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

by John Hindmarsh

  Schmidt said, “It was my oversight. I called the directors last night to apologize. I should’ve informed the UK organization, I admit. It’s been hectic. You’ve seen our videos. O’Hare is our candidate; however, we only have circumstantial evidence. We’ve reviewed Mark’s message with attorneys and the consensus is we need evidence that’s more specific. A series of finger movements in a video is not enough, they say.”

  “Pity. You haven’t uncovered other links?”

  “We think it was O’Hare’s helicopter that was used to take Mark from the highway. Only part of the aircraft registration was visible and we don’t have enough evidence for solid identification. His pilot was somewhere in the Caribbean and the flight log for the aircraft shows it was unused during the week he was away. The shooter—the person who is being charged with Mark’s kidnap—is under arrest. He claims it was an FBI black op. He didn’t meet the pilot, says he doesn’t know who it was—he wore a helmet and it covered most of his face. Again, it’s that lack of certainty.” Schmidt’s hand shook as he reached for the glass of orange juice delivered by the cabin attendant. He cursed at his apparent weakness; the shock of the explosion should’ve worn off by now.

  Evelyn Hudson didn’t seem to notice. She sipped her juice.

  “What are your next steps?”

  “After we arrange accommodation for you and your lieutenants? You can visit with Anna and the children—you’ve met them before?”

  “Oh yes. Some of my soldiers wanted to guard them against the Chairman, when he was trying to kill Mark. That was awkward. The Chairman grabbed me, held me hostage, and forced my people to retreat. I don’t think they’ve forgiven themselves.”

  “Well motivated, it seems.”

  “Yes.” She sipped again.

  “There’s something wrong—we’ve changed course. This isn’t the direction for Boston,” Schmidt said, an element of tension in his voice. The jet had banked and was heading more easterly, towards New York

  He pressed the call button. The cabin attendant was at his side in seconds. “Yes, sir?” She had a Scottish lilt to her voice, Schmidt noted. Her name tag read Heather Jones.

  “We’ve changed our direction. Can you find out why?”

  “Certainly. I won’t be a moment.”

  She disappeared forward of the passenger area. All conversation had stopped in the cabin. After a couple of minutes one of the pilots walked down the cabin; the three rings on his jacket sleeve identified him as the co-pilot. He stopped beside Schmidt.

  “General? You have a question?” He had a strong English accent. He did not appear to be aware of the hush in the cabin.

  “Yes. You’ve changed course? Can you tell me what’s happening?”

  The co-pilot laughed. “Sir, Boston is still fogged in. ATC is holding back private flights in order to give priority to commercial flights, so we’ll be in this pattern for a while. It could be twenty minutes or so before they allow us to continue.” He addressed the avid listeners in the seats on either side of the aisle. “You’ll have an opportunity to see some good views of New York. We’ll probably stay five or ten miles north, to keep out of the way of the busier flight paths.” He looked back at Schmidt. “General, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Schmidt acknowledged the details with a half salute. “No, thanks. You’ve covered what I wanted to know.”

  The co-pilot smiled and made his way back to the cockpit, stopping on the way to talk to the cabin attendant.

  “He was one of your pilots on the trip from Europe?” Schmidt asked Colonel Hudson.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I didn’t see him. We had a captain and a co-pilot on the flight deck and another two in the cabin, so as not to have issues with hours and rest time. The two spares sat in the back, behind curtains, and slept. Both were Kiwis—New Zealanders. The two pilots on duty—we met them briefly when we boarded in Stuttgart—were Aussies. This Heather Jones—the cabin attendant—is also new.” She frowned.

  Schmidt said. “So we’ve departed from our course and have at least one pilot not on your flight. I need to make some calls.”

