Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  “They would have killed you. Probably within a week of proving to themselves that the model was up and running.”

  “Why the hell would they kill me? I gave them the damned model?” He pulled on the pants.

  “For which they will be eternally grateful,” Michelle replied. “It’s just that good ole Mikael burns dead wood almost immediately. That and there’s no sense leaving someone alive who could slip away and reproduce the model for someone else. He’s big on having the best insurance possible. For that very reason, he holds the majority share in some of the biggest insurance companies in the world.”

  Mark inspected the shirt, a classy Robert Graham, and pulled a sleeve over his arm. “I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole.”

  She laughed musically. “I’m almost sympathetic. Almost.”

  “Wait a minute. They gave me a stunning apartment, took super care of me. Why do all that if they were going to kill me?”

  She gave him a knowing glance from under delicate brows. “Tell me, Dr. Schott, would you have worked your heart out for them if they’d put you in a cell? No? I thought not. Sometimes, people who have guns put to their heads figure out that there are no happy endings. So, if they’re dead already, why assist their future killers? Besides, from all accounts, Stephie likes playing with her victims first.”

  “Huh?”

  Michelle was studying him thoughtfully. “I wonder how she would have done it? Slow poison so she could savor your inevitable decline? But then, if she was just tired of you, it might have been a bullet. My bet is that she’d pick a moment guaranteed to have the greatest shock value. Maybe just after a heart-pounding bout of sex.”

  “You’re twisted.”

  “Me?” She broke out in hysterical laughter. “Oh, that’s rich. Compared to Stephie?” The amusement died as rapidly as it had come. “Pay attention here: Zoakalski calls her ‘his problem solver’. Any time he needs something from a male, he turns sweet Steph loose from her leash. The woman lives for the chase. Get them in bed, suck whatever she needs out them, bank account numbers, top secret schematics, financial reports—or sometimes a predictive model—and leave. If the victims are expendable, she gets her rocks off killing them in inventive ways.”

  Mark felt himself slumping on the bed. “I don’t get it.”

  Her dark eyes seemed to soften. “No, you probably don’t. Mark, you’re in the middle of a game where trillions are at stake. If Zoakalski can figure out the model, he’ll have a tool that allows him to topple nations. A ruthless man could make a killing if he knew how to trip, then manage, fracture events.”

  “So, who are you? Who do you work for?”

  “CIA,” she said evenly. “We wanted to get you out before too much damage was done. Which leads me to my next question: How much does Zoakalski know about the model?”

  “Everything,” Mark muttered, angry with himself. “Well, mostly.”

  She nodded. “That’s why Stephie took you to Garmisch. Your usefulness was over.”

  “How’d you know I’d be at the Braustuberl last night?”

  “We’d been watching her usual haunts all week. We had one chance and, even then, it was a near thing.”

  He thought of the mysterious Chin who supposedly took a bullet and remembered bodies piled atop him.

  “So,” he asked, “if you’re CIA, how come I’m not at some posh safe house?”

  “And just where do you think you are?” She spread her hands wide, staring around the room as if to emphasize the point. “We’d like to extract you back to Washington. But right now, we have a problem.”

  She stood, unwinding her long body from the chair and walking toward him. Shining black hair swung in time with her sexy hips, her form-fitting black suit emphasizing high breasts, flat belly, and feline grace.

  Squatting so her eyes were level with his, she propped long and delicate hands on his knees. “You’re in Europe, ECSITE’s back yard. Zoakalski has sources in every major metropolitan police force, personnel in all the airports, and most of the customs and immigration control offices.

  “If you’d just walked away on your own, he’d be mad enough. But we snatched you out from under his nose. To Mikael, that demands a response. But for Ms. Huntz? Ah, it’s even more intense. We took you right out of her arms. She’s seething. As we speak, ECSITE is turning Europe upside down looking for you.”

