Flash Point

by Thomas Locke

  “Brett.”

  “And I am Agnes. Are you really a doctor?”

  “Of neurosciences.”

  “A scientist who flits about the country, granting the near-dead a glimpse of what comes next. I find that interesting. Very few things interest me these days.”

  Brett remained silent. Either she asked or she didn’t. He certainly wasn’t going to help move this forward.

  “Well, are you going to answer me?”

  “I didn’t hear a question.”

  She huffed. “What on earth has you carrying on like this?”

  So there it was. Hearing the question once more should not have caused him such discomfort. Perhaps it was his back acting up. But Brett didn’t think so. “I do this as penance.”

  “Penance.”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “I was part of the original team that developed this project. I had a serious disagreement with the director. I offered the entire program to our competitor in exchange for a lab of my own and the freedom to do the work I wanted.”

  “You sold out your own team.”

  “I did. Yes.”

  She mulled that over, tasting several responses. “These direct responses are part of your penance?”

  Brett swiped at the perspiration beading his forehead. “They are.”

  “The program director set this up?”

  “No. I did.”

  “What on earth for?”

  If it was difficult before, now it became excruciating. “After transferring the data, I began the original research into what has brought me here to you today.”

  “Studying death.”

  “Studying the moment of transition,” Brett replied. “Ascent is the word for what you are about to experience. I ascended, and I became trapped.”

  “Trapped how?”

  “Trapped,” he repeated, hearing the sibilant roar fill his being once more. The rush of furious power, there to devour and destroy. “I was saved by one of our team. Since then, I have worked in this capacity.”

  “Gathering data. From people like me.”

  “I record what you experience, yes. And I pass it on to the team. What they do with it is up to them. But I don’t use it myself.”

  “This is all quite remarkable.” She studied him, her gaze the only component of her being that remained untouched by whatever illness held her to the bed. “You are hoping the team will let you back in?”

  “No, they never asked me to leave.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  In all the times he had made this confession, he had never had a subject actually comprehend. This woman was, he realized, not just rich but remarkable. He felt himself drawn to her, which was dangerous. But he could not help liking some of his subjects. Even when it made their departure all the more difficult. Not simply because he became emotionally caught up in the end of another life. Because it brought back all the horrors he had known, the utter closeness of his own last breath.

  Agnes said, “You can’t ascend.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  “I can see that the loss has cost you dearly.” Her gaze had the ability to probe far deeper than Brett would have preferred. “Are these ascents truly so wondrous?”

  Brett booted up his laptop. “You’re hopefully about to find out.”

  But the woman’s eyelids had begun to droop. Her features ran like old wax, losing their strength with the rapidity only possible for the truly ill. She was asleep before Brett rose from his chair.

  He left the items on the nightstand and shuffled away from the bed. When he reached the door he hesitated a long moment, then turned around. The woman slept peacefully. Brett wondered if he had completely lost his ability to remain detached. This would make three departures in a row where he had become emotionally involved. But there was no denying the fact that he already liked this woman far too much for his own good.

  10

  The Bridgeport Corporation’s campus formed the nexus of Jacksonville’s major industrial park. Bridgeport employed 130,000 people in six locations and was the third-largest employer in Florida after Disney and NASA. They supplied guidance and tracking equipment, hardware and software combined, for almost all US military jets and drones and guided missiles. Most military satellites were also powered by Bridgeport. The company’s reach extended through all branches of the armed forces, and most of the intel agencies. They were the largest single supplier by annual billing to the National Security Agency. They were the electronic grease that kept America’s spy and listening networks spinning.

  Reese was kept waiting in the reception area for almost an hour. The sun had set and the majority of headquarters staff had left for the day. She did not mind at all. The lobby was as pleasant a place as any to reflect. There was no indication anywhere of what precisely Bridgeport did. The glass atrium was high-ceilinged and filled with blooming trees planted in great marble pits. A waterfall fell from one wall and maneuvered about the trees within a rock-lined stream. The musical noise formed a soft privacy curtain around all the groups that still waited to be called inside.

  Finally Reese was ushered down a long corridor and shown into a conference room wrapped in a sunset beyond the glass wall. The two men rose and shook her hand and offered cards and gestured to the coffee service. Reese poured herself a cup because it gave her an opportunity to study the men. She didn’t look at their cards. She didn’t need their names. She called them Linebacker One and Two. They were retired military, down to the greying buzz cuts and bullish builds.

  Reese said, “I need to know you’re recording this conversation.”

  “We can’t confirm or deny anything,” Linebacker One replied. He had the flat drone of a man who had been stressed for so many days he had lost the ability to notice his own fatigue.

  “Perfect,” Reese replied. And it was. Because the man’s response told her all she needed to know.

  The men were formed by the same military mold, hard and well-fleshed with coppery gazes. They were here because some superior had directed them to show up and tell her no. Those were their orders. Selling them was not an option. Their job was to deny her entry.

  Reese said, “I will only say this once. So pay attention.”