  The conversations in the cabin had resumed, although at a noticeably subdued level. Schmidt called Linda Schöner. He listened to her latest reports and made minor suggestions. He said, “You’ve been managing the team for months, and I agree, I don’t need to micro-manage you. These are minor issues and I fully delegate the decision-making to you.” He listened. “Yes, refer the major items—you know, if someone has declared war and you think I should know. Now, I have a small task for one of your team. Contact the pilots who flew in yesterday—the Cerberus UK people. They’re staying at the Marriott. Yes, that’s the one. See if they are comfortable, all accounted for and so forth. I have a twitch and could be totally in error. Yes, we’re in the aircraft now, on our way to Boston. Yes, you’ve got it. Strangers. Call me back as soon as you have an answer.”

  Colonel Hudson had listened intently to the call. “We do tend to over-react, once we encounter enough adverse events.” She raised her hand. “No, I don’t disagree. It’s worth checking, given the current circumstances. All our crew coming over were Cerberus—the two people we’ve seen so far have no Cerberus structure that I can discern.”

  “My two can get ready, in case we need a safety factor.” Schmidt made his way towards the rear of the cabin to talk to the two soldiers from the 145th. He knew them both and sat in the opposite rear-facing seat.

  “Good morning, General,” said Corporal Winton.

  “Sophie,” acknowledged Schmidt. He thought the private was slightly nervous, confronted by the top brass. He looked at the soldier.

  “Sir, General. I’m sorry—uff.” The corporal nudged him ungently in the ribs. “Sorry. Good morning, General.”

  “Good morning. Mike, isn’t it?”

  “Y-Yes, sir. Michael Perez.”

  “We’re still training him, General. Although in his defense, he’s one of our best unarmed combat people; he regularly defeats even Sergeant Rodriguez, and I think he is good.”

  “Praise indeed, Sophie. You both brought weapons?”

  “Yes, sir. Handguns in our briefcases; something heavier packed away in the hold.”

  “Still expert marksman status?”

  “Oh yes, sir. You have something for us?”

  “I don’t know, yet. I want you both to get your weapons. Be inconspicuous. When you’re armed, go forward to the door into the flight deck. Wait there. No one is to exit or enter the cockpit. Sophie, I’d like you to check out the cabin attendant. All three—pilot, co-pilot, and attendant—are new, and they’re not Cerberus. We weren’t expecting strangers. No fuss, now. Use your best crowd control technique—don’t let them realize they’re being controlled. Understood?”

  Both replied in unison. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m waiting on a call from the office—our concerns may be unwarranted. I’ll stand you both down if that’s the case. Let me get back to my seat and then you can proceed.”

  Schmidt returned to his seat next to Colonel Hudson. He smiled at the two British lieutenants as he made his way back. “Relax. Business as usual,” he said, loud enough for both them and the three teenagers to hear. “Prudent precautions, is all.”

  Three minutes after Schmidt sat back down, the two MPs made their way to the front of the cabin. Schmidt waited patiently for Linda’s phone call. The chatter behind him resumed at a normal level; however, Schmidt could discern a lack of focus in the conversations. Everyone waited.

  Chapter 40

  General Grovers had utilized a favor owed for a past deed. As a result, a Defense Courier Division courier was standing at his door, waiting for a small package. The DCD’s mission included the provision of secure and timely delivery of sensitive military material, and he considered the security camera tape of O’Hare and Cromarty’s struggle represented exactly that, although it had required an extra favor to obtain door-to-door service. He slid the cassette
into the courier-provided envelope. It was addressed to Maeve Donnelly. The documents contained the sender and recipient details; there was no hiding that he was the sender. He sealed the envelope and handed it and the signed forms to the courier and, in turn, was handed a time-stamped copy in receipt. The tape would reach Maeve some time through the day. His contact had arranged a One Time Authorization for Maeve, which undoubtedly had bemused her when she had received the letter. The courier would validate her identity and the existence of the letter as part of his process to authorize delivery. He could imagine the reactions of both Maeve and her team, and of Schmidt, when she communicated the contents of the tape to him.

