Breaking Point

by Dana Haynes

  Barry said, “Hence the field tests. We’ll schedule a batch of them on the hush-hush. We’ll—”

  His phone vibrated and he pulled it out of the pocket of his ill-fitting suit. “Speak of the devil. Renee Malatesta just sent me a text. She wants to meet.”

  Liz said, “Is this good news or bad?”

  Barry smiled behind his thick lenses. “I suppose we’ll see.”

  * * *

  “Washington Post. Dreyfus.”

  “Amelia Earhart’s living in my mom’s basement.”

  Just past noon on a Monday, Amy Dreyfus had a Sprite in one hand and a fuchsia stress ball in the other. She sat at her desk with her butt barely in her chair, legs up on her desk and crossed at the ankles. A business reporter for the Washington Post, she’d been scanning the wire services—AP, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, and Reuters—to see what was going on in the world.

  She grinned. “Andrew? Hey. Loan me some money.”

  She heard him laugh. “How do I know you won’t just blow it on food and shelter?”

  She used a headset for her phone so she could talk and type two-handed. Or, in this case, squeeze a stress ball and sip a soda. At only five feet, she sat with an upturned box in front of her chair so that her feet didn’t dangle. Her curly red hair constantly threatened to abandon whatever hairdo Amy attempted each morning. She sat up straight, feeling herself smile. “What’s up?”

  “Do you ever go to the Northwest Tech Expo?”

  “Couple of times. Last year, in fact. It rained like … I don’t know, Old Testament rain.”

  “I’m going this year.”

  “’Cause you invented the Next Big Thing? Again?”

  “No. Because there will be a big audience. And media. Hey, ah, Amy? I need your advice.”

  She leaned forward. There was something odd in his voice. He sounded as if he were smiling, but Andrew always sounded as if he were smiling. Amy was his de facto big sister. They had lived with three other undergraduates for a couple of years at Stanford and Amy had introduced him to Renee, who frankly, everyone agreed, was way, way out of his league.

  Where others would have heard just the smile, Amy caught tension. “The only time Mister I Got My First Patent in Junior High needed my advice, it involved girls. Are you and Renee okay?”

  He laughed. “We’re … not. But it’s bigger than that. It’s about the media. I need your help with a thing.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Life-and-death serious. I need to let the world know about this thing.”

  Amy said, “A press release?”

  He chuckled. “A little bigger than that. Look, come to the expo on Thursday. Let me buy you a beer. I want to do something and do it right. And I want you to have first crack at it. Okay?”

  She set down the soft drink and the squeeze ball. “Andrew, it’s Ezra’s birthday. I can’t.”

  She waited.

  “Sure,” he said. “Hey, say hi for me. Look, I’ll call you when I get to Seattle. I still need your advice.”

  “Sure, of course. But what is so important you—”

  And he abruptly hung up.

  The dayside city editor looked over from his adjacent desk. “Trouble?”

  “Huh? Oh. No. I mean, maybe. It’s my little brother acting all cryptic.”

  He said, “Since when did you have a little brother?”

  “Since Stanford.” She went back to scanning the wires, only now working the stress ball just a little harder.

  * * *

  A junior member of Halcyon/Detweiler’s security division tagged the call from Andrew Malatesta’s cell phone, downloaded the digital recording to a flash drive, and called out to the room, “Has anyone seen Mr. Tichnor?”

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  Monday around 1:00 P.M., Renee asked Barry Tichnor to meet her in a D.C. bar just off K Street. Neither of them lived or worked nearby.

  The place was dark and almost empty. They had plenty of privacy, sitting under photos of baseball teams from the 1920s and ’30s.

  She ordered Barbancourt rum and Barry ordered a Bud Lite. She turned her glass in small circles, never lifting it off the table. “Andrew knows you’re still in the backup servers.”

  Barry sighed. “Our hackers assured me otherwise.”

  “He also wants out of the Pentagon contract, in toto. He’s converted two of the Starting Five. They’re going to the Northwest Tech Expo on Thursday, in Seattle.”

