COVID Trouble (A Troubleshooter Novel Inspired by Current Events)

By Alex Ames

The explosive new Troubleshooter thriller, inspired by current events.

Paris after 2020's COVID-19 first lockdown. France is getting ready for the summer vacations. Someone is infecting supermarket customers with the virus intentionally.
A madman? A terrorist group? Or anti-Corona activists?
Marine-turned-corporate-troubleshooter Paul Trouble is tasked to support the Metropolitan Police in its investigation and teams up with the formidable but danger-seeking Leah Steel of Interpol.
Soon, they'll find out it's not only the virus that's killing off people!
What they uncover will shake the City of Light!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ames
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005922979

Alex Ames

Alex Ames always dreamed to -- but never dared to -- become a famous jewel thief or computer hacker or super spy. After some consideration the only morally feasible option was to become a writer.

Book preview

One

Yves Galan

The Corona-year felt like during the war.

Hell, it was like in the war, Yves Galan thought. He had to know because he had been there. Sixteen years old then, over ninety years old today. Then and today, stores offered plenty of empty shelf space, long lines outside, stressed housewives with big bags to gather as much food and articles as the store owner would allow. Sprinkled into the waiting line were businessmen without any business, sent home by their employers who did not dare to open their offices. Or laid off because their shops had become victims of the total lockdown.

The streets had been empty during the lockdown, no one had dared to spend too much time outside in fear running into the enemy. Even after the lockdown had been lifted and the shops and restaurants timidly opened to fewer people at a time, things had not been the same. Times were still bad.

Eighty years ago, it had been the Germans. This year, it was the virus.

All you had to do was exchange the soldiers with the police and the Bakelite radio with 125-channel cable TV, and there you were.

Yes, it felt like during the war.

Yves shuffled up his three flights of stairs to his apartment after his brief shopping trip. Not too bad for a ninety-something, folks! The shopping bags were heavy in his two hands and he had to stop now and then to balance himself out. But at least the lockdown was over and he could go out and shop for himself. The first weeks, Yves had felt like the only man on the planet, like a character in a science fiction dystopian movie. A solitary man left on the planet to fend for himself.

The only connection to the outside world had been the phone calls to his children and grandchildren and the through-the-door orders to his home office-bound neighbor who had done the essential shopping for him.

"Don’t you dare to go out, Monsieur Galan! she had urged him, as had his children. Corona will kill you! Senior people like you."

If it’s my time, it’s my time, he had replied, shrugging the possibility of death off like only a person almost a century on this planet could.

And man! How his peers died! Outbreaks in senior homes were commonplace all over. Yves was enormously glad to still fend for himself; no risky contacts with nurses, cohabitants, or visitors. A life insurance.

When the first gruesome pictures of Northern Italy and New York had appeared, the overcrowded hospital wings and the freezer containers in the back to keep all the dead people from rotting away, the realization about their desperate situation hit Yves and his family. In the early stages of the pandemic, Wuhan had been far away and people had shaken their heads at the Chinese government lockdown measures and people running around with face masks.

At first, Yves considered rebellion and had gone out one evening, late at night when no one had been outside but him. A beautiful, early spring night, warm, the air filled with surprising scents you could experience again because no cars polluted the Seine metropole anymore.

A police patrol picked him up and had accompanied him back to his apartment. Friendly but insistent, and genuinely worried about his health.

TV brought the misery right into his living room. So many deaths! Row after row of dying people in beds, covered by machines and tubes, turned onto their stomachs, their naked backs sticking into the air. What a shitty way to go!

Yes, it really felt like during the war. Paris, London, Berlin. Bergamo—oh, Bergamo! And even New York.

Eventually, Yves had succumbed to fate and sensibility and had stayed at home. Watched TV all day long, prepared simple meals, washed his hands every hour, opened the windows to let in air and diligently disinfected the shopping items his neighbor placed in front of the door with wipes. Talked to his children on the phone daily.

Paris was struck heavily by the virus, as most big cities where a lot of people lived together in confined spaces. But the early lockdown in mid-March had prevented the worst, so they said.

