Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Read online

  A chuckle went through the room. The President squelched a smile. “My administration is hoping to ban all guns, Ms. French.”

  “Yes, sir, but that won’t work.”

  He gave her an annoyed smile and folded his arms. “I’m sure you know that I have a majority of the American people behind me but I’m listening.”

  She quoted the Second Amendment, “‘A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed’.”

  “I’m well aware of the language, Dr. French. Show me the fracture event.”

  “Democratic originalists.”

  “What?”

  “You only need another two percent of the nation to support you to achieve your goal in Congress. Here’s how you get that two percent. You back the original technology in place during the adoption of the Bill of Rights: black powder, single-shot guns, double-barrel shotguns and rifles were the weapons of the day. The weapons used by the signers of the Bill of Rights in 1789. That’s what they meant when they said you can have guns. You’d be supporting the democratic intent of the original founders of America,” Anika took a breath and exhaled the words, “and that argument will sway another two-point-three percent to your side.”

  “Sir,” Zapatero said with a frown, “limiting capacity to two rounds would also effectively ban ninety-eight percent of all weapons in America. Your constituents would see that as a huge victory.”

  Rivera said, “Turn the constitutional originalist’s argument against them? You know, that might actually work. We just added a new member to the Supreme Court—”

  “Once again, Dr. French. Where’s the fracture event that will bring down America?” President Begay impatiently tightened his arms across his chest.

  “Across America, guns and ammunition will sell-out as people hoard—”

  “We know that. Every time we suggest a ban—”

  “Fifty million Americans will probably abide by the law and, though they resent it, will let the government ‘buy back’ their guns. For seventy million Americans, however, it will be a fracture event. They will feel betrayed by the government. Local militias will grow and gain power. Western and Southern state governments will declare themselves Second Amendment sanctuaries. Municipal and rural law enforcement—like my father—will refuse to obey orders to confiscate weapons and will instead side with citizens. Red states, already feeling alienated from Washington and federal policies, will feel vindicated when they vote for secession. The Rocky Mountain States of America will emerge first, then the Southern states, followed by the Midwestern States of America. Others will follow. Civil war is inevitable. America will collapse.”

  The President stared at her.

  Almost too low to hear, Anika whispered, “Sorry.”

  “You’re telling me that taking guns away, in an effort to make our streets and schools safe, ends in just the opposite? Civil War?”

  Anika nodded. “The emotional groundwork is already laid. You know how the national media portrays rural Americans. The ‘Deplorables’? They feel scorned and disenfranchised. Deprivation leads to hate. And given other variables, I can predict that China will support the ‘will of the people’ in each new American nation and back them economically against any retaliation on your part. Russia will offer military support, though Europe, Japan, and Southeast Asia will back Washington. Canada will remain neutral, adopting a wait-and-see attitude.”

  Maureen Cole sat back in her chair, drawing everyone’s attention but she didn’t say a word, just looked at Anika with narrowed eyes.

  Zapatero said, “Sounds like you’re predicting World War III.”

  Anika nodded. “It’s one of the possible outcomes, yes, sir.”

  Skip’s scalp was tickling, nervous sweat beginning to bead his forehead.

  Secretary Rivera leaned over and tapped the printout. “Okay, I admit that it’s interesting that a single variable, banning guns, could fracture America, but the President needs to know how to keep Israel from launching nuclear weapons. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Anika said. “If you’ll give me a few more days, I think I may—”

  President Begay said, “Have you modeled any other modern fracture events, Dr. French?”

  “I—yes. I’ve also modeled what would happen if someone genetically engineered a virus that killed only women.”

  Rivera did not smile when she said, “Just for fun?”

  Anika didn’t seem to know if she was joking or not, so she said, “Uh. No. I just thought, you know, it would be interesting.”

  “Really?” Rivera glared at her, checked her watch, and stood up. “Mr. President, you have a luncheon with the Prime Minister in fifteen minutes. Would you like to freshen up?”

  President Begay studied Anika, lips pursed, face emotionless. “Thank you, Dr. French. I’ll be eager to hear what you come up with in the next few days.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  As the oval office emptied of important people, the aide appeared and led Anika and Maureen down the hall. Skip marched in the rear.

  As they neared the first security station, Maureen put an arm around Anika’s shoulders and said, “How about cheeseburgers for lunch?”

  Skip called, “I know a great place, but…” His voice faded when he saw the Secret Service officer walking toward them.

  The man stopped in front of Maureen. “If you would all follow me, please. Just one more stop for today.”

  “God,” Anika said with a sigh, “Tell me it has beer.”

  The man did not respond, just led them down the halls to an elevator where they were joined by a Marine guard in dress uniform. In the elevator, the Secret Service officer inserted an electronic key, pressed a button, and the cage dropped.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The basement corridor was nothing like the ornate upstairs. This was functional. All the doors had little plaques on the front.

  They were ushered to one marked Situation Planning. Inside, the expected long table dominated the center. The walls, however, were covered with large monitors, many with maps, others with lines of numbers. Some displayed empty conference rooms, others were dark. Below them were individual workstations with keyboards and telephones. Young men and women sat at the stations, their attention fixed on the computers before them.

