Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  “You know who she works for?”

  “No. There was a man. She went to meet him in a bar. Looked Asian, I think.” Mark didn’t think he ought to explain about observing the meeting and the transfer of the needle.

  “Why didn’t you go to the American consulate in Milan and beg for US mercy?”

  “They think I’m a drug dealer running product out of the Italian villa. Which they would probably believe instead of any wild story that I’m a professor running from Zoakalski.” Do I dare tell the rest? Maybe it will keep me alive.

  “But I did send a complete set of notes to the consulate. It’s too late to stop it. It would have been delivered this afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “Vienna,” Mark lied to buy time. “The American state department has it by now. And it explains everything.”

  “Do you have any idea where Denise and the boys are?”

  “Laramie. I told you.” He glanced up, puzzled. “She’s irrelevant to you. Just my wife. She doesn’t have the foggiest idea about the model.”

  “She and both of your boys vanished the night after you left for Germany. Did any of Zoakalski’s people mention that?”

  “What?” A terrible foreboding grew in his chest. “Vanished? Denise? Jake and Will? Are you sure?”

  “Has anyone try to use them against you?”

  “What do you mean, vanished?”

  “It’s as if they dropped off the face of the earth. If they’d been kidnapped and were going to be used against you, someone would have said something by now.”

  Mark sagged in the chair. “God, I’m a total fuck up.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You got away from a Chinese intelligence operative and managed to avoid being spotted or arrested while half of Europe, Zoakalski, and the US government have been looking for you. Not bad for a civilian.” A pause. “That bit about sneaking into the compound, however, was lacking in any kind of good sense. Which brings us back to the question: Why were you trying to sneak in?”

  Mark sagged. “A friend of mine is being held hostage in there. I was going to try and get her out.”

  “Who?”

  He winced. “Anika French.”

  “How’d you know she was in the compound?”

  “Michelle told me.”

  “How did you think you’d get her out?”

  Mark shook his head, squinting in the lights. “I don’t have the foggiest idea. But I had to do something.” He worked his lips, sweating in the blinding glare. “You’re sure my family… I mean Denise and the boys…?”

  The room lights went on and he could see the colorful glare of a TV screen in the rear of the building. It actually hurt his eyes. Mark squinted as the burly man with a trimmed beard clicked off the flashlight.

  The man walked over, his brown eyes curious, short dark hair gleaming in the light. He wore a black sweater over muscular shoulders. Tactical pants—the pockets stuffed full—clad his legs. Mud and bits of grass covered the black boots on his feet.

  Mark suffered another moment of terror as a knife appeared in the man’s hands. But his captor only bent and severed the bindings on Mark’s hands and feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” The TV news anchor was speaking in English, but Mark couldn’t make out the words.

  “Skip Murphy. SSM security.” He pulled a photo from a desk. “Is this Michelle? I got a picture of her today in Oberau. She seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to Zoakalski’s compound. The rest of the time she drove around town, spent a lot of time in her car watching the main road. She was obvious enough that a couple of Zoakalski’s people drove out and found an opportunity to talk to her. Through the scope, I saw that she had a real estate brochure. She’s good. Talked to them for a half hour, periodically pointing at the brochure.”

  “Yes, that’s Michelle. She’s after me.”

  Skip seated himself on the bed. “Why would that be?”

  Mark rubbed his sore wrists, seeing where the restraints had eaten into the flesh. “She must have figured out I stole her Ducati.”

  Murphy shook his head. “Stealing a woman’s Ducati definitely rates as a killing offense, but I suspect she’s really after the model.”

  “She is.” Mark dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes. “Everybody is.”

  On the TV screen in the back, Mark saw words scrolling across the bottom: The State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology in Koltsovo, Novosibirsk, Oblast, Russia, better known as VECTOR was attacked today…”

  “I’m pretty sure,” Murphy said, “that she—”

  “Wait! Turn the news up!”

  Murphy frowned at him, then reached for a remote on the desk and turned up the volume.

  The anchor said, “This is the same disease research lab that was attacked in September of 2019 by unknown agents. VECTOR was once the world’s leading facility for weaponizing viruses.”

  “Hmm,” Murphy said and sat on the edge of the desk. “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?” Mark said.

  “VECTOR was a maximum containment lab or biosafety-level-4 lab.”

  “Is that the really bad stuff?”

  “You could say so. It’s the stuff that can wipe out every human on the face of the planet. It’s estimated that they have two tons of weaponized smallpox.” He used the back of his hand to rub his beard. “Though, supposedly, in recent years they’ve been focusing on developing vaccines against genetically engineered viruses.”

  “Weaponized viruses? Like COVID?” In his mind, Mark was plugging variables into Anika’s model and watching the dominoes position themselves. “Like the one that’s ravaging Israel?”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Maybe. In the beginning, some in the US government hypothesized that the COVID-19 virus had escaped from VECTOR during the 2019 explosion. Why not something novel today that targets the Y chromosome of your enemies?”

  His tired brain was tracking variables, stumbling, trying to configure the model. “I—I need to eat and rest, please. There’s something… something I’m missing.”

