Fatal Network

by Trevor Scott

  Jake shot once-narrowly missing Simpson's jacket. Then he quickly closed the hatch halfway.

  Simpson returned fire, hitting the hatch.

  Jake checked his side of the hatch for damage. Nothing. Nice shield, he thought. Now came the waiting game. Who had more bullets and the better aim? Just as Jake was about to take another shot, he heard the swishing sound like that of water smashing against a hard surface. He poked his head around the hatch and saw a thick stream of water plastering Simpson, and the muffled sound of a man being battered from the salt water of an inch and a half fire hose opened wide. The hose went from Simpson's lower body then quickly upward bashing his skull against the hard metal bulkhead. Then the water stopped.

  "Take that, mother fucker," Leo said smiling. He had gone up the nearest ladder and slid up behind Simpson.

  Jake quickly ran out and pushed Simpson's gun away from his wet, crumpled form lying in the corner unconscious.

  "Quick," Jake said. "We've got to get him out of here."

  "Why? NIS will take it from here," Leo assured him.

  "No. It will take too much time to fill them in on the case, and Kurt said that the Navy wasn't sure who was involved. We can't trust anyone. I can only trust you, Leo. Please?" Jake knew he had no jurisdiction to conduct an investigation onboard a U.S. Navy ship, and his false entry aboard the ship could land him in the brig.

  "What the fuck. I haven't had this much fun in a long time," Leo said.

  Jake and Leo carried Simpson back to the Teredata shop and found some dry clothes for him. Then Jake pulled a small brown wallet from inside his leather jacket. Flipping the wallet open, Jake exposed what looked like a set of three darts. He unscrewed the tip from one and replaced it with a needle from a different pouch in the wallet. Then, pushing on one of the metal vanes on the other end that was supposed to be the dart's feather, a small amount of liquid squirted out.

  Jake examined Simpson's limp body lying on the cold metal surface that his own body had already been introduced to. Simpson had a large bump on the back of his head with a small amount of blood already drying to form a clump in his hair. Jake pulled Simpson's mouth open, curled his lip over, and shot the needle and the drug into his already flaccid body.

  "Shit! I'm glad we're on the same side," Leo said.

  Jake smiled. "The needle is so small he shouldn't even feel the hole when he wakes up for good. And, it won't leave a mark like it would on an arm or leg."

  "Maybe. But it sure looks crude."

  "Leo, could you hand me that bag," Jake said, pointing to Simpson's small satchel.

  Leo handed it to Jake. He looked through it. A pair of leather gloves, a watch hat, a change of underwear and socks, and the small wooden box. He opened the box. It was empty. Something didn't fit, Jake thought. The depth of the box seemed too shallow. He shook it. Nothing. The bottom looked normal. Then he twisted the latch ninety degrees and the bottom popped up. Jake pried the false bottom upward to reveal the hidden contents. Four computer chips were encased in styrofoam, and a computer disk lay over the top of them. Jake knew that he had found the source of the Italian link, but he still had no idea who Simpson worked for, or whom he was selling the chips and information to. He had to interrogate Simpson.

  "What did you find?" Leo asked.

  Jake looked up slowly, feeling a little weak still from the bullet graze to his temple. "Nothing much, Leo. Just the fastest chip in Europe." Jake closed the box and placed it back in the bag. "How can I get Simpson off the ship without waking him?"

  Leo thought for a second and then smiled. "You're the senator. You outrank the captain of the ship. We should be able to just walk off onto a liberty launch with any bullshit story."

  Jake realized that Leo was probably right. His cover had worked to get aboard, so pulling this off should be fairly easy. Jake and Leo prepared their story, and then set out with Simpson's semi-limp body between the two of them.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 32

  BONN, GERMANY

  The cobbled streets of the old town were crowded with raucous people heading from one Gasthaus Fashing party to the next. Half of the people were in costume. A lion, Cowboys, a voluptuous wench, and the others wore nice slacks and sweaters. But they all weaved as though they were slightly drunk.