  “Lucky me,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “As soon as they get the faintest whiff of where you are, damn the consequences, they’re coming.” Michelle’s eyes narrowed. “It is said that when Stephanie ‘hunts’, may God help her victim. She’s pissed, Mark. And killing you is now a matter of honor.”

  “So, what do I do now?”

  “You lie low. If you’re not moving, you can’t be seen.”

  “Where am I exactly?”

  “A private villa in the Dolomites.”

  “Okay, right. And just what am I supposed to do here?”

  “First, we’ll have breakfast. Then I’m going to help you work on the model.”

  “Are you… an anthropologist?” He looked her over.

  She smiled. “No, my original training was in chemistry. Actually, chemical warfare.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I don’t get it,” Mark said as he cut a piece off his breakfast pastry. “You want me to work on the model? Here? Just off the top of my head?”

  Michelle Lee sat across the table from him, athletic legs crossed in her chair, a small cup of coffee cradled in her hands. “We have documents coming. Copies of Anika French’s notes. We’ll be able to supply you with any data you need.”

  Mark looked around the dining room and up at the high ceiling overhead. The walls had been painted a pale orange, and open windows allowed the morning breeze in, fluffing out the curtains. He could see a delightful garden beyond the mowed grass, yellow and red roses, fruit trees in bloom, and neat flower beds.

  “I’ll need to be in touch with Anika. She’s almost a necessity when it comes to adapting the model to modern societies.” He gave Michelle a smile. “She’s part of my team. That’s why ECSITE put her on the payroll.”

  “Not anymore,” Michelle told him. “Agents from the Department of Defense flew her to Washington a week ago. She’s been locked away in the Pentagon.”

  “Can’t I just get on the phone and call her?”

  “No. Apologies. Zoakalski will be monitoring everything.”

  Michelle sipped her coffee, dark eyes on his, promising… what? She lowered the cup.

  “Look, I’m a patient guy but I have to co-ordinate with Anika. If I’m right, we’re talking inevitable dark ages: The fall of Rome. Barbarians terrorizing a world you’ll hardly recognize. Considering the archaeological models, you’ll be lucky if people are existing at a Neolithic level of culture when this is all over.”

  Her smooth brow furrowed, eyes penetrating. “That’s being a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “It’s the Flat Earth, Michelle. Everything’s tied together by multinationals and economic interest. Eighty percent of the accounting firms in the US process IRS tax returns in India. Thirty countries around the globe make parts for Boeing aircraft. China manufactures eighty percent of American household goods, and at the same time its vehicles run on Iranian and Saudi oil. Multinational corporations run twenty-four-hour shifts as workforces on four continents electronically trade projects back and forth in real time. Indonesia manufactures Japanese motorcycles with machines built in Korea and run by American computer programs. European homes are heated with Russian natural gas coming from wells drilled by Canadian rigs. Italian clothing, designed in Milan, is manufactured with Japanese sewing machines in Vietnam from cloth woven in Pakistan. Get it?”

  “Zoakalski understood this?”

  “Hell yes.” Mark replaced his cup and picked up his fork again. “Maybe he didn’t quite get the gist of it. He’s planning on making a few trillions during the collapse. What the poor son o
f a bitch doesn’t understand is that he can make all the money he wants? But it’s just paper. There’s going to be nothing to spend it on.”

  He cut another piece of pastry and put it in his mouth.

  “Evidently, you’re right. He didn’t understand. Otherwise, he’d have shot you himself.”

  Mark stopped chewing and forced himself to swallow.

  Michelle smiled. “Do you really think the world is that vulnerable?”

  “More so. Start with the simple things. That van that brought me here runs on a fuel injection system controlled by a computer. What happens when the ECU fails… and there is no spare part on the shop counter? Hmm?” He leaned forward, taking another bite of the pastry.

  “The CIA just wants to know—”

  “That’s why I took the ECSITE job, left my family, and decided to live big for a while. It’s because we’ve built such a bloody complicated, interconnected economy served by hyper-sophisticated technology, providing just-in-time commodities to an over-populated world. Knock one prop out from under it—just one—and all those levels of complexity come tumbling down.”

