Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  Rau was returning that evening to drop off the bike and catch a ride to the airport to fly home.

  By six o’clock, Mark would be on his own.

  To do what?

  An image of Anika formed in his mind. This was all his fault. What were her chances?

  When he pulled off the road and stopped, Harry rolled to a stop just ahead of him, lifted his face shield and called, “Problems?”

  Mark took a deep breath and removed his script-filled tablet to scrawl a note, then he walked forward to Harry’s BMW and handed it to him. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Of course, Brian.” He took the note and glanced at it.

  “My name’s not Brian Meyer. I’m Mark Schott, an anthropology professor from the University of Wyoming, and I’m in real trouble.”

  Rau’s eyebrows shot up, disbelief in his expression.

  “Yeah,” Mark said, “sounds crazy, huh? But the favor I’m asking is if you’d get to Munich a little early. There’s an American consulate in the city center. If you would go there, tell them who I am, and deliver that note, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Tell the people at the consulate that I know Anika French was abducted because of me. That ought to really get their attention. Anika French. Got it?”

  “Anika French,” Rau repeated. “Abducted. Because of you?”

  “On the back of the note is my wife’s number in Wyoming. When you get to a phone, could you give her a call? Tell her… tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’m going do everything I can to make things right.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Too much.”

  “Look, why don’t you just ride into Munich with me and give this to the consulate yourself?”

  “Because, Harry, my chances of dying of old age are getting slimmer by the day.” He grinned, a cold shiver of fear running through him. “Anika’s in the ECSITE compound in Oberau. I’m going to go try and get her out.”

  “I’ve never heard of ECSITE. What’s that?”

  Mark pulled his helmet on, stepping over to the Ducati. Raising the visor, he smiled. “Take care, Harry. And thanks for being a true friend.”

  Mark straddled the bike, zipped up his jacket, and turned the key. As the big Ducati thundered onto the road, Mark smoothly caught second gear. He had a glimpse of Harry Rau in the mirror, standing with sunlight gleaming in his white hair.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Maureen rubbed her tired eyes. She hadn’t had a shower in two days, but neither had any of the rest of the team sitting around the cluttered table. They were all bleary-eyed and irritable.

  A knock came at the door before Amy Randall stepped into the room. She’d pulled her hair back and pinned it. The light brown pantsuit she wore looked freshly ironed, and she carried a brown leather case in her right hand.

  “Morning, Amy,” Maureen greeted, rising and arching her back. “What’s the word?”

  “A small victory.” Randall slung the case onto the table. She unsnapped it, extracting a sheaf of papers. “These are communications we’ve intercepted. Substituting the missile guidance chips looks like a base hit. Zoakalski’s turning his network upside down, trying to find the culprit. Whatever the North Koreans said really got his attention.”

  “Does he suspect us?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Gale Wade yawned before she said, “As a next step, we should have an operative approach the Iranians and offer them the guidance chips for a couple of million more. You know, chips with the same specifications as the ones the North Koreans were supposed to receive?”

  Sinclair caught on, adding, “So that Zoakalski learns of it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Another good distraction. But we still don’t know what he is ultimately trying to do, folks.” Randall cocked her head, retrieved a notebook from her case, and scrawled notes.

  Maureen had been thinking about Anika constantly. This made it hard to keep her mind on models and statistics. “Any word about Anika’s status?”

  “No updates.”

  “Schott, his wife and kids? Nothing?”

  Randall shook her head. “Focus on your job, Maureen. What’s the status of the model you were working on?”

  “Fred and I think ECSITE’s ultimate aim is to tie the R1a virus to Russian bioweapons research. Do you recall the big anthrax outbreak forty-five years ago that exposed the Soviet Union’s biowarfare activities?”

  “Of course, there’s long been speculation that the recent smallpox outbreaks around the world can be tied to the Russian facility, one of only two in the world that houses the variola virus. But—”

  “We’re working out the mechanics of the model to disable that threat. While we do, we have another distraction that we think will delay ECSITE. We’re calling it ‘Operation YE’.”

  Randall gave her a curious look. “What is Operation YE?”

  Maureen said, “It stands for the bacteria Yersinia enterocolitica. It’s an enterotoxin.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  A misty rain fell from the night sky as Mark squished along through the darkness in his Ferragamo shoes and fought the urge to shiver. Damn it, if only he could see! So far, he’d blundered into fences, been slapped half silly by tree branches, and nearly broken his neck. Against the rain, he wore his motorcycle jacket and the heavy helmet. Sure, he must look ludicrous but his head was dry, even if the pattering rain on the hard shell drowned any other sound. He kept the visor up to see better—as if he could in the pitch blackness.

  But then, if he could see, so could the compound guards. No, it was better this way. If he could get close to the gate, watch it through the night, perhaps he could find a flaw in the system.

  And do what? Play James fucking Bond?

  He wanted to turn right around and run straight back to Oberau where he’d parked the Ducati. After that, he wanted to ride like a madman until he reached… where? And therein lay the problem. Half of Europe was searching for Mark Schott—known drug dealer and killer.