  Herbert Kline watched the fat man slide from the driver's side of the dark blue Fiat van and swing the door shut. When the door failed to latch completely, the man slammed his shoulder into it.

  "Bastard's already drunk," Herb said softly to himself. He reached into the glove box and pulled out his standard issue Walther 9mm automatic. He slid the bolt back slowly and then released it allowing a round to set firmly into the chamber. Then he disengaged the hammer and let it slide forward carefully. After placing the gun in its brown leather case, he clipped it to the Polizei belt on his right hip. He grasped the green hat with short black brim and placed it squarely on his head. Not a perfect fit, but it would have to do.

  Herb was convinced that most of the people on the sidewalk wouldn't take a second glance at his mustard yellow shirt and dark green trousers that signified he was a Polizei. He walked with authority to the door of the Gasthaus that the fat man had entered. Then he hesitated for a moment to assure his mind that what he was about to do was not only necessary, but essential to his case. To sleep with swine you had to get used to the smell, he thought.

  He entered through the glass door and stood for another moment in the foyer. Large floor plants lined the walls and accented thick tan ceramic tiles. Loud voices echoed through the brick walls. Herb pulled open the heavy wooden inner door and a cloud of smoke billowed from the crowded bar area. He walked over to the end of the bar and searched for his target.

  "Bier?" the bartender asked, pointing to Herb.

  "Nay, danke. Ich mochte, aber haben Sie arbeit."

  "Schade!"

  Herb nodded his head in agreement, playing the dedicated Polizei. Then he saw the fat man at the far corner of the bar quaffing a large mug of beer. Be patient. A few more beers.

  The fat man ordered one after another and drank them faster than the bartender could draw the next one. Finally the man slid off the wooden stool, grabbed his belt and pants waist and pulled them upward, and then walked toward the men's room.

  Herb casually followed the fat man out of the bar to the foyer area and then into the men's room. The man stood with his chubby hand against the wall over the open urinal and was relieving himself in a grand fashion.

  Herb pulled his leather gloves over his fingers tighter and quietly walked up to the fat man. Just as the man shook off any residual urine and zipped his pants, Herb gave him a strong, quick kidney punch.

  The fat man crumpled hard to the floor immediately with a release of air as the wind was knocked out of him. Herb grabbed him by his jacket collar and dragged him away from the urinal. He rolled him to his back, pulled his head from the ground by his hair, and then punched him in the nose and mouth. He punched him again and again. Blood oozed from the man's nose, lip, and a cut under his left eye.

  Stop. Herb's heart raced. He wanted to swing and swing until all the life was out of the fat bastard. After all, he was the one who had clonked the pipe across Johnson's head and then wrapped him and threw him in the swift Rhine. The one who had sent a flurry of bullets Jake's way. And undoubtedly one of the cowards who had battered Kaiser senseless. He didn't deserve to live, Herb thought.

  The door swung open quickly and a skinhead walked in, stepped over the fat man's legs, and then relieved himself. Without concern, he simply walked out.

  Herb shook his head in disbelief. He dropped the fat man's head and let it slam to the ceramic floor. Quickly he emptied the contents of the man's pockets onto the floor. A handful of Deutschemarks, a small knife, two paper clips, a pen, a slimy comb; nothing out of the ordinary. Inside his jacket was a gun and shoulder holster. The right inside jacket pocket contained a small piece of paper.

  Herb looked behind him to the d
oor, and then unfolded the paper. The initials F.I. and the number 0920 were at the top. Then Rome and Lufthansa were scribbled quickly. He folded the note and returned it to the man's right pocket. Frankfurt International, Lufthansa from Rome arriving at 0920. That's nice, Herb though, but what fucking day.

  The fat man lay with a stupid smirk on his face. Unfortunately, he probably didn't even feel the blows to his face. Maybe the pain would come in the morning.

  Herb started to leave the men's room, but stopped. He came back and rolled the fat man on his side, tugged his wallet from his pocket, took all the money out, and returned the wallet to his pocket. Robbery was reason enough to beat a man.

