Fatal Network Read online

  FATAL NETWORK

  By Trevor Scott

  SALVO PRESS

  * * *

  FATAL NETWORK

  By Trevor Scott

  ISBN: 1-930486-03-0

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All Rights Reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 35

  TREVOR SCOTT BIO

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  KOBLENZ, GERMANY

  The turbid waters of the Rhine crept higher than normal along the stone barrier from heavy rain and melting snow. The confluence with the Mosel River pushed equally high as the two rivers met with a thundering crash. The few barges that risked the high water moved slowly upstream, or faster than normal down, apparitions of steel with running lights for eyes.

  Charlie Johnson crouched in the darkness against the Monument to German Unity, skirting the bitter wind from the exposure of both rivers. He flipped the collar of his overcoat closer to his neck and then shoved his gloved hands deep into his front pockets.

  Footsteps came and went as couples braved the bow-like point of the German Corner. The water was far too high and the wind far too fierce for anything more than a quick look and then a quickened pace back to their cars. And the darkness allowed no view. But just to stand at the very end of the German Corner, leaning forward against the metal chain, the Rhine to the right and Mosel to the left, made it feel as though the power of a great ship was behind them, moving swiftly through the river. Obscurity did nothing to diminish that feeling of power.

  His contact was late. Something must have gone wrong. He could just leave and return to the warmth of his car and his Scotch. He was getting too old to hide in the shadows. Too old to stoop in the stench of squalid alleys, or even these fine bricks lining the Rhine. He should just take his military retirement and go fishing like all his old comrades had.

  A man with a long black coat walked along the outer edge of the cobblestone point until he reached the tip. The man never looked over his shoulder toward Charlie or the monument. His neck was scrunched down as a turtle would do to hide from a predator, the earflaps from his hat lowered to slow the wind's bite.

  Finally, the man Charlie had been waiting for. He rose stiffly from behind the monument and walked cautiously toward the man in the dark coat. He stopped within a few feet of his contact. The man still had not turned to see who was coming. Who could be that confident? Then the man turned slowly.

  "Gunter!" Charlie said. "What are you doing here?"

  Gunter Schecht grinned wickedly. He was not used to answering questions from anyone, directly. His steely eyes glistened like a cat's ready to pounce on its prey. Pushing his massive chest outward with each breath, he appeared more like a bear than a man. His stiff, square jaw jutted out from an otherwise round face almost as a caricature.

  "I heard I might find you here," Gunter Schecht finally said, barely above the roar of the two rivers.

  Only one person could have told Gunter he would be there. And he would have never talked without... The thought lingered in Charlie's mind. Without dying? "What does the boss need now?" Charlie asked, his voice crawling slowly with each word. "I thought he had everything he wanted from Teredata for now."

  "He does. But now you think you can freelance and sell to another company?"

  "I wouldn't do that," Charlie pleaded. He felt the cold leaving his body, as if his blood were seeping from every pore.

  "Then why are we here having this conversation?" Gunter said, smiling callously.

  Charlie's shoulders tightened and a hot flush of anger spread through him as he realized the probable fate of his real contact. He had heard that Gunter had a tendency to go overboard. Kill first and not bother to ask questions later. "You can't blame a guy for trying," Charlie finally said.

  "Have you ever seen the North Sea?" Gunter asked, moving a few steps closer to him. He was now at that uncomfortable distance reserved for lovers or enemies. And Gunter was not inclined to love anything.

  "Yes, a long time ago. But..."

  "Well I'm going to give you a chance to see it again. That is if you don't get hung up on some buoy cable or bridge piling."

  Charlie turned his head to search for an escape route, but Gunter's two friends had quietly approached behind him with guns aimed in his direction. Gunter was a large man, but his two men dwarfed even him. The largest one went well over three hundred pounds, and of that great girth much of it was fat. But enough muscle remained to make him a forbidding sight, especially in the dark. His 9mm automatic looked like a toy in his thick right hand. The smaller man was somewhat soft about the middle also, from a dark point of view, but his Uzi made him look much larger. They both glared with mock solemnity at Charlie.

  Charlie turned to look at Gunter, and he too had pulled an Uzi from inside his long coat and had it directed at him. Charlie Johnson had no retreat.

  "Americans are too greedy, Charlie," Gunter said. "You had everything you needed, but you wanted more. I hate greedy thieves. You're right, we have everything we need from your company, for now, so we no longer need you. Don't let the fish bite."

  A faint thud was barely audible over the roar of the two rivers as the metal pipe struck the back of Charlie's head, instantly knocking him to the ground. The fat man quickly wrapped a thick plastic bag over Charlie's head and tied it around his neck, ensuring all the air had escaped first. The other man tied his hands behind his back and his feet together, and then tied a rope connecting his hands to his feet. Then both men unzipped their coats and removed a sand-filled pouch from their waists. Each bag weighed over twenty pounds and was attached by velcro strips. In seconds, the pouches were around Charlie's waist and securely fastened. Then with one quick motion, the two men swung the wrapped body over the chain and into the fast-moving Rhine. Only a slight splash echoed back through the darkness.

