“Where are we?” Denise demanded to know.
“Europe. Probably Germany. Maybe Switzerland. From the time they grabbed me, it wasn’t long enough to travel to Italy or France.”
“Dad?” Will asked, tears streaking down his face. “Why are they doing this? What do they want?”
Mark took a breath, trying to summon some kind of strength. “A computer model. One that charts the fall of civilizations.”
“A fucking model?” Denise whimpered. “I don’t know anything about any fucking model! Neither do the boys.”
“Easy. Easy. Please, honey. Just relax.”
“Relax?” Her face distorted, eyes tearing, her mouth twisted. “What are you going to do? You’re a fucking coward. You always have been!”
Blinking, he looked around at the featureless basement. “I’ll think of something.”
Chapter Eighty-One
The town of Garmisch basked in the bright afternoon sunlight as Skip wove around through the heavy traffic. Europeans had a much more reasoned approach toward motorcycles; lane splitting, passing, and maneuvering were accepted as a normal part of life.
Spotting Spago, Skip slowed and carefully backed into a space beside a lime-green BMW 1000RR. Kicking out the side stand, he killed the Ducati’s engine and climbed off. Hanging his helmet on the handlebar, he glanced around at the buildings, taking in the windows. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians, some standing around talking. No one seemed to be paying him the least attention. But then, they wouldn’t have been professionals if they had.
Mi Chan Li was seated at a sidewalk table, sunlight sparkling in her long black hair. A colorful green motorcycle jacket hung from the back of her chair. She was dressed in a bright yellow t-shirt and form-fitting black riding pants.
She tilted her face up. “How’s my Ducati?”
“Running much better now.” Skip hung his jacket on the back of his chair. “When was the last time you had the valves set and changed plugs?”
“I didn’t know you really had time to work on the machines given all the other things occupying your time.”
“It’s a compulsion.” He studied her. How much did she know about Alpen Motorrad?
“I like Jurgen,” she said, reading his mind. “We went riding one night and he showed me around the shop.”
Why’s she telling me this? Q hadn’t swept the shop for days. Who the hell knew what she’d left during her tour? No wonder Washington thought security had been compromised.
Her dark eyes were fixed intently on his. What the hell was she trying to tell him? Something more than she was willing to say.
Okay, she’s wired.
“Jurgen’s pretty good with wrenches. He could probably coax a few more horsepower out of your Beemer.”
She leaned forward. “We should go ride. I’d like to run the Ducati against the BMW, see which one has the edge in the twisties.”
“Why don’t we get down to why you wanted to see me?”
A faint smile formed at the corner of her full lips. “A simple trade. We know that Anika French and her team tested the model. We know a program was run.”
“Too many bugs. Anika’s on her way back to give it another shot.”
Mi Chan Li gave him a disappointed look. “Which is why she was rushed off to the White House after the first run? Sorry. It doesn’t wash. Whatever she found shook the President and cabinet right down to the roots. When Zoakalski grabbed French, it shook them even more.”
“The FBI hates it when someone gives them a bloody nose and makes them look like fools.”
Li placed her fingers on the tabletop and stared thoughtfully at him. “You’ll be pleased to know that Washington Metro Field Office has had a shake-up. Lots of people were suddenly transferred to North Dakota.”
“What’s the trade?” He was mildly interested to note that passing men kept giving Li second looks. She had a curious magnetism which probably came from the fact that she liked to kill people.
“I’ll trade you Schott and his family for French’s model of Y-R1a virus distribution in Rockland County. No strings. We’ll supply a computer to run the data, and when we know we’ve got the real thing, Schott, his wife, and kids will be turned over.”
“Why should we care? He’s a crummy anthropologist.”
“Do you care about his innocent family? The wife is attractive. A pretty American woman would bring a nice price in an Arab country. And don’t forget the boys. They’d be sold locally, of course.” A beat. “It’s a sordid world we live in.”
Her eyes had narrowed slightly, intent on his again, trying to will him to see it all in his mind.
“You’re a real saint.”
The tightening in her expression, the thinning of her lips, told him volumes. She said, “I realize you will need to take our terms to Randall. You have until tomorrow.”
“Why does China want the model?”
“Once they have French’s model, their own model-makers will be able to reproduce it for other large cities. Providing it works.”
Skip tapped the Ducati key on the table. “Tell you what. You ride up to the shop tomorrow morning, alone. I’ll have an answer for you.”
She nodded. “Acceptable.”
Skip subtly looked around, noting the people standing on the street and in the café. “What have you heard about Zoakalski?”
“He remains a wild card. Stephie has managed to elude us as well.” She gave him a meaningful sidelong stare. “If you happen across her, I’d really like to know.”
“Right. I’ll give you a call.”
Her smile was teasing. “I didn’t know you had my number.”
“See you tomorrow at the shop.”
She stood when he did, grabbed up her jacket, and walked with him to the motorcycles. She was giving him an evaluative look from the corner of her eye. “Do me a favor, Murphy. Make this trade happen. I’m a heartless professional but not even I can stomach selling children into slavery.”
