Breaking Point nf-4

by Tom Clancy

  That’s what you thought about the feds connecting you to all this, too, remember?

  He tried to ignore the thought. He still couldn’t figure out how they had done that. He had been so careful.

  “How do we know you will deliver?”

  “You know I have the information. I’ve demonstrated it to your satisfaction, haven’t I? Once I have the money, why wouldn’t I? It doesn’t make any sense not to, does it?”

  “Having it and giving it to us are not exactly the same though, are they?”

  “I’ll be sitting right there next to you. You transfer the money. I transfer the information. I assume you will have scientists standing by who can verify the information. I can give you the names of some of yours who have the ability to confirm it — Dr. Jang Ji, or George Chen, or Li Hun—”

  “That won’t be necessary. We know who our scientists are. But can they verify it immediately?”

  “If they have a test subject and access to ECG equipment and a couple of basic transmitters, they can be ready to run the experiment as soon as they get the code sequence. They’ll be able to confirm it before the movie is over. Only on a small scale, of course, but in this case, size doesn’t matter. It will work as well in the field as it does in the tab — you’ve seen that.”

  There was a short pause as Wu apparently digested this information.

  “That’s the deal, Mr. Wu. Take it or leave it.”

  “All right. I’ll see you at noon tomorrow. Have a pleasant trip.”

  Wu disconnected, and Morrison blew out a big sigh of relief. This had all gone a lot more crossways than he had ever anticipated. A large part of him wished he could turn back the clock and reconsider this whole idea.

  “He went for it,” Ventura said. Not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We’re in business.”

  Morrison was worried. “This sounds very risky to me. A public movie theater? It will be too easy for him to bring men with guns in and hide them among the audience. He could have fifteen or twenty of them and we wouldn’t know it.”

  Ventura smiled into the rearview mirror. “Do I tell you how to program your signals? Offer advice on frequencies?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll know who they are. The theater will be having a special screening tomorrow at noon, for screenwriters, members of the WGA. They’ll have to show a card to get in the showing. Everybody else will either be one of ours or belong to the Chinese. We’ll let their people in, because we will have the advantage. The employees, from the booth to the concession stand to the guy who tears your ticket in half, will be our people. For every one they get inside, we’ll have one in a nearby seat covering them. Everybody our men don’t know will be a potential target. If click comes to bang, they will know who to shoot. And if they miss? Well, nobody will notice if there are a few less screenwriters anyhow. Everybody in L.A. is working on a script.”

  “How can you do this? You know the guy who owns the place?”

  “I am the guy who owns the place. Over the years, I’ve done pretty well for my retirement, Doctor. I own that theater, a bar, part interest in a health club, and a couple of high-profile restaurants. Plus the blue chip stocks and bonds, of course. I’m not in the same class as you are about to be, but I could live fairly comfortably off the investments and interest without ever touching my principal. If your money isn’t working for you, it’s just gathering dust.” He smiled.

  Morrison shook his head. This was incredible. Why would a man of wealth and property risk his life to work as a bodyguard?

  Ventura must have read his mind. “ ‘Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.’ A man likes to keep busy doing work he enjoys.”

  Morrison looked away from Ventura.

  This was getting stranger — and more frightening — all the time.

  Washington, D.C.

  Michaels sat at his kitchen table, holding a cup of coffee. It was early, just about dawn, and Toni was still asleep. He drank and stared at the wall, his gaze going through the paneling and Sheetrock and wood and focusing on nothing a thousand miles away.

  And how is your life, Mr. Michaels?

  Why, just fine, thank you very much. My ex-wife is getting remarried to some Idaho dork and taking my child away from me — unless I want to get into an ugly child custody case that will probably scar my daughter for life, something she doesn’t deserve and I won’t do.

  I personally spoke to the man who almost certainly killed scores of Chinese by using some kind of radio beam to drive them crazy, and if I had been on the fucking ball, I would have stopped him before he did it again to scores of Americans. He walked into my office and I smiled and let him walk out.

  The head of my military arm was shot and seriously wounded because I wanted him to go along and keep the federal marshals company, and the guy I sent them all after plugged a marshal while he was at it, got away, and is still on the loose.

  My boss is ready to nail my ass to the nearest wall for not keeping her in the loop.

  What else? Oh, right. My woman is back and sleeping in my bed, but she’s considering taking a job where she’ll be looking over my shoulder at my work and then telling my boss all about it. And she didn’t think it was worth mentioning.

  He had come home late, Toni had already been asleep, and he’d stewed about this particular problem until he conked out. And he woke up thinking about it.

  That it?

  Yeah, I think that just about covers it. My life is just swell.

  He sipped at the coffee. It was cold. He considered getting up to warm it, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Sitting and staring at the wall was ever so much more important.

  Sure, sitting and whining about how hard your life is, that’s the way to go, all right.

  “Up yours!”

  “Hey. What did I do?”

  Michaels looked up. He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud until he heard Toni. She stood there, wearing one of his dress shirts and nothing else, and she looked absolutely gorgeous, even though her face was sleep-wrinkled and her hair was a tangled rat’s nest. That didn’t help, that she was beautiful and he loved her. He’d thought things were okay when she came back, he’d thought all was right with the world.