  Then, Anika got a good look at the room’s occupants and swallowed hard.

  The Secretary of State, Frank Card, stepped forward, saying, “Come in, please.”

  Anika passed down the line, shaking hands, her head reeling.

  “Bob Mason, Chief of Staff. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Dr. French, I’m Frank Card, Secretary of State.”

  “Admiral Jim Stark, Joint Chiefs, Dr. French. My pleasure.”

  “Bill Garcia, Dr. French. Director, Central Intelligence.”

  “And I’m Monica Scalia. Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Behind them waited a congregation of aides and advisors who could apparently remain nameless.

  “Have a seat.”

  Anika’s heart pounded as she shot a look over her shoulder at Skip, who stood at parade rest with the others. He looked just like a combat vet would in the presence of his superiors.

  Anika and Maureen were directed to two chairs in the center. The table itself was a huge thing, studded with phones, monitors, piles of paper, notebooks, and bottles of water. Several copies of her print out had been opened and the big pages marked up with notes.

  Secretary Card started: “Dr. French, your report has caused quite a stir. We’re here at the direction of the President to investigate your claims, determine how probable they are, and formulate a policy to handle the situation.”

  He looked at Maureen. “Dr. Cole, as a Canadian citizen, you are here because you have worked for the United States of America in the past and faithfully honored your word when it came to non-disclosure of sensitive informa
tion. You will find additional non-disclosure documents in front of you. The French Model, as we have come to call it, now falls under the category of National Security.” He smiled. “Top Secret. As a Canadian national, with allegiance to that government, do you have any problem with the restrictions about to be imposed upon you? If you have any questions about what your oath entails, feel free to ask them now.”

  Maureen frowned slightly, took a breath, and said, “I’m sure that for the moment, at least, I have a better understanding of the security implications than you do. I accept and agree to the non-disclosure terms.” She retrieved a pen and signed where little yellow sticky arrows had been affixed.

  Around the table, people sipped coffee and whispered.

  Frank Card spread his hands. “Dr. French, how much does Dr. Schott know about your model?”

  “Mark chaired my dissertation committee. He understands the basic model. Given time, and the right people and resources, he’ll know it as well as I do.”

  “Where is he now?” Garcia asked.

  “ECSITE has him,” Monica Scalia said. “He’s in Oberau, Germany.”

  Garcia sighed as he wrote a note and passed it over his shoulder to an aide. “And you wait until now to tell me? Zoakalski is protected on high by members of the German political and corporate machines."

  “We know that.” Scalia gave him a cool look. “We’ve had him under surveillance for quite some time.”

  “What else do I need to know?” Garcia gave her a flat stare.

  Scalia related the information on the break-in at Anika’s office and the fact that Schott’s family was missing.

  Garcia kept writing notes and passing them over his shoulder. They were taken to the aide, now on one of the telephones.

  Frank Card said, “So ECSITE understands the value of the model and is trying to reproduce it? If they do, it’ll be all over the world. Sold to the highest bidder.”

  The Secretary of State grunted uncomfortably. “Chinese intelligence is interested. They might even be behind the break-in where Dr. French’s notes were taken. The day after this broke, one of their contractors was found dead on some railroad tracks south of Laramie, Wyoming.”

  Anika started. China? One of their people dead outside Laramie? Her mind began calculating the variables…

  Garcia shook his head. “This gets better and better. Why not just post it on the internet?”

  “Schott as good as did.” Scalia went on to discuss the article that Schott had submitted to the Journal of Strategic Assessment.

  “But we quashed it, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Garcia fingered his chin. “The good news, if you can call it that, is that when Schott’s no longer of use to ECSITE, they’ll simply eliminate him.”

  Anika stammered, “I—I need everything you have on Mikael Zoakalski. DNA profiles, ancestry, detailed history of where he has lived, his childhood illnesses—”

  “We’ll make sure you get them.”

  Anika used a shaky hand to shove red hair behind her ears. “They’ll really kill Mark?”

  Garcia turned sympathetic eyes her way. “I’m sorry, Dr. French. But that’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

  “Any chance to get him out?” the Secretary asked.

  “From Oberau? Not without sending in the Marines and causing an international incident. Half the politicians in Europe are in his pocket.”

  “What about Denise and the boys?” Anika asked. “Any word?”

  Scalia shifted uncomfortably. “Not yet. No communications, no evidence. Nothing.”

  “So they’re being held as leverage?” Garcia asked.

  “Most likely.” Scalia gave him a lidded stare. “We just don’t know who to blame yet.”

  Bob Mason leaned forward. “All right, so we’re taking the model’s validity on faith. At least three parties, maybe more, know of its existence. What about those notes and flow charts stolen from Dr. French’s office? As I understand it, they’re the real gem.”

  Anika nodded. “A lot of my best ideas were in those charts and the notes in my file cabinet.”

  Garcia took a deep breath. “Stealing secrets sounds like ECSITE.”

