Breaking Point (36 page)

LANGLEY

Bloomberg's cable channel played a clip of Renee Malatesta's press conference, in which she confirmed that the software company had signed a deal with the nation's number-one defense contractor, Halcyon/Detweiler, to become part of the military/industrial complex.

Liz Proctor called Barry Tichnor's office. “Hello?”

She said, “Are you watching?”

“Yes.” He sounded tired.

“Barry? Did things just get better or did things just get worse?”

Renee Malatesta looked half awake and as brittle as a moth's wing.

TWIN PINES

MSNBC played a different clip of Renee's press conference. Wearing wide Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, she sounded like someone in a sleep-deprivation clinical study.

In the break room of the former real estate office, Jack Goodspeed watched the taped press conference. “Hey. Listen to this.”

Hector Villareal sniffed the sleeve of his shirt. It reeked of woodsmoke. “What?”

“This. She's the wife of the guy.”

Hector turned to him. “The guy?”

“I was telling you about. Chautauqua, Harvard. The saddlebag in the food services cart. Andrew Malatesta.”

Hector said, “Six degrees…”

“No, no, man. Listen.”

They did.

Jack shook his head. “That's not what the guy's speech said. I'm … I think it's almost exactly opposite of what the guy was gonna say.”

*   *   *

In the front of the realty office, Ray Calabrese hung up the phone and turned to the Go-Team leaders. Peter Kim was present, along with Beth Mancini, Reuben Chaykin, Gene Whitney, and Lakshmi Jain.

Hector and Jack emerged from the break room, Jack saying, “We should call her. Tell her.”

“It's none of our business.”

Peter Kim checked his watch. It was 4:15
P.M.
Monday. “They're late.”

Ray perched on the edge of a desk. “They went to get aspirin. Look, we're now in a position to prove, at least in part, that there's a conspiracy here.”

Peter buttoned his suit coat. “And we're now in a position to prove that Tomzak has his head so firmly ensconced up his ass that he can see his spleen. That makes you either a dupe or part of his Area 51 Alien Conspiracy Fan Club.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Peter! Come on. We can agree to disagree but—”

Another Ilyushin air tanker roared overhead, and everyone winced until it had passed on. Peter said, “God, those are annoying. Look, we cannot simultaneously investigate this crash, outrun a forest fire, and stave off Tomzak's lunatic need to be center stage.”

Ray fought down his impulse to pop this guy in the mouth. He smiled, nodded. “The good thing about working in a huge bureaucracy like the FBI is, you get immune to nausea when dealing with arrogant, bantamweight demigods with a false sense of adequacy.”

Peter glared at him for two seconds, then, unintentionally, let a brief smile flicker. He turned to Gene Whitney. “At some level, you have to admire the complexity of that insult.”

Gene shrugged. “Had a poetic quality.”

Peter turned back. “And fuck you, too, Ray.” He checked his diver's watch again. “Where are they?”

Ray shrugged. “Jesus Christ, Kim! We've got false federal agents, a wingless airliner flying under a balloon, air tankers barnstorming us every five minutes, a missing crasher, and a forest fire at the back door. Absolutely nothing could surprise me today.”

The bell over the front door tinkled. Tommy and Kiki entered, escorted by Daria Gibron with twin .40-caliber Browning Hi Power autos strapped to her thighs.

Gene Whitney turned to Ray. “I was you, I'd stop saying shit like that, man.”

29

R
AY STOOD, STUNNED. DARIA
offered a small nod.

Tommy looked a little dazed and his lower lip was split. Kiki held an arm curled around her middle, under her breasts, hand in back supporting the rebroken rib. They looked like hell, their hair and clothes dusty, Kiki's denim shirt ripped along one seam.

Kiki started in. “Peter, we can prove it! We—”

“And we can disprove it!” he shouted back.

Tommy said, “Hey. You wanna watch your tone, buddy.”

Reuben Chaykin stepped in. “Tommy, Kiki, we've been patient because you're our people, but your story's full of holes. I'm sorry, but there it is.”

And as people began to shout over one another, Dr. Lakshmi Jain cast a glance around the room, saw two aluminum Open House signs. She picked them up, one in each hand, and brought them together like cymbals.

Ka-lang!

