Skip fingered his chin as he looked back at the Mylar overlay. “Yeah, well, we’ve been watching her comings and goings. She really needs a reason to leave that compound.”
Helmut was giving him a serious look. “Do you want me to count all the ways this could go wrong? I could use up all my fingers and toes.”
“Hell, no! If you go over twenty, you could be busted for indecent exposure.”
“Kandahar?” Schott asked. “What the hell happened in Kandahar? Who’s Rasheed?”
Skip was back to staring at the daunting compound security. “He was a guy we needed to slip past Taliban security. Getting to Anika isn’t going to be all that tough. But getting out…?”
“How are you going in?” Helmut asked.
“On the wings of an angel. But with Anika? Getting out’s not so easy.”
Q said, “We could pick you up with a helicopter.”
Skip shook his head. “As careful as they are, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a very effective countermeasure. So, I’m thinking about how Stephanie likes manipulating people. Maybe it’s time we turned the tables on her.”
“She’ll kill you,” Mark insisted bluntly. “And I’ve just told you, every door in that compound has a key card and code lock. If there’s an alarm, the whole place will be locked down.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve implemented a distraction.” Skip glanced at his watch. “And right about now, it’s in its initial phases.”
“My guess,” Mark replied, “is that these folks don’t get distracted easily. They put a bullet in one of the guys who grabbed me. Then they got even. Hard and fast. Michelle and I barely got out with our lives.”
“Good,” Skip said thoughtfully. “The more stressed she is, the better this will work.”
Helmut arched an eyebrow. “Will she fall for it?”
“The trusted officers are always the weak link.” Skip turned to Q. “There are some things I’m going to need.”
“By when?” Q had been listening quietly.
“Anika comes out tomorrow night,” Skip said softly. Then he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting in a half hour.”
“At this time of night?” Mark asked.
“Insurance agent,” Skip muttered. “I’m taking out a life insurance policy.”
“Better make it a big one,”—Helmut’s dubious blue eyes met Skip’s—“and please list me as the benefactor because I’m not sure you’ve got long to live.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Stephanie marched Anika straight toward Zoakalski’s office. She tried to prepare herself for what would come next by clenching her fists to still their trembling. But this time, instead of meeting with the Big Man, Stephanie opened a door that led down a flight of stairs. At the bottom stood two guards, each with an HK-MP5 submachine gun hanging from a shoulder sling.
Anika stopped short, only to have Stephanie grasp her by the elbow and squeeze. The nerve centers screamed and Anika gasped.
“Come on,” Stephanie growled. “We’re going to the security center. I want you to look at some photos.”
“Photos of what?”
“Faces,” Stephanie insisted.
Anika allowed Stephanie to lead her down the rest of the stairs. The guards had been watching her, obviously entertained by her hesitation. Both men nodded professionally to Stephanie before she swiped her key card and punched in a code.
48732, Anika noted. Different from yesterday’s 53719.
They change the codes every day. Maybe every hour… That was sobering. So, even if she managed to get Stephanie’s card, she’d have to have the latest code.
The metal door opened automatically, swinging on silent hinges. Anika felt a tickle of fear-sweat as she was led into a cubicle with a similar door on the other side. Immediately, she understood. The Converse County jail was constructed the same way. Only one door at a time could be opened. A mirror (obviously one-way glass) and curious slits lined the walls. The second door opened to another cubicle similar to the first.
“This is the security center?” Anika indicated the steel room around her.
“Yes, but if you think this is secure—” Stephanie informed as she nodded at the mirror “—you should see the sensitive records room. Oh, and if you’re wondering, the slits are designed for shooting through. One word from me and, well, we use a particularly nasty hollow point. You’ve seen fresh hamburger?”
Anika gave the mirrored glass a curious look. “Only this one way in, huh?”
Stephanie didn’t bother to answer.
