Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  Fred propped his elbows on the table: “It’s not Iran or Syria that you have to worry about. At least, not until the very end.”

  There was a long pause before Amy replied, “Explain.”

  “It’s what numerous anti-Israel groups call The Final Showdown,” Fred said.

  Gale said, “You mean governments? Terrorist groups?”

  Behind his lenses, Fred’s eyes were bug-like. “No, governments will hesitate to launch World War III for fear of repercussions from the US and its allies. These are civilian groups that advocate non-violent means of overthrowing Israel. Primarily, they push for the use of sanctions, boycotts, and divestment in Israel, but, behind the scenes, their hackers—”

  Amy broke in, “We monitor these groups constantly. How are they a threat?”

  “The best model I’ve configured thus far has seven probabilities,” he politely repeated.

  “What are they?”

  Maureen frowned, wondering when Fred had worked all this out since he had not presented this hypothesis to the team yet. For days, he’d been entirely absorbed in his own world and almost silent, compared to everyone else, rarely throwing out possibilities. All she’d seen him doing was ferociously tapping away on his calculator.

  Zoah responded, “First, as more and more men become sick, Israel will rush into vaccine production, trying to stop the epidemic. Second, global anti-Israel groups will see Israel’s weakened state as the opportunity they’ve been waiting for and will join forces to launch a massive global campaign using phishing emails that contain malicious codes to glean people’s log-in credentials. Third, the attackers will precision target vulnerable elements of the vaccine chain. Number four: Iran and Syria will sabotage the chain to keep Israel busy while they prepare. Five—”

  “You mean prepare for war?” Sinclair asked.

  “Of course,” Fred replied as though annoyed by the question when the answer seemed obvious.

  Sinclair shook his head. “I disagree. My model starts with Iranian Quds forces attacking Israel from Syria, so I don’t understand how you came up with—”

  “Allow me to finish?” Fred said. “Five, Iranian Quds forces will launch rockets into Israel from Syrian sites. Six, fearing the worst, the Israel Defense Forces will make preemptive strikes against all known nuclear sites in Iran.” Fred paused to take a breath. “Seven, Israel will simultaneously be attacked by Iran, Syria, and Gaza.”

  Around the room, expressions tightened.

  Gale said, “Eight, Israel launches nukes.”

  Fred’s brows drew together. “Probably, but I haven’t—”

  Amy Randall’s voice sounded loud coming out of the speaker: “How do we circumvent the chain of events?”

  Fred looked down at his calculator and began tapping keys again. “Death by a thousand cuts.”

  Maureen lowered her phone to examine him. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s an investment banker with hundreds of supply chains.”

  Frustrated, Sinclair called, “Would anyone like to hear the rest of my model because I don’t buy this stuff about interrupting the vaccine chain…”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  In Mark Schott’s lexicon, the place would have been called a truck stop. Ablaze with lights, signs, a restaurant, and a canopied set of gas pumps, the facilities beckoned him like an oasis in the night. He flipped on the turn signal, tapped the brakes, and slowed the Ducati as he took the exit ramp.

  He wheeled up to a pump, grabbed the front brake, and almost dumped the bike when he locked the front wheel.

  Muscling it straight, he killed the ignition with the key and gasped for breath.

  “Benzina?” a uniformed young man, perhaps in his late teens, asked cheerfully as he trotted over.

  Mark lifted his face shield, legs trembling, his body nothing but nerves. “Huh?”

  “Benzina?” the young man repeated, pointing at the fuel tank.

  “Uh, Si. Si.”

  He stared stupidly at the tank, realizing he needed the key to unlock the cap as the young man reached for the fuel hose.

  For the moment, Mark was delighted just to sit on the machine and let his heart slow. He glanced around, seeing cars and another motorcycle in front of the restaurant.

  God, a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. And his stomach—mostly ignored in the downright terror of trying to ride the snarling murdercycle—definitely needed a meal.

  After the attendant topped off the tank, he asked something unintelligible in Italian.

  “Oh, how much?”

