Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller Read online

  He threw the bedding back, stood, and rubbed his back. Damn. Yellowstone looked so real. He shook his head and wandered into the bathroom. The first time he’d used the toilet, it had taken him fifteen minutes to figure out how it flushed. The shower remained a mystery, though he managed to get two of the upper directional heads to shoot cold water. Tapping the programmable panel, he somehow turned on three of the heads but the water stayed cold. The shower was quick.

  Drying and shivering, he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked to the cabinet.

  “Drop anything you want to wear tomorrow down the laundry chute. It will be in this cabinet tomorrow, washed, pressed, and folded,” Stephanie had said on her way out.

  Opening the door, he found his Dockers, shirt, tie, and jacket cleaned and perfectly folded on the shelf.

  “How do they do that?”

  Dressed, he walked out into the office, staring at the Alps through the window wall. Puffy clouds were piled up around the peaks.

  “All this technology and no coffee up here,” he growled as he started down the stairs, and hesitated, hearing the sound of frying bacon, smelling it and coffee—the sirens of breakfast.

  Stephanie stood at the stove, a spatula in hand.

  “There were buffalo in my bedroom,” Mark greeted.

  “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. Consider it your wake-up call. It’s almost midday, and you’ve got a team so filled with anticipation that they’re literally chewing their pencils in two. If you don’t get over there, Pierre may burst a blood vessel.”

  He studied her as she handed him a cup of coffee heavy with cream and sugar. Nope, he hadn’t been dreaming. She was every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered.

  “The shower is smarter than I am.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have shown you.”

  “Oh, I like cold showers. Especially when the only nozzles that shoot are waist-high. Reminds me how tough I am.”

  That brought the dimples to the corners of her mouth. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “I thought you got a continental breakfast in Germany.”

  “If you’d prefer.” She turned toward the big silver refrigerator.

  “No, bacon and eggs over easy will be just fine. Got Tabasco Sauce?”

  “What do you think? We’re barbarians? Of course. That cabinet.”

  Mark thought the ornate plates were much too fine to be eating breakfast on and watched Stephanie load his with breakfast. Concentration lines etched her smooth brow.

  “What exactly do you do for ECSITE?”

  “I take care of problems. Make sure things work. Ensure that we have the information we need.”

  “That sounds more like a handyman.”

  Her lips bent into a knowing smile. “Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I am. I take care of unforeseen trouble. Plumbing, cutting, digging, cooking breakfast, that sort of thing.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do.” She sipped a cup of coffee. “After a night’s sleep, and time for your subconscious to process, are you having any reservations about coming to work for ECSITE?”

  “Just the big, locked gate out front.”

  “I don’t want to sound indelicate, but we’ve invested a great deal of money in you and the model.”

  Mark picked up his fork and dug into his eggs. Between bites, he said. “I know you have.”

  “And if Pierre and his team are suitably impressed—how about you and I go up to Garmisch-Patenkirchen next Saturday for a delightful meal and a little relaxation?”

  Mark wiped up what was left of his egg with toast, and started to pick up the plates.

  “Leave them. Housekeeping will see to it. Come. Your notes and research boxes have been delivered to the working group. The time has arrived for you to show us just what this model can do and how you derived it.”

  “Headlong into the fire, huh?”

  “For your sake, I hope you don’t get burned.”

  Something about the way she said it sent a tingle of unease down his spine. Cut it out, she’s just teasing. This is foreplay…

  He laughed to let her know he understood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maureen stared at the Gulfstream’s posh ceiling, feeling the plane judder slightly from turbulence. Amy Randall had booked a charter jet to get them to Washington as soon as possible. A sense of urgency had filled Randall’s voice. No matter what was happening in Laramie, the Department of Defense wanted Anika French at the Pentagon by eight the next morning.

