“Because,” Stephanie said pleasantly, “if I don’t give you the antidote, the slow poison you drank along with the mango juice will turn you into a raving psychotic in another forty-eight hours.”
Anika turned to stare at her. In her entire life, she’d never felt true hatred until this moment.
Stephanie seemed unconcerned as she continued, “Upon arrival at Oberau, you’ll be given the antidote. It binds with the toxic molecules, rendering them inert and harmless.”
Anika tried to feel any effects. Nothing. Or maybe she couldn’t feel anything because fear had numbed her wits.
The jet stopped and the whine of the engines diminished.
Simon Gunter unbuckled his seat belt and pulled his phone from his pocket. He was speaking softly in German when the flight attendant looked out the door, then undogged the locks.
Stephanie stood up, stepped into the aisle, and loomed over Anika. “The poison was not my idea, by the way. I thought we should bring you here locked in a casket. Unconscious.”
God, she’s good at this.
“Just be a good girl, Dr. French, and you’ll be fine. Now stand up and follow me.”
As she slid across the seat and stepped into the aisle, Anika felt sick. She lowered a hand to her stomach.
Stephanie glanced at her hand and checked her watch. “You still have six hours before the molecules begin to attach to your nerve cells. Plenty of time. You’re just nervous.”
Anika walked to the plane door and followed Stephanie out into the rainy afternoon. Simon Gunter strode closely behind her as they crossed the tarmac.
Chapter Forty-Four
The first of the boxes were delivered early in the morning. The black, high-impact plastic was marked with stenciled letters that proudly proclaimed MOTORCYCLE EXHAUST SYSTEMS.
The building Skip had chosen, high on the slope above Oberau, had formerly been a small factory involved in the manufacture of ski gloves. The concrete floor in the shop still showed signs of the machines that had previously been bolted there.
An office was accessed by a door that led off the shop area. The previous occupants had left a serviceable desk and chair. Two toilets—men’s and women’s—were located there. Along with a roomy closet for supplies, the floor had a trap door.
The thing was accessed by lifting a handle, which revealed a stairway that dropped down to a small concrete-walled room. Not a bad addition for someone on a covert operation. In a pinch, it might make the difference between life and death.
Skip pushed the heavy crate to one side just as a second lorry arrived bearing a collection of ratty and junked motorcycles. One by one they were lowered on the hydraulic tailgate and rolled into the building on flat tires and bent rims. By noon, Skip had taken the delivery of sixteen wrecks in various states of repair.
Just after one, two mechanics—Jurgen and Lars—arrived in yet another lorry bearing benches, motorcycle lifts, and toolboxes. As soon as these were muscled into place, the mechanics began disassembling motorcycles and laying parts onto the benches.
Neither Jurgen nor Lars had any idea of the true purpose of “Alpen Motorrad” as Skip had decided to call the business. They’d been hired as window dressing to fix bikes.
Helmut arrived next. Skip felt a tinge of sorrow as the silver Moto Guzzi Norge rumbled into the parking lot. The last time he’d seen the machine, it had been in Amsterdam, and Jenn had been on the back.
Helmut stepped off and removed a full-face helmet. His hair was now dyed brown and he sported a handlebar mustache. Helmut no longer looked like Helmut. The box strapped on the passenger saddle turned out to be a cheap radio and CD player. Helmut plugged it in and rock music began filtering through the cavernous shop. Lars and Jurgen both cheered, giving a thumbs-up. You can’t have a motorcycle repair shop without a radio.
Helmut shot Skip a look and, together, they walked over to the open shop door. From their vantage on the western slope above Oberau, they could glimpse the ECSITE compound where it lay, partially visible, nestled among the trees across the valley. Jagged and rocky, the slope above was spotted with trees and pastures.
“What do you think?” Skip asked, tucking thumbs into his belt while he scanned the scenery. Sunlight cast shadows down the mountainside.
