Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  “Oh, I get it,” Card murmured. “Zoakalski caught up with the snatchers. Paid them back. But who is ‘them’?”

  Garcia said, “John, go back to the control room.”

  Skip stared at the wrecked room. “Looks more like a military facility, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Garcia walked over to the monitor, pointing. “Drug lords don’t usually install this grade of incendiary to destroy computer equipment.” He pointed to another smoking piece of equipment. “They don’t utilize passive radar receivers. The dish, incidentally, is on an adjacent high spot disguised as a water tank. The surrounding trees are studded with incredibly sensitive receiving equipment. The charred steel cabinet you see to the left was obviously incinerated but enough remained to identify the equipment inside as very sophisticated surveillance devices. In short, spy stuff.” He paused. “We think Chinese intelligence.”

  “Spying on whom?” Scalia asked.

  “Best assumption?” Garcia looked around the room. “This was a monitoring station to keep track of NATO activities around Aviano air base.”

  “So the heroin on the table was a plant?” Skip suggested.

  “That’s our operative assumption,” Garcia replied. “Because of potential NATO security concerns and because an American citizen is involved, State has asked if the Italians will allow FBI’s ERT to inspect the villa. They’re already en route.”

  Skip was chewing his thumb, studying the image. “So, does this mean Zoakalski’s got both Schott and French?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Mr. Murphy,” Mason said, “anything you’re planning cannot be associated with this country or administration.”

  Skip straightened. “Of course not.”

  The room was silent.

  Finally, Garcia said, “If you’re caught, we’ve never heard of you.”

  Skip nodded. “This isn’t the first time I’ve stuck my neck out for this country. God willing, it won’t be the last.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  At the breakfast table, “Red” French, duly elected Sheriff of Converse County, had just finished a hearty breakfast of eggs over black beans seasoned with strips of green chili.

  Raising a cup of coffee to his lips, he sipped and felt an eerie sense of loss. The battered kitchen around him had last been refinished in the early sixties. The only renovations had been done by his wife—and that consisted of a coat of off-white paint. He’d thought about redoing it, replacing the old white gas stove with a modern unit, ripping up the worn linoleum and replacing it with shiny vinyl flooring or that modern stuff that looked like wood.

  Every time, just as he’d talked himself into it, he’d resisted the urge. Doing so would have been just another betrayal of the two women he’d loved—and let down so many times.

  Looking out the old double-hung windows, he could see the ranch yard, the barn, and the low-hanging electrical line.

  Would it have made a difference if he’d been home? Would he have been the one to take the ladder?

  His attention focused on the light fixture atop the barn door. It had been raining the day his wife walked out, a light bulb in her pocket, her hands struggling with the aluminum ladder.

  Maybe it was a gust of wind. Or she might have slipped on the muddy ground. Whatever the reason, she’d touched the top of the ladder to that damned power line.

  Anika had found her, pitched on her side, her staring eyes filled with rain and splattered mud.

  Red expanded his lungs, exhaling. Then he tossed off the last of his coffee and carried the plates over to the sink. They’d never had an automatic dishwasher. Any extra money had gone to the ranch, the bank, or the feed bills.

  Washing his plate, Red placed it in the drainer and checked to make sure he hadn’t splashed soap or water on his crisp uniform.

  At the door, he reached for his broad-brimmed hat, placed it on his head, and turned when the phone rang.

  “Yeah, Red here,” he said as he picked up the handset. What was it this time? Loose horses? Some kid rolling an ATV?

  “Is this Major Red French?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  “Yeah.”

  His door burst inward, sending splinters flying across the living room.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Anika stood with her arms wrapped protectively around herself and watched low surf rolling onto the white beach. A warm sea breeze ruffled her red hair as she gazed at the distant horizon where the impossibly turquoise water met the sky.

