[Jake Adams 01.0] Fatal Network

by Trevor Scott

  Now he had to move on to a new location. But where should he go? There were still too many questions unanswered. The more he dug into Bundenbach Electronics, the more its image had tarnished. At first glance, the company appeared flawless. But then you add a corrosive agent like Gunter Schecht, and the shine quickly faded. Bundenbach’s shifting of funds away from research and development was at least a curious aberration.

  Then he thought about the German Customs Agent, Herbert Kline, watching Bundenbach Electronics. He could be some help.

  13

  BONN, GERMANY

  The banks of the Rhine were still swollen from days of near-freezing rain. The sun was little comfort, warming the inside of Jake’s rental Passat, but helping little to warm the Sunday afternoon strollers along the west bank of the great European river.

  Jake had checked out of the Gasthaus in Bad Honnef and driven to a popular park near the German government buildings in Bonn. With reunification years ago, most of the government functions had moved back to Berlin. He knew that Herbert Kline always came to this park on Sundays to feed the ducks and swans.

  As if a meeting had been prearranged, Herb was sitting on a wooden bench with concrete end supports feeding those birds brave enough to waddle close to him. Jake quietly walked up behind Herb and stood within five feet of him. It sounded as though Herb was talking to himself, but Jake couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Guten Tag,” Jake said.

  Herb startled by hunching his shoulders quickly, and then turned his head to see who had disturbed his peace.

  “Jake?”

  Jake moved around to the front of the bench.

  “I thought you went back to America?”

  “I did, but airplanes travel in both directions,” Jake said with a smile.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you. Trying to figure out what’s going on with Bundenbach Electronics.” Might as well get to the point, Jake thought.

  Herb’s eyebrows rose sharply with that revelation.

  “Before you ask...I’m working for myself now,” Jake said. “The money’s better, and I choose the jobs and the hours I work.”

  Herb looked as though he was trying to digest the startling reality of Jake’s sudden appearance, and what Jake had just said.

  “What do you know, Jake?” Herb asked.

  “I know that Gunter Schecht is still a slime, and his new employer is Bundenbach.”

  Herb smiled finally. “Okay. We agree on that.” He paused. “I know he’s been buying up some American technology for his new boss, but I don’t know why, honestly.”

  Jake hesitated for a moment. “Do you know why this is so important to Bundenbach?”

  “No,” Herb said. “Jake, I know people don’t think I’m good at what I do, but I have been good. Far before you or your associates worked Germany. I was damn good—maybe too good. You’ve probably laughed behind my back like the rest of them.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’m sick of people not taking me seriously. I’m sick of people thinking I’m some drunken old fool. Well I’m old and I may get drunk a lot, but I’m no fool.”

  Jake sat down on the other side of the bench. He ran his hands through his thick hair. “I’ve never laughed at you, Herb, and I’ve never taken you for a fool. It takes a lot more courage and inner strength to stick it out with an inflexible bureaucracy.”

  “You think so? I think it takes great strength to stand up to the bureaucracy and say it’s wrong. I haven’t done that for a long time,” Herb said.

  Jake looked down at the dark flowing water. “Maybe we should work together on this case,” he said. “I could use your help.”

  Herb was thinking it over, his expression unsure.

  “Herb, do you know that Gunter and his boys tried to blow me away Friday?” Jake asked.

  Herb flicked his head up quickly. “No.”

  “It’s personal now. I’m a professional, but nobody shoots at me without some sort of return fire. Bullets or prosecution, that’s up to the guilty bastard who tries it.”

  There was silence for a moment. Only the swishing of the Rhine and an occasional squawk from a duck.

  Finally, Jake asked, “I’m looking for an American tech rep named Charlie Johnson. Works at Bitburg Air Base for an American contractor named Teredata International Semiconductors. I work for the president of that company out of Portland.”

  After a few moments of hesitation, Herb finally said, “Charlie Johnson is dead.”