  Barry sipped his beer, light glinting on his oversized lenses.

  Renee played with her glass, never lifting it.

  “Andrew loves the coup de theatre. The big, grandiose display. He intends to out himself as a Pentagon subcontractor at the Tech Expo. And to denounce the Halcyon contract, the Bruges Accord, and … I don’t know. Maybe more.”

  Barry thought, Shit! Shit! Shit! and let the opening of the bottle’s neck touch his lips, not letting any beer enter his mouth. He nodded occasionally. He didn’t push her. He waited for her to get there.

  “Andrew is going to out the device. And you.”

  Barry set down his beer and patted his lips with the bar napkin. He spoke softly, overhead lights glistening off his wide, round glasses. “We have a … strong need for this to go the other way. We’ve made certain agreements with the Pentagon. China and Pakistan are testing similar weapons.”

  She said, “Pakistan is an ally,” but her voice trembled, as if she were pleading.

  “In that part of the world? The word has no meaning. Pakistan means the Taliban. Pakistan means al Qaeda. Al Qaeda with the device means dead Americans.”

  Renee leaned forward, her shoulders hunched, head down. Her wavy black hair obscured her face. She stayed like that for almost two minutes. Barry tipped his beer, not drinking, said nothing. He let it stew.

  “He had a Trojan horse virus hidden in the device’s specs. He’s inside Halcyon’s computer. He knows about you contacting Hammerschmidt Systems. That was a ruse, by the way. There is no Mark II version of the device. This isn’t about him suspecting anything, anymore. It’s about him having solid proof.”

  Barry Tichnor had fleeting thoughts about smashing his beer bottle into her skull again and again until she lost consciousness but, instead, he just nodded. “About thirty minutes ago, your husband called a journalist. He’s asked her advice regarding going to the media.”

  She squinted, peered at him. “You’re monitoring our phones?”

  “Of course we’re monitoring your phones. It’s part of our security protocols. But then, you suspected as much. If he goes to the media, not only do we lose the race against China and Pakistan, but he could set back other highly secret weapons projects. Renee? At this stage, a threat to Halcyon/Detweiler is a threat to the Pentagon. A threat to America.”

  She wiped tears off both cheeks with the back of her hand, sat up ramrod straight.

  “I grew up in Haiti.” She whispered still, but fiercely.

  Barry sat quietly.

  “My father didn’t make it past the fourth grade. He died of cholera when I was thirteen. I came to America and America took me in. Because of America, I have a law degree and a thriving company. I am a patriot, Barry!”

  “Yes,” he said. “I wouldn’t have approached you if I hadn’t known that.”

  She drained the rum in one shot. She stared into the glossy, reflective lenses that hid his eyes.

  She stood up and snarled, sotto voce, “Fuck you to hell, Barry Tichnor. Fuck you and your company.”

  Barry took off those glasses, let her see his eyes. He stared directly into hers. When she neither flinched nor turned away, he nodded.

  He said, “Okay then.”

  He slid the glasses back on.

  7

  EARLIER ON MONDAY, AN engineer at Halcyon/Detweiler had typed in the word Jabulani, which she assumed was a type of circuit board.

  The word had another, hidden purpose. At 11:55 A.M. exactly, the Halcyon/Detweiler mainframe h
olding the Malatesta prototype information had spooled up. Perfect backup files were created for everything on the mainframe. The backup files then were chopped up into moderate-size chunks of data and distributed throughout the corporation’s less-secure computer servers.

  At just a little past noon, the Information Technology Department started getting calls about slow-downs on the mainframe. The engineers answering the calls said they’d look into it, but they already knew the answer.

  At noon, close to a fourth of the Halcyon/Detweiler staff began logging on to Facebook, or ESPN, or YouTube, or Netflix, or Amazon, or eBay. Or porn. This happened almost every day at noon. Everyone in IT knew it. They ignored the calls, knowing their bandwidth would be restored by 12:30 or so.