  Behind her—just back from the beach—stood a plush, glass-fronted house nestled in a grove of mangroves and palm trees. The place dominated the island. Two boats, both moored to a dock in the sheltered canal behind the house, and a helipad appeared to be the only means of egress. The boats were guarded and Anika didn’t think she’d be able to sprout rotors.

  No way off without swimming. But even so, they still didn’t trust her. The two muscular guards stood, one on each side, ten feet away, close enough to grab her if she ran for the water. Close enough to shoot her with their damned taser pistols.

  The last thing she remembered of DC was the FBI agent, her hotel room, and looking down at a crummy sandwich. The next had been waking up here, on this island.

  Did anyone find the notes I left on the bedside table?

  At the sound of a helicopter, she turned, watching the thing materialize over the palms. White and sleek in the sunlight, it circled, then settled on the heliport behind the great house’s red-tiled roof.

  “That’s probably your ride,” one of the guards said. “Come on. Let’s go meet them.”

  Resigned, she turned and trudged through the sand to the wooden steps that led up to the house. As the guard opened the door, she heard the helicopter spool down.

  The house interior was a marvel of teak flooring, ocean-view windows, and walls decorated with what was probably expensive artwork. The ceilings were high, slanting affairs, from which hung ornate fans that whirled lazily. A fancy glass table with chrome-framed chairs and several comfortable couches were the only furniture.

  Voices came from the rear and, within moments, an athletic blonde woman strode in. She was dressed in a loose white blouse that barely disguised a full bust. Spray-tight Levis accented muscular legs. She fixed Anika with gorgeous blue eyes, her smile warm and welcoming.

  “Dr. French? I am so glad to meet you.” She offered a hand Anika refused to take. “I’m Stephanie Huntz. Please excuse my appearance. Things have been busy for the last couple of days. I was only able to get some sleep on the flight over.”

  “Where am I?”

  Stephanie gave the guards a questioning look, then chuckled. “Rude of them, isn’t it? Not to have told you, I mean. You’re in the Bahamas. We thought you might like a bit of time to relax and recover after that grueling schedule the Americans have had you on. You’ve been treated well, I hope?”

  “If you can call kidnapping being treated well. No one’s beaten or raped me yet. So I guess I’ve still got that to look forward to.”

  “Nonsense,” Stephanie’s slight Germanic accent slipped through. “We’d hardly be gracious hosts if we resorted to such sordid tactics. Come, sit.” She gestured to a great glass table overlooking the beach. “There are some things we need to discuss. Gunter?” She turned, attention on a black-haired, muscular man who entered from the rear. “Bring us some of that delicious mango juice. I’ve been dreaming of it all through the flight.”

  The man padded off to the kitchen.

  Anika reluctantly seated herself, leaving plenty of space between her and Stephanie. The woman slouched, looking relaxed as she fondly gazed out at the water. “I don’t come here enough. I miss the peace. The snorkeling is awesome. An old fishing boat sank just over there. The most marvelous fish inhabit it.”

  “When are you going to get to the point?”

  Stephanie gave her an amused look. “Please, relax. I told you, my name is Stephanie.”

  “I’ve been running pos
sible variables,” Anika said as the man called Gunter placed two glasses of mango juice on the table, turned, and left the room. “I suspect you no longer have Mark. You’re stumped on the model, so you grabbed me.”

  Stephanie’s eyes turned chilly for a moment as if revisiting something unpleasant. Then she nodded, saying, “You’re a smart woman. That saves me time.” She picked up the mango juice and took a long drink. “This is so marvelous. It’s made fresh here.” Her expression hinted at irritation as she noticed Anika’s untouched glass. “At least try it. Just to be polite if nothing else.”

  Anika looked down at the glass and shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Very well,” Stephanie said. “If you insist on delving straight into business, here’s the truth: Our interest in the model is purely mercenary. No sense in denying that. What my employer seeks is to position himself for the best possible outcome when the inevitable collapse occurs.”

  “Lucky him.” Anika waited for the rest.

