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The Gutenberg Rubric

Twenty-Seven

FRY TOOK ONE HAND off the wheel to answer his phone and nearly lost control of the Jeep Patriot on the slippery road.

“Robar,” said the voice of his cousin at once. “A man has been killed in the village, but he does not look like any of the pictures.”

“That means they must have escaped. They’ve been at that location for more than five hours,” Fry said. “Anything else?”

“There was a struggle. This one came in from outside and was shot as he entered. Wait.” There was a long pause and Fry could hear a discussion between his cousins. The voice returned to the phone. “There is a man climbing up on the slopes from this direction.”

“Can you tell who it is?”

“His back is to us and his parka hood is up.”

“Follow him, but don’t move in,” Fry instructed. “Don’t try to apprehend him unless there is a threat. I’ll pick you up on the other side.”

“It will be good to stretch our legs. I hear the view from the top is wonderful,” said his cousin. “See you on the other side.” Fry disconnected and dropped his phone on the front seat of the car as he entered another all but deserted village, six kilometers north of the summit. He slowed to a stop and checked the GPS tracking device. The map showed up in brilliant color, but something was wrong. The dot representing Keith Drucker had stopped and Fry went right past him. Fry backed into a narrow space between two buildings and watched the screen. In a few minutes the dot started moving toward him again. If it passed on the main road he would get a look at who was in the car. But the car was not moving along the main road. Instead the dot was moving into the hills behind the town and heading back toward the mountain. Fry checked his gear and got out of his car. Before he could determine his route to intercept the moving dot, his phone rang again.

“Bobby,” his chief’s voice rang in the phone. “You may have more players than anticipated. The suicide bomber was Sophie Johanssen, a radical who was caught up in all kinds of movements like the WTO riots. She worked for a supercomputer company owned by Madeline Zayne’s ex-husband Derek Zayne. He has a clear record as far as we are concerned, but his plane is in Turkey.”

“Supercomputers?” Fry asked. “That could explain a lot right there. He probably has access to as much tech as we do. That’s probably how he’s been tracking Drucker.”

“I know that made sense to you,” the chief said. “Fill us in when you can make it make sense to the rest of us. What is your status and what do you need?”

“I have local backup and am off the grid as far as the department is concerned,” Fry said. “I’m tracking Drucker’s signal into the mountains, but it looks like there could be two or three parties converging on this location. I’m about to head off on foot. The driver I contracted in Adana was killed there and another body just showed up in the cabin where Drucker’s signal rested after his SOS message. I’m activating my tracking beacon just in case, but don’t send the marines into Turkey unless they want to start a war. This is a volatile area.”

“Don’t make it any worse,” the chief said. “I know your family is from that area and there are ethnic tensions. Don’t light a fuse.”

“I copy that, Chief,” Fry answered. “I need to get moving now.”

“Roger that. Good hunting.”

Fry checked the tracking device again and saw that the dot now had a significant lead on him. He would have to hurry to catch sight of Drucker before anyone else did. He switched his GPS to display a geo-map and set out on an intercept course.

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