  “Who do you see surviving? Industrial giants like China?”

  He shook his head, chewing. “Too many people and insufficient distribution of commodities. The Chinese, in their wisdom, are replacing the water buffalo with GPS directed tractors, shifting millions from rural poverty into manufacturing. They’re feeding a billion people by transporting their imported food in diesel trucks powered by foreign oil. They’re replacing the town farmer’s market with grocery stores as fast as they can. Then, to complicate their problem, these days they store food in refrigerators made in Korea. Do you see a potential problem here?”

  “So, what’s the answer?”

  “Simple is better. Subsistence farmers in marginal environments like sub-Saharan Africa who are used to feeding themselves, grinding their own grain, and eating their own chickens are the potential survivors.”

  Her expression slowly changed. “That’s depressing.”

  “You people in the CIA are such morons. All this time you’ve spent spying on Iran, the Taliban, the North Koreans, and the Russians? All the jockeying for geopolitical advantage? You should have been running anthropological models.”

  She tilted her head in a condescending manner. “We have experts who do nothing but run models.”

  He shrugged, then sat back, everything striking home at once. “Without my model, you’re just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.”

  She was about to say something when a gunshot sounded, then two more.

  “Get up! This way!” Michelle leaped up.

  She wheeled and sprinted for the door. Mark lurched to his feet, knocking his chair over, and threw a quick glance out the window. Two black-garbed figures were ducking around the flower beds, carrying machine guns. One of them was Simon Gunter…

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As the limo dropped them at the front door of the St. Regis, Skip was surprised to see two suited men standing on either side of the wood-and-glass main entrance.

  “Bill,” he said to the driver, “when I get out, lock the doors behind me. Anika, you and Maureen stay inside. Bill, if I give you the sign, get the hell out of here, and run straight for the FBI building. Surrender yourself to the guard and have them call Scalia. Got it?”

  “Got it, Skip.”

  Skip stepped out, slammed the door behind him, and walked up to the first suited man, who nodded.

  “You Skip Murphy?”

  “If you’re a bill collector, try my house.”

  The man grinned, extending credentials. Skip didn’t take the folder, even when the man said, “Agent Mike Gallagher. FBI. Monica Scalia sent us over to take responsibility for Dr. French’s security.”

  “Your supervisor is Matt Parkinson?”

  “Matt retired last week—which I’m sure you know.”

  Skip exhaled, walked back to the car, and gestured for Anika and Maureen to exit.

  As they walked into the lobby, Skip picked out two more agents in casual dress, trying to act as if they belonged there.

  “Come along, Agent Gallagher. We’re going to have a little meeting in the control center.”

  Gallagher introduced himself to the women after they stepped into the elevator, offering his credentials.

  Anika shot Skip a questioning look.

  “Later,” he told her.

  On the sixth floor, he used his key to open the control center where Maxine Martin sat at the room desk, a cup of coffee half-drunk in her hand. Normally she worked as a plainclothes DC cop but didn’t mind pulling in a little overtime doing security details when female principals were involved.

  “Max? Anything cooking?”

  “All quiet. The drivers called. The group from State is en route, ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Keep Agent Gallagher here happy while I see the principals to their rooms.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Gallagher stepped in, and Skip followed Maureen and Anika down the hall. Another suited FBI guy waited at the stairway door. The man nodded, the wire for his earpiece visible.

  “Let’s talk.” Skip motioned Maureen in after him as they entered Anika’s room.

  “The Bureau?” Maureen asked.

  “Yeah, so it seems.” Skip did his usual room check, then seated himself on the corner of Anika’s bed. “Apparently they’ve got reservations about the private sector keeping you safe.”

  “What does that mean?” Maureen asked.

  “I’ve got a hunch Agent Gallagher is going to tell me I’m out of a job.”

  Maureen narrowed an eye. “All right, let’s go see what’s up.”