  “You’re familiar with dark ages? The rise of feudal societies? That’s the future, isn’t it? Foreknowledge will allow those pragmatic enough to save something.” Stephanie shrugged. “My employer is no saint but the alternative is chaos and complete social collapse.”

  “So Zoakalski only wants to save a small piece of the world for himself?” Anika asked sarcastically.

  “It’s limited, I know,” Stephanie confided. “But the end of global society somewhat precludes world domination, don’t you think?” She gave Anika a teasing look. “Oh, come on, that’s a joke.”

  “Not laughing.”

  “Needless to say,” Stephanie continued, “we were a little annoyed when we discovered that Mark wasn’t the creative genius behind the model. Still, with his guidance, we believed that we could finally figure out its intricacies.”

  “You discovered you could not?”

  She hesitated, eyes icy. “Here’s the thing: You can come out of this as a very rich woman. You’ll live a pleasant and enjoyable lifestyle—Mark particularly relished the lobster and champagne. You won’t believe the apartment you’ll be housed in. And there are numerous amenities. Salary consists of five hundred thousand a year and, once you’ve proven your reliability, vacations to locations such as this.” She spread her arms to indicate the house. “We reward our people well.”

  “But it sounds like you kill them once they’ve served their purpose.”

  Stephanie lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

  “Highest probability is that Mark’s dead. Tying up loose ends, ensuring no one can duplicate your work, saving five hundred grand a year.”

  “Wouldn’t pencil out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She studied Anika. “If you could devise something as sophisticated as the model, what other miracles might that bright mind of yours conjure given the proper inducements? Contrary to what you may have heard, we don’t waste valuable assets. It would be a nonproductive business practice.”

  Anika kept her mouth shut. She was running statistical permutations, trying to arrive at conclusions without sufficient information.

  “Number two is not as pleasant. If you insist on an adversarial relationship, we will motivate you by any means necessary. Because we have sophisticated means of ensuring cooperation, you will be a very unhappy woman. So much so that you will find yourself complying with our requests just to bring an end to the misery.”

  Stephanie gave her a pleasant smile. “Now, please. Drink the juice. It’s really quite good.”

  Chapter Forty

  In the workroom, Maureen paced the floor. Behind her, the team sat at the conference table, misgiving on all of their faces. The trip to the Pentagon that morning had been in a convoy, complete with Washington DC traffic police blocking intersections.

  Amy Randall stood in front of the giant world map that covered one wall. She looked angry. But then, she wasn’t alone.

  “So tonight, you’re not going back to the hotel.” Randall propped hands on hips. “We’re relocating you to Andrews Air Base. Your bags will be there when you arrive.”

  The team members greeted the announcement with silence, then angry murmurs started to eddy through the gathering.

  Randall raised her hands. “Look! I don’t like it. You don’t like it. But there’s more at stake here than Anika’s kidnapping.”

  Maureen stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

  Randall clenched her teeth and glared around the room at the scientists. “There’s a crisis in Israel. Just like Anika said there’d be.”

  “What crisis?” Gale asked.

  “The President got an urgent call from the Israeli Prime Minister an hour ago. A strange new virus seems to be sweeping the country. From initial reports, it attacks only certain men.”

  Maureen said, “Which men? What genes are being attacked?”

  “No information yet. The initial symptoms include high fever, trembling, and rapid breathing.”

  Maureen watched Fred Zoah’s eyes narrow behind his thick glasses. “Well…” he said softly. “Only certain men? That’s an interesting choice by our opponent.”

  Randall walked over to the table and stared down at him. “Explain, please.”

  Gale was staring straight at Zoah when she suddenly stiffened in her chair. “You think they’ve targeted the Y chromosome variant R1a?”

