Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  She gave a faint shake of the head, eyes focused on an infinity beyond the window. “Will you still help us with the model?”

  “Can you keep me alive?”

  As if in answer, she walked over and removed the black pistol from the backpack, pulled back the slide to check the chamber, and released it. She said, “Hope so,” as the slide slammed back with a final click.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Skip’s cell phone chimed. He sat up in bed, disconnected it from the charger, and glanced at the clock: 4:18. Tapping the call icon, he said, “Murphy?” and tried to collect his thoughts.

  “Skip? It’s Maureen. You’d better get down here. Anika’s missing.”

  “What?” Turning on his light, he began fumbling for his pants.

  “No one’s talking. They just did a bed check on the rest of the team. I was told to stay in my room and keep the door locked. But looking through the peephole, listening at the door, I can tell you Anika’s gone. Agents are scurrying in and out like roaches.”

  “I’m on the way.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in his pocket. Next, he clipped his holstered HK pistol in its accustomed place inside the back of his belt.

  Rushing to the garage, he almost scraped the top of his vintage Charger on the garage door as it was opening.

  Fifteen minutes later, in defiance of speed limits and red lights, he rolled to a stop behind a line of three black government Tahoes parked in front of the St. Regis. He tossed his keys to the bellman as he burst through the door, only to be stopped by a serious young agent.

  “Sorry, sir. No one is allowed—”

  “You tell Mike Gallagher that Skip Murphy is here and Anika French had better be present and accounted for.”

  The agent talked softly into his sleeve, nodded, and said, “Go on up.”

  Skip, fuming, nodded curtly at the agent who stood before the elevators, and fumed some more waiting for the doors to open on the sixth floor.

  The door to the command center was open. Mike Gallagher stood before the desk. An older man was seated—suit coat hanging open—as he talked on the phone. The man laid the handset in its receiver and leaned back. “Okay, everyone’s alerted. Washington PD is receiving French’s description as we speak. Every Field Office in the country is alerted, Border Patrol, Customs and Immigration, Langley, everyone.”

  “So, you haven’t found her?” Skip’s heart sank.

  “You’re Murphy?” The man gave him a slight nod.

  “I am.” Skip pulled out his ID and handed it over.

  As he handed it back, the agent said, “Glad to meet you. Ms. Randall said I was to fully cooperate with you. I’m Stew Ortega. Special Agent in Charge, Washington Metro Field Office.” He leaned forward, rubbing his face. From his sloppy dress, Skip figured he’d just been yanked out of bed, too.

  “What happened?” Skip asked.

  “Delivery truck pulled up at the kitchen loading dock at two fifty-eight. A woman with an invoice rang the kitchen entrance bell. One of the night cooks let her in. At three-oh-seven, all the cameras went down.”

  Skip’s heart began to pound. “How’d she incapacitate your agents?”

  Ortega continued. “Still working on that. Probably a somnolent gas.”

  “They only took Anika French?”

  “She’s the only one unaccounted for. I’ve got ERT going over her room as we speak. The place, so far, is clean. The bed is rumpled, so we know she slept there. Other than that, her suitcase, toiletries, toothbrush, everything is gone. The only thing remaining is a sandwich on a delivery tray. ERT is sending it straight to the lab.”

  Skip straightened, feeling sick. “Professional job.”

  “Yeah,” Ortega said and glared at Mike Gallagher. “Top fucking notch.”

  Gallagher looked as if he longed to crawl under the couch. But for the burning rage, Skip could almost have pitied the man. “Maureen’s just across the hall. Did she hear anything?”

  Ortega glanced at Gallagher. “Go get Dr. Cole.”

  Gallagher left.

  Ortega said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet. I’ve been busy at damage control.”

  Gallagher leaned in the door. “Dr. Cole said she won’t leave the room until Murphy tells her it’s all right.”

  Skip strode out of the room and walked to Maureen’s door where he knocked. “It’s all right. We just need to talk to you.”