Helmut stood, one booted foot forward as he studied the distant compound, then he walked very close to Skip to whisper, “By now, they know the building has been rented. Someone will be here to check us out. Perhaps even tonight. Zoakalski’s security will want to know who we are and what we’re about.”
Skip took the hint and his gaze subtly surveyed the building, searching for cameras. Even if he didn’t see any, they could still be there, well-hidden, and the parabolic microphones would be invisible. “I’ll be ready.”
Barely audible Helmut added, “Zoakalski does not take chances. Oberau is his town. Take for granted that he owns this property. It is right where a spy would come to watch him, ja?”
“Ja.”
As if on cue a battered Ford delivery van rattled up the winding drive. A young man in coveralls stepped out and wrapped a tool belt around his waist. From the rear, he removed a toolbox and walked up to Skip and Helmut.
“You in charge?”
Skip looked the skinny kid over. Yep, just the sort of techie Langley would send. Right down to the jet-lagged blue eyes and mussed hair.
Skip leaned close. “The place may already be dirty. Expect sophistication.”
As they walked into the building, Helmut took over in German, saying, “We will want to hang tools on the walls, so you must be careful where you route the telephone and computer wires. We don’t want to drill into the electrical wiring.”
“There will be no problem.” To Skip’s ear, the kid’s German was flawless.
He watched as the tech opened his toolbox and removed what looked like a detector wand. He started around the doors, moving carefully, eyes on the readout.
Skip turned up the music to cover any suspicious sounds. Then, to play his part, he walked over to a wrecked green Kawasaki ZX6R, found a power screwdriver, and began taking off cracked bodywork. He was removing the tank when the tech appeared at the office door and gave him a beckoning finger.
Skip grabbed a rag, shot a glance at Helmut who was wrenching on a KTM, and they met the tech at the door.
“What’s wrong?” Helmut asked in German.
“I can put your telephones in but the computers should be wired for reliable backup if the electricity goes off. Come to the truck, I’ll show you the equipment you need.”
They walked back through the shop with Lars and Jurgen glancing curiously at them, then the techie opened the back doors and stepped in. “Come, there’s room. You can look at the catalogs.”
Skip climbed in, followed by Helmut. It was a tight squeeze.
The techie gave them a serious look. “Your office is wired for sound. So far, I haven’t found anything in the shop, but I can’t get to the ceiling or the heater. As far as optics, I got a slight spike when I brushed past the office heater duct. Want me to neutralize anything?”
“No,” Skip said wearily. “That would tip them off.”
“Maybe we will hire a secretary,” Helmut shrugged. “It will ease their suspicions.”
“What about our own surveillance?” Skip asked.
The tech tapped the box he was sitting on. “Tomorrow’s generation. How you got authorization to use this stuff for an op like this, I don’t know. But you’ve got clout. I can have it installed in a couple of hours. They’d have to be smarter than me and have trickier equipment than mine to find it.”
“What about data transmission?” Helmut asked.
The tech pointed a finger upward. “Satellite relay, tight-beam, line-of-sight. The sender’s new. Works on virtually paired particles. Any monitoring degrades the data stream cuing the receiver that someone is listening in.”
“Okay, do what you need to do. The sign is coming tomorrow morning. We’re putting it on the roof, so yo
u’ll have an excuse to climb up there and wire in lighting.”
The techie nodded. “I’m going to put most of the equipment in the dead space between the ceiling and the roof. There’s about a meter of clearance. Someone can lie up there, observing the compound for days with no one the wiser. To transmit, you just open a hatch I’ll cut in the roof and send on line-of-sight to the satellite. That stuff is en route. You’ll be James Bond in two days.”
“Thanks, Q,” Helmut added dryly.
The techie arched an eyebrow, pleased. “I like that. And since you’ve got to call me something, let’s go for it.”
Skip shot a glance at Helmut. “How’s the safe house in Munich coming?”
“Ready. When you finish here, why don’t you follow me back to Munchen? I’ll show you where it is. Consider yourself at home. Q can set up his entire station in one of the bedrooms.”