  Throughout the main headquarters building, silently, simultaneously, computers went online and the weapons documents slipped out of the building. All the information was routed to the personal computer of Andrew Malatesta.

  * * *

  Directly from the meeting with Barry, Renee went to the company headquarters. She got there before two in the afternoon and went looking for Andrew. She found him in his lab, where he was studying the polygonal mesh model on his thirty-two-inch screen. It showed a 3-D illustration of one of his latest microelectronic circuits. He adjusted it on the X-axis, fifteen degrees, then typed in a minor modification. The CAD software instantly adjusted the circuit accordingly.

  He wore earbuds for an MP3 player and Renee had to knock twice on the doorframe before he heard her. He smiled that luminous smile and yanked out the earpieces. “Hey. Sorry. Shostakovich.”

  He adjusted the microcircuit on its Y-axis. He picked up a well-chewed pencil and scratched a note on his sketch pad.

  Renee’s gold suit was impeccable and hung elegantly off her athletic frame. The off-center V in the skirt showed a triangle of taut, tanned skin on her left thigh. He liked her hair shoulder-length. “You look good.”

  “Thank you. Don’t do this.”

  He ramped up the lopsided smile and brushed his hand through his unruly hair. “I’ve thought about it. A lot. I prayed. I think it’s pretty much the only thing left to do.”

  “Andrew, if you want out of the contract with Halcyon, then we can get out. We will be left with … some significant debt, and that’s if they don’t sue us. But we can get out. Or at least renegotiate. You don’t have to burn down the village.”

  He thought about that. “No. I think you’re wrong. Tichnor’s R-and-D people have downloaded enough of my specs, they can still probably build a prototype. And you know these people by now. No international treaty will stop them. Going into mass production means they won’t just test the device, they’ll sell it. To any country that has the cash and can get away with it secretly.”

  She hadn’t realized she was making fists until her nails threatened to cut into her palms. “So you expose Barry Tichnor. You expose Halcyon/Detweiler, or at least Barry’s division of it. You make your big theatrical display, in front of all the technical journalists in America. That’s the big plan?”

  “That is, as you say, the big plan.”

  “The Justice Department will come after you. They’ll come after our company, based on RICO statutes.”

  “This isn’t a racketeering deal. No way they—”

  “So now you’re our general counsel. Fine. Let’s assume I know more about the law than you do. You do this, you will ruin this company. Antal. Terri, Christian. Vejay. They’ve been with you for fifteen years, you self-centered bastard!”

  “And they got to vote. I have money set aside for them. I brought some of the Madeleines. Do you want—”

  “Don’t do this,” she almost whispered. “Andrew. I’m serious. Destabilizing the nation’s largest defense contractor isn’t just catastrophically stupid. It’s un-American!”

  He laughed, picked up his saddlebag. “No, baby. Making a banned weapon and selling it for profit is un-American.”

  He closed his sketch pad, shut down the 3-D CAD software. He stood and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do this.”

  Andrew smiled.

  * * *

  It was five hours before Barry’s cell phone chimed and Renee’s name popped up on the screen. It was 7:00 P.M. Barry was watching Animal Planet. He put his DVR on Pause and picked up his work cell phone, which rested by his side between his beer and the remotes.

  “Hello?”

  He listened to the hiss on the telephone line. He knew who’d called, although his LED screen was blank. He had the house to himself. He waited, listened to the hiss. A juniper tree rustled outside the den window. The family’s calico sauntered into the room, vaguely curious, wondering if the call might lead to a belly rub or food. Barry sat.

  Renee Malatesta said, “Ah…”

  Barry inhaled, held it.

  “We should … turn this around,” she whispered into the line.

  Barry said, “Yes.”

  And Renee hung up.

  * * *

  Barry Tichnor set down his work cell and left his recliner. In slippers, he stepped out into his garage and dug around in the box of Christmas ornaments for the other cell phone he had stored there. He took it plus his beer and walked out into his backyard, far from the house. He dialed a ten-digit number he’d memorized.

  An answering machine beeped.