Yves spent the endless weeks in his apartment, depressed like everyone else, cleaning up, reading, watching TV, counting days until his favorite bar would open again.

Summer came. The lockdown and the anti-Corona measures were lifted carefully, step by step. Everyone wore masks, shops limited their number of customers, and disinfectant stations could be found in abundance. And Yves was very careful. He went outside, but avoided the busy areas. The small park around the corner was fine; people made room for him so he could sit alone on one of the benches and enjoy the sun.

The neighborhood supermarket was nearly empty in the early afternoon. Not many people around, plus the owner made sure that his senior customers didn’t have to wait. Yves was led through the shop like the British Queen in early December through Harrods, everything performed with the correct minimal distance. He picked milk here and fruits there, could ask questions about the ripeness of an avocado, received tips about a new cheese. A royal shopping experience, performed with a wide smile under his mask.

Some things were not like the war after all.

Back in his apartment, Yves sorted his shopping. Disinfection tissue, rubbing everything. Butter into the fridge, same with the milk. The apples onto the table in the living room, two a day were his dietary regimen since he had turned sixty-five. Keeps the doctor away, double dose.

And, he had to admit to himself, he didn’t feel his best the last days. At his age, he wasn’t supposed to be well at all times. His doctor, a young Algerian, fifty years old, had told him a few years ago with deadpan face, Yves, the morning you’ll wake up without pain will be the day you have died. That jokester. But a thing to look forward to, maybe?

Come to think of it, I should eat an apple now. Breakfast was already three hours ago and lunch is two hours away.

He took a sharp knife and halved and quartered the apple, then cut it into thin slices that gave him no problems with his dentures.

Four hours later, Yves knew that something was definitely wrong. His lunch, a simple Bœuf Bourguignon, had not tasted of anything; no amount of salt and paprika had been able to improve it. A deep-seated cough had befallen him, and his breathing became harder and harder by the minute.

He had trouble standing up from the kitchen table. It was a huge effort to reach the front door. He managed to take the key ring from the sideboard and unlock the door.

His neighbor, she had to help him. Drive him to a doctor…

The five meters across the hall were excruciating. There was no air, as if someone sat on his chest and pressed out all the remaining air. One more step, one more breath.

The step came.

But not the breath.

No matter how hard he breathed in, there was no air coming into his lungs, no oxygen reaching his blood, no oxygen reaching his brain.

The next step did not come either.

Yves Galan, survivor of the Second World War, father of three, grandfather of six and great-grandfather of two, widowed husband of his beloved late wife, Anna, who had died fifteen years earlier, fell against his neighbor’s door, hit his head against it with a loud bang, curled up on the floor and was dead before his neighbor found him a minute later.

It was worse than the war.

Two

Steel

"Do you know the term super-spreader, Detective Steel?" The baritone voice belonged to Balaa Tubeah, the largest woman Leah Steel had ever known, horizontally and vertically. Well over seven feet tall and with a lot of mass around her. Yet light on her feet, like a dancer, as Steel had witnessed during the department’s Christmas party. Tubeah was Congolese, her skin the deepest of black, a lot darker than Steel’s own South African variation of chocolate brown. Her boss had built her hard-ass professional credibility in the prosecution of war crimes. If Steel had encountered a lot of dangerous criminals during her South African and UK police career, Tubeah probably had met more. More criminals, more crimes, more death, more suffering. And had definitely looked deeper into the abyss of human violence and terror than anyone else.

They sat on opposite sides at her boss’s desk in the Interpol headquarters in Lyon, France. A tenth-floor corner window overlooking the Rhone River and most of the old city center in the distance, the late June sun slowly setting during those long days of summer.

Steel struggled to come up with a good explanation. One of the new words we learned in the pandemic, she started to bullshit her way around her personal lack of knowledge. Like social distancing, home office, Netflix, and Corona-not-the-beer.

Carriers of the virus who infect a high number of people because of their social, economic, or private behavior, Tubeah explained patiently. Her boss, of course, was superb at this sort of shit.

