Breaking Point (16 page)

Renee took two steps away from the bed. The small, nickel-plated gun lay on the exact center of the pillow. Like Cinderella's slipper. But how?

She had no memory of getting it down from its box on the high shelf in her closet. The shelf so high that it required using the step stool from the kitchen. She thought back to the combination of Prozac, Vicodin, and liquor she'd taken last night. Was this their combined effect?

She stepped closer to the bed, paused, bent, and picked up the tiny pistol, the barrel as long as the handle, a little V of nickel-plated iron. Andrew had bought it, against her protest, after a break-in by a pair of meth addicts. That had been more than a year ago. Since the day he'd brought it home, this was the first time Renee had touched the semiautomatic. It was cool to the touch, slightly greasy, although when she rubbed her fingertips together, she realized that was an illusion.

Renee thumbed the release, let the small magazine slide out into her right hand. The magazine was fully loaded. Had it been, before? Maybe. She couldn't remember.

She retrieved the step stool from the kitchen and returned the .25 to its box on the high shelf.

She went to the bathroom and found the vials of Prozac and Vicodin. She thumbed off the caps, lifted the toilet-seat lid, and stood, for just the longest time, a vial in each hand. After a while, she put the caps back on, lowered the toilet seat, and returned to the kitchen to make a full pot of coffee.

BIG SKY COMMUNITY HOSPITAL

The ER doctors had put Kiki Duvall on whole blood because she'd bled more from the leg wound than she had realized. They also offered a morphine drip but she declined, telling them, “I may have to stay sharp.”

Tommy woke up in the adjacent bed with the aid of a penlight in his right eye; his left eye dilated accordingly, which was good.

A young, female doctor asked him the requisite questions. (“My mom? Ah, Ann. She was Ann … Friday. Well, we went down on Thursday. Probably Friday … Other medical conditions? Jesus, a plane just fell on my ass!”)

The doctor determined that his concussion was mild. He was given a private room and sedated.

*   *   *

In all, eight of the twenty-six passengers and crew survived the crash of Polestar Flight 78. They included the teenage girl with the upper-arm bleeder and the man with the gaping abdominal wound, both of whom Tommy had treated. Other survivors included the woman with the broken ankle, whom Kiki had rescued and Tommy had assisted, and the Middle Eastern man Kiki and someone else had helped carry out of the fuselage.

ANNAPOLIS

Her iPhone rang and Renee snapped it up. “Hello?”

A somber, male voice said, “Is this the home of Andrew Malatesta?”

She dropped to her knees in the middle of the living room. “Yes.”

“Are you a member of the family?”

“Yes. I'm his wife. I'm Renee. His wife.”

“Mrs. Malatesta, my name is David. I represent Polestar Airlines. Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm calling with very bad news. Your husband's flight? Flight Seven-Eight to Seattle? It crashed last night, outside Helena, Montana.”

Renee's peripheral vision dimmed. Her eyes stung, they were so dry.
Why no tears?
she wondered.
Why aren't I crying?

“Mrs. Malatesta, I regret to inform you that your husband died in the crash.”

Renee said, “Oh.”

The line was quiet for a while.

“Mrs. Malatesta?”

“Ooooooooohhhh…”

“Mrs. Malatesta? There's an e-mail heading your way right now. To the homes of all the families. We're arranging transportation and lodging for everyone who wants to come to Helena.”

Her mouth fished open but, with no more air in her lungs, the long, low keening noise died out. She slumped back, sitting on her ankles, the long fingers of her left hand stretching down to touch the blond wooden floor, balancing her.

“The e-mail will explain everything. It has my name and number, a twenty-four-hour hotline. There's a Web site. We are here to do everything in our power to help you in your time of need.”

The caller waited a minute. “Okay. Well … ma'am, our condolences.” And he hung up.

Renee set the phone down gently on the floor. She knelt with her legs under her and steepled her fingers on her lap.

Her eyes were so dry they itched.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Halcyon/Detweiler's Infrastructure Subcommittee on Deferred Maintenance met at a mom-and-pop coffee shop in Dupont Circle.