  Well, think again, pal.

  “Nothing, I was just talking to myself.”

  She took a mug from the dishwasher and poured coffee into it. She inhaled the vapor, blew it out, then drank. She turned and leaned against the counter, looked at him. “You want to talk about it?”

  Did he want to talk about it? Goddamned right he wanted to talk about it. They could start with How come you didn’t tell me you’d been to see the director to discuss going to work for her? Slip your mind? Not important enough to even mention? Don’t want to let me in on little details in your life, like where you are going to work?

  But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “Not really.”

  She took another sip of the brew. “Okay.”

  Fine. Fine. If she wasn’t going to bring it up, he would rot in hell for all eternity before he brought it up!

  He said, “I need to go in early. I’m having a meeting with the mainline SAC to coordinate our investigation to find Morrison.”

  “Want me to ride along?”

  “Suit yourself.” That came out a little snippier than he wanted, but what the hell, it was how he felt.

  She blew out a sigh, then put the coffee mug down on the counter and crossed her arms. “All right. What’s eating you? You’re so pissed off you’re about to spit. Did I do something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He could feel the acid drip from his voice, feel the rage just barely buried under his words.

  “So why are you taking my head off?”

  He was not going to say it, he was not going to say it! “No reason. I was just wondering, since you are always hammering at me for keeping to myself, not telling you what is g
oing on inside my head, I was just wondering why you didn’t tell me you were considering going to work for Melissa Allison, that’s all.”

  Well. So much for his burn-in-hell resolve not to mention it.

  She unfolded her arms, put one hand to her mouth, and she had, by God, the grace to at least look guilty. She said, “I… I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

  “When? When I saw them painting your name on your new parking space?”

  “Alex—”

  “No, no, you don’t have to explain. You can do what you want, I don’t have any strings on you. You want to work for the folks on the other side of the compound, hey, it’s not my business. You are going to take the job, right?”

  Her arms came back up and she crossed them tightly in front of her breasts. She stared back at him. “Yes. I am.”

  His gut twisted. Well. There you go. Signed, sealed, delivered.

  He stood. “Congratulations. I’m so glad we had a chance to discuss it before you made your decision.” He stalked past her toward the bedroom. Probably not as impressive as it might have been, since he was wearing nothing but his old ratty bathrobe with the frayed cuffs and torn shoulder.

  “Don’t do this, Alex! Don’t shut down on me!”

  “You have no room to say that right now,” he said. “No room at all. I’m going to work.”

  “If you do, I won’t be here when you get back!”

  “Fine, you’re going to do what you want anyhow — why bother to tell me!”

  And that pretty much ended that conversation.

  29

  Wednesday, June 15th

  Washington, D.C.

  In the cab on the way to the rental car place, Toni fumed. Why did Alex have to be such a horse’s ass?

  All right, yes, she should have told him about the job interview, and that she was seriously considering taking the offer. But, really, when did she have the chance? After she had seen the director, Alex had been out of his office and busy. He hadn’t come back to his condo until late, and she’d been in bed. The first time she could have reasonably brought it up was this morning, and before she had a chance to say anything, he’d jumped down her throat. How fair was that?

  Uh-huh. You can make the case that way to him if you want, but let’s not bullshit ourselves, okay? You could have mentioned it before you went to the meeting. And you were only pretending to be asleep when Alex got home because you didn’t want to talk about it. Try again.

  All right, yes, yes, it was true. But even so, he still didn’t have any right to blow up like that. He wasn’t her father!

  No, but he’s the man you love. And he was right about one thing — you did to him what you absolutely hate to see him do to you — you kept him in the dark about what was going on inside your head. And all that business about you not being there when he got home? What was that?

  Toni sighed. She hated these arguments with her inner self. She always lost. She could rationalize to somebody else, but she couldn’t fool herself — not for long, anyhow. Alex’s anger had ignited her own, and when they’d both had a chance to cool down, they’d be able to discuss things more rationally. He did love her, she knew that, and just because they’d had a fight didn’t mean all was lost forever. She hadn’t had much practice at that, fighting with somebody you loved, and every time it happened, she had a belly-twisting fear that it would be the end. One cross word, blap! they’d go their separate ways. Maybe you got over that, in time. She hoped so.

  All right. So now the question was, Should she wait and hash this out with Alex? Or should she go to Quantico, see the director, and tell her she was going to take the job? Her ego said to hell with him, do what you want. But her heart said she should at least sit down and explain to him why she wanted to do it. Okay, so he was pissed off at her, he was busy, and he had a lot on his mind, but they could find a few minutes to work this out. This was more important than anything else in her life, she couldn’t just turn and walk away from it.

  “Here we are, lady,” the cabbie said.

  Toni blinked. The trip had been a blur, she couldn’t remember any of it.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Her mind was set. She would get the rental car, drive to the office, and find a time and space to talk to Alex. She could make him understand. She knew she could.

