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

by John Hindmarsh

The driver drew his automatic and passed it back to Schmidt, who handed it on to the person standing in the vehicle doorway.

  “Now stay there. Director, you come with us.” The man closest to the Director tugged her arm, oblivious to her state of shock. She was barely aware of what was happening, and she tripped and almost fell. Schmidt tried to assist and was warned away. She was dragged off to a black Suburban, one of four that had driven up and stopped in a line beside the wrecked FBI vehicle. The drivers did not waste time, accelerating away within seconds of bundling the Director on board one of the vehicles.

  “Quick, man,” instructed Schmidt. “Your radio, get help.”

  “Sorry,” the driver was almost crying with shock and pain, and at the kidnapping of his Director. “I tried—it’s damaged.”

  Schmidt used his cell phone to dial 911, although he thought the explosion and shooting probably had alerted the local police. He explained to the operator his location and need for multiple ambulances. He expected the death toll in the second vehicle to be high. He also advised the need for ambulances for injured pedestrians and other drivers caught in the blast from the roadside device. He disconnected when the operator acknowledged the seriousness of the request for assistance. He checked MayAnn. She was in a state of shock and her face was very pale. She was trying to hide the agony caused by her broken arm.

  “Can I leave you for a few minutes?” Schmidt’s voice was soft, full of concern. “I need to check the SWAT team. Their vehicle’s a real mess.”

  MayAnn nodded. “Go,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

  The SWAT SUV was upside-down. Schmidt could not open any of the vehicle doors. The explosion and resulting damage had jammed them shut. It had crashed into a public utility vehicle and bounced back into the center of the roadway. There was broken glass everywhere from shattered windows and windscreen. He peered into the vehicle, avoiding the shards of glass. He could see blood-splattered bodies, and there were moans of pain.

  “Hang on, emergency vehicles are on the way,” he advised, tugging at a door that refused to move. “Is anyone conscious?”

  “Shit, yeah,” groaned an anonymous voice. “I think I have a broken leg and numerous cuts. Yeah, and I’m upside down.”

  “Don’t try to release your seat belt,” advised Schmidt. “The emergency crew will help you out, without worsening your injuries. Anyone else?” He was answered by moans. His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID—it was the Director’s office.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, we had news—a phone call—the Director’s been kidnapped?” Schmidt did not recognize the voice of the caller.

  “Call the Deputy Director and the Associate DD. Call all the ADs,” he instructed. “Tell them I said, we need to meet in one hour. I’ll represent the White House. We need to take control of this situation without creating panic. Do it now. Advise them the Director’s been kidnapped. Tell them I suspect it’s a Russian criminal gang, one we’ve been investigating. Her personal guard was shot and killed, and members of her SWAT escort have suffered injuries, some serious. Special Agent Freewell has a broken arm and possibly other injuries. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do it, now.”

  Schmidt returned to check on MayAnn. She was pale, obviously in agony. He held her other hand. “It won’t be long, I can hear sirens,” he reassured her.

  “As long as you’re here,” she whispered.

  ***

  Chapter 28

  Boothby was impatient and frustrated. Nowadays it seemed to be his usual state. He was accustomed to free movement, and chafed at the restrictions placed on him by the Russians. He paced back and forth across the small room, puffing his cigar. Ivan had disappeared, taken away by his boss for some urgent task. They had deadlocked both the front and rear apartment doors when they left. The kitchen window was also locked and he could not access the fire escape without breaking glass. He stopped his pacing and headed into the kitchen.

  The window did not appear to be that strong. It was an old installation, the glass was thin and, he thought, the timber was rotting under the paint along one side of the frame. After his last escapade, a locksmith had screwed lockable bolts onto the timber, and drilled bolt holes on the inside of the sill. Boothby looked carefully at the result. He thought if he could find something heavy, he could leverage the bolts out and then open the window. He searched the kitchen cupboards and returned with a heavy knife. Disappointingly, it broke before either of the bolts were loosened. He searched again and found a steel rod; it was a honing steel, used for sharpening knives. It was heavy and sturdy, and again he attacked the bolts. This time they gave way and he used the steel rod to leverage them out of their restraining positions. The window would open now, he thought, and he had his exit from the apartment.

  He froze at a sound from the front door. Ivan apparently was returning. He hid the steel rod and returned to the living room just as Ivan entered. The Russian appeared anxious.

  “Television? Switch on,” he commanded.

  Boothby ignored him and began to pace. He knew it irritated the Russian. Ivan looked around for the remote control and used it to switch on the television set. He clicked though the channels until he reached CNN.

  “See,” he told Boothby. “FBI Director kidnapped. Big news.” He watched intently as the reporter described the event. Boothby slowed his pacing and listened too.

  After a few minutes he realized what had happened. “You idiots kidnapped the Director of the FBI? And killed her guard? Are you crazy?”

  Ivan did not reply. He was intent on the news item. When the channel cut to commercials, he turned to Boothby. “Good, da? We have Director, they have Russian prisoners. We swap. Plus Midway, for you.”

  “You and your boss really are stupid—the FBI won’t stop until they arrest or shoot you!” Boothby was almost shouting.