  Now, the Gulfstream was winging east through the night. Out the window, Maureen could see scattered towns glittering. The frequency and size told her they were over eastern Nebraska. The clusters of light were growing closer together, indicative of a rising population.

  “What’s the word?” Anika sat across from her, seat reclined, legs outstretched, arms crossed. Anyone would know she was a Wyoming cowgirl. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she’d worn her best everyday clothing: a white, Western-cut, snap shirt with ruffles, new form-fitting Wrangler jeans cinched at her narrow waist with a tooled leather belt, and pointed western boots with a high riding heel.

  Like most starving graduate students, Anika’s wardrobe proved meager. Maureen had watched the woman pack the only two skirts she owned, along with a couple of blouses and her single jacket for Washington. A pair of shoes, underwear, and a toilet kit had gone into her battered suitcase.

  Anika looked exhausted and petrified. Her green eyes sparkled with an unnatural brilliance, and worry hardened her jaw.

  Trying to relieve some of Anika’s tension, Maureen said, “The FBI’s Evidence Response Team has finished with your office. No sign of forced entry. Either they had a key or picked the lock. Whoever took your stuff didn’t leave so much as a fingerprint. They’re moving to Denise’s house next. Every Wyoming law enforcement agency, and half of Colorado, has been issued a BOLO for Denise. You know what a BOLO is?”

  “‘Be On Lookout’ for. Dad’s a sheriff, remember?” Anika jerked upright in the seat. “Oh my God! Dad! He’s going to get that first thing in the morning. He knows Denise’s name. He’s going to panic!”

  “The FBI has already contacted him to let him know you’re safe. You can call him the first thing when we land. As to what you tell him…?”

  “Dr. Cole, this is my father. You can’t snow him with bullshit.”

  “Call me Maureen. We’re in this together. And prepare yourself. There will be restrictions on what you can tell anyone. For all I know, your model just fell into the black hole they call national security.”

  Anika clenched her fists in her lap. “This is like a bad dream. For two years, I’ve dedicated every waking moment to the project. I was so proud that I’d made a real contribution to anthropological theory.” Anika closed her eyes in defeat. “Now, people are missing. Mark published my work under his name. The model’s been stolen, and all my work is about to be classified.”

  “We’ve still got the dissertation. Agent Salazar is running down your committee members. He’s recovered most of the dissertation copies. Even the one at the printers. So far, all but Mark’s copy seem accounted for.”

  Anika gave her an evaluative glance. “How do you stay so calm?”

  Maureen leaned back, hand on the dissertation where it lay on the seat looking entirely innocuous. “Calm?”

  “It’s like you’ve done this all your life.”

  “No. I grew up in Ontario and have spent most of my time analyzing the skeletal pathology of archaeological specimens.”

  “You know, anthropology students really look up to you. Everybody says you’re the new Margaret Mead.”

  She smiled. “I’m a lot taller.”

  Anika didn’t share her smile. Instead, her expression dropped. “I’m worried about Denise and really worried about the boys.”

  “Is it possible that Mark asked ECSITE to escort them to Munich?”

  Anika blinked at the ceiling. “
I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say no.”

  “You still care for him?”

  Anika gave Maureen a startled look. “God, no. He’s been stealing my work for years and now… this.”

  Maureen lifted the dissertation, opened the cover, and thumbed through the text and equations.

  Anika watched her. “I wish I’d never developed that model.”

  “If it hadn’t been you, someone else would have figured it out. Knowledge is like fire. Your model gives power to those who know how to use it. Being able to predict social unrest, crop failure, or regime change is of incalculable value.” Maureen studied the elegant statistics, so far beyond her own understanding.

  Anika said, “Why would ECSITE rob my office? If they’d wanted any information, I would have given it to them. Mark and I are working for them, right? And kidnapping Denise and the boys isn’t likely to inspire Mark to help them. He’s going to freak out when he hears they’re missing.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t ECSITE but a competitor. The motive isn’t to spur Mark to greater effort but the opposite. Leave ECSITE or you never see your family again.”