  “Shit. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I saw Gunter and two others knock him silly and throw him into the Rhine last week in Koblenz,” Herb said. “I was tailing Gunter and his men because I got a tip about Bundenbach buying up some restricted American technology. Johnson was selling something to Gunter. Jake, I keep looking down at the Rhine to see if I can see him floating by. I know it’s impossible, but your mind does strange things sometimes.”

  “Why did Gunter kill Johnson?” Jake asked. “I mean, without him the supply link is broken.”

  “Maybe...maybe not. Maybe Gunter found another supplier. Or maybe Johnson asked for more money. Gunter doesn’t need a good reason to kill, not even a reason.”

  “Did you file a report with the Polizei in Koblenz?” Jake asked.

  Herb shook his head slowly back and forth.

  “Why not?”

  He started to speak and then hesitated. “Because I was pretty drunk at the time. I need to stay on this case. My boss would have pulled me and forced me to retire. Besides, the way Gunter and his men did it, they may never find the body. No body, no case against Gunter. Only the word of a drunken fool.”

  “So, can we work together on this one?” Jake asked, looking Herb straight in the eye.

  Herb turned to look at the swollen Rhine and the hungry ducks, and then back at Jake. “Yes.”

  14

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Milton Swenson picked up the papers on Bundenbach Electronics from the oak coffee table and leaned back on the plush white sofa. He had personally accessed the Moody’s network on his computer the night before and gotten this information for Jake Adams. What was Bundenbach up to?

  The sharp sound of knuckles echoed through the large wooden door to the room. Before Milt could answer, Steve Carlson entered swiftly and sat down at the other end of the large couch. Milt could tell from his heavily wrinkled forehead and tightened lips that something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter?” Milt asked.

  “I’ve been trying all morning to call Jake, but can’t seem to reach him.”

  “He’s not at Birkenwald anymore,” Milt said. “He’s not using his cell phone over there. But he called last night and told me he was scrapping the original plan. He found out who’s been after our stuff.”

  Steve Carlson rose, partially crossed his arms, and stroked his full black and gray beard. “Well?”

  Milt shuffled the papers together as a deck of cards and handed them to Steve. “A company called Bundenbach Electronics out of Bonn. I sent Jake the Moody’s listing for background information by e-mail.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Never heard of Bundenbach. They must not be too big,” Steve said as he handed the papers back without looking at them.

  “I think they’re an up and comer,” Milt said. He paused and studied his old friend. “They could be making a move on the avionics market. Their electronics branch deals mostly in tanks and helicopters for NATO equipment, so they might be trying to compete in the next round of NATO aircraft development. Our new chips could give them a great advantage over the Brits and French.”

  Steve Carlson paced to the gas fireplace, picked up a beer stein from the mantle, looked at the bottom, and then placed it back in its original spot.

  “Do you know where Adams will go next?” Steve asked, looking over his shoulder at Milt.

  “No. He seems to think it’s best if we don’t know.”
r />   “I see.”

  “What’s wrong, Steve?”

  “I don’t know. You know I didn’t want to hire Adams. I’m sure we could have found out what was going on without him.”

  “I don’t think so,” Milt said, as he got up from the couch. “Not many people know Germany like Jake.”

  Even though Milt and Steve had worked together for years, Milt knew that Steve felt somewhat indignant toward him. But it was Steve who had given up his partnership status, started his own company, gone bankrupt, and then came back to him for a job.

  “What’s wrong, Steve?” Milt asked again.

  Steve paced a few times near the flames of the gas fireplace trying to bring warmth to his body and what he was about to tell Milt.

  “We’ve got another leak,” Steve finally said.

  “What?”

  “I know. It sounds impossible. I feel like the little Dutch boy sticking his finger in the dike. But I just got a call from Washington. The Navy says someone is quickly snatching up our new chips for the A-7 avionics upgrade. They want us to halt the supply chain.”

  “I can’t believe this shit is happening,” Milt screeched. “How in the fuck can their security be that horse shit.”