A rather mundane hallway lay behind the final door. Anika immediately picked out the line of security cameras mounted in domes. The doors she passed were solid, the walls paneled in white, the floor polished to a shine.
Second from the last door, Stephanie stopped and swiped her card. Blocking Anika with her body, Stephanie punched in a code and opened the door.
The room was small with a single occupant. Simon Gunter sat at a small table lined with six chairs. He held an accordion file, perhaps two inches thick on the wood-veneer table. Overhead, two of the cameras were the only features beyond two rows of fluorescent lights.
“Have a seat,” Stephanie indicated the chair next to Gunter. Stephanie dropped into a chair beside Anika.
“We want you to look at photos,” Gunter said in his accented voice. “Tell us if you know any of these people?”
Anika nodded and watched Gunter unwrap a bit of twine from a button that held the file closed.
Gunter pointed to the cameras overhead. “Do not lie. We are recording your respiration, heartbeat, and pupil dilation.”
Anika glanced nervously up at the camera. “Good luck. I’m already half-panicked.”
Gunter gazed at Stephanie through hard black eyes. The muscles in his shoulders seemed to bunch under the immaculate black suit he wore.
“It’s not my fault if she’s frightened,” Stephanie almost hissed.
Gunter grunted and pulled out the first photo. “Who is this?”
The woman in the photo was pretty, Asian, with long black hair and a triangular face. “I’ve never seen her in my life.”
“And this one?”
The next photo was of a gray-haired man, blocky faced, perhaps in his late forties.
“I don’t know.”
“He walks with a limp,” Gunter added. “Left leg.”
Anika shrugged. “I’ve never seen him.”
“How about this man?” Gunter showed her a young man, mid-twenties, wearing a mechanic’s uniform. He stood next to a motorcycle of some kind.
“Never seen him before.”
“And this one?”
The photo was of a black-haired man with a curled mustache, late thirties, tall and muscular. She could see lines around his eyes as if he’d lived outdoors. “I don’t know him.”
“And this one?”
Anika willed herself to relax as she stared down at Skip Murphy. Then she glanced up, forcing herself to tense. “I have no idea.”
Stephanie slapped a hand to the veneer hard enough to make Anika jump. “Forget the photos, Gunter.”
“One more.” Gunter reached out another. “Who is this woman?”
Anika frowned. “Assistant Secretary of State Amy Randall. Not that you’d need me to identify her. Her face is on every TV screen.”
“Tell me about her.”
“I was developing the model for her.”
“Did she mention ECSITE during that time?” Gunter’s dark eyes barely hid annoyance.
“Yes. She knew that Mark Schott was working for ECSITE. I was supposed to inform her immediately if he tried to get in touch with me.”
Some subtle communication passed between Stephanie and Gunter. Then Stephanie made a gesture toward the file. “Give her the rest.”
Gunter pulled out a sheaf of papers. “These are engineering reports, studies of Conn Edison utilities, and traffic planning reports.” He reached down and produced a shipping tube she hadn’t s
een from under the table. Popping off the top, Gunter coaxed a thick roll of maps from inside. He laid them out and Anika immediately recognized a Landsat image of New York, north of Manhattan.
“What are these for?” Anika asked, shooting Gunter a wary look.
Gunter said mildly, “You will study the reports and maps and tell us how to manipulate signage to best manage the traffic patterns in Rockland County, New York.”
Anika murmured softly, “Why?
Stephanie leaned in close, her blue eyes almost crystalline with purpose. “I understand your father likes his steaks rare.”
Anika clenched her fists tighter.
Gunter pulled one last photo from the file.
The image was unmistakable. Beneath a half-dressed man, his pants wadded around his knees, lay a naked woman, chained spread-eagle atop a large metal table. Three other men stood watching, one bending down for a better look. The woman’s face was turned toward the camera, expression one of anguish, eyes closed, her mouth twisted.
Denise… Dear God, where are the boys? What’s happening to them?
