Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  She’s done this before. She appeared completely comfortable in designer high fashion. It was curious knowledge when compared to the way she’d ridden the Ducati and the competent way she handled her pistol.

  Michelle placed the report on the table and helped him carefully pick up the papers in just the right order before replacing them in the box. Then she taped it shut, adding a tiny sliver of adhesive.

  “Anyone opening the box will miss that.” She pointed. “If that strip of tape is broken, you tell me. Understand?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He stood, making a face as he straightened. “God, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “None of us are, Brian.”

  She grabbed her purse, heading for the door, pausing only long enough to insert the tiny bit of paper at the bottom. Straightening, she gave him a smile. “Italian tonight?”

  “Is there anything else in Venice?”

  “Thank God I know you’re joking.” She bumped him playfully with her hip.

  Taking her hand, they descended the stairs to the lobby and walked out onto the Riva degli Sciavoni. At the top of the Ponte della Paglia, she stopped to point at the covered bridge visible on the narrow canal. “They call it the Bridge of Sighs. It was originally covered so that criminals being taken from the old prison to the Doge’s Palace couldn’t escape by jumping into the water. Another explanation is that political prisoners could be passed in secret, hidden from the crowds, on their way to their executions.”

  “How refreshing.”

  Skirting the Campanile, they entered the Piazza San Marco and mingled with the crowd. Hundreds of pigeons strutted across the ground.

  As they wandered, part of the fun was inspecting the menus. Michelle finally picked a ristorante in the Fenice district and they were shown to a table in the rear.

  Michelle selected a local wine and helped Mark order. Then, in the light of the table’s candle, she leaned forward and the soft yellow flicker augmented the gleam in her large eyes. “We have to start making progress on the model.”

  He sighed. “Sure, but working on it in the hotel room is like trying to paint the Mona Lisa with a twig and flower petals. At Oberau, I had computers, a team who understood statistics, and access to data. But at least I’m getting an idea of the variables Anika thinks are important.” He shook his head. “Damn! She had all this stuff and it was right under my nose.”

  “Would it have made a big difference?”

  He gave a disarming shrug. “Zoakalski would be a couple of years ahead of where he is now.”

  Her cell phone picked that moment to chime. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  He watched her stand and walk gracefully around the tables to the door. It pleased him that every male eye followed her willowy body as she passed. Through the window, he could see her standing in the lighted street, the phone to her ear.

  She nodded, almost hunched against the phone. Periodically she’d shoot glances at the restaurant. Talking about me?

  Mark thanked the waiter when he placed the plates and waited until Michelle returned. She had a dancer’s grace, an almost sinuous movement to her stride.

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  She seated herself, replaced her napkin, and arched an eyebrow. “Complications. Turnabout, it seems, is fair play. Someone managed to snatch Anika French right out from under the FBI in Washington.”

  Mark stiffened. “Is Anika all right?”

  She gave him an amused look as she speared a mussel with her fork and wound pasta around it. “Apparently.”

  “Who snatched her? ECSITE?” Fear curled around his heart.

  “Unknown, but that’s a good guess.”

  “Is the United States trying to get her back?”

  Michelle chewed another mussel and smiled. “Again, unknown.”

  Mark frowned and his gaze slowly went over the room, then returned to Michelle. “How can you not know? You’re CIA and you’re on the phone constantly.”

  “Use your brain, Brian. Do you think the CIA discusses its next moves with anyone over the phone? I’m getting general information, things no one listening in will care about, and most of it is explained in code words.” She pointed with her fork. “Stop looking horrified and try this vongole, it’s marvelous.”

  Mark speared a clam and thought about Zoakalski. The man was ruthless and Anika would be completely vulnerable. “They’re going to kill her, aren’t they? When she’s told Zoakalski what he wants to know?”

  Seeing his dismay, she said, “Not for a while. Every extra day is a day the government can use to plan her rescue.”

  He suddenly wasn’t hungry. He placed his fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. I did this to her.

  “Developing a conscience?” Michelle asked.

  Mark reached for his wine and took a drink.

  When he didn’t respond, Michelle said, “Look. French is alive. You don’t need to engage in self-recriminations. Yet, at least.” Her expressive eyes turned thoughtful. “But it means ECSITE is going to push your girlfriend for every detail of the model. We have to figure out what they’re doing first.”

  “I… I think I know.”

  She lifted suggestive eyebrows. “Then tell me.”

  Mark made a lame gesture. “Mass death by targeting ethnically unique genetic populations.”

  Michelle leaned across the table and smiled. “After dinner, we’re going back to the room and you’re going to show me how.”

  They worked long into the night, then collapsed into bed without a second look at the other’s naked body.

  Sleep, however, eluded him. Instead, he lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, remembering Anika. He pictured her in his classes, that thoughtful look on her face. Memories of her in her office prodded him. How, once, she’d looked up with excitement and joy each time he entered her door. He’d been so in love with her.

  He relived the first night he’d kissed her and ran his fingers through her thick red hair. Surprisingly, he could remember every detail of the few times they’d made love.