  Chapter Sixty

  Helmut Rath drove into the warehouse parking lot and killed the ignition on the BMW sedan. For a moment he sat, letting his eyes roam the paved lot; sodium lights illuminated the white metal sides of the warehouse and the line of delivery trucks—the latter neatly backed into spaces along the rear fence. Yellow light gleamed on their windshields and chrome.

  No one approached and nothing moved.

  After five minutes, Helmut slipped a rubber Halloween mask over his head, aligning the eye holes so he could see. Then he tugged a brimmed hat over the whole.

  Grabbing the package from the seat beside him, he opened the driver’s door and walked to the building’s side entrance. Leaning down so he could see, he inserted picks into the lock. Once he’d been an expert at the task. Now he muttered, “Out of practice.”

  Five minutes later, Helmut felt the final tumbler give and the door swung open. Retrieving his package, he stepped inside.

  Only three banks of fluorescents—the night lighting—illuminated the warehouse interior and cast dim shadows over the large plastic-wrapped pallets.

  So, which ones do I need? Keeping to the shadows he ghosted his way to the office, seeing a clipboard hanging from a hook. This he took down, studying it in the dim light.

  Then, taking the clipboard with him, the package under his arm, he started down the aisles in search of the right shipping tags.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  From the observation post built behind the sign, Skip watched the white delivery truck wind its way up to the compound. Through the scope, he saw the guard at the gate step up to the truck, inspect the papers, then get out with the driver, open the back, and look inside.

  Moments later, the gate rolled back and the truck entered.

  Skip followed it as it wound its way to the back of the compound, delivering the weekly food order. Then he slid a piece of roofing back and cra
wled over to the satellite antenna. Plugging his phone in, he pressed the send button.

  “This is Warren.”

  “Jackrabbit.” Skip said. “The delivery is made.”

  “Roger that, Jackrabbit.”

  “I need a line to Amy Randall.”

  “Roger that. Hang tight while I connect you.”

  A moment later, a voice said, “Randall.”

  “Jackrabbit here.”

  “Glad you called. Was the delivery made?”

  “Roger that.”

  “I’ve got a curious development to relay. Mark Schott checked in. He sent a series of notes scribbled on a pad to the American consulate by means of an American traveling abroad. The man apparently rode around on motorcycles with someone calling himself Brian Meyer. The notes delivered supposedly detail Mark Schott’s recent adventures.” A pause. “As a heads up, the notes say that he’s going to try and free Anika French.”

  “Roger that.” Skip grinned. “I’ve got him in the Munich safe house under guard as we speak. Should we try and get him out of the country?”

  A pause. “What’s your call?”

  Skip rubbed his nose. “Personally, I’d rather wait. With the delivery made, I have enough on my hands.”

  “What’s your opinion of Schott?”

  Skip related what the man had told him. “I think he’s telling the truth. Oh, and I sent a photo of a woman through the link yesterday. She’s apparently the one who grabbed Schott away from Stephanie. Schott says she calls herself Michelle Lee.” He spelled it. “Can you see if anyone can make an ID?”

  “Already done. She’s Mi Chan Li.” Randall spelled it. “Trained by the Chinese. But there’s a catch. According to rumor, she cut ties with Beijing a couple of years back. Been freelancing ever since.”

  What the hell did that mean? “So, we may have a fourth party interested in the French model? Or she’s back on the Chinese payroll?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I see.” Skip frowned.

  When he ended the communication, Skip crawled over and lifted a heavy pair of Swarovski fifteen-power binoculars to glass the town, then he focused his attention on Li’s car.

  Moments later the drone of a small plane could be heard. Skip watched Li step out of her car and stare off to the north, shielding her eyes with one hand. As the airplane approached, Li lifted a cell phone to her ear. Skip could just make out that she was talking, watching as the airplane flew up the valley.

  Skip shifted, trying desperately to swivel his scope, blocked by the confines of the roof and sign. Using the binoculars, he was able to get a good look at the plane but couldn’t place the make or model. The registration had been taped over. The thing flew over the compound, then it was droning off toward Garmisch.

  Li stood beside her car, long black hair gleaming in the morning sunlight. Her attention was on the south. No more than ten minutes later, the plane made a return run, again passing over the compound. Skip watched Li talking, nodding. As the sound diminished, Li tossed her long hair back, slipped her phone in her pocket, and climbed back into her car.

  So, was she hunting Mark Schott? Or someone else?

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Anika was just beginning to grasp ECSITE’s goals when whispers caused her to raise her eyes and glance at her team members around the table.

  Terblanch was muttering uneasily to Kalashnikov.

  “What’s wrong?” Anika asked, noticing that Hashahurti and Liu had their heads together, speaking in hushed tones.

  “Don’t know,” Terblanch said in a low voice. “All the department heads are being called to the Big Man’s office. The tension has been building all day.”

  “I’ve never seen it like this.” Inoui shot a nervous glance toward the door. “We just received an email to the effect that some staff may not be going home tonight.”

  “People are worried,” Terblanch agreed. “You could feel it in the cafeteria this morning. I ate breakfast there and, I swear, you didn’t hear laughter anywhere.”