  Herbert Kline stooped behind the half-moon stone wall that partially enclosed the Monument to German Unity. Gunter's men turned and looked in his direction, but could not see him in the darkness. What kind of men were these? Kill a man as easily as ordering a beer. No conscience. No humanity. He shuddered slightly and then drew a small smooth flask from his inside coat pocket, popped the worn cork from the top, and quickly downed a mouthful of schnapps.

  The three men turned and walked back along the Rhine to the tree-lined pathway that led to a street where a blue Fiat van was parked. The three laughed either out of enjoyment for the hideous crime just committed, or to act as though nothing had happened. And then the laughter and footsteps ended. Two doors slammed and the van pulled away.

  Herb had worked with Gunter on a number of cases over the years. From the first time they met, Herb despised Gunter. He was too arrogant and too willing to openly criticize and ridicule without all the facts. The world had few saints and far too many tyrants. Sure, Herb wasn't a perfect, sterling performer, but at least he was honest on the job and with himself. Sleeping came easy for him. He could retire in a year or so with a clean conscience. Gunter had no conscience.

  BONN, GERMANY

  Back in the relative comfort and security of his office at the headquarters of German Customs, Herbert Kline sat at his cluttered desk with his hands over his face, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. He started to reach for his smooth flask and realized it hung with his coat behind the door. Instead, he pulled out a gol
d, metal flask of schnapps from the lower right desk drawer. As he poured himself a small glass, he looked deep into the textured stag on the side of the flask. He had received the flask as a gift while working on a case in the Black Forest. He had stopped the illegal trade of clocks made in Taiwan and re-labeled and sold to tourists as Black Forest originals. That was one of the highest points in his career with German Customs. Now he languished in the obscurity of a bureaucracy he had come to hate.

  With a quick gulp, the schnapps slid down his throat and warmed his whole body. The chill of the Rhine and the brutal men would soon be forgotten.

  Unlocking the center desk drawer, he pulled out a thick manila folder and stared at it for a moment. Perhaps more schnapps. He quickly poured and gulped another glass full. The folder on Bundenbach Electronics was getting thicker each day. The players had also increased, not only in number, but in intensity. Shit! Retirement was far too close to start making waves now. Why couldn't this case have come years ago when it would have meant an instant promotion, or at least the admiration and esteem from his peers? If God was just, then why had he succumbed to the mediocrity of this existence? What existence? This was only life in its most submissive and acquiescent form.

  After the schnapps, the office seemed even smaller. The flask quickly ran out, but the main bottle in his file cabinet was still nearly full. On his way back from the cabinet, he stopped in front of the window overlooking a darkened Rhine River three floors below. He swung the window open and leaned against the sill. The frigid air swiftly swept in and enveloped Herb almost as completely as the schnapps had. He took in a deep breath and savored it as a pipe smoker would a puff of his favorite blend. The river was there. He could hear its torrent churning and awesome power even from the distance of a soccer field. Charlie Johnson, the poor bastard, could be by anytime now.

  He closed the window and went back to his desk and the thick file. The file that could never be officially filed. The file that had gotten Charlie Johnson killed. The case file that he had stumbled on when German Intelligence decided it had nothing to do with state security. The file that nobody else wanted or he wouldn't have had.

  The boss said he wanted a thorough report. Not the normal sloppy mess he was accustomed to getting from him. So he wasn't some ass kisser who was more concerned over graphs and charts than the basic facts. Did that make him inferior? Less competent?

  Finally, he slid the contents of the folder onto an already jumbled desk. There were statistics sheets and handwritten memos on Bundenbach Electronics and Teredata International Semiconductors. Import and export data. Transcripts from conversations with the mole before he was found riddled with holes, his mouth shot wide open.

  Why kill Johnson? He's the supply link. Did they have everything they needed? He may never know. Gunter might have just gotten bored with Johnson and needed someone to feel superior to.

  Another shot of schnapps.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Jake Adams sat in the plush white chair waiting as patiently as he could. He crossed his legs and straightened out the small cuff on the gray dress pants. He always wore a suit when meeting prospective clients, and then promptly discarded it as soon as possible. He gazed down at his brown leather shoes, Italian leather. When his former girlfriend, Toni Contardo, insisted he buy them, he was hesitant of the expense. It turned out she was right. It paid to buy quality.

  He glanced at his watch. One fifteen. Milton Swenson was a man who despised impertinence in others, but who regarded himself immune. Jake knew this from interning at Teredata International Semiconductors in college. But years had passed since those days, and he had not even heard from Milt in over three years. Why Milt had summoned him now was a mystery of sorts. Jake was pretty sure it had something to do with his new business, but with Milt Swenson nothing was really certain.

  When the large wooden door to the office finally opened, Jake could hear Milt instructing his secretary that he was not to be disturbed. Following Milt closely, Steven Carlson, the second in charge, plopped down in a white matching sofa across the room.

  "Jake, I'm glad you could make it," Milton Swenson said as he approached with his hand stretched outward.