  Why the hell did I ever write that damned article?

  Nothing but misery had come of it.

  His fault. All his fucking fault.

  He barely realized when Michelle eased from the bed, whispering, “Mark?”

  He feigned sleep, compelled by a desperate desire for solitude.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her dress in the darkness, slip to the door, and ease the lock back. Opening it to a crack, she slipped through and was gone.

  Mark was on his feet, pulled on his pants, and dragged a t-shirt over his head. A sliver of light at the door showed him the washrag she’d left to hold it ajar, and he eased out.

  On bare feet, he padded along the hall, peered around the corner, and made his way to the stairs.

  Where would she have gone? It was the middle of the damned night.

  He descended the stairs and glanced out at the historic lobby. Michelle was off to the side, standing in the darkened lounge entrance. She was talking, making small gestures with her hands.

  He could make out a dark silhouette inside the lounge, a shadow in the darkness. The man was obviously issuing orders as he emphasized each point with a finger. Michelle nodded.

  Then he handed her a small plastic case. Michelle snapped it open and removed a syringe that shone in the dim light. She squinted as she checked the contents, nodded, and reinserted it into the case.

  A bitter chill surged through Mark’s blood as the thing’s purpose hit home.

  The unknown man rose from his chair. Heavyset, he wore a long coat and had a beret on his head. He might have been fifty, looked Asian, with a hard face and square jaw. But the most outstanding trait was a slight limp in his left leg.

  Mark turned and bolted, trying to keep his feet from slapping the ancient marble.

  Flying down the hall, he had a sudden feeling of horror. He had to grab Michelle’s motorcycle keys and escape! They were still in he
r motorcycle jacket pocket, right? As was Michelle’s phone and wallet? Well, hell, he took them too.

  After that, what would he do? He had no idea where to go…

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Skip exited customs at Zurich’s unique airport with a sensation of relief. The steel, glass, and tile floors inside the gray monster had had a depressing effect. The officer at passport control had routinely scanned Skip’s passport and COVID status and added another stamp.

  Skip glanced around the shiny baggage claim, seeing the man with white-blond hair leaned against the wall next to the women’s restroom. As he met Skip’s eyes, the man lowered his phone and walked over.

  Helmut Rath had a blocky face and alert blue eyes. Even as he walked up, his roving gaze cataloged the surroundings.

  Helmut gave Skip a slap on the back. “Good to see you, old friend. And thanks for the opportunity to take a drive. I’ve been spending too much time in the office.”

  “Tough job, administration.” Skip clasped Helmut’s hand in a vigorous shake. “You must get such an adrenaline rush while you’re sorting through bills.”

  “Oh, it is stimulating, ja. Especially when I wonder how I will pay them all.” Though Helmut surreptitiously watched the crowd, he managed a sidelong glance at Skip. “You bring work, ja?”

  “Maybe.” Skip tightened his grip on his single suitcase. “Your car clean?”

  “Freshly washed yesterday but I hit snow on the pass.”

  “I mean, clean clean.” He gave Helmut a suggestive look.

  “Oh, that. It is a rental, picked up yesterday. Random chance dictates a high level of privacy without unknown listening devices.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ve got a problem you might be able to help me with.”

  Helmut grinned. “I just thought you flew in to borrow my Moto Guzzi again.”

  Skip slowly shook his head as they walked out into the cloudy day. “Not this time.”

  At the end of the covered walkway, they stepped out into the misty rain, and Helmut led him to a long, sleek BMW sedan. The locks clicked open. The thing was a gun-metal-blue four-door. Skip tossed his bag on the plush-looking white leather seats in the back.

  “It is a 750Li,” Helmut explained as Skip climbed into the passenger seat and clicked the seatbelt. “Four hundred horsepower, all-wheel drive. Very advanced suspension.”

  Skip heard the engine roar to life and Helmut grasped the shifter—a thing that would look more at home on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

  “And you rented this? No wonder you can’t pay your bills.”

  Helmut grinned. “Ja, but you bring work. I can count on you, Skip. You don’t just come for a social call. Not when I have to pick you up in Zurich and drive you back to Munchen.”

  Helmut shot him a look as he paid the airport tolls. “Goes on your account. I have to scrimp on every Euro for car rentals.”

  Skip waited until they were on the A-1, heading for Bregenz. Helmut was in the left lane, enjoying all the benefits of the car’s four hundred horsepower, flashing slower traffic with his brights.

  “Tell me about Mikael Zoakalski.”

  The evaluative study Helmut gave him was long enough to be more eloquent than words. And Helmut never liked to take his eyes off traffic. He turned his attention back to the road and took a deep breath. “Not a man to mess with.”

  “I know he was Russian intelligence, but I don’t know specifically what he—”

  “Along with banking and extortion, he was in charge of the biological warfare program, my friend. The experiments he authorized frightened enough of his scientists that, at the first opportunity, several defected to different countries around the world. They are all dead now, of course.”

  “He hunted them down?”

  “Every single one.”

  “Has he ever hired you?”