  The young man smiled, “Ah, American. On Ducati.” He made a clench-fist gesture of approval as Mark fished out his wad of Euros and handed the man one of the hundreds.

  Receiving change, Mark snapped the fuel cap closed, inserted the key, and started the bike. Tapping the shifter down, he managed to ease the clutch out without killing the engine. Feet dragging for balance, he paddle-walked the Ducati over to park it beside the other motorcycle: a yellow BMW with windshield and curious box-like bags attached to the rear.

  Sighing relief, he took the keys and marched dejectedly into the restaurant.

  The place was clean. Plastic bench seats were arranged around tables. He barely noticed the handful of patrons eating and sipping coffee.

  “Buona sera,” a man seated at the window said softly and nodded his direction. A helmet and riding jacket were piled on the bench seat beside the man. Obviously, the BMW rider.

  “Buono sera,” Mark replied awkwardly.

  “With an accent like that, you’re another American,” the rider replied, indicating the seat opposite him. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

  Panic built in his breast.

  The rider offered his hand. “Harry Rau. Columbus, Ohio. You here on vacation?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Mark overrode his caution, desperate for someone, anyone, to talk to. He slid into the seat opposite Harry. “Wow. What a day.”

  Rau had to be in his mid-fifties, white-haired, with a mustache. He wore riding pants, boots, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words, Alpen Motorcycle Tours. His face was lined, the jaw firm, and a thick nose was dominated by twinkling blue eyes. He cradled a cup of coffee in capable-looking hands.

  “Great ride?” Rau asked. “Where’d you ride from today?”

  “Up from Venice.”

  “Saw the sights, huh? Me, I live for the Dolomites.” Rau studied him thoughtfully, taking in the fine pants and button-down Zegna shirt. “Isn’t it a little cold out there dressed like that?”

  Mark smiled sheepishly. “The bike… Not the smartest thing I ever did.”

  “What do you normally ride?”

  “I don’t. This is my first time.”

  Rau arched a silvered brow. “So, you decided to start with an eleven-nine-eight? You got a death wish?”

  Later, Mark would chalk it up to the stress he’d been under but he burst out in hysterical laughter. The fit left him exhausted, tears leaking from his eyes. Catching his breath, he managed to say, “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

  Rau had watched with amused curiosity from behind his propped coffee cup. “Let me guess, you just got out of a bad relationship?”

  Mark fought a battle with more hysterical laughter, barely keeping from crying. “You have no idea.”

  “So… you decided to come to Italy, find one of the fastest, meanest, scooters on earth, and really tempt the gods, huh?”

  Mark rubbed his eyes, nodding. “When you get right down to it, yeah, that’s pretty much the story in a nutshell.”

  “Okay,” Rau confided, “I think I’ve got the picture.”

  “Close enough,” Mark muttered, a sense of futility rolling through him. He grabbed up the menu, staring. “So here I am. Without a single damn clue as to what I’m doing or where I’m going.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brian,” Mark said instinctively. “Brian Meyer. I used to teach high school social studies. In Iowa. Then later in Colorado
out west. You?”

  “Mufflers. For cars. I ran a string of eight shops in Columbus and Dayton. Mostly to support my habit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Motorcycles.” Rau grinned. “I’ve got a garage full. That, and I’m an MSF instructor.”

  “Huh?”

  “Motorcycle Safety Foundation. We teach new riders how to enjoy the sport safely… and not end up in hospital emergency rooms like you’re about to. You’ve got way too much motorcycle for a novice.”

  “Tell me about it. The thing acts like it’s possessed by Satan. But… well, you might say it’s my only choice.”

  “Where you headed tonight?”

  “Me? I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Anika paced the lurid confines of Suite No. 3 in the Oberau complex. The window looked out over the great palace below and the Alps beyond.

  As a Wyoming ranch girl who tramped around the backcountry to shoot her own food for dinner, she found the opulence distasteful, but Mark must have been swept away by the furnishings, the holographic wall, and the plunge pool. Oh, they’d exploited every one of his weaknesses the same way Isaac Perlman played a violin.