  Maureen unlocked the door and followed Skip down the hall.

  Once in the control room, introductions were made. Skip asked, “Did you hear anything, Maureen?”

  She shook her head. “No. I was sleeping soundly. When the FBI finally woke me, they nearly had to hammer the door down.”

  Ortega said, “They must have had a passkey.”

  “No passkey,” Skip said, seething. “Anika used the security lock. Which of your agents is missing his credentials?”

  “Shit.” Ortega looked at Gallagher.

  Skip could picture it clear as day. Anika had been there when he’d turned control over to Gallagher. She didn’t personally know all the agents. She’d have looked out, seen the badge and ID, and turned that last critical lock.

  “You’re going to want to alert Bill Garcia at Langley right now. Before you even brief him, tell him to center his search on the Top One Hundred database. He’ll know what you mean.”

  Ortega hesitated. “Calling the DCI, that’s above my pay grade.”

  “Do it on my authority. Tell the operator to put you through on an NSA Alpha One.”

  Ortega’s eyebrows raised but he picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Maureen had a wounded look. “Anika must be terrified.”

  “They want her alive,” Skip said. Or they’re eliminating the competition.

  “Murphy?” Ortega called. “The DCI would like to speak with you.”

  Skip took the phone. “Murphy, sir. This is not a secure line.”

  “What’s your assessment?”

  “Top of the line professionals, probably trained by us, Russian intelligence, Israel, or maybe the Chinese or Germans.”

  “What’s the chance of recovering the young woman?”

  “Barring a miracle or random event, she’s already out of the country. You had best notify the President.”

  “That’s my next call. What was the FBI doing there?”

  “I was informed yesterday that they were in charge, sir.”

  “Monica?”

  “Washington Metro Field Office.”

  “Christ.”

  “Sir, I have some ideas but this is not a secure line.”

  “I’m sending a car. Here’s my personal number. Got a pen?”

  Murphy wrote it down, folding the paper and slipping it in a pocket. He hung up.

  “The President?” Ortega asked. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

  Skip took a breath. “SAC, you want my advice?”

  The man gave him a hollow look.

  “From here on out, Dr. Cole’s team should be relocated to Andrews Air Base, maybe Quantico. Someplace it would take a division to get to them.”

  At the door, Gallagher, looking humble, stopped Skip. “You tried to warn me. Thanks for that.”

  Skip gave him a nod. He figured it was a lot more politically expedient than decking the guy.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  For supper, Michelle suggested the Danieli Terrace, the restaurant atop the hotel where they could watch evening settle on the Marco basin. As they were seated at a table, the setting sun slanted across the Lido with its white domes, casting it in a golden light that seemed ethereal.

  Mark fingered his hair, oddly unsettled with the black color. His stubbly beard itched but he’d been encouraged to let it grow. Earlier, Michelle had left him with the pistol, taken the backpack, and vanished for nearly a half hour. When she returned with clothing and hair dye, she’d led him to the bathroom sink for a makeover.

  “The tide is changing,” she said as she l
ounged back in her chair. “Each time the tide goes out, it drains Venezia.”

  He watched the lights come on across the lagoon. Looking to the west he could see Santa Maria della Salute at the mouth of the Grand Canal.

  Michelle stayed quiet for most of the evening. They ate, shared a bottle of wine. Only after the plates had been cleared did she finally say, “It really hasn’t been a cheery day.”

  “Want another bottle of wine? I find that if I drink enough the fear goes away.”

  She shot him a speculative glance. “You did better than I thought you would in a crisis. I thought you’d seize up, panic.”

  “I did. First thing when we got to the hotel, I checked to see if I’d crapped my pants.”

  Her look went distant again. “Let’s talk about something irrelevant. What are you going to do when you get home?”

  He swirled the wine in his glass. “Give Denise the house, the cars, and the divorce she deserves. Try and make peace with Will and Jake. After that, I don’t know. Watch the world die, I guess.”