  “Did you notice the cars parked down at the palace?” Liu asked. “All expensive. Half have Swiss plates. Most of the Zurich office is here.”

  Kalashnikov rubbed his face, staring at the sheet of paper he’d been studying. “The fact that they are here, and not on a virtual conference, tells you how important it is. Whatever is wrong, the Big Man can’t trust communications. They are meeting face to face.”

  “Any of you hear anything about missile guidance systems?” Inoui asked.

  Glances went around the table.

  Anika shuffled her notes. “Zoakalski depends on systems. Perhaps, he’s just identified his own personal fracture event.”

  “And,” Inoui asked, “what might that fracture event be?”

  “Not enough data to hypothesize.” But she was hypothesizing anyway.

  Instantly, a cold shiver ran down her spine. If she didn’t help them, they’d murder her father. She couldn’t…

  Stephanie straight-armed the door, stomping into the room. “Dr. French? You’re with me. Now!”

  Anika shoved herself out of her chair and half-stumbled toward her.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The safe house ceiling lamp cast a cone of yellow light. Skip leaned over a table, his arms braced on its edge, and considered the high-resolution photos spread over its laminate surface. Every feature of the compound could be discerned with remarkable detail when a magnifying glass was employed.

  Across from him, Helmut was staring thoughtfully at the compound, expression grim. Mark Schott had just finished pointing out where he’d been held and the path he’d taken to his lab. With a finger, he had pointed to where the guards had been and what he’d observed while inside.

  The electrical technician they called “Q” came walking down the stairs, a Mylar tube in his hands. “Latest analysis from Langley is in. I’ve marked the overlay.”

  Skip yawned, straightened, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Need more coffee?” Mark Schott turned his attention from the photos to study Skip’s tired face.

  “No. I’ve got to get some sleep when we’re finished here.” He glanced at Q. “How about the overlay?”

  The technician slid a rubber band from the Mylar tube and unrolled it. He carefully placed the clear plastic over the aerial photos and aligned reference marks. Bright yellow lines had been drawn on the clear surface, delineating the compound perimeter. Other features, such as buildings, were outlined in various colors.

  Q tapped the yellow lines. “These are the defenses I’ve been able to detect. The parallel lines along the compound fence denote the electrical signature from sensors. Probably both IR and motion detectors. The blue dots are camera locations. Careful analysis indicates the cameras are remotely controlled, allowing the guys in the security center here”—he pointed to a red square overlaying a building—“to track anything they see.”

  Skip chuckled softly. “Looks like they’ve done a thorough job.”

  Q added, “And the electronics we’ve been able to identify are top of the line. Expense wasn’t an issue. They’ve got security for their security. The dotted lines are patrol paths. They run them randomly. No pattern that we can discern. The dogs seem to be well trained, and the guards are not hesitant about checking something if a dog goes on point.”

  Mark Schott made a face. “So, they’d have had me.”

  “Probably before you even made it to the perimeter fence. The good news is that given what we know about Stephanie, capturing you would have made her whole day.” Skip tapped a little silver square parked just back from the palace. “Look. There’s her souped-up Jaguar parked right next to the trees. But I don’t think she’ll take you for another ride. At least, not the kind you’d enjoy.”

  Mark’s expression fell. “Yeah, well, she’s had practice playing me like a puppet.”

  “Something to keep in mind,” Skip said thoughtfully, “since getting in is easy.” He
glanced at Q. “My special equipment coming?”

  “Arrived this evening by special delivery.”

  Schott was giving him a wary look. “What do you mean, getting in is easy?”

  “Well, it is. Getting out, however, that’s a whole different can of fish.”Skip studied Mark thoughtfully. “You willing to play bait? Give sweet Stephie a reason to go for a joy ride?”

  “Stephanie?” Mark asked incredulously. “You want me to ride with her? The woman wants to kill me! You out of your mind?”

  “Yeah,” Skip answered reasonably. “Haven’t you heard? Being crazy keeps you from going insane. But the question stands: Are you willing to act as bait for Stephanie? Willing to call her? Sound bitch-assed scared? Ask her for help?”

  “To do what?” Mark demanded incredulously, arms spread wide.

  In return, Skip crossed his, propping his butt against the table as he inspected Mark Schott. “Traffic is way up in that compound. Bankers, investors, manufacturers, we’ve been running the plates on every vehicle going in and out of the place. Zoakalski’s under a lot of pressure right now. Kind of a siege mentality. Stephanie might be stressed out, playing to all the big wigs. Maybe a nice spring drive would make her feel better. You know, relieve some of her tension.”

  “Her tension? I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if she was desperate to the point of screwing a doorknob.”

  “Yeah, poor Stephie. I think it’s time she worked for us for a change. You know, kind of like a puppet.”

  “Why not?” Helmut was staring at her silver Jaguar. “Psychologically, she views herself as a predator, an ultimate hunter, not a potential target.” He turned his attention to Skip. “You thinking about how Rasheed got out of Kandahar?”

  Skip shrugged. “You got a better idea?”

  Schott took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve seen the lady use a machine gun. Even Michelle is afraid of her. You’re out of your mind if you think she’ll go down easily.”