“I’d say the terrace.” Skip glanced at Gallagher. “Can your people do a quick advance? Ensure privacy?”
Gallagher’s demeanor had changed with Randall’s arrival. “You’ve got it.” He lifted his sleeve mic and spoke to someone.
Anika and Cole were giving each other uneasy glances as Skip led the way to the elevator. Moments later, they stepped out into the pleasant Washington night. Three of Gallagher’s agents stood on a sort of perimeter.
“What’s wrong?” Anika asked.
“It’s Schott,” she said. “Someone took him right out from under ECSITE’s nose on a public sidewalk in Garmisch. The police there are saying it was a drug deal turned sour. Shots were fired. When it was all over, Mark Schott was gone.”
Skip frowned.
Anika’s gaze had gone vacant as she considered the implications. “So, the Chinese have everything now?”
Skip asked, “Amy, where did you hear this?”
“CIA. Garcia was a little irritated by what Scalia dropped on him during the session. I just checked with our consulate in Munich. They were aware but didn’t understand the significance.”
“Aware how?” Maureen asked.
Randall turned to look out at the city. “It seems that Mark Schott’s face and description are in every police station, checkpoint, and passport control office in Europe. Interpol has him listed as a known drug kingpin with orders to detain and hold.”
“A drug dealer?” Anika’s expression changed. “Oh, that’s smart. Every agency in Europe will be on the lookout. The Chinese will have to hide him unless he’s already in an embassy somewhere.”
Skip looked at Randall. “Who’d have the balls to grab Schott off a sidewalk?”
“Someone who figures having Schott is worth pissing Mikael Zoakalski off. He’s not the kind who will take this lightly. Nor will the agent who grabbed him.”
“Anyone I know?” Skip asked.
Randall barely smiled as she said, “I’ll get photos to you in the morning. If she’s spotted in Washington, I’m flying all of you to Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado, locking you safely underground, and throwing away the key. Just to be safe.”
“So,” Skip mused, “does Zoakalski have any competitors to speak of?”
Randall laughed. “Hundreds. A lot of powerful and influential people hate his guts. Could be any of them.”
Skip followed Randall’s gaze to the gleaming lights. “I’ve got a friend in Munich, Helmut Rath. If anyone was hiring professionals, he might know. Want me to call him? Ask around?”
“Do that.”
“You’ve got it.”
Maureen had been listening, now she spoke. “Amy, we’ve got another problem.”
“What, Dr. Cole?”
“The FBI just tried to fire Skip. Murphy remains in charge of my personal security or I’m gone. I don’t mind him cooperating with the FBI, but when it comes to Anika and myself, we want Murphy.”
“May I ask why?”
Anika quietly responded, “I’ve calculated the statistical probabilities that I’ll end up as a case study in terminal ballistics on some coroner’s slab. That reason enough?”
Randall nodded. “Point made. I’ll call Scalia in the morning. But for tonight, Gallagher is in charge.” She turned to Skip. “Acceptable? Otherwise, this is going to turn into a nasty little turf war that I’d rather avoid.”
Skip took a deep breath. “Understood.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mark had never heard full-automatic live fire. Despite that deficit in his education, he immediately recognized the sound when a submachine gun chattered, and bullets slapped into the building like angry bees.
“Mark, come on!” Michelle paused at the door only long enough to tap in a security code before swinging it open.
Bullets made a snapping sound as they pounded into the wall, dust puffing. Bits of plaster pattered around. Mark stared at the blasted plaster, then glanced back at the open window; the curtain looked shredded.
Michelle grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through.
She pressed the door closed and shot a heavy steel bolt home. Mark only had time to contemplate the stone stairs before she was dragging him down into darkness.
Mark tripped, recovered, heels hammering down the steep steps, his hands brushing rough brick walls.