That would have been my second explanation, Steel saved face.

Tubeah gave her the mass murderer prosecutor stare for five seconds. Like the infected homosexual airplane stewards in the early eighties, spreading AIDS through global visits in saunas and by unprotected, promiscuous sex. It’s not clear what profile a typical COVID-19 super-spreader has, though.

It was the end of June 2020, and the COVID-19 pandemic raged not only in Europe but most other countries of the world. France seemed to have survived better than other nations like Italy or England, but the US and Brazil crept into the millions infected range. The French lockdown was over now for a few weeks, restaurants open again, life normalizing. But still a masked life. Everyone afraid of a massive second wave, when the European summer holidays came into full swing.

We have a super-spreader case? Steel asked.

Tubeah nodded. A situation in Paris. Seems that super-spreading found its way into domestic terrorism as a weapon.

Spreading the coronavirus, like, intentionally? Steel tried to clarify.

The huge black woman nodded again. Who needs dirty radioactive bombs if you have a nice, super-contagious virus at your disposal?

And we are sure it’s terrorism? I mean, corona skeptics are growing like mushrooms all over Europe these days, doubting everything from infection chain, health risks, deaths, and long-term side effects.

Could be. But from the first reports from the police task force, it sounds like a very systematic distribution of the virus inside of supermarkets.

And how does the concept of virus terrorism work? I spread for the good of the white race? God made the virus, too? Save bats and rare frogs, and now corona? Steel asked.

Her boss gave her a stern look. Not funny, Detective.

Technically, Steel was not a police detective. Interpol had an internationally accepted law enforcement agency status but no authority for local investigations in the membership states. The creation of the C3 unit had not come without international political fall-out and critical media echo. But international crime across borders was on the rise and a flexible response was needed: Interpol formed an experienced and competent unit of investigators to improve international case tracking and coordination. Confidential Crime Consulting. Steel held only the legal status of a consultant in the countries she worked in, but she did see this only as a technicality. She was a trained and experienced police detective; why let good go to waste? Her stellar success rate proved her right, to the dismay of her superiors. They liked results, certainly. But only clean results, please. As if international crime just waited for the correct form to be filled out.

The Paris police task force requested us? That would be the day! Steel was sure that this had to be a hoax. Or an act of utter desperation.

Her boss nodded her head. This is where things get interesting and your skills in tact and diplomacy will come into play.

Steel stared at the massive Black woman. Did you just make a joke? On behalf of my skill set?

That joke basically wrote itself, yes. Couldn’t help it. But I assure you, it was not on behalf of your skill set.

Yeah, I get it, on my lack thereof. Things get interesting… She brought her boss back on track. Steel had thick skin; not too much offended her. And diplomatic behavior was not one of her strongest traits, even she had to admit that.

Tubeah continued. The attacks so far only happened in a specific supermarket chain, Exxtra!

Sure, I shop there all the time, Steel confirmed, to be part of the conversation. Small mom-and-pop stores in the neighborhoods, well-sorted, friendly and familiar.

The chain belongs to an international conglomerate, Strom Industries. One of those global players that’s into everything from pharma, retail, machines, and aircraft, controlled by one family. The CEO asked for Interpol’s involvement.

Steel saw where this was heading. And Interpol is eager to serve our everyday CEO from next door.

Apparently, Tubeah made a distasteful face, our Secretary General and the CEO were golf partners at a charity tournament several times in the past. Her boss hated the mix of law and government and private lives. Cronies. What can you say?

I won’t tell him you said that, Steel reassured her boss.

The CEO also has a troubleshooter assigned to the case and a different line of strings pulled. The man is allowed to join the task force as a civilian consultant.

More strings pulled?

Tubeah took a thin file from her desk and pushed it over to Steel. A twist to your liking. The troubleshooter for the company used to be a military intelligence specialist, doing all kinds of creative operations in some areas you also used to work in. Weapons smuggling, terrorism, organized crime, industrial espionage. She slid over a second file. Research added a COVID-19 dossier. Brings you up to speed on the state of the virus in France and what corona is all about in detail. State of science, socioeconomic effects, and forecasts. Not much, but enough for your train ride to Paris. Wear your face mask.

