell you to. Now give me your hand,” Mark instructed. She did so and Mark held it firmly for a minute. He strengthened his links.

  “Remove the needle from the back of my wrist.” He did not flinch when she somewhat carelessly removed the needle. The puncture wound bled drops of dark red blood.

  “Release my right arm.” He watched as she undid the fastening.

  “Now my head and the rest of my body.” Two minutes later, he was no longer restrained.

  “Help me sit up.”

  He was correct. His bed was an autopsy table. He used the towel to dry the lower parts of his body. He knew his next action was going to hurt.

  “Help me stand.”

  He held back a scream when his feet first touched the floor. He stood carefully, fighting back waves of agony. His entire body was an aching mess. The needle, he thought, had managed to inject some pain-enhancing drug before he had succeeded in blocking it, or there was some residual drug that now was taking effect. He felt as though the lines traced by his nervous system were on fire. He fought the surges of pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Is there any clothing here that I can use?”

  She shook her head.

  “You can speak. If you try anything to prevent me doing what I want, I’ll share the agony I’m experiencing.” He opened up a narrow pathway and fed a sample of what he was experiencing from his seared nerves. She screamed. He blocked it off.

  “See what I mean?”

  “I didn’t—I didn’t know you would suffer like that.”

  “You’ve been dosing me, and probably others, with all kinds of chemical junk,” Mark challenged. “What do you expect it to feel like? Do you think this is some kind of joke?” He gripped her arm until she flinched. “Yes, my pain is real.”

  His agony slowly reduced and became more manageable. “What’s your name?” He knew the answer. He wanted to reinforce his control.

  “Emma.”

  “What do you do—what’s your responsibility?”

  “I’m a psychologist. I prepare prisoners for questioning.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Gitmo.”

  “What? Who brought me here—who do you work for?”

  Her face paled. “The—the NSA.”

  “Damn. And you’re simply following orders.”

  “All the people we arrest and bring here are terrorists.”

  “No evidence, no trial, no judge, no jury—only you and your bosses. So the NSA is kidnapping American citizens and bringing them here for torture?”

  “Kidnapping? No—no, that’s illegal.”

  “So what you’re doing is not? How long have I been here?

  “Five days. We try to confuse the prisoners by applying different drugs. Semi-starvation is part of the destabilizing process. The objective is—”

  “Yeah, I know—to torture them.”

  “Oh no, what I’ve been doing to you isn’t torture. That comes later.”

  “Who’s your boss? When will he be here to follow up on your work?”

  “I report to a senior person. His name is Ken O’Hare, and he’s one of their top agents.”

  “Good for you and him. Now, can I have some water? Some food? Can you get me some clothes?”

  “I—I’m not authorized to allow that.”

  His exasperation escaped. “Emma—I don’t give a damn what you’re authorized to do. I need to recover, to start feeling human again. Food and water is the best way to begin.” Mark gripped her hand in both of his. “Listen to me. You’re going to do everything possible to help me recover and escape. You’ll bring me a meal and water. While I’m eating, you’ll find clothes and shoes and bring them to me. Do you know if my own clothes are here?” She shook her head. “All right, any reasonable clothing—men’s, something that won’t look out of place. Weapons—do you have a weapon? A handgun? Do you have access to one?”

  “Yes, but we’re not supposed to—”

  “Will anyone notice or stop you getting one?

  “No.”

  “In that case, this is what you will do, without raising an alarm. You’ll bring me a meal and water. While I’m eating, you’ll get me a weapon—a handgun and suitable ammunition. You’ll find some clothes for me. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go. Be as quick as you can.”

  The water was easy. Emma handed him a plastic bottle with a straw. He drank.

  “I’ll get you some human food—it’s what I eat. It’ll take about ten minutes, maybe more.”

  She returned after a long fifteen minutes and handed Mark a foil wrapped tray. The tray contained some kind of meat stew, bland, with over-boiled vegetables. His mouth watered. The cutlery was plastic.

  Emma stared at him as he started to eat. She said, “I’ll go see if I can find a weapon for you.”

  He enjoyed the meal even though it was definitely low cuisine. He ate slowly, allowing his body to gradually resume its functions. After he’d eaten, he waited patiently. It was half an hour before the
young psychologist returned, carrying a wrapped bundle which she handed to him. She waited for his response.