  Anika’s expression changed as she ran the hypothesis through her agile mind. “You’re scaring me, Maureen.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stephanie Huntz led Mark across the manicured grass to one of the large buildings flanking the clearing. The place had a distinctly Bavarian look: two stories with a wide, shallowly gabled roof. The upper story was walled in with ornately crafted wood, and had a balcony to each side, covered by the overhanging roof. Leaded windows were surrounded by ornate plaster scrollwork.

  “We call this style ‘Luftlmalerie’. It’s quintessentially Bavarian.”

  “Pretty,” Mark said.

  Instead of dark hallways, the inside was as modern as any office in the world with tiled floors, a couple of potted plants and a wide central hallway. Mark had a vision of aluminum, stainless steel, and glass doors through which he could see spacious offices where people in cubicles bent over computers. In one, a group of men and women watched an entire wall of stock tickers, the numbers rolling along proclaiming the status of the Dow, NASDAQ, FTSE, Hong Kong, BOLSA, and others he could only guess at. He barely had a glimpse before Stephanie paused in front of an elevator; the doors were brass and polished to a mirror surface. She pushed the down button. “For the time being, you’re downstairs.”

  In the elevator, she punched 3, and the lift dropped.

  Mark stepped out into another hallway, bordered with glass-walled offices. Here, too, he found a beehive of activity.

  “I didn’t think this many people lived here.”

  “There’s another apartment building, larger than yours, just behind the trees.” Stephanie gave him a wink. “The units are not as nice. And some of the analysts live in Munchen or its suburbs. They don’t have your clearance. Nor will they be associating with you and your team.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do. From here on out, the only people you are to speak with are the members of your own team.”

  “Which includes you?”

  “Of course.”

  She led him to the last door on the right where, unlike the other offices, the door appeared to be solid metal.

  Stephanie produced a key card, swiped it through the reader and pressed in a code. Then she opened the door. “We will provide you a card and security code later. For now, meet your team.”

  Mark entered a room that reminded him of a war room in the Pentagon. The walls were covered with large monitors, computer consoles below them. In the center of the room was an oval table surrounded by black office chairs. His boxes—FedEx stickers prominent—sat stacked in the middle.

  Pierre LaFevre stepped forward, hand extended. “Dr. Schott. Finally.” After shaking, he turned. “While I will be called away to other duties, may I present your team. This is Jacques Terblanch.”

  Mark shook Terblanch’s hand. The man was silver-haired, tall, with soft brown eyes and a narrow mouth. “Good to meet you.”

  “Wu Liu,” an Asian man introduced himself. “My pleasure.” He spoke with a thick Chinese accent. In his twenties, he had a chunky body, round face, and shaggy black hair.

  “Francine Inoui,” LaFevre announced as an anorexic-looking forty-something woman in sweats and a baggy pullover stepped forward. She had a severe face and long chin.

  “Max Kalashnikov,” the next man introduced himself. “And yes, I’m a distant cousin.”

  “Of whom?” Mark shook the thickly-built man’s hand. He had a square face and light blue eyes.

  “You have heard of Mikael Kalashnikov, inventor of the AK-47?” He smiled to show a gold tooth. “I am a much milder man.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Schott,” a diminutive Indian woman said offering a hesitant hand. “I am Nanda Hashahurti.” She gave him a shy smile.

  Her shake was limp, little more than a touching of fingers.

  Pierre pointed at the boxes, obviously anxious. “Shall we unpack?”

  “Wait a minute,” Mark said, smiling at the anxious ring surrounding him. “Let’s sit down and discuss some things first.”

  “Discuss what?” LaFevre appeared annoyed by the delay.

  “The basics,” Mark said, striding to the table and lifting a box out of the way. “Look, Pierre, I understand your motivation, appreciate it, in fact. But before I turn you loose with the statistics, I need to know something about you guys. And until you know where the model comes from, you’re going to be spinning wheels, and coming back to me for explanations that I can get out of the way now.”