What’s my job? Steel asked.

Re-read your job description, Detective. Consult the Parisian police. Listen. Detect. Support the company guy where needed, hold his hand. Tubeah looked at her for a minute. Her telepathic way of letting her detective know that she shouldn’t keep her hands to herself. An unspoken, Find the fucker who did it.

The usual, Steel shrugged.

Tubeah gave Steel a displeased look. No, Detective, not the usual! Her voice rose. And she had a voice! Try not to burn Paris down in the process.

Heat washed slowly over Steel’s face. Luckily for her brown skin, she didn’t blush. But she could not hide her anger either. With a pressed voice, she hissed, I. Bring. Results!

No doubt about it. I would be a happier boss if your solving rate dropped a few percent in exchange for not having to receive phone calls from enraged police presidents or angry mayors. Your methods are sometimes quite... Words failed her, a rare occurrence.

"I could stay at home this time and take my few percent right away," Steel proposed and sat upright.

Instead of an answer, Tubeah pressed a button on her phone and summoned her assistant. The young man who entered the office was in his early twenties and so proudly gay that even his tie flashed the brightest of pink. Tubeah had brought him along from DenHaag’s International Court of Justice, where they had worked before; the man was still a culture shock for the conservative Interpol office culture.

She turned to him and said with a quiet but menacing voice, Serge, take Detective Steel out of here before I throw her through the window.

My, my, my, ladies! Serge made a face as if he was a hairdresser challenged by a customer’s really bad hair day. "We wouldn’t want to mop away all that blood and tissue of our star detective. And the draft from the broken window could kill you, Madame."

His words diffused the situation from killing field to DMZ. Steel clenched her teeth, grabbed the two files, and left the office in front of Serge, who ushered her out like a VIP through a paparazzi crowd. Not that there was anyone around. It was Sunday evening, and only the very wicked were at work.

Honey, that was so mean. Our boss—

Cut it, Serge. She wants investigators to solve cases. I solve cases. What’s her problem?

Your mouth, your dirty, pretty mouth! Serge gave her an air kiss and pushed her into the elevator. Kill it, tiger! He finger-waved her a goodbye with a smile.

The sliding door closed, thankfully before Steel threw her file folders at Serge to stick them up his….

Steel breathed out slowly and shook her head to clear her mind. Scanned the first file, the CV of the company guy. Not a job application, but out of some heavily redacted official report, header and footer blacked out. US citizen, Ex-US Marines, Special Forces, afterwards in an MI6 branch called Army Intelligence Liaison Office. Steel snorted. That name basically screamed special operations of the super-dirty kind. Apparently he had lived to tell the tale because these days, the man still lived in the UK, working for the conglomerate her boss had mentioned, Strom Industries. And he had an apt name for a troubleshooter: Trouble, Paul Trouble.

Three

Trouble

You can’t fire me, the man with the fantastic blonde hairdo squealed, surprised. Not in these times! Not with the virus around; not with the terrorists around!

Paul Trouble sat on the sideline of the conference room and watched the final confrontation play out. The squealing man’s name was Jacques Perlmain, and up to one minute ago he had been the general manager of Strom Retail in France. The word flamboyant had been invented for him. Dressed immaculately in a suit that looked and was expensive, and carefully arranged white-blonde hair, not a strand out of order. The gigantic watch on his left wrist compared to the size of his ego.

Opposite of Perlmain sat Henry Daven, Strom’s CEO, and Michael Ny, Strom’s head of Human Resources. Firing a senior manager responsible for 4,000 employees and over a billion euros in revenue was no fun and a serious undertaking. A lot of legal issues involved. On top of Perlmain’s major screw-up.

But Paul agreed with Perlmain. It was a bad time to fire the general manager. COVID-19 raged in France, the lockdowns had just been lifted four weeks ago and everyone expected a second wave in late summer, with possible new lockdowns on the horizon. And some terrorist or lunatic poisoned Strom supermarkets with the coronavirus.

