Breaking Point (7 page)

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 Tichnor 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.”

Barry certainly had seen that one coming. “No problem.”

“And you don't sell to any other country unless I give you a green light. That's
I,
as in
me, personally
.”

Barry nodded.

Agent Scott jutted out her lower lip and let out a puff of air. She held out her hand, palm up.

Barry Tichnor gave her the details of Andrew Malatesta's flight.

VIRGINIA

Calendar sat in a modest hotel room just off the 66 near Falls Church. The room was sterile and devoid of originality, but he'd swept it for bugs.

He'd bought a mint tea at a Starbucks earlier. Now he stripped to his boxers and ran through five hundred crunches and five hundred push-ups, the last fifty one-handed. Sweating but feeling loose, he sipped his cooled tea, sitting at the cheap-ass writing table and booting up his custom-built laptop. He used a sixteen-bit encryption code to get to his Web site. He'd put together a solid enough team for the device's beta test in Nova Scotia. He trusted the men. But staging a mission on American soil, in a little under forty-eight hours, would require a whole different level of teamwork. He'd need men he'd worked with before, the best of the best. Calendar contacted five top-of-the-line independent agents and queried them to see if they were free. One was former British SAS and expensive but quite good. One was an ex-Green Beret. One was ex-Mukhabarat—Syrian intelligence—who'd seen the light of capitalism and had put up his own shingle. One was a former SEAL. The fifth was an ex-Israeli spy currently working for the U.S. ATF in Mexico.

He left them all a coded message:
Looking to hire. Two days from now. U.S. soil. Collateral damage unfortunately guaranteed. Top dollar.

He posted the message, then opened another window. He contacted the Nova Scotia team and told them they had a red light: the mission was off.

His cell phone vibrated. He unfolded it but didn't speak. The mechanical tones told him the antimonitoring software was powering up.

When the noise stopped, Barry Tichnor's badly distorted, mechanical voice said, “You've been sent a download.”

Calendar turned back to his laptop. Sure enough, a pdf file appeared on the desktop.

“Confirmed.”

“This is the site. It has to happen here.”

“Understood.”

He folded the phone, set it down, then double-clicked on the pdf file.

A map of Montana popped open.

Calendar sipped his room-temperature tea. Montana. Close to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

It would be an ideal time to visit home.

SOCORRO, TEXAS

Daria Gibron poured Fortaleza Tequila Blanco into a chipped coffee cup and took her BlackBerry out to the
balcón
of the hotel. She'd showered and slipped into a red sheath dress that tied behind her neck. She was barefoot and sat on the railing.

J. T. Laney, enjoying the cool breeze on the balcony, three rooms down, saw her. He sipped from a can of Coors and smiled. “Nice night,” he called out.

Daria looked up from the BlackBerry. She raised her coffee cup in his direction, nodded. She was showing five inches of tanned thigh. She'd been pinged by a Web cloud frequented by mercenaries. She typed in the thirty-two-key password as J. T. moseyed her way. The breeze was soft, the bougainvillea fragrant. “Can't sleep?” he asked.

She shrugged, eyes on her screen. “Not after a job.
Keyed up,
you Americans say?”

J. T. sipped his beer. “Yeah. Me, too. “ She was looking down, so he took the opportunity to study her breasts. They were worth studying. “Things went good this week. We got the War Dog where we want him.”

It was bullshit, obviously. The entire mission was blown and all they had to show were three high-level soldiers and a cadaver. But Daria kept her opinion to herself and her eyes on the smart phone.

Two days,
she noted.
Collateral damage.
She recognized the coded ID as the man she'd run into twice before. The last time in Helsinki. She'd been Shin Bet at the time. He'd been U.S. Military Intelligence. Genus and family unknown, but allies nonetheless, and the Powers That Be in Tel Aviv and Washington had needed an arms merchant dead. The man had seven bodyguards. Getting to the arms dealer meant going through his men. No other way to play it.

The American worked under the name Calendar. Daria was not tempted to take his offer today. He was decidedly good but a bit mental. She saw it in his lack of emotions in the heat of battle. And when taking a life.

J. T. had walked over and now stood next to her. He ran the backs of two fingers along her bare, muscled shoulder. “One surefire way to blow off steam…” He smiled.