  “If the Air Force finds out about our problems in Germany, they’re going to ask us the same question.”

  Milt walked over to the bar and poured two glasses of gin. He plopped two Alka Seltzer in one glass and watched the bubbles and foam rise like some mad scientist’s concoction. In a few seconds, he took a long sip.

  “I still don’t know how you can stand to drink that,” Steve said.

  “It grows on you. Give me the specifics on what the Navy had to say.”

  Steve hesitated for a minute, took a sip of his gin, and then began. “Well, first of all, one of our technical advisors from Florida was at a meeting Friday with a group of Navy brass. Some under secretary started spouting off about how our equipment was failing at an unacceptable rate, and how the American people are paying all this money to upgrade the aging A-7. So this guy won’t shut up about it. Our guy is getting kind of embarrassed, because he doesn’t know what in the hell this guy is talking about. He’s heard nothing but praise about the new A-7 retrofit. And besides, as you know, the A-7 is only a test-bed for the Joint Strike Fighter. Finally, this other guy, a Navy Captain, comes over and tells this guy to shut his mouth.”

  “So, how did you find out we have equipment missing?”

  “This Captain Murphy notices our guy is looking nervous, so he takes him aside and tells him we need to cut our supply of high speed avionics chips to the Navy.”

  “Did the Captain give any specifics on the location of the leak?” Milt asked. “I mean, it could only be from the Jacksonville squadron. But he must have mentioned some specifics.”

  “Actually, he said it’s from the squadron detachment currently deployed aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt. The ship is now somewhere near Italy,” Steve said.

  “Great. Now we have to try to plug two holes in two countries. I need to get the word to Jake, somehow.” He pointed at Steve. “This is why I didn’t want them to take the retrofit aircraft to Europe.”

  Milt sat slowly onto his white couch again. He watched the bubbles rise quickly to the top of his drink and appear to dance across its surface. He imagined his blood coursing through his body, upward, trying to burst through the top of his skull.

  Impatiently, Milt got up and went to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. He gazed down at the Willamette River over thirty stories below his penthouse office. He pondered how he had built Teredata International Semiconductors from scratch, and was now the Chief Executive Officer on the leading edge of computer technology. He pinched the stomach bulge that worked its way over his fifty dollar belt. He had been so athletic. How could he have let himself get so far out of shape?

  Milt stared at the Portland skyline, but he wasn’t really looking at the large glassed buildings. He thought about the wealth that the buildings represented.

  Steve Carlson accompanied Milt at the window.

  Milt peered at Steve critically. He noticed Steve had not fallen out of shape. His stiff posture, even through a soft, gray suit, exuded a strength and magnitude that resembled nobility. Even though Steve’s hair had been speckled with streaks of silver, his finely-trimmed beard included, he still looked more like thirty than fifty. When the two had started Teredata in the 80s, Milt had no idea he would run the company one day. Steve had sold out nearly ten years ago to form his own company, but then he filed bankruptcy and returned to Teredata as Vice President of Operations. It had been uncomfortable for both of them for quite some time.

  Milt pressed his hands against the large windows. He thought about Jake taking all the risks in the case. Was he setting Jake up, or was he just too scared to explain to the government that they may have let the fastest chip ever produced slip into someone else’s hands? He knew his only hope for any salvation over this sticky situation was for Jake to save his butt.

  “Maybe we should have told Jake the whole story,” Milt said, looking out the window again, watching the rain pelt the glass.

  “Yeah, but if we had told everything, he probably wouldn’t have taken the job,” Steve said. “Why should he? The reason he quit CIA, I hear, is because he was asked to do things and take certain risks that he felt were unnecessary.”

  “That’s not true,” Milt said, looking back at Steve. “Jake has always been a bit of a rebel. Even from his days at OSU, he’s always hated the bureaucracy of government. I read some of his editorials when he worked for the college paper. I was surprised when I heard he took a commission in the Air Force, and even more surprised to hear he worked for the CIA. Remember the summer he interned here? He couldn’t understand why we produced so many memos.” Milt laughed.