  “Yzveenee? You think stupid?” Ivan looked bewildered. “We do this for you, too.”

  “Stupid? Yes, damn it all. They won’t stop until they find you. The government will post a reward—within twenty-four hours it’ll be half a million, perhaps one million dollars. Will your people ignore that much money?”

  Boothby commenced pacing again, now trying to work off his fury. The Russians had involved him in their escapade just by including Midway in their extortion. Instead of protecting him, the Russians had placed him right in the middle of their criminal activities. He was hunted and now the hunters really would intensify their efforts. He had no one else to turn to, he was doomed. He continued to pace.

  ~~~

  It took Boothby five hours to reach his decision. He was angry, anxious, and now even more worried about his future freedom. As the day wore on, he grew more and more agitated. There was, he admitted, a layer of fear now, coloring his thoughts as never before. His plan was simple. He had the honing steel and it weighed over a pound. If he swung it hard enough, he could knock the Russian unconscious. Then he would take the keys, and let himself out, locking the door as he left. If the Russian had money, he would take that as well. Finally, he would telephone 911 on a public phone and tell them where to find the Russian. Then he would be free of the Russians, away from their influence, and would be able to make his own way, without hindrance.

  Like all plans, it needed to be implemented. He went into the kitchen and returned with the honing steel, its loop around his wrist. Ivan was sitting, absorbed in the news broadcasts, and ignored Boothby’s movements. Boothby walked behind the Russian and swung the steel at the side of his head. Ivan must have caught sight of the blow and turned his head a fraction and as a result the steel just glanced across his temple, stunning him. Before the Russian could react, Boothby swung again and the steel hit his victim’s head with a satisfying crunch. It took two more blows before Ivan collapsed. Boothby examined the result of his attack. Ivan was in a heap on the floor, blood seeping down the side of his head. He showed no signs of movement. Boothby did not feel for a pulse—if the man was dead
, he was dead. He searched his victim’s pockets and found the apartment keys. Further searching rewarded him with a wad of cash which he quickly pocketed. He also found the Russian’s revolver and after a moment’s consideration, he decided to leave it with the unconscious Russian.

  Boothby packed his few belongings and added his remaining cigars. It was time he left; Ivan was stirring. He locked the door behind him and puffed his way downstairs. He walked a short distance until he found a working telephone. He dialed 911 and provided the address of the apartment and added that its resident was one of the kidnappers of the FBI Director. He disconnected when the operator started asking detailed questions.

  He flagged a taxi and directed it to the Potomac Ave Metro station. Once there, he walked for almost five minutes before hailing another taxi. This one he directed to the Marriott Renaissance hotel. He was unshaven, with a substantial beard, and now looked nothing like his clean-shaven senatorial television persona. Downtown Washington, he thought, would be the last place the FBI would look for him—besides, they probably had everyone out looking for the kidnappers. He forgot for the moment that the Russians’ inclusion of Midway automatically tainted him with the kidnapping crime.

  The hotel’s registration agent was an attractive young woman and he smiled at her. This was, he thought, far better than being guarded by Ivan. No, he replied to her question, he did not have a reservation. The agent described the hotel rooms and costs and he decided on a modest combination.

  “I’ll pay cash,” Boothby said. He paid using some of the money he had stolen from Ivan.

  “Yes, sir. We need identification, and of course a credit card for incidentals.”

  Boothby handed over his credit card and driver’s license and waited patiently while the hotel registration agent ran a provisional charge against the card. Both it and the license were in a false name. Boothby had arranged the card to be issued by his banker in the Isle of Man, for use in case of an emergency; and this, he thought, certainly counted as one. He had paid one of his contacts to provide him with a matching driver’s license. He was confident of his safety, he trusted the offshore bankers, and he thought it would be unlikely that the hotel would check his identification.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawes,” said the registration agent as she returned his card and license. She then cut the room key and handed that to Boothby. “Here is your room key. Do you need assistance with your luggage?”

  “What? Oh, no thanks. I just have a small suitcase.” Boothby headed to the elevators. He was looking forward to the comfort of the room, without Ivan watching his every move.

  The hotel’s processing of the card sent a stream of data to the Washington bank providing the merchant facility to the hotel. Somewhere in the depths of that Washington bank’s mainframe computer system, a software process streamed a copy of transaction data received from the hotel to a separate server running an anti-money laundering software application. In turn, that application compared the updated blacklist names with the transaction details. It sorted and matched the name on the transaction with a name on the list, and generated an exception report for review by one of the bank’s compliance officers.

  Some hours later, the bank’s compliance manager emailed details of the credit card and the transaction to OFAC, where it was held in an email in-box directory, pending review by the US Treasury employee who was assisting Schmidt. The review team member was absent for the remainder of the day and she would not see the email until the following morning.

  ~~~

  Mark managed to get out of bed without falling over. He stood up, clutching the metal frame of the bed and hung on until his head stopped spinning. He staggered to the door. It was locked, and the reinforced translucent window did not allow him to see outside. He held onto the wall for a moment, waiting for the room to reduce its rate of spin. There was a dark grey metal locker in the corner of the room near the bed and he opened it, looking for his backpack. To his surprise, his belongings including his backpack and the few things he had at the safe house, were in the locker. His clothes had been carefully put away on hooks and hangers. He checked the contents of his backpack—everything was there—computer drives, cash, and even his Glock. To his disappointment, but not unexpected, his captors had removed his ammunition.

