Escaping fate E-Book

Antonio Traficante

• Herausgeber: 0111 Edizioni
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

When Ahmad, an agent of the Iranian Security Services, explores the conjecture that is coming out from his mental disorder, he is left breathless. He is pursuing Markar Kazemian, a nuclear engineer on the run from Iran along with his family, also contended by a team including Helen, a former U.S. Army junkie who hoped to become an elite specialist by joining a secret project of the Research Division of the CIA. As soon as the pursuit reaches Italy, Helen is forced to face the ambiguity of her best friend, Carmen, and becomes the object of the desire of Robert, an agent of the Italian secret services, triggering the jealousy of his wife. But things are not what they seem; the chase opens u p new, unthinkable scenarioes, and when technology and nightmare melt in a crescendo full of twists, a terrible truth emerges, making the fates of the proitagonists converge. Helen could escape, but she choses to complete what became her mission, aware that this might lead her to death. A death she already looked in the eyes in her nightmares.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Epilogue

Antonio Traficante

ESCAPING FATE

Black dreams

translations from Italian by Carmelo Massimo Tidona

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Escaping Fate

Copyright © 2013Zerounoundici EdizioniISBN:978-88-6578-292-7Cover: image Shutterstock.com

This is a work of fiction.Any resemblance to real things, people or eventsis purely coincidental.

To Karen, who lit my flame

and to Daria, because she always believes in me.

Every man is the architect of his own fortune.

Appius Claudius Caecus

Prologue

The most disturbing thing was the air.It was becoming thick with a smoke smelling like burnt rubber, making the dark thicker and more opaque.

The shattering force of the explosion had pierced the night with flashes of bright light, after the blinding flash and the roar.Some fragments that looked like scraps of paper were left as if suspended, waiting to finally surrender to a gravity that seemed to linger in front of such brutality.

Then all shards and shreds fell, raising little puffs of dust when they impacted on the ground.

A single drop of sweat was running on the forehead of a man sitting on the edge of a sidewalk.

Making fun of the unbearable heat, and intimidated by having to cross such a troubled face, it decided to stretch toward the nose and fall on the men’s chest, thus leaving the scene.

Slowly the man opened his eyelids.The flames painted weird reflections in those emerald eyes, standing out on a face covered by a thin layer of gray dust.

Needless to wander with the eyes, trying to understand.It was not stars that shone in the sky, but a myriad of glass shards illuminated by the glow of a car on fire.

Moving was not an option.

With his head enveloped by muffled sensations, the man tried to move an arm, realizing that he has been in the center of a bloody storm, or whatever the hellthat had been.Every little gesture brought along a pang of pain, which ran unabated through his poor body, always for too long a time.

But he was alive.

Or at least, so it seemed.

Aware of the pain that would follow, the man raised his head, looking with a blank face at the house in front of him.

The blackened facade and a portion of the ledge, only kept together by a couple of metal rods, were there to show the scar, while a sinister glow lit up the glass shards still stuck around the windowpanes.

A yellow house with no windows.

He finally remembered.

It was the result of a dream.

None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Chapter I

Fourteen days ago.

Frankfurt am Main Central Station (Germany).

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010, 9:00 a.m.

It was hard not to be impressed by the imposing complex of the station.

The main building, the only one in the neoclassical style, was the extraordinary main reception hall, packed at every time with three hundred thousand people that crowded every day hundreds of surface and subway trains.

Benaski looked at the building that, starting from the large steel columns secured to the ground, branched to the roof, completing its covering with sheets of glass.The myriad of voices contained within the hall seemed to be suspended in the air, waiting for other words or sounds whose goal, as in an endless game, was to never leave the emptiness.

That was it.

There was no silence in that place.

In the end it was safety, because all of that enclosed space evoked the oppressive atmosphere of a cathedral, in which an obscure liturgy exhorted the thousands of people passing by to listen to what was immediately useful, such as the announcement of the departure of a train or the call of a family member.Everything else was really silence, the brain removed it from the range of relevant sounds and archived it as afileof background noise.

Benaski approached the counter of the Starbucks, without ordering anything, straightening his regulation dark suit.

Two old ladies fell in behind him, one speaking emphatically and without taking a breath, as the other, wide-eyed, seemed delighted by what she was hearing. When they turned at the man a questioning look, he smiled and courteously gestured towards the counter, inviting them to pass.

Average height, dark hair and eyes, Hans Benaski, son of a German political refugee of the World War II, was born in the United States in December of 1965.His father Albert has been an activist hostile to the Third Reich, and a few weeks before Hitler invaded Poland, in September 1939, he had broken camp from the suburb of Berlin, where he was living clandestinely by then, and embarked on a cargo ship headed for the United States.Later he had obtainedAmerican citizenship and got married, taking residence in Hattotown, Virginia, where Hans was born.

Albert certainly would never have imagined how the proximity to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency would later affect the choices of his only son, making him become one of their agents.

Suddenly Benaski felt pushed from one side, as if someone had waited for his distraction to hit him.His peripheral vision duly perceived the event well in advance, it was part of his training.But he didn’t do anything to prevent it.

A man, about fifty years old, of a fair complexion and as tall as a basketball player, smiled at him, showing the same fake expression of a face printed on an election campaign poster.

Perfect.He matched the description sent in the usual way through an employee of the American Consulate in Frankfurt.

"Ten is the perfect time for a coffee," the stranger said while trying to straighten his tie with clumsy gestures.

Hans slipped his hand in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a coin, which he handed at the waitress of the Starbucks.That stupid identification procedure was over, at last.

As soon as they had their coveted American coffee in their hands, they both walked toward the center of the huge room, occupied by shops, travel agencies and bank branches.

"Ah, finally my favorite drink!" the man sighed, greedily sipping the contents of his cup, "you know, coffee in this country is terrible, I’m having a hard time getting used to it."

Benaski’s face broke into a genuine smile.

"I totally agree my friend.Uh, I would say from your accent that you’re from some Northern state."

"Oh, definitely.I come from the land of the Pilgrim Fathers, New England, more precisely Boston" the stranger agreed, offering his hand. "I’m Peter Hawking, Pete will be fine."

"Oh well, someone from the East Coast," the American agent said, returning the handshake and introducing himself.

"I must say I ate the best lobsters I've ever tasted in your area, really excellent," he added.

"Uh... I don’t like such treats full of legs.Anyway, I apologize for the inconvenience I gave you, but I always thought that there is no place more secret than a crowded place," Hawking grinned, encompassing with a vague gesture the surrounding confusion.

"In fact, I hadn’t been using those procedures for years," Benaski confessed, stroking his freshly-shaven face.

"Well, I admit I enjoyed it," Peter smiled. Okay, you've already read my file, right?"

The man went on without waiting for an answer.

"I guess you already know that I’ve been collaborating with the Agency for five years.Previously I worked as a bioengineer at Rendox Laboratories.I was involved in the design and development of biochips, you know, those components used for clinical diagnostics, analysis of doping substances in athletes, and a lot of other stuff.