  Outside the Gasthaus, back in his car, Herb wondered what day that flight would arrive and whether there was even any significance in the information. Something had to work. Somehow, he had to prove to Jake, to himself, to the rest of the customs office, that he was worthy of the best assignments. That he still had what it takes to run a proper investigation. Some way he had to bring this whole thing together. Make sense of it all. Somebody would have to make a mistake eventually. And the fat man lying on the men's room floor might be that somebody.

  Herb gripped the shift knob and quickly pulled it back against his chest in pain. Even through the leather glove, he could tell that his hand would be bruised from smashing the fat man's face. A small price to pay, he thought.

  FRANKFURT INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  The large black board ticked away feverishly updating the arrival schedule of flights from across the globe. Herb watched as Lufthansa Flight 86 from Rome clicked up in bold white letters, Arrived. The large crowd of people pushed and shoved closer to a metal railing that separated them from four doors leading to a ramped customs area. A pair of U.S. Army Military Police stood staunchly side by side surveying the crowded scene. Two German Polizei, armed with Uzis, strolled over to the edge of the crowd and parked themselves next to the corridor that led from the International Terminal to the large parking ramps and the main airport terminal.

  Finding the right day for the Lufthansa flight had been easier than Herb had expected. The airlines changed times of their flights frequently to deter terrorists from becoming overly familiar with their routes. It was laughable reasoning, but just one small effort out of many to curb the possibility of a bombing. So the flight had been the day after the fat man found his face against the men's room tile.

  A soft female voice echoed over the public address system in German, English and French the gate where the Rome passengers would descend through. Herb scanned the shifting crowd for Gunter and his men. Nothing. It had to be the right day, he thought.

  A fat woman walked over with a small poodle on a leash and sat in the chair next to Herb. He pretended not to notice her, but her body odor would have chased a room full of weight lifters from a gym.

  Then he saw the fat man at the far edge of the awaiting crowd on the opposite side of the Polizei with Uzis. The fat man's face looked like it had gone through a car windshield in an accident. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose looked twice the normal size, and his upper lip would take days to get back to its proper dimensions. Herb smiled as he looked down to his own bruised hand.

  Passengers started streaming down the ramp and through the four open doors to the terminal waiting area. Some carried only brief cases, but others pushed carts loaded with suitcases. Herb kept his eyes open for Gunter Schecht. He had to be there somewhere.

  Then the fat man moved forward quickly to greet a man in a blue suit with a black and gray beard. He only had one thin suit bag slung over his shoulder, and a small brown attaché case. Who the hell was that? Herb reached to his ankles and pulled up his socks, then he sat up again to watch for Gunter.

  The two Polizei, seeing Herb's signal, approached the fat man and the bearded passenger. The man, apparently disturbed, set down his attaché case, pulled a blue passport from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open for the armed men. Satisfied, the Polizei slowly strolled over to a young couple and asked to see their passports as well.

  Herb got up and followed the men to the exit. Outside, the men waited next to the curb. Herb lingered and watched from the window next to the automatic sliding doors.

  The early morning fog had actually gotten worse. The large multi-level parking ramp only a short distance across the loading road, taxi area, and bus stop was barely visible. In a few seconds, a silver Mercedes pulled up and stopped in front of the two men. It was Gunter's car. The fat man opened the rear door for the bearded man, closed it behind him, and then got into the front passenger seat. Swiftly the car pulled away and was lost in the fog.

  Herb wandered outside and watched as passengers and friends boarded buses and taxis and awaiting cars. The cold moist air seemed to move right through Herb's body as if a ghost had enveloped him and then departed to another victim. He shivered and pulled his thick cloth collar up around his neck.

  The electronic doors slid open behind him and the two Polizei walked toward Herb. They chatted about the lousy weather as they brushed up beside Herb and passed a small note into his open left pocket. He put his hands into his pockets and held on tightly to the piece of paper. He knew that his break had finally come. Following Gunter was of no consequence to him. Whoever this man was, he had to be important to his case. The fat man acted as though he were somebody. Gunter wasted no time picking him up. Normally, his arrogance made him late. Yes, the distinguished bearded man had to be important. He had to be a key to Bundenbach's plans.