Liz Proctor of the Aircraft Division and Admiral Gaelen Parks (retired) of the Military Liaison Division were already seated as Barry Tichnor entered. Both of them eyed Barry with hostility as he went to the counter and ordered a cup of decaf.

He sat, his thick eyeglasses gleaming.

Parks whispered, “What in God's name happened?”

Barry poured a little sugar substitute into his coffee and stirred. They waited. “The first field test was a success.”

“Jesus Christ!” Liz exploded, and people at other tables looked over. She lowered her voice and hissed, “Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously? You tested the device on U.S. soil? On a civilian airliner? We don't have a list of survivors yet but there were twenty-six people on that plane! Twenty-six Americans!”

Barry looked at his spoon and considered using it to gouge out her trachea. But he set it down on a square brown napkin, letting it absorb the residue of coffee and sweetener. “If it's at all possible,” he said, smiling, “could you avoid using the Lord's name in vain?”

The others stared at him.

“We have a potential buyer,” Barry said. “It's a country. An ally, before you ask. They are offering a … hefty sum for the device, if it works. We are looking at what I would refer to as a staggering third quarter, if everything pencils out.”

“India,” Liz said, and got a soft smile from Barry in return. “It's India or South Korea, but my money says India.”

Barry shrugged. “The point is, the test was a success. The device works. Malatesta spoke to a journalist regarding ways to release his knowledge of this operation to the media. In movies it's called The Big Reveal. Very dramatic. He was also writing a speech to be given at a technology expo, saying he was giving up his Pentagon contracts and renouncing Satan—that's us—for experimenting with an illegal device. He hacked into our R-and-D computers. He had rock-solid proof.”

Admiral Parks said, “Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn.”

“Yes.” Barry nodded. “Damned, indeed.” He took a sip and winced when it burned his tongue. Light danced on the refracting lenses of his thick glasses.

The table was quiet for several seconds.

Liz said, “You're using…?”

“Someone quite good. We've used him before.”

Parks said, “The speech?”

Barry sipped his coffee. “Secured.”

HELENA

The drugs wore off and Tommy Tomzak woke at about 2:30
P.M.
on Friday. He slid slowly into consciousness, the firm, comfortable pressure of Kiki Duvall on his left shoulder. She had snuck out of her room around noon and curled up in Tommy's bed.

She shifted, her thigh sliding across his.

“Hey,” Tommy muttered, his lips as dry as chalk. He blinked a few times and the penny dropped: the flight, the crash, the whole thing. The general sense of dullness that comes only from Schedule I narcotics washed over him.

A headache and dizziness kicked in. “Jesus.”

Kiki kissed his stubbly cheek. “Tommy?”

“Damn, we were…” His vision blurred. “I'm concussed. We gotta get me to a hospital.”

“Tommy, this is a hospital. In Montana.”

He bleared around, realized she was right. “Oh. You okay?”

Kiki leaned into him and reached for the lidded cup on the bed stand. It had a straw. She put it to Tommy's lips and he sipped the stale, warm water.

“Thanks. You okay?”

Kiki kissed him on the lips. Her face was blotchy and swollen, her dusty red hair a mess, her eyes bloodshot. As luck would have it, her boyfriend's vision was so blurry from the concussion, he thought she looked beautiful.

“I love you,” he said.

“Tommy? Isaiah didn't make it.”

He blinked. “He missed the flight?”

“Isaiah died in the crash. He's dead. Isaiah died.”

“But … No, he…” Tommy's brain scrambled to make sense of the words he had just heard. “Oh my god…”

Kiki nestled her face in Tommy's clavicle and cried. He gripped the back of her head in one calloused hand, pulling her close, into his shoulder, and tears poured down his cheeks.

LOS ANGELES

It was not quite 1:30
P.M.
Friday, Pacific time, and Ray Calabrese sat in the cafeteria of the Los Angeles field office of the FBI, at a table to himself, coffee untouched and sports page of the L.A.
Times
open but unread. His foul mood was so palpable, others steered clear of him.