Everyone in the room jumped. Hector, nearest to her, covered his ears. “Ow!”

“Enough! All of you! I have put up with your unprofessional, childish outbursts, but no more! Mr. Kim: you are our leader. Start acting like one!”

It was as if she'd physically slugged him. “I beg your pardon?”

Lakshmi went eye-to-eye with him. “You heard me.”

She turned to Tommy. “And your cowboy antics end here and now. Our investigation has disproved portions of your conspiracy theory. We are minutes away from evacuating this site. Please, in thirty seconds, give us one good reason we should lend credence to anything you say.”

“Okay,” Tommy said, rubbing his swollen jaw. “This here's Daria Gibron. She just stopped two hit men from killing Kiki and me. She ran over one of 'em and she clobbered the other one with a bulldozer.”

Silence reigned for almost five seconds. Finally, Reuben Chaykin said, “Are you guys for real?”

Daria smiled a languid smile and shrugged.

Ray, still staring at her, said, “Hey.”

She rolled chocolate eyes in his direction. “Hallo, Ray.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded.

Beth Mancini studied the newcomer, decked out in a cropped tank, jeans, and dusty boots, a holster belt snugged around her slim hips, twin, saddle-brown holsters tied with leather thongs to both thighs. Beth could not remember ever meeting a woman more solidly muscled than this one with her spiky, boyish haircut.

Beth said, “Everyone? They are going to evac this town any minute now. I—”

She was drowned out by another air tanker, maybe eighty feet off the ground.

Tommy dry-swallowed two more Tylenol, handed the bottle to Kiki.

“Sorry. They are going to evac any minute. I recommend we debrief each other. Quickly, while we still can. Agent Calabrese, why don't you start.”

Peter nodded his approval and turned to Hector, who held the still-working cell phone from the luggage compartment.

Jack Goodspeed stepped into the office's break room and returned with a twelve-pack of bottled water, handed them out, starting with the newcomers.

Ray said, “Okay, this is Daria Gibron. She's attached to ATF and … I didn't realize you'd followed me.”

“Calendar,” she said, and only three other people in the room knew what she meant.

“Right. Tommy said you took out two hitters…?”

“Not him.” She sipped water. “But he's still here.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Could we try this in English?”

Ray nodded. “The silver-haired guy that Tommy and Kiki saw at the crash site is an assassin. He works under the name of Calendar. He freelances for American military and intelligence agencies.”

Reuben Chaykin shrugged. “This is for real?”

“Yes.” Kiki swept hair off her forehead with an open palm. “This is really, really for real.”

Ray said, “Second, I just got off the phone with the U.S. marshal for the District of Columbia.”

Beth frowned. “Me, too.”

“He told me that the agent who signed for the black boxes died of cancer three weeks ago.”

Beth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “No. The marshal's name is Tyson Beck. I talked to him, too. The deputy marshal, um…”

Ray said, “Robert Sonntag.”

“Yes. Beck spoke to Sonntag while I was on hold. He confirmed the story.”

“No,” Ray said softly. “He didn't.”

“Excuse me.” Lakshmi Jain held up one hand, as if still a schoolgirl. “I met a deputy marshal yesterday at the morgue. He identified himself as Robert Sonntag.”

Tommy said, “Describe him.”

“Ah, fifty, perhaps. Large, not fat. One hundred eighty centimeters—”

Tommy throwing in, “Six feet.”

“Yes. Ah, broad-shouldered, short, silver hair…” She froze.

Hector Villareal made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mary, mother of God.”

Beth touched Peter Kim's arm. “Teresa!”

Peter blanched. “Oh. No…”

To Kiki's and Tommy's confused looks, Gene said, “We lost us a team member. Teresa Santiago. She's been off her comms all day.”

Ray Calabrese pinched his nose, willed himself to calm down. “Ah, God. Kim? You and I aren't friends. But please take this in: your comms are compromised. Your team member is dead. Don't believe me, use my cell, call the Marshal Service back, confirm—”

“No.” Peter's voice barely rose above a whisper. “You're right. I know.”

He cleared his throat, eyed the tiled floor, hands on his hips, buying himself a little time. “Ah, everyone? Jack, collect everyone's comms, please. They're compromised.”