  She waved an arm at the lights now reflected on the water, the boats in the lagoon, and the surrounding buildings. “So, all of this is doomed?”

  “The buildings, the history, and the passions of the people who created them, yep. Everything goes back to the earth after it wipes us clean.”

  “Then what’s the purpose of art and beauty?”

  “Our own amusement, I suppose. We’re a selfish species.”

  “That’s not much of an epitaph for humanity.”

  He sipped the wine. “Human survival has always hinged upon a balance between the selfish and altruistic parts of our psyches. When we weren’t beating our neighbors over the head with a club, we were offering a hand to pull them up from the mud. If we hadn’t been the exploitive and violent bastards we are, our ancestors would have died out two million years ago. And if we hadn’t been able to create mutually beneficial alliances, share our resources, and see ourselves in another’s shoes, we’d have gone just as extinct. Funny creatures, we humans.”

  Her gaze roved over the water, enjoying the beauty of Venice. “Maybe we should just focus on the present, then.”

  He looked at her, her face softened by the restaurant lights. Michelle had transformed from the single-purposed, Ducati-driving Kamikaze into a startlingly beautiful woman.

  She pushed her chair back, stood, and pulled her long hair over her shoulders.

  He rose, acknowledged the waiter’s “Gratzi e buona sera.” Then followed her.

  They didn’t speak as she led him down the stairs, passing classic artwork and sculpture. The wooden hand railings under his hand reminded him of age and the thousands of people, famous and not, who had trod these passages.

  At their room, she checked the little wedge of paper stuffed in at the bottom of the jam, assuring herself that no one had entered.

  Once inside, Michelle propped a chair under the doorknob, turned on a desk lamp, and faced him. Placing her hands on his chest, she stared into his eyes, as if trying to read his soul.

  Who is she seeing?

  Whatever her conclusions, she lightly kissed him, lips moving on his. As his arms went around her, the memory returned of how solid she’d felt on the motorcycle.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked softly.

  “Tonight, I need the ‘now’ more than any illusion of ‘tomorrow’.”

  She led him to the bed.

  Later, he wondered where time had gone. The pealing of distant church bells shifted his attention from her to the world at large.

  She lay curled against him. His arms were wrapped around her, right hand cupping her breast, the nipple, once so hard, now smooth and soft. His head was pillowed on the silky swirl of her hair. It smelled of woman and shampoo.

  She’d said nothing the entire time. Her only utterances had been the explosive gasps each time he’d brought her to climax.

  Finally, she asked, “What advice would you give the government? What plan? What could the US do to ensure that something was saved?”

  “First thing?” He thought about it. “Decentralize authority. Begin manufacturing simple machines that can run on vegetable oil, string telegraph lines again, or old-fashioned wind-up phones.” He sighed. “Force people out of the cities and back onto the farms. Anything to reduce the reliance on technology. But that will result in revolt and blood running in the streets.”

  “Could someone more autocratic, like the Chinese, manage?”

  “I’m not an expert on China, by any means, but they’ve promised too much to the people. You can’t tell a billion people, ‘We’re going modern’ then tell them, ‘Forget the dreams of a car and your own businesses. Forget going to college and start breeding water buffalo because you’re going back to the fields.’”

  “I see. Where do you see the geopolitical advantage ending up?”

  “There won’t be any geopolitical advantage. Any semblances of governments that remain are going to be concerned with local problems, get it? Not national, or international, just local. My best guess: It’ll be a feudal system. Lords, their warriors, and the farmers who feed them. So, CIA agent, welcome to the new dark ages.”

  “The material you need to work on the model will be here tomorrow by FedEx.” Her tone sharpened. “You’d better be able to show me why you think this way.”

  Mark grimaced at her. “So, Langley can FedEx us stuff but they can’t get us the hell out of here and back to the good old USA?”