At the bottom, Michelle flipped a light switch, keyed another lock pad, then led him into a wine cellar, its racks filled with bottles. Without hesitation, she shot another heavy deadbolt home, then led him across the room. Panicked, his heart pounding, he watched her long fingers dart along the side of one of the racks.
A bang shook the room, rattling the bottles.
“That can’t be good.”
“Nope,” she agreed. “There.” She pulled a lever. “Help me.”
Mark grabbed the wood, following her example and pulling. The wine rack slid out, revealing an illuminated room filled with computers, desks, and chairs.
“Help me!” Michelle ordered, struggling to pull the heavy portal closed. Mark got a hand next to hers, heaved. The portal clicked solidly.
Turning, he saw that the walls were covered with maps, and two Asian men were emptying entire file drawers into a giant shredder against one wall while they shouted to each other in Chinese. At least, he thought it was Chinese. Could have been Korean. Sophisticated electrical equipment and large metal cabinets were stacked to the ceiling. Through an open cabinet door, Mark recognized night-vision goggles but couldn’t place the other pieces of equipment.
Another boom shivered the very floor.
“This way,” Michelle called, grabbing his hand. Even as she led him around the desks, the computers were smoking, the plastic melting. An acrid stench rose on the air.
She paused at a table, searching through documents until she found a passport. She opened it, nodded, and tossed it to him.
“Put that in your pocket.”
At the opposite end of the room, Michelle paused to input her code, then turned a knob on a thick metal security door. This opened onto another flight of stairs that led down to a large, illuminated garage. As he hurried down the steps after her, he recognized the black van; fresh bondo had been smeared over the bullet holes, the surrounding paint sanded down to bare metal.
Other vehicles included a Mercedes, a couple of nondescript Fiats, and an Alpha. Two small delivery trucks were parked in the rear.
As Michelle led him along the wall beside the van, he was shocked to see an open weapons locker. Two ugly black submachine guns remained on a rack that should have held ten. Michelle paused only long enough to grab a black pistol from a lower rack and a couple of magazines. She jammed the magazines into her belt, racked the slide back, and let it snap home.
“This way,” she called, sprinting around the cars. On the far wall, she snagged a backpack down from a hook, quickly shoving the pistol inside. Tossing it to Mark she led him to a locker beside a racy-looking red motorcycle and threw open the doors. After a moment’s hesitation, she thrust a heavy black jacket at him.
“Put it on,” she ordered. “Now.”
He did, only to have her toss him a full-face helmet. “What the hell are we doing?”
“Saving your life,” she snapped. “Put it on!”
As she spoke, she jerked out a red jacket and shrugged it over her shoulders, then lifted down another black helmet and tossed him the backpack. “Put it on.”
Mark donned the coat, then slipped his arms into the backpack. He winced as he pulled the helmet over his head. The room darkened as he peered through the smoked visor and fiddled with the chin strap, trying to figure it out.
Michelle straddled the bike and flipped up the side stand. A staccato rumble sounded as she hit the ignition. Then she threw a look over her shoulder as if waiting.
This time the loud bang was accompanied by dust trickling down from the ceiling. Any hesitation on Mark’s part vanished. He gingerly climbed on the tiny pillion seat, feet pawing
awkwardly at the high passenger pegs.
“Hold on!” Michelle called. Mark wrapped his arms around her middle.
Accompanied by a bellow of exhaust, the force of the acceleration tried to pull him backward. Leaving the lighted garage, the world went black as Michelle shot down a dark tunnel. The headlight seemed dim as Mark held on for dear life and peered over her shoulder.
A sliver of light appeared as doors swung open and they were out, Michelle barely hesitating as she leaned the bike around a blind turn.
Craning his neck, he looked back to see a cloud of smoke rising above the trees in the direction of the villa.
“Where are we going?”
“Hang on.”
The winding blacktop snaked into a series of curves. Mark swallowed hard, fear paralyzing him as Michelle leaned into the first corner, then the second, each one deeper, the lean more severe. He felt the g-force squashing his butt onto the tiny saddle.