  “A-fourteen-dash-C,” he said softly, then sipped his beer. “Day code: Orange. Meet me, usual place.”

  He hung up and returned to the house.

  8

  TWO DAYS TO GO

  At dawn on Tuesday, Barry Tichnor met a man calling himself Calendar in a parking lot three blocks from Metro Center on Pennsylvania. It was close to vacant.

  Calendar was a tall man, early fifties, with close-cropped silver hair, wide shoulders, and a military bearing: a sharp contract to Barry’s egg-shaped body and ill-fitting clothes. Barry had used him a few times before and found his professionalism and perfectionism reassuring. Not to mention his quick wits in the field.

  They did not sit, nor did they shake hands. Calendar scanned the horizon, turning to Barry before he spoke, his eyes the last thing to pivot Barry’s way, as if direct, one-on-one eye contact was painful. He spoke softly. “I’ve selected a target. Nova Scotia, six days from now. The collateral will be five geologists, three Canadians, two Swedes. We didn’t want to test the device on American citizens, naturally, so—”

  Barry said, “There’s a new target. It will take place in forty-eight hours.”

  Calendar absorbed this without showing any emotion. He scanned the horizon. “Where?”

  “On American soil.”

  The big man raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “We are. You’ll have only one shot at this. It pays triple the amount we agreed to.”

  The two men were silent for a time. Calendar, without emotion, said, “So, essentially, you think I’m a whore.”

  Barry blinked. “Sorry?”

  “You think this is about the dollar amount. You think I act out of love of money.”

  “No, I—”

  “The price I set for this mission covers my associates’ time and my own. It covers transportation. It covers weapons and supplies. I am not a mercenary, Tichnor. I’m a professional. The price is the price.”

  “Okay,” Barry said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “The price … is … the price.” Calendar’s blue eyes never changed, never took on any emotion. But he pressed his point. “Don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest anything else.”

  Calendar studied him for a moment. “And the target?”

  “A man. A man who plans to leak sensitive information on the very weapon you’re beta-testing.”

  Calendar’s pale blue eyes scanned the vicinity. “That would be bad.”

  “Yes.”

  A beat, and the big man said, “Done.”

  Barry T
ichnor said, “Thank you,” and turned to walk away.

  He didn’t mop his forehead until he was out of Calendar’s sight.

  On his way back to the office, Barry Tichnor made a call to one of his contacts at the CIA. They agreed to meet at Rock Creek Park.

  * * *

  Agent Jenna Scott was six feet tall and her hair was so blond that it appeared white from a distance. Today, she wore black jeans and riding boots and a suede, aviator-style tunic with epaulets and brass buttons. She was standing by the driver’s door of her sedan and smiled at Barry as he crossed to her.

  That woman would stand out in any crowd, Barry thought. That’s a handicap for a spy.

  “Barry,” she said, smiling.

  “Ms. Scott. I want to give you a heads-up.”

  They walked away from her car. Barry had brought a lidded coffee. Jenna didn’t speak.

  “We are using a freelancer to perform a function, on U.S. soil, that will result in the loss of lives.”

  She stared down at the shorter man. Barry pried off the lid and blew on the surface of his coffee.

  “You’re serious.”

  He nodded. “It will involve an airplane. A commercial jet. It flies on Thursday. I need you to use your magic.”

  She stared at him, then shoved her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans and squinted up into the sky.

  “Does this involve the device?”

  “Yes.”

  She pondered some more. “And our friend, the designer?

  “He has evidence to out Halcyon/Detweiler. And he claims to have evidence regarding the device. Actually, we suspect he’s attempted to gain access to our R-and-D mainframe. I have come to believe that he may have evidence of other … extracurricular research.”

  Jenna Scott pinched the bridge of her nose. “Aaaah, Barry…”

  “I know.” He sipped coffee. “It’s a pickle.”

  She turned on her low heels, squinting at the bald, pudgy man who never quite seemed to generate the correct emotional response.

  “There will be a price.”

  He nodded.

  “The Agency gets the device. Not the Pentagon.”