  Skip stood, leading the way back to his control center. Gallagher was sitting on the bed sipping at the insipid coffee made by the room’s coffee machine. He looked surprised when Maureen and Anika followed Skip in.

  “Agent Gallagher, it seems my principals wanted a cup of coffee. That and they’re as interested as I am to hear what you’ve got to say.”

  “My orders are to assume responsibility for Drs. French and Cole. Your employment by the Department of Defense has just been terminated.” He gave Skip a hard look. “End of discussion.”

  Skip turned. “You heard the man, Dr. Cole.”

  Maureen nodded. “Twenty bucks?”

  “That would do it. I’ll have Nancy draw up a contract.”

  “Wait a minute,” Gallagher cried, standing up. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Dr. Cole just hired me for twenty dollars to provide her security.” Skip shrugged. “She’s my client.”

  “I’m in,” Anika added. “Same price.”

  “Accepted,” Skip agreed.

  “Not funny.” Gallagher walked up to Skip. “You don’t want to try and jerk me around.”

  “Agent Gallagher,” Maureen added, stepping up. “I’m a Canadian citizen working for the benefit of, and with the blessing of, your government. Am I to understand that I am now being placed under the restrictions of the United States without my consent?”

  “Think what you want, ma’am.”

  Maureen replied, “I need the number for the Canadian embassy, please.”

  Gallagher placed a hand on the desk phone. “No one is calling anyone.”

  Maureen added, “You are refusing me the right to call my government? In front of witnesses?”

  “Whoa!” Skip said calmly. “Agent Gallagher, could we step outside for a moment?”

  Gallagher was glaring daggers at Maureen, who calmly stared back.

  “Come on, Mike. Let’s step out into the hall and have a chat.”

  Gallagher chewed his lip, stewing, then nodded.

  In the hall, he shoved a finger into Skip’s chest. “What the fuck are you doing? Getting yourself thrown in jail for obstruction of a Federal agent in the execution of his duty?”

  Skip calmly stepped back. “Wouldn’t think of it.” He leaned against the wall and cocked his he
ad. “You wouldn’t want to charge me with that.” He jerked his head toward the room. “I’ve got two witnesses who will testify that I never so much as hinted to them that I needed a job.”

  “Then what was that twenty-bucks shit? Cole didn’t just think that up.”

  “She thought of that all by herself. But I do have a history of keeping Cole alive when the whole fucking world—including Amy Randall’s predecessor—was trying to kill her. Let’s work out a compromise that lets you do your job and me do mine.”

  “You always this smooth, Murphy?”

  “Just practical. Assuming we can work out the dick-swinging macho shit between us, two of us thinking is better than one. We’ll be less likely to miss anything. You’re a Federal agent. You’ve got rules that you’ll adhere to because that’s the system. And they’re the rules. And you play by the rules. As a private security professional, I’ve got more… shall we call it… latitude? You with me here?”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t sold me.”

  “Did Scalia brief you on why this matter is so sensitive?”

  “Not my job, Murphy.”

  Skip turned and opened the door with his card. As he stepped in, he said, “Anika, Maureen, no need to stir up international incidents tonight. Come on. Let’s get you to your rooms.”

  Maureen gave Gallagher a hard look. “It’s settled?”

  “It will be by tomorrow morning.” Skip jerked a thumb in Gallagher’s direction. “No one bothered to brief Mike or his detail before they were sent over. For the time being, he’s not cleared, so no one discusses anything in front of him or his team. Got it?”

  Both Anika and Maureen nodded.

  A knock came at the door. Skip stepped over to the peephole. Amy Randall stood in the hall.

  Skip opened the door. Randall seemed surprised to see Cole and French. “No wonder you weren’t in your rooms.”

  “Yeah,” Skip said. “We had some details to work out with Agent Gallagher here. What do you need, ma’am?”

  She circled her finger, saying, “Murphy, French, Cole, you’re with me. We need a place to talk.”