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

  Mark Midway Series

  A Thriller Collection

  Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

  John Hindmarsh

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2013 - 2016 John Hindmarsh

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.

  Published by

  Rexon Press

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations, and incidents are entirely fictitious, invented by the author for the purpose of the story. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  I want to thank my wife Cathy for her continuing patience, for providing her utmost support, and finally for re-reading many drafts.

  This book is for Cathy.

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  Mark One

  Prologue

  The young boy watched from afar as village children boarded their school bus, their joyous shouts pealing across the countryside. It was early morning and spring had not yet arrived. The tree under which he sheltered was winter-dormant and three brown leaves clung hopelessly to an upper branch; they would soon be replaced by spring buds. His hand tightened on a low branch. He subconsciously understood he would never be allowed to join in the fun enjoyed by children in groups, small or large. As he watched, the bus roared into life, its lights swinging across the village green as it headed towards the road out of the village.

  His reverie was interrupted by an angry shout. The housekeeper had noticed his absence. He pulled the worn oversized coat around his shoulders and turned towards the decrepit farm building where smoke now drifted from the kitchen chimney. The boy shouted back and walked across the frozen mud to the kitchen door.

  “Lazy child,” said the old woman who was setting a frying pan onto the stove. “Your task’s to light the fire and make sure it’s burning. Next time you leave it you’ll get a thrashing.” She spoke English with an execrable accent.

  He ignored the threat. He had been thrashed before. It hurt only for a while. He moved nearer to the stove to warm himself and then sat at the table after the old woman dished out half-cooked porridge. He knew it was the best she could prepare. He ate heartily. He always had an appetite and would not reject food even if it was represented by badly prepared meals.

  “When you finish, go and wake that lazy tutor of yours. Tutor, huh.” She sniffed.

  He knew the man who was supposed to be his tutor was not so much lazy as wine-soaked. His tutoring ability was suspect even to him, young as he was. He learned more from reading the books the man had brought with him than from his teaching. As usual he struggled to waken the sleeping man. Each day it was becoming more and more difficult to penetrate his alcohol-fueled fugue. Eventually he succeeded and left the tutor to his morning affairs.

  Later, before lunch, a Mercedes drove slowly down the rain-rutted lane to the dilapidated farmhouse; the vehicle was dark green and at least twenty years old. It spluttered to a stop after the driver turned the vehicle around to head back away from the house. The driver alighted and made his way to the kitchen where he spoke with the housekeeper. Eventually she called out to the young boy, who quickly attended her in the kitchen.

  “Pack your things,” she instructed. “You’re leaving us today. I say good riddance.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows, questioning.

  “He’s disobedient. Strong-minded.”

  “And he’s all of what—six years old?” asked the stranger.

  The young boy looked from the housekeeper to the stranger. The stranger was bearded, middle-aged and appeared to be very fit. He wore authority like a comfortable jacket. He turned to the boy.

  “Hurry up,” instructed the stranger. “I hope you have some warm clothes.”

  “I have very little,” said the boy. “One change of clothes, that’s all. I’ll get them now.” He rushed away.

  The stranger stared intently at the housekeeper. She blanched and backed away.

  “He was put in your care. Money was provided.”

  “He grows too quickly. He eats too much. I couldn’t afford—”

  The stranger interrupted, raising his hand. “Enough.”

  The woman backed further away, muttering under her breath. The boy returned from his chore, breathless. The stranger examined him. The boy carried a small bundle of clothes.

  “Go and wait in the car. I’ll be there in a minute or two.” He turned back to the housekeeper. “Where’s the tutor? What’s his name—Alfred?”

  “Yes. Tutor!” she spat. “He’s in his room, down the hallway there.”

  ~~~

  The stranger opened the driver’s side door. “Sit there a little while longer. I still have a task to finish,” he directed and closed the door. He walked around to the trunk and removed a package. Then he returned to the house. After a few minutes he came back to the vehicle and sat in the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition and waited a few seconds before starting the engine. The old diesel engine rumbled its disconsonant urge to move.

  The boy sat, cornered in the front passenger’s seat, clutching his bundle of clothing. He could smell, above the diesel fuel of the old Mercedes, a petroleum odor which seemed to come from the stranger rather than from the vehicle.

  “We’ve a long way to travel. Let me know if you need to stop for the bathroom. If you want, you can climb over onto the rear seat and sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy did not move. He clutched his clothing tighter. He did not notice the additional wisps of smoke from the old house as the stranger drove the car away.