  Zoah seemed to think about it. “If so, it will be devastating. Not just for Israel but vast sections of the world. The R1a-M558 mutation affects one third of men in parts of Russia, and the R1a-Z93 haplogroup is common in South Siberia, so—”

  “So,” Gale said, “ECSITE must be targeting a specific R1a mutation that affects only certain men. We just have to figure out which mut—”

  Randall slapped the table hard to get their attention. “If one of you doesn’t explain this to me in the next five seconds, so help me God, I’ll have you all locked away.”

  With rising anxiety, Maureen stepped forward. “Women have two X chromosomes, right? And men have a Y and an X chromosome. ECSITE, or whoever, may have targeted men with the R1a variant, which is a common variant for Ashkenazi men. But a good deal of European men in general have this lineage, so it’s a poor choice. Israel has some of the best geneticists in the world. They’re already cataloging the genome of the virus, trying to verify that it’s engineered and not just a natural mutation of a known virus.”

  “What happens if they do verify it?” Randall asked.

  Zoah calmly leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. “If Israel discovers the virus is engineered,” Zoah calmly added, “they’ll consider it not merely an act of war but an act of genocide. God help us if the ayatollah claims responsibility. As panicked as Israel is, they could launch their bombers and it’s all over.”

  Randall paled.

  “For obvious reasons,” Fred said, “they will act quickly.”

  Around the room, people looked back and forth.

  It was Sinclair who said, “Call the Secretary of Defense right now. Tell her that we need every resource you can give us so that we can model the dominoes about the tumble. Before it’s too late.”

  Fred Zoah removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “It’s probably already too late. We’ve run the genetic warfare variable before. We know what happens next.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Mark rubbed his aching back and glanced up from the photocopied notes where they lay strategically placed on the hotel room’s rich red carpet. To one side lay the opened FedEx box, the return address on the label from somewhere in New Jersey. Reading the photocopies was difficult. He often had trouble deciphering Anika’s handwriting because the copies weren’t very clear. He wondered where her original notes were? In some CIA vault?

  He looked at Michelle. “Why didn’t the CIA just scan and download these notes onto a flash card or—”

  “Analysts are already working on them back at Langley. But what gives with Anika French and a
ll these notes scribbled on paper? She’s supposed to be a fricking Millennial, for God’s sake. You can’t make half the notations out in a digital scan. Her shorthand looks like code. She even uses different colors of ink. Is that for a reason? We couldn’t take the chance of missing anything. You’re her professor, you tell me.”

  Despite the cushioned rug, his knees hurt and squinting at Anika’s script almost had him seeing double. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking over her shoulder when she was putting these worksheets together. Anika works in a kind of creative chaos. But I’m beginning to get an inkling of where she was headed with her calculations.”

  Michelle sat up straighter at the table, where she’d been scanning one of Anika’s papers on prehistoric witchcraft. “I’m listening.”

  “Her reasoning is almost hypnotic.”

  “How so?”

  “She was formulating calculations for the tiniest differences in wind patterns and air temperature,” Mark said and straightened up.

  “Why is that important?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I thought you said you had an inkling?”

  “Yes, but I’m starving and my brain has stopped working. It’s been a long day. Let’s find food.”

  “Sure, Brian. First things first.”

  Brian. He had to remember he was Brian Meyer. He and Michelle… Sorry, he and Shelly had gone from boutique to boutique, buying clothes, inspecting jewelry, Morano glass and the wonderful crystal chandeliers—spending other people’s money.

  Okay, so he died tomorrow. Today might have made it worthwhile. He had a stunning Prada suit, extra pair of pants, Ferragamo shoes, Zegna shirts, a fine felt fedora, and new Nikes.

  He’d hated shopping with Denise but watching Michelle, er Shelly, try on Dolce and Gabbana dresses, Escada suits, and Rodriguez outfits had been a revelation. The effect had been startling; the clothing accented her long body, her wealth of her shining black hair gleaming in the lights. Not only that, the lady instinctively knew what looked good on her, and better, how to wear it to maximum impact. It was the little things, the cant of her hips, the slight angling of her shoulders, and how minute changes in posture accented the entire outfit.