She slipped the helmet over her head, clipped the chin strap, and pulled on gloves and threw a long leg over the BMW. Inserting the key, she stabbed the starter and the four-cylinder exhaust spun a song of power.
Skip watched as she jerked a nod, toed the bike into gear, and smoothly pulled out into traffic.
Skip tugged his helmet on, used a heel to pull up the side stand, and thumbed the starter. As he engaged the clutch and gassed the bike, he once again surveyed the people around him, just taking note of anyone who left suddenly or was paying particular attention to him. He wanted to remember their faces, just in case he saw them again in more casual circumstances.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Santa Fe, New Mexico
In the dream, Dusty Stewart ran for his life through a desert full of giant sagebrush. Behind him, the wolf katsina, called Kwewur, leaped, howled, and snapped monstrous jaws with a sickening clack. The thing had a giant wolf’s head, glowing red eyes, and a painted human body. With a rattle in one hand, a knife in the other, the Pueblo demon pursued with a vengeance.
The harder Dusty ran, the slower his legs became as if leaden and stuck in molasses. The jungle of sage had become thicker, the buff, sandy soil under his feet shifting. Dusty could feel hot breath on his neck, could smell a rotten odor—like that of a swollen carcass left too long in the sun. As the terrible monster katsina closed… a phone rang.
Dusty jerked, trying to figure out how a phone could be ringing. Some part of his dreaming brain analytically struggled to place its location in the aqua-blue sagebrush.
The second ring brought him bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. Throwing the blanket back, Dusty careened off the wall of his antique trailer, banged off the door jam, and pounded down the narrow hallway, through his kitchen, and into the trailer’s, small front room.
In his desperation, he flung dirty clothes off the threadbare couch, fumbled for the end table, and grabbed the receiver of his rotary telephone from its cradle. Lifting it to his ear, he st
ared around the dark trailer.
“Hello?”
“Dusty Stewart?”
“Yeah,” he panted, blinking like an owl to clear both sleep and nightmare from his brain. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Skip Murphy. I need to get a message to Maureen.”
“What’s wrong?” Dusty stood up straighter. “Last time you were around, people got shot.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid. Can you get that message to Maureen?”
Dusty rubbed his forehead. “Sure. I mean, I think so. But why can’t you do it?”
“Complications. I can’t call Maureen directly without the computers tagging it. You’re her boyfriend. When you call the base security office, tell them it’s an urgent personal call. When you get her on the line, here’s what I need you to say…”
Chapter Eighty-Three
“Ma’am?”
The voice brought Maureen awake. In the subdued gleam of her tiny barracks room, the uniformed officer looked like a shadow.
“What?”
“Phone call for you in the main office, ma’am. Says his name is Dusty Stewart… and it’s urgent that he speak with you.”
Maureen nodded and sat up. Urgent personal business, when it came to Dusty, could be anything. Once, after dancing with a stripper, he’d fallen on a barroom table covered with beer bottles and ended up with tens of stitches in his rear end. He’d considered that urgent personal business.
“Give me a minute, Sergeant. I just need to get dressed.”
Five minutes later, she followed the sergeant to a spartan office with pale green walls. The man pointed to the phone. Maureen seated herself at the desk and asked, “Dusty?”
“Hey Maureen. Is this a secure line?”
“I doubt it.” She closed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I just had a call from Skip Murphy.” A pause.
“What did he say?” Maureen asked wearily.
Maureen listened, glancing occasionally at the sergeant. Her heart began to do the jackhammer against her ribs.
Chapter Eighty-Four
The BMW’s howl grew as the lime-green machine raced up the drive from Oberau. The rider was carving the corners like a GP racer, hitting each apex perfectly, heeling the bike from side to side.
Skip stepped out into the morning light, wiping his hands with a rag. Glancing around the corner, he noted that the plastic grocery sack he’d placed there was missing. There was a rock in its place.
He squinted as Mi Chan Li made the final corner, rolling the throttle, launching the 1000RR into the short straight. The front wheel lofted as she rode the wheelie into the parking lot, dropped the front end, and slid the bike to a stop no more than three feet shy of Skip’s toes.
She killed the ignition, removed her black helmet, and stepped off. Unzipping her jacket, she shook out the wealth of her long black hair and said, “What’s the answer, Murphy?”
Using the corner of the rag, Skip absently cleaned grease from under his thumbnail, then reached into his pocket and palmed a slip of paper as he walked over to shake her hand. She took it, showing no reaction. He bent down, pointing at her chain. “It’s a little loose. Want me to tighten it.”
She surreptitiously read the little note, crumbled it, and said, “No wires today. I can talk. I’m just here to find out if it’s yes or no.”
Skip stood, figuring that someone had a glass on them even if Li wasn’t wired. He gestured absently at the machine as any bike nut would while discussing the intricacies of motorcycle elegance. “Tell me your angle in all this.”
“Money,” she replied easily, eyes on the sleek BMW. “I’m a private contractor. Chinese intelligence pays better than the corporate sector. Besides, Schott pretty much convinced me that the world is past saving. What does French say?”