  No, not ECSITE. Possible but improbable. Anika was running the numbers in her head. Another player. Not a group. A nation.

  Anika flushed as all eyes turned in her direction.

  “All right, people,” Frank Card said, “We’re sitting on our very own little bomb. What are we going to do to keep it from going off?”

  Anika felt a cold wave go through her. The model itself could be the fracture event.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thirsty.

  Damn.

  And my bladder. Please, just go away.

  Mark tried to return to shredded dreams that guttered and died like exhausted flames.

  He worked his tongue, rubbing it dryly across the roof of his mouth. Piss-poor engineering that his bladder was chock full when his mouth was like a desert. Evolution should have seen to it that water could pass by osmosis through the bladder wall. Packrats did that, concentrated their urine.

  Opening his eyes turned into a heroic struggle. At first, he could see nothing but a blur. He managed to get a hand up, rubbed to restore vision, and blinked at an ornate room. Immediately above him, two white-robed angels hovered on still wings over a partially naked man, a simple sheet wound over his hips. The man was reaching up, hand open, as if asking for assistance to rise from the tan rock upon which he reclined.

  Now, who’d have that on his ceiling?

  The great painting was surrounded by intricately carved wooden molding that curved down to blue-plastered walls. A window opened to his right; white gauze curtains barely masked a glimpse of tall snow-capped mountains framed by two great trees. A slight breeze swayed the curtains, and the smell of roses was carried in on the air.

  Mark shifted, pulled back soft white bedding, and stared around. He lay in a great bed, buck-ass naked. A wardrobe crafted of some dark wood stood against one wall. An antique chair perched next to it. The huge wing-backed thing looked impossibly comfortable. Closed wooden doors were framed in both of the two walls.

  “Which one’s the bathroom?” He slipped his legs over the side of the bed, wobbled slightly as he stood, and walked to the closest. Opening it, he found a toilet, sink, and an ornate bathtub.

  “Right the first time,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he gratefully emptied his bladder. Turning on the faucets, he splashed water on his face and paused to gulp all he could from his cupped hands. Feeling better, he noticed a nagging headache and dried his face on the hand towel. Then he stared into the mirror, wondering at his stubble-coated cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

  “All right, Mark, where are you?”

  “Italy,” a female voice called from his bedroom. “I brought you clean clothes. They’re on the foot of the bed.”

  Mark tilted his head out the door and squinted. A lanky Asian woman, dressed in form-fitting black, now reclined in the great chair. One long leg was pulled up and held by the ankle. Her other arm was over the chair back, her supple body curled into the chair’s padded recess.

  She was watching him with curious dark eyes. Glossy black hair spilled over her shoulders, its length hidden behind her. He’d call her a classic: heart-shaped face, with large dark eyes at an Asian slant, delicate chin, petite lips, with a perfectly proportioned nose.

  “Sure, Italy,” he muttered, supporting himself on the door frame. “And how did I get here?”

  “By van.” She tilted her head inquisitively. “The drug has mostly worn off, but your memory will come back. You had supper in Garmisch last night with Stephanie Huntz. Some sloppy drunk staggered into the men’s room while you were taking a leak. He scratched you with his ring.”

  Images began forming in Mark’s memory. “I got dizzy… felt sick.”

  “Sweet Stephie tried to get you out. It happened so swiftly, her two shadows were
caught by surprise in the middle of their beer. Fortunately, the waiter grabbed them before they were out the door and made them pay up.

  “By that time, you were on the street hurling that wonderful meal all over the sidewalk. My people helped you up and tossed you into the van.”

  “Stephanie,” he mumbled, a hazy memory of her staggering to her feet, raising a pistol and firing.

  “We think she twisted away when Teo hit her with the stun gun.” Her brow furrowed as she glanced absently away. “The jolt should have flattened her. You just can’t underestimate that woman.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Washing. Getting Chin’s blood out of your jacket may be a lost cause.”

  “Who’s Chin?”

  “One of the men in the van. He took a bullet in the side. Dr. Santiori removed his kidney last night. He might make it. Too early to tell.”

  Mark swallowed hard, remembering the metallic tinking sounds, the sticky liquid.

  “What the hell is going on?” He shook his head, impossible memories conflicting with the greater impossibility of waking up here, naked, in this room. In Italy?

  “You’ve been rescued from certain death, Dr. Schott. I hope that you show us a little gratitude. But then, you really don’t know much about ECSITE, the evil Mikael Zoakalski, or the charming Stephie, do you?”

  His back was starting to complain from the angle of peering around the door.

  The woman smiled. “I wasn’t aware that you were so bashful. Your file suggested that you had few scruples about being naked in a bedroom with a woman.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Michelle Lee.” An amused smile curled her lips. “If you’re that shy, wrap a bath towel around yourself. Unless, that is, you’ve got something other men don’t. Having some familiarity with male anatomy, I’d be really surprised.”

  He considered, glanced at the neatly folded clothes on the bed, laughed at himself, and strode into the room. Her eyes were mocking as he seated himself on the side of the bed and plucked the socks from the top of the pile. “So, you saved me?”