  The room facilities included a small bathroom, and Mark showered and changed into his street clothes. He then sat on the bed, deliberating his next move. He was still confused and lightheaded. Confused, because he had not learned who his captors were, nor why they wanted him. At least he had obtained some details of his background although very sparse, and unsatisfactory. His captors must have additional information, he thought, and he wanted to discover more of his family background and parentage. Also, this was an opportunity to discover more details of his genetic structure. However, his most important and immediate need was to escape his prison.

  His captors would not leave him here to starve, he mused. Someone would deliver a meal or take him to a dining facility. Hopefully they were not prepared for coping with a prisoner and someone would make a careless move at some point. If he remained alert, he should be able to take advantage of their mistake. He must not get overconfident, he realized; the doctor and the captain both were very aware of his genetic enhancement, which implied they could call on resources with similar, or more likely, with better skills than his.

  Mark waited.

  A tap on the door jolted him from his reverie. He stood back as the door was unlocked. Two people stood outside his door. The man dressed in white chef’s hat and jacket was carrying a tray. The other man wore a military uniform. The man with the tray paused at the doorway.

  “Sir, I have prepared a meal for you. I’ll enter and place it on your table. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes, please do. Will you ask Captain—Captain Thomas to visit?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Mark watched as the chef carefully placed the tray on the small table and removed the plate covers. The meal looked enticing, and the aromas drifting up from the steak reminded him he had not eaten for a while.

  “Thank you. It looks very appetizing.”

  Neither of the two men spoke as they departed. Mark waited and when the door was locked again, sat down and enjoyed an excellent meal.

  Two hours passed before there was another knock on his door. It was Captain Thomas with the chef. The captain stood aside to allow the chef to enter and remove the tray. A guard remained outside the room.

  “Mark, I heard you wanted to see me. I would’ve visited earlier, but I was in conference on another matter. I must apologize, I’ve not had time to review or reflect on your situation.”

  “To me, it’s very simple,” said Mark. “I want my freedom. You said I cannot leave, that there’s a lot you need to discover, and that’s unacceptable to me. I’ve lived in a laboratory for years, I’ve had enough of that. I won’t be subjected to any further experimentation, tests, or what have you.”

  Henry drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry to hear that. You owe us for your stabilization.”

  “I don’t recognize that debt. All I have is your word that there was something wrong which you remedied. In any case, I just won’t be a lab rat. I don’t care how you say it, or what you think I owe you, I just won’t tolerate either being a prisoner or being a specimen. I want out.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door and another person, also in uniform, entered. He whispered in the captain’s ear.

  Henry’s reaction was abrupt. “What? Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the newcomer. “It’s on CNN and other channels right now.”

  The captain turned back to Mark. “FBI Director Donnelly has been kidnapped.”

  Mark was momentarily speechless, shocked at the news. He tried to frame a question.

  The newcomer provided extra details. “Apparently the kidnappers want you and some prisoners currently held by the FBI in exchange for the Director. Her guard was shot and killed. Two pa
ssengers in the vehicle were wounded. Her escorting vehicle was bombed. The occupants of that vehicle survived, although CNN’s reporting that some were seriously injured.”

  “The FBI’s arrested members of a Russian crime gang,” said Mark. “It must be the same gang. I need to get out—I have friends—they probably were with the Director.”

  The captain was momentarily nonplused. “I need to confer with my superior. Give me your word that you won’t do anything stupid, and I’ll take you with me. Otherwise I’ll have to lock you back in here while I try to sort this out.”

  “I don’t like being locked up. I’ll come with you and behave, as you ask, as long as you are trying to resolve this in my favor.”

  “I hope it’ll be in your favor. All right. Come on, then.”

  It was a begrudging invitation, but Mark accepted it anyway. He followed the captain along corridors in seemingly random directions. The building reminded Mark of an old warehouse, converted by installing makeshift partitions and then roughly painting the result. It seemed temporary, as though the occupants had not yet made up their minds to remain. At last the captain stopped outside an office area that had a more permanent appearance.

  “Wait here,” he instructed, as he opened a door and stepped inside what appeared to be a lobby area. He returned after about five minutes.

  “OK, I’ve persuaded the colonel to meet you. Come on in.”

  ~~~

  The colonel was an older man, probably close to sixty. He also appeared to be extremely fit. His office was sparsely furnished, containing just enough items to fulfill its purpose. He signaled for the captain and Mark to sit on the only two available chairs.

  “Well, Mr. Midway, what can I do for you?”

  “Let me go, let me out of here. Some of my friends are in trouble, and I can help them.”

  “A reasonable request, in its way. However, we’ve expended time, energy and resources in looking for you. We weren’t able to protect you, of course. It was too late when we discovered where you were.” He looked at the captain. “I also understand we provided a course of stabilization pharmacology?”