  Finally, Herb pulled out his wallet with his right hand and placed the note inside among his Deutschemarks as if seeing how much money he had. "Steven Carlson" is all that was written. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place where he had heard it. It wouldn't take too long to find out more about this man, but he'd need Jake's help. He missed the days that he and Jake had worked side by side. He felt as though Jake was the only one who believed in him. The only one to see him for what he was. Not perfect, not the best, but a fellow human who needed to feel viable once in a while. Jake took him seriously. He listened to his ideas and cared.

  Herb went back inside through the doors. He slowly strolled back toward the parking ramp. Passing close to a smoke-filled airport bar, he felt the urge to go in and shoot down a few shots of schnapps to celebrate his small victory. He even stopped for a second and started to turn in. But then he changed directions and continued on toward his car. He stopped at a yellow enclosed phone booth, called Italy, and left a message for Jake.

  Back at his car, he planned his next move. He would drive back to Bonn and keep track of Gunter and Steve Carlson until Jake got back. Carlson had to be the key, Herb was convinced.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 33

  BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

  Isaac Lebovitz sat quietly in his dingy office and stared at the government clock that he took with him when he left Hungarian Intelligence. He knew it was a useless State product that had only about a fifty percent chance of being on time, but it reminded him of all the time he had spent surveying Western targets. Who cares? In no time, only Swiss clocks would let him know that he didn't really have to be anywhere special at any special time. Besides, the warm San Remo beaches of the Italian Riviera would remain faithful to his tardy ways.

  He sifted through page after page of economic reports that Dalton had provided him. Some were marked NATO Restricted by the U.S. Commerce Department. That brought a special smile from Isaac.

  Vitaly Urbanic walked in unannounced and took a seat on the other side of Isaac's desk.

  "Is everything coming together?" Isaac asked. He felt guilty not telling Vitaly everything about his plan. He was convinced that the less Vitaly knew about certain aspects of the operation the better off he'd be in the long run.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I expect nothing less from you," Isaac complimented.

  Vitaly shifted in his chair. "I'm a bit confused. I don't understand how we can produce and market this computer w
ithout the help of our government?"

  Isaac smiled as he rose from his chair. "Vitaly, Vitaly, you're still thinking like a Communist." He patted his old friend on the shoulder. "Think like a Capitalist. I realize that you haven't had as much exposure to the West as I, but get away from the old thinking. Or back to the older thinking."

  He loomed over Vitaly as a teacher scolding his pupil. "You were too young to remember anything prior to World War II. As a young boy my father told me stories of how great the Austro-Hungarian Empire was. We had a strong navy. Great wealth. World esteem. Power. Now look at us. A dog that slobbers for table scraps from Russians. But change is moving forward swiftly. Soon we will be strong again. Soon the Russians will be begging us for food, and we shall be powerful like our European cousins. The time for action is now. We'll make mistakes, stumble as a child does when he first learns to walk, but eventually we will stand tall and walk...run with the other economic powers. With or without our government."

  Isaac drifted slowly to his chair and sat down behind his desk. His breathing and heart rate had increased. He tapped the side of his head with his index finger.

  "How will we make this work?" Vitaly asked.

  "Smooooothly." Isaac quipped, finally smiling.

  "But..."

  "Are you worried about the technical support?" Isaac asked.

  "Yes. But also the marketing arrangement."

  "It's a risk. I admit it," Isaac said. "But every great entrepreneur has to take risks. It's the nature of the game. Technical support will be no problem. Dalton has given us nearly everything we need to produce his chip. I'm waiting for the last piece of information from him and we'll be set to start producing the chips in Germany. We'll have the leading edge of our network ready to exploit the European Community's single market. In less than six months, we'll produce the computers and chips here as well. And then six months later in Prague. You see, we're nearly ready."