Henry Daven spoke in a calm and measured voice. Jacques, you stole from the company. You diverted money for your own personal gain.

I made you over two hundred million euros top line last year. In a retail setting! Perlmain shouted. You should pay me a bonus!

I agree, it will be a challenge for your successor to match that track record. You leave on top of your game; that’s why we ask you to move on. Daven’s voice turned one notch colder. Instead of involving the police.

As we should, Michael Ny threw in. I asked Henry to strongly consider it, but he wants this affair over with as little dust as possible.

Paul suppressed a smile. Ny played the good guy against Daven’s bad guy. That game never got old, apparently.

Behind the conference table, Paris stretched out. The office was on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise in La Defense, the ultra-modern industry quarter west of the city, best known for its Grande Arche hollow cube.

Perlmain shook his head in disgust. You should pay me a bonus! he repeated. Then he pointed over at Paul. You already have my replacement lined up? Is this the guy?

One of my team, Henry Daven said. Paul is working for Special Projects out of London HQ. I asked him to check into your affairs after we received a whistleblower complaint.

Someone ratted me out? Perlmain pointed his thumb towards the meeting room door. I bet it was that ass-sucking slut from Finance! We gave her a cool job and, man, was she eager to please. No good deed goes unpunished in this company!

Paul wanted to get up and throw the man out of the window. He cranked up his danger field and Perlmain shut up and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the accusing glance replaced by a glimpse of fear. Daven threw Paul a warning look.

Was that a slur or a description? he asked calmly. And I suggest you consider your answer well, or we’ll involve the police after all. Not for the embezzlement, but for sexual harassment.

Perlmain stared at Daven. He understood that he received a pretty good deal. Not a golden parachute. But not going to jail either. He remained silent.

Excellent choice, Jacques, Daven said. Michael will stay with you and will make sure you sign your immediate resignation and hand over your badge, car keys, mobile phone, company credit card, and computer.

Daven got up, nodded towards Paul, and left with his troubleshooter in tow.

Last thing Paul heard before he closed the door was Michael Ny giving the coup de grâce. And we’ll hold back your final salary until we are sure that you didn’t leave us an Easter egg somewhere.

For Paul Trouble, the three months of corona lockdown in London had been a rare gift. The gift of time. So much time to spend at home! As troubleshooter for Strom Industries, he was used to jumping into planes on brief notice to handle dodgy situations anywhere in the world. But the corona lockdown prevented everyone from traveling. Almost no planes were taking off. Any country where you touched down expected you to go into weeks of quarantine. And all the offices where Paul intended to perform his troubleshooting magic tricks were devoid of workers too.

And the most bizarre thing: the bad people could not do bad things either. Well, except for Jacques Perlmain.

Strom Industries was active in many sectors affected by the pandemic. Pharmaceuticals boomed like crazy because of the unlimited influx of cheap betting money to find a corona cure. Aerospace and defense verged on the brink of bankruptcy as airplanes were grounded and states had to spend their money on financial aid instead of army equipment. Restaurants and tourism… Don’t ask. Really, don’t ask. Overall, the indicators showed downwards for a conglomerate that produced 80 percent of its revenue in old industries. A start-up Strom Industries wasn’t.

Paul knew his employer suffered badly and that he might be laid off permanently any time now. His co-investigator, Tom Chen, had already met his fate last month in a first round of headquarter layoffs. But Tom was young, could work and eat at his parents’ Chinese restaurant, and would find new employment in no time, Paul was sure. Their techie-geek sidekick, Amy Norwood, also had to leave the troubleshooter team and had gone to her old Archives and Records job where she was more needed than in a troubleshooting holding pattern. She called every day to see how Paul was doing. He greeted her with a mock-despair Mother! when picking up the calls. Paul expected to poach her back whenever this madness was over. Whatever over meant in this new normal.

Three months at home had been like a holiday for Paul. He had finished and polished any old report he could think of; anything to keep him busy and provide Strom Industries a reason