Anika pushed the photo back with a shaking hand. “How long do I have?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
From the Alpen Motorrad shop door, Skip watched as Mark Schott’s red eleven-nine-eight, along with two full-face helmets, was carefully loaded into the delivery truck. Helmut carefully used tie-downs to strap it in place.
Jurgen and Lars, having attended to their last duty of the day, rode off on their bikes, headed back to Munich. Jurgen had been euphoric, stating he had a date with a drop-dead gorgeous BMW rider that night.
Helmut, satisfied, leaped down from the rear of the truck and pulled the tailgate closed. “All is well?” he asked.
“Totally,” Skip agreed, grinning up at Helmut. “Q called in. There’s been a steady stream of people on the way to the infirmary. More than the usual number are taking off early.”
“Phase one,” Helmet noted, thrusting thumbs into his belt loops and staring across the valley toward the compound. “What was it called again?”
“Yersinia enterocolitica.”
“Charming name,” Helmut mused. “You’d think it was a Verdi opera.”
“Yeah, well it has its own unique movements.” Skip made a face. “Us vulgar types call it the screaming shits.”
“And if Anika has enjoyed the benefits of the lunch room?”
“I’ll know when I get there.”
“Be careful, Skip.”
“You, too. See you at the rendezvous.”
They shook hands and Helmut, his black hair shining in the sun, his odd mustache turned up, walked to the cab, got in, and fired up the diesel engine.
Skip watched the truck start down the curving drive and pressed the button that closed the shop door. The heavy metal rattled down and closed off the outside world.
Whistling, Skip walked to the CD player and ran the recording of shop sounds for background noise.
From a belt pouch, he placed an earpiece in his right ear and lifted a throat microphone. “Q? How we doing?”
“All’s well. No sign of Anika, though. She’s still in the security building.” A pause. “Is that a problem?”
“I won’t know until I get there.”
“Roger that.”
“Is Schott doing all right?”
“Yeah. He’s worried stiff about his family. But I think he’ll manage. It’s just a phone call, after all.”
“Yeah,” Skip said with a sigh. “All right, Q, keep your eyes and ears open. Anything looks weird, you give me the heads up.”
“Good luck, Skip. Watch your six.”
“Always. Women tell me the view from back there is splendid.”
He bent down and pulled a toolbox from under the workbench. Spinning the combination on the lock, he opened the box, lifted out a shallow tray of wrenches, and began removing the pieces of equipment.
These he lugged over to a rebuilt KTM 450 dirt bike and began lashing packs to the luggage rack. From a box marked “Riding Gear,” he took what looked like a two-man tent in a nylon stuff bag with accompanying telescoping poles. Skip used bungee cords to fasten the nylon bag to the rear of the seat.
“Gonna be a long and interesting night,” he confided to himself. “So, Mr. Zoakalski, am I as good as I think I am? Or are you going to turn out to be better?”
As he changed into black tactical gear, the butterflies—old companions before any operation—returned and begun to flutter around in Skip’s gut. He glanced at his watch: three hours until dark.
The wait, as it had through the years, seemed interminable. Nevertheless, Skip finally pressed the button and watched the shop door clatter up to reveal fading twilight illuminating the mountains.
Skip rolled the KTM out, propped it on the side stand, and waited while the heavy door rolled down. Then he locked the building, set the security, and straddled the bike.
The four-stroke single lit on the fifth kick. Skip pulled on a helmet, let the engine warm, and snicked it into first. Letting out the clutch, he motored off into the growing darkness.
The lights of the distant compound seemed to mock him as he descended the long drive, took a right on the highway, and accelerated to the south.
A kilometer and a half later, he made a left onto a side road that turned to dirt, followed the deteriorating track up the mountain, and stopped long enough to pick the lock on a chained gate.