  The men shared a smirk and did not respond.

  While still in the lobby, Reese had decided to toss out the instructions that shaped this test. Her orders from Vera were to obtain three contracts, each for one million dollars. Reese knew this pair’s sole job was to bar the door. And they were very good at their job. For her to succeed, she had to use their broad shoulders as a stepping-stone.

  “My name is Reese Clawson. I represent a new security and intel group. I am here to talk with you about Blake Donovan.”

  “Spell the name.”

  She did so.

  Linebacker One pulled a BlackBerry from his jacket and typed. “We have nobody employed at Bridgeport by that name.”

  “Blake Donovan. Your directors have just offered him a contract to become the new chief of this division.”

  Linebacker One was apparently their chosen spokesman. “Even if this were true, which I’m not confirming or denying, we couldn’t discuss this with—”

  “He starts in two days. Which means you have to act fast.” Reese set her case on the table and snapped the locks. “The man has a drug problem.”

  “Ms. . . .”

  “Clawson.”

  “Our intel is the best in the business. It has to be. All senior employees are carefully vetted.”

  “Are they.” She started laying out the documents, the ones she had been instructed to sell. “As you can see, the gentleman was given OxyContin following surgery for a torn ligament. Since then he has supplied himself with prescription painkillers through a PO box in Chevy Chase and a compliant pharmacist in Toronto.”

  Both men leaned their guts against the table to read. One said, “This postbox is not Donovan’s.”

  “Of course he
didn’t open it under his own name.” She turned over the next document. “Here is a photograph of our man opening the mailbox. Here is a copy of his signature on the box rental, a bank account, and a credit card. All in the false name. And here is a Maryland driver’s license, the fake name, but our star’s photo.”

  Two spoke for the first time. “This is bogus. It has to be.”

  Reese found pleasure in turning over the pages one by one. Linking her to a past she’d thought lost and gone forever. She had once been very good at this trade. The best. “And here are authentications. Five in all. Confirmation that the fake name’s signature was written by the same man as the one who signed your contract as Blake Donovan. Followed by authentications that the photographs have not been Photoshopped. Surely you must recognize the name at the top of those pages. Since Bridgeport owns the company.”

  Linebacker One glared at her. “How did you come up with this garbage?”

  She smiled, knowing it was a twisted expression, and finding pleasure in that. “Actually, what happens next is where things really get interesting.” She passed over another photostat. “Recently Blake Donovan began having difficulty focusing. Who wouldn’t, after four months of daily Oxy ingestion. So he used his trips to his former company’s Mexican factory to make another set of clandestine purchases. By the way, certain amphetamines are available over the counter in Mexico. For ninety days and counting, the man has balanced his Oxy diet with uppers. Lovely place, Mexico.”

  One snapped, “Our drug tests would have uncovered this.”

  “Come on, you know how this goes. He uses the same tactic as professional athletes on the needle.” She gave them a moment to object, then continued, “Which brings us to the last little item on my shopping list. Donovan’s former employer caught wind of his new hobbies. But Donovan had uncovered a little secret of his own. Something about the extremely married CEO and a certain receptionist. So they worked out a deal. Donovan was given a glowing reference, and he agreed to leave quietly and swiftly.”

  One drummed his fingers on the table. “Evidence?”

  “None I can share.” Actually, she had none at all. Just the typewritten sheet she had memorized. Which was the clearest evidence Reese had for why she was seated here. Out of prison. Talking to them.

  Two protested, “There’s no way you can know this.”

  Actually, there was. And it was why she had been given this chance. Because she was the only person on earth with the know-how to carry this forward.

  Reese replied, “Talk to their chief in-house attorney. He drew up the documents. But he also uncovered the drug use. He could lose his license to practice law for covering up a felony. He’ll crack like a toasted walnut.”

  The pair exchanged a long look. Two conceded, “We’ll check this out.”

  “Before you hurry off,” Reese said, “there is the small matter of my bill.”

  One sneered, “This is a shakedown. We pay or you go public.”

  “Actually, this information comes to you free of charge. All I want is one small item. Do this and the secrets stay just between us.”

  “And that is?”

  “An hour with your parent company’s chief in-house counsel and finance director. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”

  “Neither of them are in town—”

  “My offer,” Reese replied, “is not open to negotiation.”

  11

  Lena Fennan had the reception area’s sofa to herself. Her attorney, Don Metzer, sat in the padded chair to her right. As usual, Don showed the world an impenetrable calm. If he was even the tiniest bit worried about the firestorm they were about to endure, he gave no sign. He wore a pin-striped suit that was tailored for him on London’s Savile Row. His shoes were made to order by Church on Jermyn Street. Lena knew this because Don had told her. Both the suit and the shoes were throwbacks to a different era, when Don Metzer had been a force to be reckoned with on Wall Street. But the power was gone, along with the perks, and now Don sat in a suit as old as his youngest kid, one tiny step away from insolvency.