The motorcycle seemed to slingshot around the corners, a drop-off to the left, an implacable rock hillside to the right. When Michelle braked for corners, he was pitched forward, and then back as she found the right gear and rolled on the throttle. He saw the machine’s nose rise as brutal acceleration lifted the front wheel.
Cresting a hill, he got a look at the tall peaks around them, the jagged summits white with snow. At any other time, he would have marveled at the scenery. Now the dizzying drop-offs left him petrified.
Michelle managed to stop a couple of feet shy of the Carabinieri who stood beside a police car with flashing blue lights.
One of the officers walked up and asked Michelle a question. She fired back in Italian, not too kindly.
The officer said something else.
Michelle rattled on, then jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at Mark.
The officer laughed and waved them past.
Michelle flipped her visor down, clicked the bike into gear, and with a blast of the exhaust, almost wheelied again as she rocketed away from the two cops.
“What was that all about?” Mark bellowed as she caught second gear.
“Looking for an American drug dealer. You, I suspect. Thank God you kept your mouth shut.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them you were my boyfriend up from Milan and that we had a room waiting in Cortina where I hoped you’d fuck my brains out.”
Ordinarily, he would have laughed. Instead, with the wind ripping at his helmet, he shot a look over his shoulder. ECSITE had just declared war on the CIA.
Over him?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anika tossed on her bed, blinked her eyes open, and stared at the bedside clock. The numbers 3:13 glowed as if mocking her.
She rubbed her face and whispered the key variables: “Filipchenko. Lundborg. Eugenics. Imperial Russia. 1900…”
For hours before she’d climbed into bed, she’d been working on her DOD laptop, modeling everything they’d given her about Zoakalski. She needed to refine it before she presented it to her team but she felt certain, even in its rough state, Maureen and Fred would understand.
She could hear her father’s voice inside her head: “This ain’t your first rodeo, honey. Just hang on.”
Anika massaged her burning eyes. She’d grown up with rodeos. Mom had taken her to the local ranch rodeos, the one at the State Fair in Douglas, even the big one at Cheyenne where she’d watched the Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association cowboys and bull riders.
An ache began to twist her gut. God, what she’d give to be home in that small worn-out ranch house where life consisted of waging war on the field mice that climbed in through the cracks in the foundation and struggling to make the bills.
Off and on throughout the night, she’d been jotting notes on her bedside notepad, calculations, trying to run models in her head to determine Zoakalski’s ultimate goal and decipher how to bring him down. He’s Russian. The key is there, just haven’t figured out…
A soft knock came at her door.
Anika groaned, climbed out of bed, and peered through the peephole. A man in a suit stood there, holding a tray covered with a round silver cover in his hand.
“Who is it?”
“FBI, Ms. French.” He raised his credentials to the peephole. “Wake-up call. I’ve got breakfast here, and you’ll have to be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
“It’s three fifteen,” she cried.
“White House wants you, ma’am.”
“Okay. I’ll… just give a minute.” She wobbled back to her clothes, pulled on her pants, and tucked in her long sleep shirt. Yawning, she walked back to the door, flipped on the lights, and squinted as the agent entered and placed the tray on her desk.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said as she stepped over and lifted the lid. A sandwich lay on a plate.
“Breakfast?” she asked, turning to give the agent a scowl.
Even as she focused on the small aerosol can he held, the thing shot spray into her face.
Anika took a step back, reeling, clapping hands to her face. Then the room spun and the man caught her as her legs turned to rubber. As he eased her to the floor, he was lifting a tiny radio to his lips, saying, “Got her.”
Then everything grew misty, soft, and faded into gentle clouds…
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mark stood in the shower, rubbing his buttocks, delighted to have feeling back in his knees. Michelle had checked them into a small hilltop hotel overlooking the harbor and city of Venice.