After a stunned beat, the crashers reached for their belt units and ear jacks. Jack used a discarded Krispy Kreme box to gather the electronic gadgets.

Kiki said, “Peter, we are so sorry.”

30

“I
T'S AMY. HI. YEAH,
get me Big-Time, please.”

Amy Dreyfus was typing on her Compaq, phone tucked against her ear. On the other side of the office, Terri Loew and Antal Borsa were huddled together.

“Big-Time? Hey. I have a story. I have two sources. It's huge.… No, boss, seriously. We need to post it online now. I'll transmit it to your Hotmail account in, I don't know, five minutes. Chief? The editorial meeting is in twenty minutes. Go fight for the front page. Above the fold … I kid you not.”

TWIN PINES

Peter Kim pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, bit his lips. He gathered himself. “Okay. The conspiracy's real. The assassins are real. The black boxes are fakes. That still leaves us asking: what brought down Flight Seven-Eight? And why?”

“All power died. Like that.” Tommy snapped his fingers.

Peter shook his head. “One cell phone. That's all it would take to disprove your electromagnetic-pulse theory. Hector?”

Wiping his cheeks, Hector Villareal produced the cell phone and the gold-painted, chain-metal clutch purse from the luggage bay. He set them both down on a desk. The purse was small but heavy, and clanked as it hit the desk. He hit Power and the cell phone sang a little mechanical ditty.

“From the Claremont,” he said, his voice husky with tears. “We found it in this.”

He pointed to the clutch fashioned from intermeshed metal links.

Tommy couldn't believe his eyes. The one theory that made sense was crushed to dust. “But … I was sure—”

Peter Kim said, “What the fuck?”

Everyone paused. They'd expected him to sound triumphant. But Peter looked like he'd seen a ghost. He pointed to the little purse. “What the hell is that?”

Lakshmi shrugged. “It's a purse.”

Beth said, “A clutch. A purse without a handle or shoulder strap. Women carry them—”

“Holy crap!” Peter spun to Jack, then to Hector. “The phone was in
that
?”

They nodded.

Beth was lost. “Peter, it's a clutch. What—”

“It's a fucking Faraday cage!”

Reuben, an engineer, got it right away. “Wow!”

Jack was next. “Oh, man…”

Tommy said, “You're over my head, fellas.”

Peter, livid with rage at himself, crossed to a wipe board on the wall of the office and grabbed a marker. He started drawing with vicious stabs at the board. He drew a sphere, made of connected hexagonal links around a box marked with an X.

He turned to Jack. “How many other electrical devices did you guys check?”

“Dozens,” Jack said. “Phones, gaming devices, shavers, whatever. None of them worked.”

“Dammit!” Peter continued to draw. He turned and stabbed one finger toward the chain-link purse. “This purse, this clutch, acted as a goddamn Faraday cage! Look, an electromagnetic pulse shuts down all electrical circuits. Right? The only known way to block an EMP is to build an enclosure of conducting metal, or a mesh of such metal.” He pointed again to the metal-mesh purse.

“An external static-electrical field should have short-circuited that phone. Like it did everything else on Flight Seven-Eight. But inside the chain-metal clutch? Inside a damn Faraday cage? The static field caused the electrical charges naturally in the cage to redistribute themselves. It cancels the external field, protecting the device within the purse!”

Tommy's eyes went from the crude drawing to the purse on the desk. “God
damn!
”

“A Faraday cage.” Peter capped the marker and hurled it overhanded, harmlessly, against the office's front window. “Proof positive, Tomzak: you were right and … I was wrong.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

An aide to Admiral Gaelen Parks, director of Halcyon's Military Liaison Division, caught the
Washington Post's
online story about the Malatestas.

“Dammit!” he muttered, then dashed from his cubicle, down the corridor, to the office of the admiral.

Gaelen Parks's secretary said, “Hi, Captain,” then frowned. “Hey, he's got someone in—”

The aide ignored her, stalked into the admiral's office. Gaelen Parks sat on the big, green leather love seat, across a low coffee table from two high-ranking Pentagon officers.

A lowly captain could expect to get reamed out for interrupting the brass like this, but Parks had relied on this man for years. He stood. “Gentlemen, I think this may be something I need to take care of. Can you give me a minute?”