  Mark unwrapped a handgun and two magazines of ammunition. Enough to cause trouble, probably not enough to support an escape.

  “Good. Next—clothing. Oh, and do you have a cell phone? With a service to call the US?”

  “I—I can try and get clothing. I have a cell phone that works here. I can bring it.”

  “Bring the cell phone first, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  After waiting for what he estimated was close to fifteen minutes, Mark started to worry. The door to the small cell was unlocked, and while he had only a damp towel to wrap himself in, he decided to take the risk of venturing out into whatever room was adjacent; he suspected it was the monitoring area where Emma worked. He wrapped the towel firmly around his waist.

  It was not as though the temperature was low—this was Cuba, after all. He held the handgun—a Glock, lightweight, .38 caliber automatic, a model that he was not familiar with—ready in his right hand and carried an extra clip in his left. That gave him twelve shots; after that it would be all over. He pulled the door open cautiously and peered around the edge of the opening. As far as he could determine, no one was in the room.

  It was full of medical monitoring equipment, which, up to an hour or so prior, had been used to monitor him. He checked for paper printouts. Nothing. There was a small computer and a video monitor so presumably all his records were filed somewhere on a computer drive. He was in what seemed to be a metal building, flat-roofed—or at least, the ceiling was metal and flat. He recalled from some memory—probably not his; it felt as though it belonged to the psychologist, Emma—that he was in a converted container—a CHU—what the military called a containerized housing unit. Normally these units were used for setting up temporary military housing in places like Iraq and were large enough to accommodate a number of soldiers. This one contained torture facilities.

  He was tempted to try to access the details on the laptop and decided that would be a diversion he could not afford. The room measured about ten feet by twenty feet, with small cabinets along one side. A door gave access to a longer corridor, which, he surmised, led to an exit. A cabinet door was half-open and he caught a glimpse of bottles and pre-loaded hypodermic needles. Probably the same as whatever had been used on him before he was loaded onto the helicopter. He shrugged; he could only guess. There was a telephone on the desk next to the computer.

  He was tempted.

  He sat down and placed the spare ammunition clip on the desk. He picked up the handset as slowly and quietly as he could, aware that his hand was shaking. He could not control it. He hoped the phone did not create a signal somewhere in the building or complex. He raised it to his ear. A female voice, familiar, was apparently reporting to someone on the other end of the call.

  “Yes, he’s awake. Yes, I hosed him down, cleaned him. No, I don’t think so; he doesn’t seem unduly affected. He said he was hungry and thirsty. I fed him, variation twenty. That will put him out for another six hours. What do you want me to try next? Uh-huh. Yes, I know the one. I’ll report to you again, once he’s unconscious. When will you be back? Tomorrow? Good, I’ll look forward to seeing you. It’s lonely here, by myself. Yes, Ken, me too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mark heard the disconnect click and looked at the handset in disbelief. He replaced it quietly and turned towards the door into the office. Emma entered, carrying a bundle of clothes. She gave a jump when she saw Mark and nearly dropped the items she was carrying. Her burden included men’s clothes, Mark noted, as he closed the door behind Emma.

  “I have my cell phone, too. I thought it would be quicker if I brought everything instead of making separate trips.”

  “Where did you find these?” Mark asked as he sorted out a shirt, pants, shoes and socks. There was even a pair of underpants. He steadied himself with one hand on the edge of a desk and leaned over to pull on the underwear.

  “What? Oh, I raided Ken’s room. I thought I’d better phone him, to give him an update. He said to say hi, by the way.”

  Chapter 17

  “How does he do it?” Linda was serious.

  “Who—Schmidt?” Maeve asked. They were in Maeve’s office.

  “Yes. He knows things before we do, and we’ve got a darned good network. How did he know there had been a shooting at Mark’s property? We hadn’t been advised of that. Schmidt arrived at his office yesterday morning, early, ready to roll—he knew as much as we did about Mark’s capture and more than we did about the little girl and what happened there.”

  “That’s why he’s Schmidt. Always one step ahead. Well, until Russians fire missiles at him.”

  “He’s really recovered, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. He needs his formal medical clearance, though.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone will block that.”

  “Let’s focus. What’s your latest?” Maeve pushed her pen aside, a token clearing of her desk space.