  ~~~

  They made three stops before they completed their journey. One stop was so the stranger could buy a change of clothes for the young boy. New shirt, new winter-proof trousers. A jacket, lined and warm. Socks. A pair of shoes. All brand new. With labels. The boy did not know what to say. He changed quickly and did not object when the stranger dumped all his old clothing in a waste bin. The second stop was for a meal and a bathroom break. Even though the stranger had described it as mediocre motorway food, it was the first good meal the boy could remember eating. The stranger refueled his Mercedes and drove on. The third stop was for another motorway meal and another bathroom break, and the stranger refueled his vehicle again. As they drove along the motorways, the stranger would occasionally wind down his window and then light a cigarette, the smoke wafting into the slipstream.

  At last, in the early evening, the boy woke and clambered back into the front passenger-side seat. Their speed had decreased; the driver was slowing with the commuter traffic. The boy tried to read the large signs as they flashed past. “Am - Amsterdam,” he pronounced.

  “Yes, we’ve reached Amsterdam,” said the stranger. “We’re almost at the end of the A2. Not far now.”
r />   Eventually the stranger found his exit to the A10 and then headed off the ring road towards the center of the city, carefully avoiding trams and cyclists. It was another forty minutes before they reached Centraal Station at the top of inner Amsterdam.

  “We need to find parking,” explained the stranger. “Then I’ll take you to Centraal Station, to meet your—grandmother. I need to explore the side streets for a car space and it’ll probably take five minutes to walk to the station. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the boy. The stranger was not listening; he had found an empty space and quickly claimed it. Then he purchased a parking ticket from the dispenser, placed it carefully on the dashboard of the Mercedes so the parking inspector could see it, locked the doors and headed quickly towards Centraal Station. He made a cell phone call as they walked along.

  “This is Prins Hendrikkade,” he said as they waited for the pedestrian lights. “Take care, and cross when the pedestrian lights turn green. We’re heading to the entrance of the station, there.”

  The stranger ushered the boy into the main building and stood with him beside the video monitors displaying platform and train departure times. After about ten minutes, an elderly woman approached. She was carrying a brightly colored, carpet bag-style handbag and was wearing a conservative pink suit. Her graying hair was partly covered by a pink scarf. She approached the stranger.

  “What platform does the train to Paris depart from?” she asked.

  “Madam,” he replied. “There are a number of possibilities.”

  “Good. I want the main one.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. This is the boy.” He indicated his young companion. “You have an envelope for me?”

  “Yes.” She handed a brown envelope over to the stranger and ignored him while he quickly checked the contents. Then she asked, “You tidied everything up?”

  “Completely.”

  “Good. Child, come with me.” She again ignored the stranger as she walked away holding the boy’s hand. When they were out of earshot she spoke again. “Your name is Mark. If anyone asks, I’m your grandmother. I have your passport. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I like polite boys. Now come on, we’ve a train to catch.”

  The boy did not see the stranger leave the station. The stranger did not see the trailing motorcycle with the rider and pillion passenger as he pulled out of the parking slot and headed south, seeking the motorways again. Amsterdam was a city of bikes and cyclists and they soon blended into the background. He opened his side window, tapped a cigarette out of the packet and pressed the cigarette lighter. As he drew his first inhalation of cigarette smoke, the motorcyclist drew alongside the old Mercedes. His pillion passenger leaned over and dropped a grenade into the driver’s side footwell. The motorcycle accelerated away as the stranger cursed and tried to retrieve the grenade. His search was unsuccessful and ended as the front of the Mercedes exploded, scattering parts across the roadway and into the adjacent canal. By then the motorcycle with the rider and passenger were well away from the scene.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  “Hey, Ross, where’s your buddy?” Mark approached the security desk which, Gorgon-like, guarded the entrance to LifeLong’s main research building. He shook snowflakes off his parka and removed his gloves as he stopped in front of the high security desk.

  “The new guy? He didn’t turn up.” The guard frowned his displeasure. “Typical. They think the graveyard shift’s a breeze until they have to stay awake all night.” Ross was middle-aged, slightly overweight, and balding. His vanity was enough to cause him to comb his hair across the top of his head but not enough for him to keep fit.

  “Anything interesting happening?”

  “The doctors have retired for the evening.” He was referring to Dr. Otto Weinek and his wife, Dr. Anna Shutov, who owned the laboratory complex and managed its genetic research activities. More importantly for Mark, they were the only parents he could remember.

  “This snow’s blocking some of the cameras,” Ross added. He tapped one of the monitors, as though trying to dislodge the snow from the remote lens. “I might have to go clear them later. Otherwise everyone’s tucked up, hopefully sound asleep. You?”

  “I’ll be in my office for a couple of hours. Give me a call at, say, half past midnight?”

  The guard pressed the switch to open the access door.

  “Sure. Have a good one.”