  She’d been awake most of the night, her brain racing as it collated data, analyzed, and studied.

  Stephanie had explained the compound’s defenses in great detail, emphasizing the extent to which any attempt at escape would be futile. Nonetheless, Anika was calculating the odds of given actions.

  “You’ll eventually be allowed to go home,” Stephanie had assured her as she’d given Anika a clear liquid to drink—allegedly the antidote to the neurotoxin she’d been fed in the Bahamas. “You’re much too high profile. The US won’t give up on you. On the other hand, there are diplomatic considerations they must abide by, which means obtaining your release will be a long and drawn-out process of threats, negotiations, and diplomatic pressure. Might take years.”

  Unless, of course, Anika pitched in and complied with ECSITE’s wishes. Once she’d modeled several variables for them, Stephanie assured her that ECSITE would have no further use for Anika French.

  Her preliminary model suggested the highest probability was another infusion of the neurotoxin that would kill her only after she stepped off the plane in DC but the second-highest probability was plutonium in her food that would ensure a death from malignant cancer after months of suffering. Her death would be a slap in the face to the United States and a reminder that Zoakalski had the power to kill anyone he wanted to.

  The downstairs door opened, and Stephanie’s cheery voice called, “Hello? Ready to go meet your team?”

  When Anika did not instantly come down, Stephanie’s feet sounded on the stairs. She was smiling when she stepped into the magnificent room. She’d dressed in gray wool and a light blue blouse.

  Stephanie read her perfectly, her voice dropping as she asked, “Got your escape plan all worked out?”

  Anika crossed her arms. “Before I make up my mind about anything, I want to see Zoakalski.”

  Stephanie’s dimples formed. “Turns out, you’re in luck. He wants to see you, too.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Skip used a rag to wipe the grease from his hands as he stood in the shop door. Business hours were over, and the late spring sun was beating down on the green valley. The workday finished, Jurgen pulled on his helmet, fastened the chin strap, and donned his gloves. Lars climbed onto his Triumph and thumbed the starter, bringing the big Thunderbird to life. He waited while Jurgen straddled his big blue Yamaha Tenere and started the bike. Together they rode off down the steep winding drive.

  Skip took a step out, staring up at the big sign now dominating the roof. ALPEN MOTORAAD stood out in ten-foot orange letters. A framed and enclosed wooden structure supported the tall letters, effectively screening the observation post that would be assembled there after dark.

  Right on cue, a green delivery van appeared from the buildings below and climbed the drive, its engine and gears complaining.

  Skip stuffed the rag back in his coverall pocket and walked into the shop where Helmut was putting away tools. Passing his own workbench, Skip inserted a disk into the radio and turned up the volume. The loud sound of an air wrench blatted before the noises of a busy shop could be heard.

  Turning, he watched the delivery truck back up to the door and stop. A man in a blue workman’s uniform stepped out, a clipboard in hand. At the rear of the truck, he unlatched the back and rolled the door up. Grabbing a box, he walked into the shop, depositing it on the table.

  “You’re late.” Skip propped hands on his hips.

  “Had a flat,” the driver replied.

  “Left rear?”

  “Right front.”

  The code was correct. Skip smiled, offering a hand. “Skip Murphy.”

  The man’s firm grip and crooked grin added character to an otherwise forgettable-looking human being. “Gordon Gerber. GG for short.”

  “What have you got?” Skip looked at the box.

  GG cut the tape, opened the box, and lifted out a thick folder. “Langley identified your mouse as Simon Gunter, 39. Gunter got his start in life in the Bundeswehr after a rocky start as a teenager. He’d survived a broken marriage and the suicide of his father. After service, Gunter worked in South Africa for a while, then tried to make it as a professional hunter in Namibia, but he beat a Belgian client half to death over a trophy fee.

  “Gunter dropped out of sight for a couple of years until he was identified as a person of interest smuggling diamonds out of West Africa. A year later, he was on Zoakalski’s payroll, quickly working up through the ranks. While no hard evidence exists, Gunter has a habit of showing up and, within a week, someone Zoakalski is involved with—or has crossed swords with—is found dead. Generally, from suspicious causes.”