Q grinned. “By the end of the week, we’ll have eyes all over that compound. I’m looking forward to it.”
Skip rubbed his chin. “I need eight days.”
Q said, “I’ll make sure you’ve got it.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Skip waited until just after dark to place his bedroll in the shadow of low-spreading fir branches. The location lay less than fifty meters up-slope from the shop and allowed him a perfect view of the parking lot and shop building.
Then he laid out his equipment: The latest starlight binoculars, motion detectors, an infrared camera attached to a twenty-power lens, microphones, and a digital recording device. All of this he covered with a cold sheet—a tarp designed to hide his infra-red heat signature. The sheet might have been overkill, but Skip Murphy would never be guilty of underestimating Zoakalski again.
When everything was in place, Skip crawled into his bedroll and fell asleep.
The faint beep of the motion detector brought him awake. Skip blinked to clear his vision and glanced at his watch to discover it was 03:42. The starlight binoculars gave a faint whine as he energized them and pushed them out from under the cold sheet.
A Mercedes, lights off, rolled up the drive, the tires rasping on the pavement. The black car whispered its way to the parking lot, stopped, and the engine was shut off. For long moments, the driver sat, then opened the door.
Thoughtful prep, Skip noted. The interior lights had been deactivated. A man stepped out and carefully inspected the premises. Skip studied the intruder: muscular, dressed in black, and light on his feet. Switching to the camera, Skip adjusted the focus and started snapping.
The intruder walked to the office door, inserted a key, and the high-tech microphone recorded the click as he unlocked and opened the door.
In the Munich safe house, Helmut and Q would be monitoring his every move as the intruder wandered around examining the motorcycles, bike lifts, tools, beverage cans, parts, and greasy rags.
Five minutes later, the door opened and the man walked straight to the Mercedes. The car backed around and Skip snapped another photo. Then the Mercedes, accented by a flash of brake lights, whispered its way down the drive.
Anika, hang in there. I’m coming.
Chapter Forty-Six
Mark slipped along, easing from shadow to shadow. It took all of his effort to keep his hands from shaking.
Cutting behind a plumbing supply shop, he eased up to the back of the building where Michelle had left her motorcycle and began peering through windows. Yes, the motorcycle was still in there. He searched his pants pocket and pulled out the keys he’d stolen from the pocket of her motorcycle jacket, along with her wallet and cell phone, then he waited until a Fiat rolled past. Heart in his throat, he tried different keys in the door. On the third try, the lock turned and he hurried inside.
It took him a while to find the motorcycle key in the darkness, then he fumbled it into its slot and turned it. Little lights flashed on the instrument cluster.
Mark pulled in the clutch, stabbed the starter button, and brought the beast to life. Rolling the bike forward, he leaned off and pushed the button that lifted the door. As it rose, his heart thundered.
By now, Michelle knows I’m gone, and she’s madly searching for me. She could be right outside waiting for me…
He tried to ease off the clutch but the bike pitched forward and, with his feet slapping the pavement, he lurched out of the shop and weaved his way down the street.
Sheer, blind luck allowed him to navigate the couple of blocks back to the A-27. The traffic light was in his favor, and he even managed to get the turn signal on. As he entered the freeway, turn signal still blinking, he pulled in the clutch, pressed down, and pitched forward, still in first.
No matter what he did, pressing down didn’t give him second gear. Traffic was rushing around him as he stabbed at the shifter. All right, first it was.
He ran the tach up to ten thousand, the Ducati wailing.
The turn signal equally baffled him. He could make it blink left or right, but not cancel. Then, jabbing at the button, he finally figured it out. Press the button in, idiot, and it will cancel.
This just left him with the gear problem.
Think.
Down was first. Up would be neutral again, right?
What the hell, nothing to do but try. He damned well remembered Michelle hammering away at the thing.
He pulled in the clutch, keeping his revs up, and lifted, hearing a reassuring click.