The whole situation with Daria Gibron was eating at him. Ray had met her when she was with Israeli intelligence and had uncovered a right-wing plot to assassinate a member of the Israeli Knesset and blame it on a moderate Lebanese minister. Not knowing whom to trust, she'd turned to an FBI team, led by Ray, in Tel Aviv for a law enforcement conference. The plot had been foiled and Daria had taken a bullet to her abdomen. After recuperating at Ramstein, and knowing that people in her own agency had put a price on her head, she'd emigrated to the States. Ray got her a job translating for Los Angeles's thriving Middle Eastern business community. The job had not been a good fit. To say the least.

During the insanity of the Oregon air crashes, Daria's actions had led directly to the death of four Ulster Irish terrorists. Her actions had been brave if foolhardy and the FBI had been more than grateful. The bad news: she hadn't given a damn about the accolades, she wanted to get back into the game.

The FBI had said no. Brave but foolhardy; it worried them. The ATF, on the other hand, liked a little foolhardy. They had an undercover unit working directly with the ultraviolent drug cartels on both sides of the U.S.–Mexico border, trying to cut off the endless river of guns that flow from the United States to the gangs. Daria could pass for Latina and could handle herself in a fight or under the crushing weight of a long-term false persona.

They took her on for a high-risk undercover op. Against the advice of Ray Calabrese's very strongly worded written statement opposing the move.

As Ray sat in the cafeteria and stewed, Henry Deits, recently promoted to special agent in charge of the L.A. field office, set down a Pepsi and a lemon Danish and pulled out a chair. “Hi, Ray. I haven't seen you since you got back. How was your vacation?”

Ray folded the sports section and checked his watch. “Fine. I should—”

“And by
vacation,
I mean: what dumb-ass stunt did you pull in Mexico that has the ATF lobbying mortar rounds into my office?” He took a healthy bite of the Danish and waited.

Ray glowered. Henry continued to wait.

“It's Daria Gibron.”

Henry Deits moved the paper plate and the pastry six inches to the side, then bent at the waist and rapped his forehead twice against the tabletop.

“What on God's green earth were you thinking?”

“That operation is a clusterfuck, Henry! The agent in charge is a drug addict. There's a line in the sand that separates law enforcement from vigilantism, and that unit's about three miles past that line! If it was
just
entrapment, that would be unethical and illegal. No, this J. T. Laney character is putting on a road-show production of
Heart of Darkness.
I've investigated. They're not just planting guns and arresting traffickers. They're engaging in open warfare! The death toll is rising and Daria is stuck somewhere between live bait and part of a black ops death squad!”

Henry groaned. “ATF is a fine agency, Ray. They're above reproach.”

“Most, yes. I agree. This unit has gone native.”

“But they filled out all the right paperwork when they borrowed our asset. Daria built up her reputation as a gunrunner both here and in Israel. Her cover is spotless. Look: she was bored in L.A. She volunteered for this.”

“She volunteered to help ATF, not to be part of an illegal wet-works squad!”

“That's your take on things. Fine. I trust you. But you've started a bureaucratic firestorm inside the Justice Department and I got guys from D.C. who want me to bench you pending an investigation.”

“Good!” Ray's voice was drawing attention from other tables. “Do it. Start an investigation. Get Laney and his guys back to the States. Get 'em deposed, closed-door hearings, whatever. Let's shed some light on—”

Ray's cell phone chirped. He reached to turn it off but Henry's phone rang as well. Ray changed his mind and answered.

“Agent Calabrese? My name is Nathan Kowalski and I work for Delevan Wildman, director of the—”

“NTSB, I know.”

Across the table, Henry's eyebrows rose. “Ray? I got NTSB, too.” Into the phone, he said, “What's this about?”

But the voice on Ray's phone drew his attention. “The director asked me to call you and tell you that some friends of yours from our agency have been involved in a plane crash.…”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, Ray and Henry Deits stood in Ray's office. Ray was checking the contents of an overnight bag he kept there.

“I called the AIC in the Montana field office. She's totally understaffed and has three agents out on medical leave. When I offered you as liaison to the crash investigation, she jumped at it.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Ray added his service weapon and extra magazines.

“I'm not being a nice guy here. This lets me put off the ATF crap, at least for now.”