  He glanced at Stephanie, who’d stepped to the back. She was watching, evaluating. Good. He’d show her just how competent he could be.

  “Got coffee?” Mark asked as the table was cleared. “Let’s all have a cup while we sort through this.”

  Nanda Hashahurti and Max Kalashnikov retreated to a Capresso machine in the corner.

  Mark settled himself in one of the chairs as the others filled seats around him. Kalashnikov placed a Styrofoam cup before him along with cream and sugar. Across the table, LaFevre looked stressed out. Stephanie had taken a chair at the end, physically separated from the rest of the team. Interesting. Not only that, but no one seemed particularly anxious to be close to her.

  “First,” Mark said, falling into professor mode, “I need to know something about you. How many are anthropologists?”

  No hands.

  “Let me guess, your backgrounds are all in econometrics, right? Economic theory, statistics, forecasting GDP, that sort of thing?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “You are used to manipulating precise data. Following long-established economic statistical theory that evaluates manufacturing potential against monetary policy, interest rates, consumer demand, that sort of thing.”

  They nodded.

  “To use a metaphor, you employ scalpels to dissect portions of the economy. From your perspective, creating and employing the model is going to be like turning in your scalpel for a stone ax.”

  “What?” LaFevre asked.

  Mark leaned back. “I come from the bastard child of social sciences: anthropology. Anthropologists have used most of the last century to discover, to their horror, that mathematics are a rather imprecise tool when it comes to interpreting social data.” He raised a hand. “I know. Economists decry the imprecision of their statistics. Too many variables, you say. How can you quantify election results against a dip in consumer confidence?”

  “You’re saying your model is even more imprecise?” Liu asked. “Then why are we even discussing it?”

  Mark stared into his coffee cup. “I’ll get to that in a moment. First, let’s do a little review of the model’s origins. Archaeologists have modeled extinct cultures for years. You’ve heard of the Maya civilization in Central America?” He got nods all the way around. “How about the Hohokam in Arizona?” No nods.

  Mar
k sipped the coffee, anxious for the sugar and caffeine jolt. “What’s important is that, especially in America, archaeologists have been modeling these vanished civilizations as a means of determining why they collapsed. In the process, while the rest of the statistical world has engrossed itself in ever more elaborate and elegant mathematical models, we’ve been improving the stone ax.”

  Francine Inoui raised a hand, asking in a French accent, “I do not understand this stone ax metaphor.”

  “Think about the archaeological record. Big chunks of it are missing. We’ve had to develop a host of descriptive statistics to manipulate the quality of data we can recover and, then, we fill in the missing pieces with inferential stats.”

  Jacques Terblanch cried, “But you cannot expect high levels of accuracy or predictability with inferential statistics.”

  “That’s why anthropologists are said to ‘worship at the point-oh-five level of confidence.’ We accept that by chance, one in twenty studies is going to be wrong.” He got a couple of nervous chuckles. “Hence the stone ax.”

  LaFevre looked nervous. “With such a high standard of error, why use this stone ax of yours?”

  Mark dramatically sipped his coffee. “The reason the original stone ax was developed was because, by using it, you could cut the tree down. In this case, nations.”

  He cataloged the faces and read a great deal of skepticism.

  LaFevre said, “I don’t believe it’s possible to quantify human motivation. Too chaotic.”

  “First principles, LaFevre. What do humans need? Food. Water. Shelter from the elements. Security for themselves and their families. Access to sexual partners. Threaten any of these things and the likelihood of sociocultural dysfunction increases. Once it gets past what I call ‘the tipping point,’ the society turns on itself and collapse is inevitable. Essentially, I’m saying that we’re all human. We all respond in very similar ways when we are starving, or threatened, or terrified. And since we know that, we can model how humans will react.”