Then, snapping the clutch out, the Ducati reared up on its rear wheel, and the front end pawed for the sky as he hung on for dear life.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Maureen glanced around the secure conference room at Fort Andrews Air Base where the rest of the team labored over laptops and sorted through piles of documents. The room was nondescript with three lines of overhead fluorescents. One entire wall consisted of a whiteboard, now filled with notes, diagrams, and underlined questions. The other walls were blank, the monotony only broken by the single, heavy, metal door.
Coffee, drinks, and food could be had by simply opening the door and asking one of the Air Force security personnel who stood outside. Beyond that, their world consisted of the fifteen-minute walk to their barracks.
She glanced up from the intelligence report she was reading. The top line of block-red letters on the whiteboard read: “Zoakalski.”
Maureen rocked her jaw back and forth. She’d been gritting her teeth for so long, her face hurt. The satellite image of the Oberau compound spread across the table. Skip was out there right now, trying to find a way to get Anika out. The young woman must be terrified.
She took a deep breath and pointed to the satellite image. “The fences and walls make it look like a prison.”
Gale Wade, a sagging cigarette in her mouth, slapped the table where she was thumbing through economic reports. “I’m a climatologist. If you want me to project the viral spread based upon environmental criteria, I’m your scientist. So, what am I doing looking at banking statements? This is like a foreign language to me.”
Fred Zoah didn’t even look up. He just kept tapping his calculator keys. “Fascinating. Did you know that Zoakalski has a ninety-three percent chance for success on any of the business ventures he enters?”
Sinclair removed his reading glasses and rubbed his temples. “Who cares, Fred?”
“You should care because inherent probability would indicate that the number of failures—”
“Focus, Fred, will you?” Sinclair’s forehead lined as he returned to his study, penning notes in a yellow legal pad.
Zoah smiled benignly. “I am. Focused. His only failures have come from catastrophic and unpredictable events: A luxury resort wiped out by the Christmas tsunami in Ache; an earthquake in Columbia that destroyed an emerald mine; a hurricane that sank a drilling rig. See what I mean?”
Sinclair peered over his glasses. “No.”
Zoah blinked. “An investment banker who never loses?”
“Do you really think he’s an investment banker?” Gale asked.
“That’s what this document says.” Fred pointed to a folder marked, “Security One, Eyes Only” in large red letters. “And according to this report from the CIA, one of his bigger investors is the North Korean government.”
Maureen said, “Where’s this going, Fred?”
“His Korean investments revolve around missile guidance systems.”
“He’s an expert at mass death. We already know that, Fred. Do you have anything new to add?” Sinclair asked.
Fred looked chastened. “Well… that’s what I was trying to tell you.” His shoulders hunched as he returned to tapping his calculator.
Maureen focused on the Oberau compound. The place was built to be impregnable with an emphasis on keeping some people in and keeping other people out. But it still ran on the basics: food, water, energy…
She sat back and fished for her cell phone, pressing the call button.
“Randall,” the familiar voice declared.
“We need an update on what’s happening in Israel.”
“The virus makes men with the Y chromosome R1a variant very ill but it’s only lethal in five percent of the cases. However, preliminary testing suggests it may result in male sterility. Israelis think Iran is behind it. Making matters worse, Tehran doesn’t deny it. Says it’s Allah’s judgment. Threats and denials are the order of the day. But it’s escalating as we speak—”
“They seem fixed on Iran, correct?” Zoah, who could only hear Maureen’s side of the conversation, called from across the table.
“Yes,” Maureen answered, then said into the phone: “Hold on, Amy. I’m going to put my phone on speaker.”
Zoah continued, “Tell Ms. Randall that within the next seven or eight days, Israel will accuse Iran of genocide, then seven variables come into play.”
Maureen held her phone out to the room. “Did you hear that, Amy?”
“Yes. Keep in mind, Syria has already sided with Iran and both nations have threatened war if Israel takes any aggressive actions.”
Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Page 18