  Mark acknowledged the automatic phrase with a wave of his hand and walked through the opened door. LifeLong’s security was generally intended to keep unwanted visitors out of the laboratory and incubator areas, although visitors were very few, official or otherwise. The night shift seemed to be a token arrangement, although the responsibility was taken seriously by the security company. He continued past the main lab office, towards the end of the building where his small office was located. He stopped outside the incubator room to listen to the soft susurration of functioning equipment. Inside the room, four separate life forces of maturing embryos impacted his awareness. In truth, he thought, the word embryo was an inadequate label. These were nearly fully grown, almost full-sized adults and they were scheduled for extraction in another eight weeks.

  Dr. Otto’s instruction had been precise and adamant, and Mark was not going to contravene his orders. The doctor, in his stern, authoritarian manner, had established the rule that he was to enter the incubator rooms only if he was totally sterile and accompanied by a lab technician. Although a substantial—indeed, a key element of the LifeLong program, he was only a token researcher and he always heeded the doctor. Mark used a tiny office, which contained, in addition to a desk and two chairs, his computer, and some personal items and reference books, while the important work was done in the main lab and incubation rooms where Dr. Otto and Dr. Anna, with their key researchers, had complete control.

  He walked on towards his office. Although his apartment was only another twenty feet or further down the corridor, he did not venture there; he did not plan on sleeping for another three hours or so, and at most he would sleep for only four hours.

  Mark sat at his desk, loaded the training DVD into his computer, and donned the interactive training helmet. Schmidt was always sending him training material to test and review. The contents added to his knowledgebase; in return, his reports obviously helped Schmidt and his organization with development of their training courses.

  Schmidt had been introduced to him as ex-military, and had been described as a retired Army colonel who now worked with a private corporation, developing instructional material and training courses, all with a military or law enforcement focus. From personal experience as an attendee of one of his courses, Mark knew Schmidt was an aggressive, ‘hands-on’ trainer. He still winced at the recollection of Schmidt’s impatience and his direct expressions of disdain at careless errors.

  Tonight, Mark planned to work through Schmidt’s material on advanced navigation. Its scope ranged from terrain to aviation, from map reading to visual and instrument-based navigation, the latter at a commercial pilot-rating standard. The syllabus was designed to be presented and ingested over ten days. He intended to ignore the schedule and work aggressively through the material. Terrain navigation he already knew, but the aviation-based content was new and he hoped it would be interesting and challenging.

  ~~~

  With a start, Mark realized it was well past midnight, and the security guard had not alerted him. Sighing, he removed the study helmet. He had almost completed the syllabus. Map images and plotting problems pursued each other across his mind. He would finish the remainder of the course later in the day and prepare a report. He had enjoyed the challenge provided by the material and would include that comment to Schmidt.

  Mark cleared his desk and stowed away his equipment. Gathering his parka and gloves, he quietly closed his office door and headed back to the security desk. The laboratory building was empty, nothing stirred. His
footsteps echoed softly. He realized he was the only one in the building. Mark was not greatly concerned.

  Tonight the guard had to cope with the absence of his companion and undoubtedly was on patrol somewhere in the complex grounds, checking doors were locked, internal lights were off, and the overall status was normal for the night. While the most important area in this building was the incubation room, monitoring devices would transmit urgent alerts to both the Doctors and LifeLong support staff if a malfunction occurred. Other areas were less important, although they were still covered in the security ambit.

  Mark reached the front desk and swung across the marble counter top to the space normally occupied by the guard. For some inexplicable reason, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and along his forearms. He checked. The chair seat was cold. The guard’s coffee mug was half empty and the contents also were cold. Mark shivered. He sat and reviewed the monitors.

  Five screens relayed video from cameras located in various parts of the complex exterior. The screens were programmed to display a series of images, switching from camera to camera after a preset number of seconds, thus covering twenty-four locations around the complex every thirty seconds or so. Somewhere in the complex all the video images were being recorded to tape and then backed up off-site, for later access if necessary.

  Snow was still falling. As Mark watched, he noted three lenses were blocked, presumably by snow. He sat patiently as the monitors worked through their schedule of displays. He assessed each view, seeking anomalies. More cameras were now blocked, their images suddenly blanking out. The monitors continued cycling images, and even more cameras were blocked as he watched.

  Mark moved swiftly, his fingers hit a switch, and one of the cycling monitors stopped, the image constant, locked in real time. He examined the display carefully. On the right side of the frame he could make out a person’s leg. As he examined the image more intently, he identified a portion of a body as well. The body was on the ground and he was certain it was the security guard. He tried to toggle the angle; however, the camera would not move far enough to increase its coverage of the scene. He checked the location.