  New York City

  The bar was a rat hole — shoot, a self-respecting rat would think twice about sticking its nose in here, and if it had two neurons to spark at each other, it would decide not to risk it. The lighting was mercifully dim, but you could still see the knife scars in the wooden bar, the initials carved in the tables and stools. There were flats and holographs on the walls lit by neon beer signs, the posters of mostly naked women perched in various poses on Harley Davidson motorcycles. On a couple of the pictures, certain portions of the women’s anatomy had been worn through to the dark wall underneath, caused by somebody rubbing or kissing the images. The mirror behind the bar was cracked in two places, held together with glass-mend strips, and few of the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bartender were more than half-full.

  The bartender was six and a half feet tall, probably weighed three hundred pounds, and he wore a leather vest and oil-stained jeans that presumably went to the tops of his big old motorcycle boots. He had tattoos all over what was visible of his body, everything from Li’l Hot Stuff to naked women with large breasts — and large fangs. The centerpiece was a Harley logo on his chest, partially obscured with thick patches of graying hair.

  Lined up at the bar and seated at the tables were other bikers, men and women, and none of them looking what you would call… wholesome…

  On a raised platform off to one side of the bar, red and blue lights played over a listless dancer. She was naked, save for several rings piercing various body parts, and a few small but interesting tattoos of her own, including a flame-colored one shaped like an arrow that pointed at one of the more intimate piercings — or what was being pierced. The music was some bump-and-grind number with saxophones and a lot of drums, and the dancer could have phoned in her performance. From her face, one could see the dancer was well past her prime; from stretch marks and scars, one could guess that she’d had children, cosmetic surgery, and probably an appendectomy. The overall effect was as erotic as a chunk of concrete, and nobody was watching the woman dance.

  Jay Gridley, wearing a sleeveless blue denim jacket sporting colors from the Thai Tigers Motorcycle Club — TTMC superimposed over a growling tiger’s face — stood between two bruisers a foot taller than he and probably half again his weight.

  One of the bruisers accidentally tapped Jay with his elbow as he turned to speak to a mama on the other side of him.

  “Watch it,” Jay said.

  The biker turned back to Jay, death in his eyes, but when he saw Jay, he blinked and said, “Sorry, man.”

  Jan grinned. Well, what the hell, it was his scenario, wasn’t it? If he was gonna be in a bad biker titty bar, he might as well be the baddest guy in the place, right? Jay knew he had the moves to wipe up the virtual floor with anybody in the place, and even in VR, people could sense a real expert from his moves and stance.

  It probably said something about his fantasy life that he would come up with such a scenario, and was able to flesh it out-as well as he had, but hey, if you can’t have fun, what is the point?

  The bartender came over, and Jay pointed at his empty glass. The giant nodded, reached behind himself, and pulled a bottle of tequila off the shelf. When he poured, the worm sloshed into the glass with the fiery liquid. He looked at Jay.

  Jay shrugged. “Leave it. It adds texture.”

  The bartender started to turn away. Jay said, “I’m looking for somebody.”

  “Yeah?” He locked gazes with Jay.

  “Yeah. A shooter.” He pulled the smudged drawing from his jacket pocket. This was the composite put together by the computer artist, based on the HAARP guards’ description of “Dick Grayson.”
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  The bartender never took his gaze from Jay’s. “Don’t know him, ain’t seen him,” he said.

  “Look at the picture.”

  “Don’t need to. Won’t matter.”

  “So that’s how it is.”

  “Yeah. That’s how it is.”

  Jay grabbed the bartender by a clump of chest hair and jerked him against the edge of the bar. With his free hand, he pulled an automatic knife with a five-inch blade from his jeans. He put the point against the bartender’s throat, just under his chin.

  In the real world, Jay had grabbed the home address of the guy playing bartender and force-fed the generating computer a virus-laced cookie. If he didn’t pull the knife away, the guy’s system was going to go belly up in about ten seconds after he “cut” him.

  “Look at the picture or I give you a new smile.”

  The bar patrons hadn’t noticed the action, save for those closest to Jay, and they quickly edged away. The dancer continued her sleepwalking shuffle.

  “Okay, don’t get twitchy.” The bartender glanced down at the image.

  Jay grinned. This visit to a mercenary chat room on VR was a lot more interesting than running facial points of comparison against the image files of the NCIC, NAPC, or the FBI, looking for a match — which he had already done, and come up with zed-edward-roger-oliver.

  “Jeez,” somebody said from the doorway. “Jay?”

  The voice sounded familiar. Jay released the bartender and turned.

  Tyrone Howard stood there, looking around the inside of the biker’s hangout.

  “Tyrone? What are you doing here?”

  There were a few people to whom Jay had given his forwarding code, so that if they needed to contact him electronically, they could in essence meet him on the net wherever he was. It wouldn’t work in a high-classification security area, but any hacker worth three bytes could follow the line into anything as simple as this kind of public access site if Jay allowed him past the fire wall. Tyrone Howard had been very helpful during the mad Russian thing a few months back, and Jay had added him to the list of people who could contact him in a hurry.