  Anika’s in there.

  He wondered if Harry Rau had delivered his note to the American consulate. And wondered some more if it made any difference.

  Of course, they would have grabbed poor Harry by now. They’d be interrogating him mercilessly for every detail he could remember about the infamous Mark Schott. They would know he was riding a Ducati, that he’d dyed his hair, that he now had a scruffy beard.

  So, if I survive the next couple of days, what next? Dye my hair red? After that, he’d be out of colors unless he opted for green, pierced his ears and eyebrows, and traded the fabric riding jacket for black leather with studs.

  “Somehow I’ve got to get into that damned compound and get Anika out.”

  He stumbled over humped grass, vaguely aware of a white-painted fence to his right. Did he remember that fence lining the road into the compound?

  Why didn’t I pay better attention?

  Because on the first trip in, he’d been jet-lagged. On the trip out, he’d been drooling over Stephanie and wondering if she was going to kill him when she wrecked at a hundred and fifty.

  His next step came down on empty air. Mark dropped, water splashing as he fell forward, hit wet grass, and toppled sideways into a ditch.

  Floundering and spitting, he clawed his way up the side of the ditch, slipped on the grass, and rolled length-long into the water.

  “Mother fucker!” He battled his way back up the embankment and stood, dripping, slinging his arms around to drain the water. Unlatching his helmet, he poured water out, using his fingers to press out the lining. As if that did any good with rain pattering on his mostly dry hair.

  Dripping, cold, and shivering, Mark Schott stood in the night, head raised to the rain-black skies, and whispered to himself, “What the hell more could go wrong tonight?”

  He had the faintest sense of motion before an arm clamped around his throat like a steel band. A leg sn
aked around his and jerked his foot from under him. Weight smashed the breath from his lungs as he hit the ground.

  Mark struggled to cry out as something sharp pricked the skin of his neck. In the corner of his eye, the shine of a polished blade glinted. Paralyzed by fear, he opened his mouth, emitting no sound.

  “What more could go wrong?” a voice whispered in his ear. “You could run into me.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Anika examined the conference room, noting the monitors, displays, maps, and people. She could barely remember their names: Pierre LaFevre, Jacques Terblanch, Wu Liu, Nanda… Hash-something. The other name was a blank.

  Everyone stared at her, expecting her to speak, but all she could do was try to control her shaking.

  “Please, sit down,” a soft voice intruded into her reeling thoughts.Terblanch.

  Anika clung to his kind eyes, then caught the slight nod from the older woman. Inoui, she thought. She gave Anika a solicitous gaze. “Excuse me. Who are you again?”

  “Francine Inoui,” the woman said through a thick accent. “You just met with the Big Man. We sympathize. He holds something over all of us.”

  “It is how he works,” the man with the blocky face said, voice dripping Russian. He smiled, flashing a golden tooth. “As long as I work here, my wife and children live well. If I do not produce,” he shrugged, “information is presented to the state police and people I love go to prison… or worse.”

  “And you?” she asked Pierre. Pierre… she couldn’t recall his last name.

  The man glowered at her. “It’s none of your business, but I have a daughter with a very rare medical condition. It can be controlled with the right pharmaceuticals. As long as I produce results, her medications arrive with regularity. She is sixteen. Instead of lying paralyzed in a bed as her body eats itself, she plays football with her friends.”

  The Russian—Max?—drummed his fingers on the table. “When Mark was here, he told us how instrumental you were to developing his research. You are not him. We understand. But we have so little time to understand the intricacies of his model.”

  Anika stood there stunned. “His model?”

  “You are familiar with it, oui?” Inoui asked, her pointed chin jutting out.

  “I created it.” She watched her fingers clasp and unclasp, her body draining of energy as the fear began to subside.

  “You?” Pierre asked sarcastically and looked her up and down.

  “Yes.”

  Murmurs went around the room.

  Finally, Pierre said, “Then you understand fracture events? Social forcings? The basic mechanics of the model?”

  “Better than Mark ever will.”

  A man whose name she couldn’t remember responded, “Good. We are currently attempting to model how a virus spreads so that we can propose a way to manage the spread. Can you help us understand the nuances of your model? We have used data from previous global pandemics, but it’s like modeling the motion of a school of fish. We can’t—”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Max. Max Kalashnikov.”

  Anika fought to focus, to summon even a trace of brainpower. “Yes, that’s right. Good analogy, Max. It’s all about modeling collective motion in biological systems. Collective behavior. Microscopic mechanisms can lead to the same behavior in different schools of fish… or people.”

  “I don’t understand,” Terblanch said.

  “Traffic.”

  “Traffic?” Mikael squinted.

  Anika nodded. “The school of fish is engaged in synchronized swimming. People moving through an airport are engaged in synchronized walking. The behavioral mechanism that allows them to efficiently move through the airport is signs. Baggage claim, this way. Taxis, that way. So, the first step is to identify the signs that govern human movements in small systems. Once you understand how each small system operates, you can tie them together into a large system to manipulate behavior. Do you understand?”