  “Assassin, then?”

  GG shrugged. “Among other things. Call him an expediter. For instance, we know he was sent to Afghanistan in 2003 when kinks began to develop in the opium trade. From there, he moved on to Uzbekistan, then to Ukraine. Within a month, opium supplies on the streets were plentiful and the price dropped. Curious one-to-one connection there.”

  “So he’s a handyman?”

  “That’s as good a description as any.” GG flipped open to a photo of Simon Gunter. “Even more interesting, he was in the US a couple of weeks ago. And you’re going to love this: His destination was Laramie, Wyoming. He left on the same flight as Mark Schott.”

  “Anybody show up dead?”

  GG’s smile went crooked again. “Funny you should ask. A Paul Fetzer was found run over on the railroad tracks. Forensics determined he’d been anesthetized first. A cocktail of something called Diprivan and Propofol. It’s used by surgeons.”

  “Yeah, I remember from the briefings. Who was the victim?”

  “That’s where it gets even more interesting.” GG rubbed the side of his nose. “Hired muscle. Trained in China and probably in the employ of Chinese Intelligence.”

  “I remember. Most likely the people who jacked Anika French’s notes.” Skip nodded, putting the pieces together. “Gunter somehow realized that he had competition and took it out before they could sour the deal with Schott.”

  “Yeah. That’s our best-guess scenario. Leaving his victim on the tracks is one of his favorite disposal methods. Like a signature. Generally, the authorities don’t think twice about it and the body’s a mess.” GG winced as the soundtrack on the CD player broadcast the blatting air wrench again.

  Skip waved a finger around indicating the building. “They told you we’re wired for sound?”

  “Yep. You’re sure the background’s loud enough?”

  “Oh yeah. Your guy—we call him Q because that’s the way he likes it—monitors them monitoring us. They listen from the office so we’re secure in the shop.” Skip made a happy face as the recording played the musical sound of a wrench dropped on concrete. “But I could turn it up if you’d like.�
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  “Thanks, just the same.” GG flipped a couple of pages in his file. “Our buddy Gunter hasn’t just been to the US recently. The Brits had him in the Bahamas a couple of days ago. Zoakalski’s got a private island there. Allegedly, that was Gunter’s destination. Vacation, he said.”

  A spear of anger stirred in Skip’s breast. “The Bahamas. That’s how they got Anika French out. How’d he get back to Germany?”

  “Zoakalski’s private jet.”

  “Okay, so Gunter’s not just a bad guy but a very clever and talented one. The Cliff Notes version is Be careful and don’t underestimate him.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Of course there is.”

  GG pulled a second file from the box. “Gunter doesn’t always work alone. He has a female counterpart.”

  Skip took the folder, opening the page to the photo. He whistled, raising an eyebrow as he took in the attractive blonde.

  “Stephanie Huntz,” GG said softly. “In another universe, she’d have been a supermodel. In ours, she’s Zoakalski’s favorite psychopath. She cleared Bahaman customs at the same time as Gunter. Sweet Stephie, as she’s known, likes life fast and rich, including her cars, planes, and men. She’s a licensed pilot and pharmacist. Her modus operandi is to seduce her victim, obtain whatever she’s been sent for and, depending upon her orders, kill him or leave him panting for more.”

  “A cuddly playmate.”

  GG shrugged. “She’s multilingual, trained in intelligence gathering, martial arts, weapons and explosives, and the use of various toxins and amnesiacs. Guns or poison, each is equally thrilling to her. She’s the one who lost Mark Schott to the Chinese. Word is that she and Gunter were both involved in the attack in Italy.”

  “No sense of humor, huh?”

  “Not that you’d notice.”

  “Any word on Schott?”

  “Everybody in Europe is looking for him, including us. Nothing. Nada and zero. It’s like he’s stepped off the earth. No word on his wife and boys, either.”