  Today, one way or another, was going to be memorable for a number of people, for a number of reasons. He waited for the courier to return to his vehicle and as the soldier drove off, closed his front door. He changed out of his uniform into a scruffy pair of jeans and a causal shirt. He added loafers, a light jacket and a Redskins cap. He checked his cash; he didn’t need to visit a cash machine—there was enough for his needs for the next few hours. His cell phone was in an inside pocket. He checked himself in the hall mirror. The image reflected a casual, non-official, and seemingly harmless appearance. He lifted the backpack that had taken him a couple of days to prepare. Its weight was more than he had estimated; however, it was necessary for the furtherance of his plan. He tucked his SIG SAUER P238 Desert into its holster and checked it was secure and hidden by his jacket. Finally, he dropped two seven-round magazines into his jacket pockets, one in each, and zipped them up.

  The second taxi, following his short journey by MetroRail, left him half a block or so from the coffee shop usually frequented by O’Hare when he was intending to meet with the Saudi spymaster. Although he thought the Saudi was more a terrorist-master, or perhaps he was both. He planned to wait in a coffee shop further along the street until O’Hare was on his way to the carpet emporium.

  He bought a coffee and sat down at a table with a window view. He turned on his cell phone, linked to the coffee shop’s WiFi and checked his messages. O’Hare, according to the leader of the tracking team he had organized, was drinking his coffee. Based on his usual pattern, he would leave in fifteen minutes. Grovers sat back to wait for an update.

  To the second, Grovers received a message that O’Hare was about to pass his coffee shop. Grovers lifted the newspaper he was reading in order to partially hide his face, on the off-chance O’Hare looked into the shop’s interior. After O’Hare passed, he gathered his papers into a tidy pile, lifted the backpack onto his back, made some adjustments, and headed out the door. His tracker was a hundred yards or so in front; he had slowed his pace.

  He murmured as Grovers caught up and passed him, “Usual place, usual time, as far as we can determine. Henry is in position.”

  “Good. I’ll follow him, now,” Grovers instructed.

  The tracker half saluted and turned back, away from the direction O’Hare was heading. Grovers increased his pace until he managed to catch sight of his target. He slowed; he did not want O’Hare to realize he was being followed. Grovers paced along, occasionally stopping to check a shop window or look at messages on his cell phone. He saw O’Hare turn into the carpet emporium, Airyaman Persian Rugs. Grovers had a good idea of the layout and access into the area where O’Hare had his meetings with the Saudi doctor. His small team had done some valuable research.

  He waited on the pavement a few yards away from the windows and entrance of the rug store, giving his target enough time to reach the elevator at the far end of the building. The subterranean walkway from the basement led into a building on the other side of the block. His small team had checked for an access from the other building and their recommendation was to enter the same way as O’Hare. He had listened to their reasoning and agreed. He entered the store.

  The salesman and his two carpet handlers were showing carpets to a customer, unfolding and refolding large items as the customer at first showed interest and then disinterest. The customer was one of his team and his task was to distract the salesman and his helpers. Grovers slipped past the sales area, through the stockrooms, and headed to the back of the building. Old architectural plans had shown him and his team where an elevator had been installed; they assumed this was still in use, although a casual examination had not revealed its existence. The best guess—and Grovers hated guesses—was that the elevator was now disguised as a janitor’s room.

  He opened the door marked “Janitor,” entered, and closed the door behind him. He stepped to the back wall. There was no door, no seam, no split in the wall structure that he could see. He tapped on the wall. After a moment, and to his utter surprise, a section of the wall slid open to reveal the interior of a small elevator. Ignoring the possibility of a trap, while aware that it was highly probable, he accepted the invitation. The door closed and without obvious command, the elevator began its descent.

  ###

  Dr. Chaborz, when he heard the buzzing alarm, checked his security monitor. He smiled. He was going to enjoy this meeting with O’Hare, especially when Grovers also entered the office. He lifted the handset to the internal phone and spoke to one of his guards. The conversation was in Arabic

  “Khasan, our friend O’Hare has a follower. Let him enter. Watch carefully in case he makes a move against me. I’m not worried about O’Hare. Understand?”

  “Yes, Doctor. It shall be as you require.”

  “Inshallah.”

  Chabortz sat back in his large comfortable office chair. He checked his handgun was in easy reach, under the desktop. He waited for the American agent.