  “Not yet. Not with Zoakalski’s tentacles everywhere.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The car Garcia had sent took Skip only as far as the White House. Once more he declared his weapon and surrendered his keys, flashlight, Leatherman, and knife before passing through the detectors. He didn’t get to inspect his paintings or order a cheeseburger. The Marine guard ushered him straight to the basement situation room where he’d observed the meeting the afternoon before.

  Coffee and doughnuts were provided and he munched them as he waited while the guard stood “at ease” in the back of the room.

  The first to enter was Bob Mason, followed by Frank Card. After introductions, Skip answered the questions he could. Then, a prickly Monica Scalia charged in, fire in her eyes.

  “How the hell did you let it happen?” she demanded.

  “Ma’am,” Skip replied, summoning battle-field discipline, “I was officially relieved by Ms. Randall. She left Agent Gallagher in charge.”

  “Back off, Monica,” the Secretary of State called as he walked into the room. “I’ve just had a talk with Amy Randall. This is your mess, now.”

  Skip raised his hands, aware that Mason and Stark were watching. “With all due respect, it’s too late for blame. The people who took Dr. French were outstanding professionals. They’d advanced the St. Regis, done their homework, and used the arrival of the FBI brilliantly.”

  “Used us?” Scalia barked.

  “Used you.” Skip perched on the table. “Gallagher’s team had no idea what they were getting into. Guard a bunch of professors? From what? To them it must have seemed like plush duty. Hang out in a Five-Star hotel and keep unauthorized people off the sixth floor. They had no familiarity with hotel staff or procedures and no established operational instructions on threat detection or identification.”

  Monica Scalia walked over to the coffee pot, still seething.

  “The question is,” Bob Mason said, “who took Dr. French?”

  Skip slipped his butt off the table and took his seat. “Had to be ECSITE. Zoakalski had Mark Schott working on the model, probably making progress, until he was snatched in Garmisch. It doesn’t do for a man with Zoakalski’s reputation to let someone snatch a resource like Schott from under his nose. He has to prove to the world that he’s not taking it lying down, and he has to have a new scientist to replace Dr. Schott.”

  “So he grabs French right out from under the FBI,” Card agreed. “Brassy.”

  Bill Garcia
strode in with a file under his arm. Two men in suits followed him. One walked over to one of the empty wall corrals. He seated himself and began to tap on a keyboard.

  Scalia asked, “What about the organization that took Schott? This mysterious third party? The Chinese or whoever they are.”

  The DCI was staring at the computer screen when he said, “Things continue to get more interesting. John? Got it?”

  “Coming up now, sir.”

  The image that formed on the screen appeared to be a white-stuccoed mountain villa. From the vegetation and angle of sunlight, Skip judged it to be a southern exposure somewhere in Italy. Smoke rolled out of the windows and doors; a fire company kept pumping water into the rambling main structure. Their hoses and boots were ruining expensive landscaping.

  “What’s this?” Card asked.

  Garcia said, “According to the regional Carabinieri, a local drug lord just got taken down by his competition. Fifteen dead, mostly by nine-millimeter small arms fire. At least four bloodstains indicate other casualties were evacuated by the perpetrators. Preliminary pin tests indicate MP5 HK subguns were the main weapons. The explosives used to breach the doors were all NATO spec C-4. A fine powdering of heroin was recovered from the dining room table. Next image.”

  The screen flashed to show the damaged remains of the interior. Bodies sprawled here and there, smoke stains visible.

  “Next.”

  The image showed a blasted door leading down a stairway.

  “Next.”

  This shot was of what looked like a control room, the walls covered with maps, the surrounding desks exhibiting the melted and charred remains of computers. A smoking bin stood next to an industrial-grade shredder. Two men lay sprawled on the floor.

  “This was a real surprise for the Carabinieri. They’re calling it the operations center. Their story is that a major European drug ring was operated from this room. Next.”

  The shot was of a large garage filled with vehicles. Prominent among them, a black van splotched with bondo.

  “Watch the van, people.” Garcia said. “Mark Schott’s fingerprints were lifted from both the van and one of the villa bedrooms.”