  Helmut puckered his lips, frowned, then said, “Yes. Always very anonymous: Someone important is coming to Munich. I am to keep him safe while he visits the city, sees the sights, gets laid. I’ve been in the compound outside Oberau. You don’t want to try it. Top-of-the-line security. The perimeter fence is wired. Motion sensors, lasers, IR and thermal imagery, and human patrols. You wouldn’t stand a chance trying to infiltrate.”

  Skip’s brows lowered as he stared across the car at Helmut. “I have to try. He snatched one of my clients from right under my nose. This isn’t one I can let pass,” Skip said softly. “If you have another obligation, I’ll understand, and we’ll just discuss the weather.” He glanced up at the low ceiling of clouds obscuring the Alps. “What you can see of it.”

  Helmut finally asked, “Who is this client?”

  “A very important young woman who made a discovery that a great many people are interested in. Think national security. Here’s the thing: She’s a good kid, an innocent who’s in way over her head. The Americans want her back and they’ll do all the usual stumbling government things that may or may not work.”

  Helmut gave him an annoyed smile. “You are a fucking romantic, did you know that, Skip?”

  “It’s part of my legendary charm.”

  “Are you bringing in a team to attempt the extraction?”

  “Just me. Or just the two of us. Unless, that is… you want to talk about the weather?”

  Helmut skillfully navigated the curves, while Skip gazed out the window, feeling the g-force as the big BMW hugged the road.

  Helmut finally said, “I do not tell this story to just anyone. My grandfather was a soldat in the Sixth Army. He went into the war as a good Nazi. In those days, everyone did. No matter what the morality of the war, Hitler abandoned the entire Sixth Army when the Russians surrounded Stalingrad. For months, my grandfather fought, starved, and despaired as the men around him died.”

  “Obviously, he survived.”

  “Fifty thousand finally surrendered. He was with them as they were marched all the way to Moscow and paraded through the center of the city, shuffling along through horse dung in rag-wrapped feet. It was there that he rescued a little abandoned dog.

  “German prisoners were split up, marched all over Russia, and put into work camps. Grandfather somehow managed to stay alive—even at the expense of sharing his food with the little dog, who he called Schatzee.”

  “I hate stories where the dog dies.”

  Helmut spared him a glance. “He was put to work building a factory in the Urals where the Russians were going to make airplane parts. He and the others lived in tents in the mud, working seven days a week hauling cement, sand, and steel. Those who became too sick to work were simply shot. And one day, Grandfather became too sick to work.

  “Before he was going to shoot Grandfather, one of the Russian guards who had been tormenting him, decided to kick little Schatzee to death in front of grandfather’s eyes. He told me the little dog squealed and squealed, unable to understand. But the guard just kept kicking.

  “When Schatzee was finally dead, Grandfather crawled over and wrapped the little dog in his arms. As the Russian was lifting his rifle for the final shot, Grandfather staggered to his feet, clutching Schatzee’s body, and forced himself to return to work.

  “He buried Schatzee in the foundations of the factory and finally recovered enough to stay alive. He was one of only five thousand who made it back to Germany in 1955.”

  Helmut’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “I was there the night he died. The last words he uttered were ‘Schatzee? I am so sorry. Schatzee, where are you?’”

  Skip stared at the road.

  “The point of my story,” Helmut said, “is that I’ve known many Russians. Most are just people like the rest of us. The only time I met Mikael Zoakalski, the first thought that ran through my mind was, ‘A man like this one kicked Schatzee to death.’ And now he has a compound—like a gulag—almost in my backyard.”

  Skip admired the buildings as they passed St. Gallen. The twin domes of the historic cathedral rose above the rococo architecture
of the monastery with its world-famous library.

  Helmut’s hard blue eyes narrowed. “After thinking about Schatzee and my grandfather, I do not want to discuss the weather.”

  “Thanks. I’ll owe you one.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Through the oval window, Anika watched rainy Germany emerge as the Gulfstream dropped through the low ceiling of clouds. Green pastures and fields surrendered to houses as the jet’s nose lifted and the wheels touched down on the runway.

  “There is something you need to know,” Stephanie said from across the aisle.

  “What is it?” Anika asked dryly.

  “It’s about passport control and customs.”

  “You haven’t bought them off yet? I noticed the officer in Nassau just let us walk from the helicopter to the jet and, the entire time, he looked at everything but us.”

  “He considered ignorance to be in his best financial interest,” Stephanie told her. “Munich is a little different.”

  Stephanie handed her a package of papers. “Your passport, work visas, and other documentation. The name is an alias, of course, it claims that you are Louisa Velasquez, a citizen of Mexico. The officer will take them, stamp them, and allow you to pass. We have arranged that he will not ask you questions. You, for your part, will say nothing.”

  Anika tried to keep her face neutral, having already considered making a scene in customs. In fact, she’d been counting on it if they gave her the least opportunity.

  Stephanie continued, “A silly woman might be tempted to scream ‘I’m Anika French, abducted from Washington DC’ Hoping to draw attention to herself. But you won’t do that.”

  Anika ground her teeth. “Why not?”