  Chabortz estimated he did not have enough time to go through the elaborate tea greeting before Grovers’ arrival and decided to forego it. He was confident the American would not understand the insult. When O’Hare entered, he indicated one of the visitors’ chairs that faced away from the door.

  “Please sit. I apologize for my abruptness; however, I need to monitor my messages on the screen. Important things are happening.” He waited for his visitor to seat himself. They exchanged small pleasantries for a few minutes.

  Chabortz took the lead and asked, “What do you have to report?”

  O’Hare shrugged. Chabortz thought the man appeared distracted. The American said, “Nothing further in regard to Schmidt, unfortunately.”

  “No? I thought you had that all under control?”

  “So did I. The men with the drones were useless. Oh, the first drone, when they detonated the explosive, blew out Schmidt’s window. That was okay. However, the second drone was far too close. It was caught in the shock wave and crashed. Fortunately, without detonating the explosives it carried. My—operatives—gathered up the wreckage and left before law enforcement arrived to check for the source of the attack.”

  Remembering a comment from their previous meeting, the doctor said, “Ah. I understand. Possibly the men were not highly skilled.”

  O’Hare ignored the jibe. Perhaps, thought Chabortz, he did not even recognize the source of his comment: O’Hare’s own words now used against him.

  His visitor continued, “In regard to Project ForeSight, I understand the first tranche is with the prince.”

  “Indeed, yes. Prince Khalid confirmed receipt with me, earlier this morning. He has a validation process underway. Its success or failure is one of the messages I’m waiting on.”

  “If his people know what they’re doing, the process will be positive. I have arranged movement of the second tranche as agreed. I expect the next payment to be remitted, within the week.” The next ten million dollars would flow in the same directions as the first payment.

  “Of course, my dear friend, of course.” Chabortz was watching the security display in the top right hand section of his computer screen. Grovers was approaching the office door. He waited for a moment to build the result he sought.

  “What happened with Cromarty—how did you kill him?”

  “No, of course I didn’t—”

>   Grovers pushed open the door, interrupting O’Hare’s attempt to claim innocence. Chabortz decided he did not understand Americans. The man should have claimed victory—the prince would have been generous.

  Chabortz looked at the intruder and said, “General Grovers, welcome. What can we do for you?” He watched as O’Hare looked to see who had entered the office. The man’s face turned white, whether in anger or fear, Chabortz couldn’t tell. He decided it was anger.

  The doctor continued, “I should make some tea. Would you care to sit and join us?”

  Grovers replied in Arabic. “Thank you for the courtesy, Dr. Chabortz, but not this time. The man I really wanted to see is here.”

  The general pointed at O’Hare, who was now standing, his body obviously tense. He backed away from Grovers, unknowingly, the doctor thought, towards his personal emergency exit.

  By this time O’Hare had drawn a weapon; he held it ready although not yet aimed at Grovers.

  The general said, “You did a good job with Cromarty. I congratulate you. The authorities are accepting the implied suicide.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I was miles away.”

  “I have a security video showing your actions. I liked the way you grappled with Cromarty and forced his pistol towards his head. The shot must have covered you in gore; I suspect blood and some of the man’s brains splattered onto your face.”

  If it was possible, O’Hare’s anger grew. He aimed his weapon at Grovers.

  “You lie,” he claimed. His voice was shrill.

  Chabortz was experiencing total delight at the exchange. Then everything seemed to happen at once. O’Hare fired his weapon, the bullet striking Grovers in the chest. O’Hare turned and to Chabortz’ surprise, rushed to the emergency exit. He forced the door open. Neither O’Hare nor the Saudi noticed that after Grovers fell, he seemed to struggle with a strap to his backpack.

  The explosion forever stopped Chabortz from further enjoyment of the exchange. It ignited other charges set to destroy all records and evidence possibly related to the Saudi spymaster’s activities. The result was total destruction of the office and most of the building. Bodies, unidentified and some unidentifiable, were recovered only when the building was declared safe.