  Linda opened her folder. “We’re waiting on a briefing from Schmidt after he completes interviewing those troopers. In the meantime—and I haven’t briefed him yet—we’ve identified the man who shot Andrew Reeves, you know, the Winter Security operative.” She passed a sheet across the desk to Maeve. “Here’s a summary. The shooter’s name is Boyle, Nathan Boyle. Probability we’re correct is 99%. He’s ex-CIA. Had difficulties with a black op, resigned to avoid prosecution, and has had run-ins with the law. Violent stuff—assault, assault with intent, assault with a deadly weapon. Not guilty on most—Boyle has good friends, we’ve heard, and perhaps there’s been some witness tampering or payoffs. No one marked him as a killer, though.”

  “Well done. You have a file? Good. The FBI will be interested. Send a copy to Chuck—Charles Thoroughgood. He’ll arrange a warrant.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Now, the helicopter. As we’d reported earlier, it’s privately owned via a shell company. Shareholders are untraceable. No—no, it’s not a dead-end. We’ve been able to collect two years’ worth of flight plans—a number of them originate from or end up at Langley. It’s really surprising how careless—”

  “Or how arrogant?”

  “Yes, or how arrogant some people can get. We have over a hundred flight plans. Thirty-five involve Langley. What’s of additional interest is the network of flight destinations and starting points, other than Langley. Look, here’s a map of ninety-three flight plans, covering one hundred and eighty-six start and end points.” Linda unfolded a printout. “We’ve marked them as heat maps—the more they’ve been visited, the larger the red indicator. See the patterns?”

  “Now that’s what I call interesting. Have you dug deeper?”

  “Yes. This, the blue-circled point, is a property owned by a wealthy businessman—you may have heard of him—Ross Cromarty. This one—the green circle—is, we suspect, someone’s mistress. We had one of our external analysts visit that address. It’s a property in a sheltered country location, upstate New York. There’s a handyman, foreign, who maintains the grounds. Our man managed to speak with a woman at the house. Her name is Zarina—he didn’t get her surname. She sounded Russian. Our investigator tried to sell her fire extinguishers. No sale, unfortunately. The extinguishers were bugged, of course.”

  “The work your people do continues to astound me. What about this, with the black circle?”

  “Our conclusion—tentative, but high probability—is whoever lives there is the primary user of the helicopter. Interestingly, the aircraft and the property are owned by the same Delaware company. We discovered the company arranged mortgages for these purchases. However—this again is where people slip-up—both the mortgages are guaranteed. We accessed some bank records, unofficially, of course.”

  “You delight in drawing your exposés out to the last, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Specially when it’s as good as this one. The guarantor is Ken O’Hare, assistant director, NSA.”


  “Damn.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Schmidt will be pleased.”

  Linda frowned. “You don’t think he already knows, do you?”

  Maeve laughed. “I doubt he’s that good. He’ll be impressed, don’t worry. Now, what about possible destinations for the helicopter after they kidnapped Mark?”

  “We’ve made some progress. There was a plan filed yesterday for a flight to and from a small private airfield, south of Boston. It was probably used for re-fueling. The departure point and return destination were both O’Hare’s residence, the location we circled in black. We suspect they offloaded him at the same time they re-fueled, that Mark was transferred to another aircraft. We don’t think he was transferred to a vehicle. Unfortunately, we haven’t found a flight plan for any other aircraft matching the approximate arrival and departure times. We need that flight plan. We’ve reached a temporary dead-end. It requires a more hands-on investigation—live bodies on the ground, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s a task Brian Winter and his people would relish, and he’s close by. I’ll kick that into gear for you, once we’ve spoken with Schmidt. We should call him now to exchange updates?”

  “Let me get my two senior people—they’ll be interested in Schmidt’s report, and we want to get as much information as possible.”

  ###

  “Schmidt, this is Maeve. I have Linda and two of her analysts. She has an update for you and we’d like a progress report from you, if possible.”

  “Hi, all. With me, I have Charles, representing the FBI, and some of our team. What do you have for us?”

  “Identity of the man who shot Andrew Reeves. His name is Nathan Boyle. Linda will send a detailed file to Chuck and a summary to you. He’s got priors and is ex-CIA.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes. Linda has extra information for you.”

  Linda said, “We think we’ve identified the aircraft. We’ve analyzed two years of flight plans. You can download the file and my team’s analysis from our cloud. We’ve included a table of each flight’s start and end points. The results are rewarding. There’s a high probability the helicopter is owned or controlled by an AD with NSA, Ken O’Hare.”