What the hell has happened to me? Who the fuck have I become? He wondered what Denise would say. Probably that he’d gotten exactly what he deserved.
Mark sighed, thankful that she, Will, and Jake were safe back in Wyoming. But for the boys, he’d have ended the marriage years ago. He missed them.
He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Rubbing the steam from the mirror, he stared at himself. Shit like this didn’t happen to anthropology professors.
Picking up his clothes from the counter, he dressed and stepped out into the bedroom.
Michelle sat on a corner of the great four-poster bed, sorting through the contents of the backpack. “Feel better?”
“Yeah, and it turns out I didn’t have a childish accident on that mad ride.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “First time on a motorcycle, huh?”
“I always thought they were dangerous.”
“So you took up sleeping with sociopathic women like Stephanie Huntz as a safe alternative?”
He walked over to the bed. “I saw her back there. Following Gunter through the garden.”
“Yes. She always follows along behind to cap off the wounded.”
Michelle handed him a thick fold of bills. “That’s two thousand Euros for emergencies. We’ll go down to San Marco in the morning and buy you a billfold and a couple of sets of clothes.”
Mark walked to the window and peered out at the city. Even from this height, he could see Venice’s Grand Canal in the distance. The gondolas could have come from a movie set. Across the boat-dotted lagoon, white-domed churches and classic Venetian architecture rose against the skyline.
From the backpack, Michelle had retrieved a cell phone and called a cab. Twenty minutes later, they were deposited dockside at the pier. It was a beautiful sunny day. The water glinted for as far as he could see. A water taxi sped them across the opaque brown waves to the canal-side entrance of a grand historic hotel that sat at the water’s edge.
“This place is stunning.”
“The Hotel Danieli is very famous.” Michelle was sorting through a series of credit cards as she walked toward the front doors. “Not the kind of place Zoakalski will expect us to hide out.”
Mark pulled his new passport from his pocket. “Brian Joseph Meyer. Date of birth: 1980. Place of birth, Cleveland, Ohio.” In the picture, he looked drugged. Probably because when the photo was taken, he had been. He had no memory of anything between Garmisch and the villa.
He was s
upposed to call Michelle ‘Shelly’, which was close, and easy to remember. They were supposed to be married. The very notion made him wonder just how far the charade was supposed to go.
“What do I do for a living?” He asked as they entered the magnificent lobby and headed for the registration desk.
Michelle said something in Italian, gave the desk their passports and a credit card, and waited for the key to be presented.
As they headed for the elevator, she answered, “That’s up to you. Pick something you know that isn’t anthropology or even university related. Something you can discuss offhand and answer questions about intelligently.”
He paused, thinking. “Travel writer?”
“Who’s your publisher? What’s your editor’s name?”
They stepped off the elevator and headed for their second-floor room. When Michelle opened the door, the scene was amazing. Antique furniture spread across the floor, but Mark went straight to the big window overlooking the water and fabulous ancient cathedrals.
“Breathtaking.”
Michelle dropped into a chair and sorted through her credit cards. He’d watched her go through them three times now—what was she doing?
Her cell phone rang. “Si.” She walked to the far end of the room, head tilted as she listened. Mark watched her give slight nods, then her gaze darted to him. Finally, she lowered the phone and stabbed the End button with a pointed finger. For long moments, she just stood, head down, staring at the gorgeous red carpet.
When she walked back, Mark asked, “A lot of people are dead back there, aren’t they?”
“Of course.”
“The man just attacked the CIA,” Mark reminded. “No one does that and gets away with it.” He gazed out at the Riva degli Sciavoni and the glittering water beyond. “I wish I’d never said yes to Simon Gunter.”
“They’d simply have taken you off the street.”
“They’d have kidnapped me?”
“Grabbing you isn’t all that hard. We pulled you right out of Stephanie’s arms.”
He stopped short. “What about Anika? Are they after her too?”
Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Page 14