  Unless, of course, the chance really did exist that they would both survive the assault being prepared beyond those polished mahogany doors.

  Don’s calm presence kept Lena removed from the terror that should have been consuming her. She knew Don wanted to ask her about how she had happened to walk into his life nine days back. But he was a consummate professional. He was hired to be discreet. Even with his mystery client. Who plainly baffled him.

  But he was here with her now. And he was willing to swallow his questions and his doubts. Even when his entire career was on the line. Because the opposing counsel prepping inside the double doors included the managing partner of Don’s own firm. Or rather, former firm. Upon his return from Denver the previous evening, Don had quietly shifted from a position as salaried partner to something known as of-counsel. Don had told her that the firm’s partners considered his move an act of insanity. But Don had done it anyway. Because of her and this project. He had taken the momentous step without even a murmur of complaint. Which was amazing enough for her to say softly, “I can’t thank you enough for being here.”

  Don continued to stare at the window behind the secretary’s desk. His voice was a soft drone, as bland as his expression. “What can you tell me about the people we’ll be meeting with?”

  She shifted in her seat and pretended to share his calm. She might not be properly terrified. But she had been unsettled and tense and worried for so long, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be serene. Even so, at least she wasn’t alone. “The bankers are Wesley Cummins and Roger Foretrain. The lawyers I don’t know.”

  “Forget the lawyers. I know them. All too well. Tell me about the pair representing First American.”

  “Wesley Cummins is my boss. The week I started here, I renamed him the Weasel. He steals ideas, he claims all credit, and he fires analysts on a whim.”

  “First American sheds junior analysts faster than any other house on the Street,” Don said. “What about the other banker?”

  “Roger Foretrain is why I came to New York. He wrote the book on risk analysis. I read it in two days. The guy has the most amazing mind . . .” She noticed Don had turned from the window and was smiling at her. “What?”

  “You say his name like you’re in love.”

  She felt her face go red. “I’ve never even met him. Weasel forbids any of his team to set foot on the management floors. The first time I stepped inside the directors’ elevator was today.”

  Don went on, “So you came to work with Foretrain, but then your direct boss ordered you not to speak with him.”

  “That is Weasel in a nutshell.” But Lena was tired of thinking about the Weasel. The guy had dominated her life for the eleven longest and most bitterly disappointing months of her existence. Until nine days earlier. When the sky had opened up. And everything changed. But she couldn’t think about that either. Not and endure what she knew was coming. She glanced at her watch. “They’re half an hour late.”

  “Relax. We could be here all day.”

  “Roger Foretrain is never late. Not by a minute. It’s one of his trademarks.”

  “I’m the fly in their coffee.” Don stretched out his legs. He moved like a gymnast in a suit that was going shiny at the elbows. “No good lawyer likes to be blindsided. My managing partner is inside that conference room because your bank is the firm’s largest client. Morley Shaw and his junior associate expected to bring you in there, isolate you on their turf, fry you to a crisp, and go treat their clients to a nice lunch. You were expected to count yourself lucky not to be brought up on felony charges. They never thought you’d show up with legal representation. Especially a guy with Street creds.”

  Lena was flooded with a sense of amazed gratitude. Something that had occurred repeatedly since drawing Don into her life. “What happened to you?”

  Don nodded once, as though approving of her question. “How much did your rese
arch uncover?”

  The truth was, very little. Lena planned to dig further. When she had time. Up to this moment, it had taken every ounce of her strength, every beat of the ticking clock, just to ride the whirlwind.

  She replied, “Pretend I don’t know anything at all.”

  “The short answer is, I bet on the wrong bank. I was partner in a boutique firm. We handled legal matters for a dozen smaller investment houses. Lawyers here tend to specialize, just like everybody else on the Street. My own team handled just two clients. Then our firm was bought out by Morley Shaw’s group. My position was scaled back to what my employers at Arnold and Shaw call a salaried partner. Which means I no longer hold an equity share. Then the latest crisis hit, and one of my clients tanked. The other is struggling. Most of my junior associates were let go.” His smile was as trim as the rest of him. “The bright future vanished. I stopped feeling loved. Or even wanted.”

  “Why didn’t you go out and find more business? That’s what partners do, right? They play rainmaker.”

  “I tried.” This time the smile touched his eyes. “You and I have more in common than you know.”

  “They stole your client?”

  “Not stole. Please. We’re lawyers. They simply assigned my new client to a more senior partner, who gobbled it up and left me hanging.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “The Japanese have an expression for it. Salaried executives who are too senior to just fire are given a desk by the window. They clock in, they sit, they do nothing. Eight hours later, they go home. Most get the message and give up. But I couldn’t. Not with a wife and a mortgage and two kids in private school.”

  “So why did your firm let you take me on?”

  “Because you were seen as too small to matter. The three firms you were focused on were all Colorado based. Where neither my firm nor your bank have a footprint. The issue of co-clients is well established. All I had to show was that there were no adverse parties. Which there weren’t. They let me keep your project because it wasn’t juicy.”