  Mikael stared at her with glowing eyes. “You can alter collective behavior simply by changing signs? Sounds simplistic.”

  “I hope so. That’s what makes a large system manageable. Simplicity of motion. Always start local. First, manage the signs in the local school, then traffic patterns in town, then key airports around the world, then global vaccine distribution channels. Do you see?”

  “Ah…” Max said with a sigh. “I do.”

  Stephanie had moved to the rear and sat with a phone to her ear.

  Terblanch lifted a hand to get Anika’s attention. “If we put the right signs in place, we can manufacture what people believe, yes?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “And how long will it take before the virus causes a fracture event?”

  The Israeli virus? Was that what this was all about?

  Anika glanced around the table. Fear paralyzed her ability to speak but her brain was running data. Collating… collating. Where were the largest repositories of Level-4 toxins in the world?

  She softly said, “With the right signs in place? Days.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Blindfolded and gagged, his hands tied behind him, Mark allowed his captor to drag him along the trail until the man said, “Stop.”

  A metal door thunked open, then Mark was unceremoniously pitched onto a cold metal floor. God, it was freezing in here.

  The man said, “If you don’t want to be killed, you’ll do as I say. Roll to your side and lift your feet so I can tie your ankles to your hands.”

  Mark did it.

  After his ankles were bound to his hands. The man rose and walked away. The door slammed shut, an engine started, and Mark realized he was in the back of a truck. The vehicle bounced and jolted for… well, he had no idea how long.

  Then the truck stopped, a door in front slammed, and he heard the rattling of metal as the rear door was opened.

  “You have arrived,” the man said, came across the bed of the truck, severed Mark’s bindings, and ripped the tape from his mouth. Then, strong hands pulled him to his feet. “Walk.”

  “I can’t walk!” His jaws ached. “My legs are numb. Give me a minute.”

  A hand steadied him while blood returned to his legs. While the painful tingling ran its course, he tried to figure out where he was. He smelled pines and the smoke from chimneys.

  “Now, walk,” the man ordered. He held tight to Mark’s arm as he guided him forward. “There are stairs here. Step up.”

  Mark used his foot to feel for the steps and climbed the stairs.

  A house door opened. Mark was guided into blessed heat. Then, step by step, he was forced to climb another staircase. At the top, he was turned to his right. Marched forward and a door slammed behind him.

  Moments later he was shoved down into a chair. “If you scream or call out, I’ll be back. You don’t want that.”

  The man’s boots thudded across the wood floor and he was gone.

  Shivering and terrified, Mark waited. On top of the terror, his bladder was full.

  Dear God, what are they going to do to me?

  He imagined a pistol being placed to his head, Stephanie or Gunter aiming down the sights. Would he have any warning?

  Hot tears beaded against his blindfold.

  Denise, Anika, Will, Jake… I’m so sorry.

  He was sound asleep when his blindfold was ripped away and he gasped and scrambled to sit upright. “Where… who—who are you?” It was still pitch black.

  “Don’t ask questions. Just answer them,” his captor said.

  “You going to kill me?” Mark managed hoarsely.

  “Depends.Who do you work for?”

  Mark licked his lips. “The University of Wyoming.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Professor. Uh, department of anthropology.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Meyer. Nobody there by that name.”

  “I’m Schott. Mark Schott.”

  “That’s not what your passport says.”
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  “It… it’s a fake. That was given to me.”

  “By whom?”

  He struggled to place the hard voice… and came up with a complete blank. All he could see in the dark room was a swaying black figure, like a silhouette. “She called herself Michelle Lee. It was in Venice. After she got me away from ECSITE. We were hiding there. Actually, I—I was her captive.” He tried to keep from crying. “Look, I’ll give you anything you want!”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “You mean Michelle?”

  “You have more than one wife?”

  “I don’t know where Michelle is,” he answered cautiously.

  “Who’s Denise?”

  Who are these people? “She’s in Laramie. Look, she doesn’t know anything about this. It’s all my fault!”

  “What were you doing sneaking around the compound in the middle of the night?”

  He narrowed his eyes, glaring. “Trying to figure out how to get in, all right?”

  “Why?”

  Mark pursed his lips, slowly shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Thought you’d plead for Zoakalski’s mercy? Try and get your old job back? Maybe hope Stephanie didn’t put a bullet in your brain?”

  “If that was the case, I’d pretty much ride up to the front gate and ask to be let in, wouldn’t I?” Mark managed to swallow hard. “Look, who are you?”

  “That’s going to depend on how you answer the question. Why were you sneaking around the compound?”

  Mark dropped his chin onto his chest. “Fuck you. Go ahead. Shoot me. I’m tired of all this. And I’m sure as hell not getting out of it alive anyway.”

  A male hand switched on a flashlight and held a photo in front of Mark’s face. “Who is this?”

  Mark squinted at the image. “That’s Michelle Lee. The woman who had me prisoner in Venice.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “In a villa in the Dolomites the day after I was grabbed away from Stephanie in Garmisch. She got me out when Zoakalski’s people attacked. Said she was CIA at first, but I figured out later that she wasn’t.”