  Steve smiled. “Do we give him more information?”

  “Yes.”

  The rainy day had allowed most of the city street lights to remain lit. Milt rarely saw the light of day in January, coming to work in the early morning darkness, and driving home long after the sun had set. He wondered if the sun was shining over his production facilities in Florida and Mexico.

  Of course, it was.

  15

  ROME, ITALY

  Kurt was finally starting to feel human again. He and Toni had spent Sunday evening in an American-style hotel along the Autostrada between Pisa and Rome. Sleep had been restful for the first time in two weeks since he hastily packed and hoped aboard the carrier. In the past, he became accustomed to the slowly swaying rack on the aircraft carrier. But on those cruises he was doing a job with implicit dangers he had trained for. On this past Atlantic crossing, the dangers weren’t as clearly defined.

  The Monday morning traffic in Rome was far from appealing, but Toni didn’t seem to notice a change from the nearly-vacant Autostrada on the Northern outskirts. She sat erect in her bucket seat listening to Rome’s version of a morning drive-time talk show with contemporary rock thrown in from time to time to keep the drivers from switching the channel.

  Kurt liked the way she was holding up after a few days on the road. She was obviously used to this wandering life.

  “Toni, do you ever get sick of traveling throughout Europe? I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to grab a hot dog and watch a baseball game?” Kurt asked.

  Toni didn’t answer.

  “I haven’t been here that long,” Kurt said. “So everything is new to me. I think it would take awhile before I got bored with Italy.”

  Toni turned her Alfa Romeo from the Autostrada at the Central exit heading toward downtown Rome. The traffic swarmed bumper to bumper. Brake lights flickered and horns blared as the clustered cars and trucks positioned for invisible lanes.

  “Unfortunately, kid, it becomes commonplace,” she finally said. “The first few years I’d be driving down some beautiful Tuscany country road listening to Vivaldi, and a strange feeling would come over me. I’d twist the rear vie
w mirror and look at myself to make sure that it was me behind the wheel. And I’d say to myself, ‘Toni, you’re actually driving down some back road in Italy.’ The people back in New York would never believe me. Most people from my neighborhood haven’t gone beyond Jersey.”

  “Do you get back home much?”

  “No, not anymore,” she said. “I passed through JFK on the way to see Captain Murphy in D.C., but I didn’t stay. My dad died when I was young, and my mom died a few years ago. I have a bunch of cousins and uncles there, but every time I stop by they ask me why I’m not married, and where are my bambinos. So I mostly stay away.”

  Kurt didn’t want to push any further. She was the perfect expatriate. She was doing a job that was important, but went mostly unnoticed and was misunderstood by the average American. And she was good. The Navy was splattered with misfits anxious to get away from something or somebody. History hadn’t changed that fact.

  Toni turned down a one way street in the downtown region and drove a few blocks to a section with a tree-lined boulevard. Then she turned right into a wide two-lane driveway with a large metal gate with spikes and concertina wire on top. A concrete barrier protected the front of a guard shack. The U.S. Marine at the gate recognized Toni and waved her into the compound with only a cursory look at her credentials.

  Toni and Kurt had entered through the back of the American Embassy compound. The entrance was reserved for diplomats, distinguished guests, CIA, and even Italian cooks and maids. The average guest used the more impressive front of the building.

  With a key, Toni opened a large wooden unmarked door, and climbed a flight of stairs. At the top, a small marble ledge with neglected plants sucked up light from a wall of square glazed tiles. There was a thick metal door with a peep hole and a cipher lock. Toni punched in the right numbers and the door clicked open. Inside was a small unimpressive room with old gray metal desks that could have been left over from a Navy sale. The electronics equipment was state of the art though—the newest computers with large LCD screens, and secure telephones. There was a large wall vault that Kurt could only speculate on its contents. Other than the desks, filing cabinets, a small safe, and the visible electronics equipment, the room was empty.