Then, killing the headlight, Skip reached into one of the packs and fastened night-vision goggles onto his helmet. He put the bike in gear and motored off, the single cylinder’s muffled engine puttering in the darkness.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Rockland County proved easy. Few places on earth were as vulnerable as the area around Manhattan. Hong Kong perhaps, or Tokyo, might prove to be just as precarious but Rockland County wasn’t even a challenge.
Anika looked up as a white-faced Stephanie stepped through the door. The woman didn’t look well, and the hand she pressed to her abdomen added to the effect.
“I’m finished with the Rockland model.” Anika stood wearily.
Stephanie, her hair uncharacteristically disheveled, eyes red, walked unsteadily to the table and stared down at the map Anika had left on top. Yellow stick-it arrows pointed here and there.
“I’ll inform the Big Man,” Stephanie said and Anika saw the sheen of sweat on her face. Where the woman had looked blanched when she entered, her face had now reddened.
“Do you have a fever?”
“Half the compound is down. Food poisoning.” Stephanie glanced at Anika with bright watery eyes. “You eaten anything?”
“Microwave sandwich out of the machine.” Anika backed away when Stephanie gasped from pain and made a face. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
The woman tensed. “I’ve got to hit the ladies’ room.” She made a face, wiping her lips. “If I can make it that far. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Stephanie left at a run and Anika gazed hollowly at the maps covering the table. While she’d been studying the street maps, it occurred to her that Rockland County seemed to have a high proportion of synagogues.
What have I done?
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Skip left the KTM in the trees and shone a red-lensed flashlight at his GPS. He shouldered the nylon-sack with its poles, unhooked the pack from the luggage rack, and began to traverse the side of the mountain.
The way was steep and his circuitous path rounded trees and outcrops of rock. Periodically, he caught a glimpse of the valley lights below. The chilly air was rich with the scents of grass, spring flowers, and fir trees. Overhead, the sky remained dark, cloud-covered.
He checked his watch again, then picked his way across a cracked-and-tumbled boulder field.
An hour later, he found the spot he’d picked out from below. Here, a rounded outcrop of weathered rock jutted from the slope. On the top, he found a sparse cover of grass, so
me flowers, and a couple of small conifers that had taken root. He checked the GPS and, doing a little math, calculated that he was just over three hundred meters above the compound.
Skip unslung his backpack and laid it to the side. Then he withdrew the telescoping poles and carefully fitted them together in the greenish glow of his Gen III goggles.
From the nylon bag, he withdrew a thin graphite composite sheeting and, despite the breeze, managed to stretch it over the pole frame. The thing created a large wing with a tail, a type of a hybrid paraglider. Next, he withdrew a series of straps, clipped them together and created a harness that slipped over his shoulders and buckled at the chest and over both thighs.
When he had assembled it, he clicked the harness to the wing, strapped his pack onto his chest, and fought the night wind blowing down the valley as he maneuvered onto the crest of the rock.
I’m out of my fucking mind. The thought went through his head as he stared down at the ghostly green lights of Oberau. Then he turned his attention to the well-lit compound below him.
A gust almost toppled him and, at the last instant, Skip launched himself into black space.
For a moment, panic froze his muscles. Then, remembering his training, he used his legs, and arched his back, feeling the wing catch air.
In the eerie glow of his night vision, a tree top slashed past and Skip arched, catching air as he went soaring out over the dark valley.
Fifty-fifty I screw this up and break my damn neck.
Hopefully—if he ended up falling like a damned rock—he’d land on Zoakalski.
Spears of conifers passed below and Skip glided quietly down toward the compound. Despite the silence, the air rushing past his ears almost obscured the sound of an approaching airplane.
Slowing his glide, Skip turned his head. Through the glow of his goggles, he made out the dark form of the approaching plane, its engines bright points in the IR spectrum.
As Skip silently dropped toward the compound, the plane passed overhead. Something bailed out the side door. As the airplane droned up the valley toward Garmisch, a parachute unfolded, a body dangling below.
Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Page 23