“The same. No going back. ECSITE has everything it needs. It’s just a matter of time before Zoakalski’s team uses her model to plan the demise of corporations, states, and nations around the world.”
Li stepped forward, pointing to the handlebar where it was festooned with buttons for the traction control modes. “My dilemma is that my services are in high demand. Many parties in the world are itching to watch their enemies die.”
He read the hard set of her jaw, the steel in her eyes and pressed the BMW’s rear tire with his foot as if checking the inflation. “The answer is yes. The US will make the trade. The Defense Department dispatched an envoy with the French model last night.”
Li took a deep breath. “All right, but we make the trade here. Same time tomorrow morning. That’s non-negotiable.” She waved up at the mountainside. “It’s wide-open. No chance of a double-cross.”
“Sure,” Skip answered. “You said you’d provide a computer. Make it a damn good one. I’d suggest bringing a very competent statistician with you. This is higher-level thinking as I understand it.”
“Of course. Yang wants to see how the model works to be sure I’m not jacking him around. Once he takes the New York model, gets in the van, you get the Schotts, and he drives away.”
He gave her a sober look. “I hope so, Li. For your sake.”
Chapter Eighty-Five
In the observation post in the roof behind the Alpen Motorrad sign, Anika watched Mi Chan Li ride away, the motorcycle wailing as the woman bent the bike through corners.
Anika thoughtfully lowered the binoculars, her mind racing.
She heard Skip’s feet on the desk before the hatch was pushed up and he climbed in. On hands and knees, he crawled over, staring thoughtfully across the valley at Zoakalski’s compound. “You heard?”
Anika tapped her earpiece. “Yes. Tomorrow morning.”
Skip propped himself on his elbows. “What do you think? A double cross?”
“Low probability.” Anika ran fingers through her oily hair. Hiding in a rooftop wasn’t conducive to her normal code of hygiene. “I read the file Randall sent on Yang. He’s a long-term planner, talented at figuring out systems… making things work to his advantage with minimal personal risk. My impression is that once he has the program, he’s running fast-and-straight for China.”
Skip was chewing his thumb as he listened.
“Doesn’t it taste like oil?”
He smiled. “Yeah, a little.”
Anika took a deep breath. “All right. I’ve been going over the plan. By this time tomorrow morning, Mark, Denise, and the boys should be free.”
“If your model works.”
Anika’s stomach muscles tightened. “Unfortunately, it does.”
Skip pointed at her. “No matter what happens, you’re going to be hiding beneath that tarp out in the fir trees, right?”
“Of course.”
“If everything works out, I’ll give you the all clear. If things go sideways, Helmut will retrieve you as soon as he can help you escape. As soon as you get up there, you’ll discover I left a pistol under the tarp. That’s a last resort. You only use it if you’re discovered and desperate. Understand?”
Anika stared into his eyes. “What if they’re about to shoot you down here?”
“Pull the tarp over your head and stay put.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Maureen—passport and COVID status in hand—stepped through passport control and into the baggage claim. Having no luggage, she handed her card to the customs agent and exited to the main terminal at Franz-Joseph-Strauss Airport.
She took a deep breath. The lives of millions were at stake, not to mention the lives of French, Mark Schott, his wife, and two innocent boys.
“Hello, Maureen.”
She glanced at the tall black-haired man, then did a double-take, looking over his shoulder at the four husky men approaching behind him. They neatly adopted a classic diamond formation, boxing her in. “Gave up being a dashing blond, have you?” she asked.
Helmut nodded and gestured to the men. “I’m taking extra precautions for your safety. The car’s at the curb. The sooner we’re gone, the
better.”
“Good to see you again, too. Seems like we never have time to just sit, have a beer, and reminisce about old times.”
“I think Skip does this on purpose. But who knows, maybe after this is all over?”
“Swineshoxen at Der Franziskaner?”
“My treat.”
Maureen followed him. The men marched in a protective huddle around her, their gazes roving, seeming to miss nothing.
“Any trouble?” Helmut asked.
“No. It worked just the way Dusty said it would. I ordered a car to take me to the Pentagon. Nothing unusual in that. They dropped me at the gate and, within minutes, a cab pulled up. Half an hour later, I was at Dulles. I picked up the ticket, went through security, and was airborne. By now, Randall must be frantic.”
At the curb, three cars waited, bumper-to-bumper. Maureen was shuttled into the back seat of an Audi while the security detail clustered around her, vigilantly watching in all directions. As the door closed, someone slapped the roof.
Maureen craned her neck to see the detail pile into the chase car. As the small motorcade began to move, the chase car literally buried its nose in her car’s back bumper. A move to keep anyone from pulling between them. Ahead, the blocking Mercedes was mere feet from the Audi’s front bumper. Helmut, it seemed, took no chances.
“What’s this all about, Helmut? Dusty just said it was, in his words, ‘fucking important’.”
Helmut swiveled in the passenger seat. “As I understand it, you’re here purely for credibility. People are watching. Please play the part. Skip and Anika are taking a gamble on very long odds.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Mark Schott stared up at the baleful lights above him. The damn things were never turned off. Now, he wondered if that wasn’t just as well.
Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Page 27