  Jake stood and shook his hand firmly. "I was intrigued."

  "Please, have a seat," Milt said. "I'm sure you remember Steve Carlson."

  Jake nodded and tried to force a smile. Carlson turned up the right side of his mouth in his version of a smile. "Yes, I do," Jake said. He remembered his constant badgering.

  Milt appeared more serious than Jake recalled him being. His thin, blonde hair, that which still remained, lay disheveled over his bald pate. Bags under his eyes showed lack of sleep. His normally impeccable suit hung haplessly over a flaccid physique.

  "What can I do for you?" Jake asked.

  Milt sat on the edge of his large oak desk. "I've got a problem I think you can help me solve."

  "Shoot."

  "You worked for Air Force Intelligence in Germany."

  Jake crossed his arms and sat back. Air Force Intelligence, the CIA, and various other agencies on loan. "That's not really a secret."

  Milt Swenson finally let himself smile. "Jake, I've followed your most recent career here in Portland, and think you're just the person who can help me out of a particular jam my company is in."

  Jake considered Milt more seriously now. "What kind of jam?"

  Milt gazed toward Steve Carlson and then back to Jake. "An employee of ours in Germany is missing," Milt said. "I'd like you to go over there and find him."

  "Have you talked with the German Polizei?"

  "Yes, but they said they can't do much for us at this time."

  "How long has your guy been missing?"

  Milt paused. "About four days."

  "Four days!" Jake shouted. "That's all? Hell, maybe he just picked up some fraulein and took her to Monte Carlo."

  Milt shook his head. "I don't think so. Charlie Johnson is a responsible man. He runs our program in Germany. He doesn't just take off with some girl."

  Jake looked at Milt's troubled face, and then glanced briefly at Steve Carlson. Milt had given him a break in college. He felt somewhat obligated to help him. "I'll do what I can, Milt."

  "Great!"

  "But if you've checked into my work, you know I don't usually handle missing persons. I mostly check into company security breaches and computer crimes."

  Milt nodded. "I know. But I need someone who still has contacts in Germany. Someone I can trust to be discrete."

  Jake thought for a moment. "Why is discretion so important?"

  Milt looked at Carlson again, who was now combing his fingers through his beard. Milt finally said, "Our contract in Germany is important to our government." He paused for a moment. "Charlie and his guys are retrofitting some new avionics gear to the Air Force F-15. We've developed a new chip that's faster than anything on the market. We plan on using the chip commercially in the near future, but a contingency of our government contract required us to test the chip in Europe against NATO defenses. If the chip works as advertised there, it'll work anywhere." He hesitated for a moment. "A successful retrofit would give us a huge advantage when we bid for the Joint Strike Fighter contract."

  Jake looked over at Steve Carlson. He was now trying to pick unseen objects from his fingernails with a bent paperclip. "Still, what does Charlie Johnson's disappearance have to do with your government contract?" Jake asked Milt.

  "Maybe nothing, maybe everything," Milt said. "That's what I want you to find out."

  Something was wrong with his logic. He had to know more than he was telling him. "All this is great background information, Milt. But what are you failing to tell me?"

  Milt Swenson smiled slightly. "I could never keep anything from you, Jake," he said. "A few months ago our testing was running smoothly, no problems. We looked like we'd finish ahead of schedule. But then a few weeks ago the chips started failing at an unac
ceptable rate. We were all baffled. We shipped over replacements for those that failed, in fact they were even a more advanced version."

  "Did you check out the old chips to see what happened?" Jake asked.

  Milt glanced at Steve and back slowly. "Charlie told us one of his guys mistakenly destroyed them in the base incinerator while getting rid of some classified data," Milt said.

  Jake nodded. "So you think there was really nothing wrong with the chips and Charlie may be hawking them to someone else?"

  "Maybe."

  "The discretion you're asking for could land my ass in jail," Jake said. "I take it you haven't notified the government?"

  "I have nothing to report," Milt said emphatically. "The chips are officially destroyed."

  "And the chips themselves aren't really classified, but restricted from trade," Jake said.

  "Right. But the avionics contract is classified," Milt conceded. "So, we're not really required to report a leak in our own chip technology unless it involves the avionics system."

  Jake thought about it for a minute, looking carefully for some sign or reason to trust Milt and Steve. Milt's logic was straddling the fence a bit. But Jake was used to borderline propriety. Since going private, he found himself swaying in the breeze on that fence more times than not.

  Jake rose from the chair. "When do I leave?"

  "As soon as possible," Milt said. "I have tickets for you to leave tonight on Northwest Flight 125 to Frankfurt. I've made copies of the personnel files on Charlie Johnson and his men. You can read them on the plane."

  "Anything else?" Jake asked.

  Milt hesitated. "Unfortunately. A delegation of the Senate Armed Services Committee will visit us here in two weeks to observe our progress on the retrofit. We've had nothing but glowing reports in the past, and I was hoping to give them a similar report. As you know, budgets can be cut at any time. They could make or break our contract bid for the Joint Strike Fighter."