Breaking Point (33 page)

The feds would probably want to have a few more chats with the widow Morrison, and certainly the Chinese would pay the young lady a visit, but since she didn't know anything, she couldn't tell either side anything. She might be joining her late husband by the time the Chinese figured that out, but that wasn't his problem--as long as he wasn't there when the Yellow Peril came to call.

The Yellow Peril.
He smiled. He wasn't a racist. Sure, he played that card for people like Bull Smith, to allow them to believe he was simpatico with their beliefs, but he didn't care one way or another about somebody's skin color or gender. He'd worked with people of every race, male and female, and the single criterion that mattered to him was how well they could do the job. If you could pull the trigger when it came to that, and hit your mark, you could be a green hermaphrodite with purple stripes for all he cared. He'd learned the term "Yellow Peril" from the old Fu Manchu books, material that had been written in an age where racism was the default belief and nobody thought much about it.

Normally for this kind of work Ventura would have wanted to take his time. He'd get to know the territory, learn the patterns, who went where, when, and how, and not move until he had everything pinned down. The more you knew, the fewer chances for surprises. He didn't have that luxury now. He needed to move quickly, get his business done, and leave this behind him. He had his money cleared, clean IDs, and safe places where he could hide until he had a chance to work out his longer-term plans. Being in the moment didn't mean you couldn't
think
about the future; it merely meant you didn't
live
in the future.

He was, he figured, in a fairly good position. Still there was that nagging uneasiness, that sense of being a bug on a slide. As if a giant eye could appear in the microscope at any time, staring down at him. He did not like the feeling.

Well. You did the best you could, and that was that; nothing else mattered.

They were still an hour or more away from SeaTac. He'd get some rest. It might be a while before he had another chance. He took a series of slow, deep breaths.

In three minutes. he was asleep.

Chapter
35.

Quantico, Virginia

Toni went to the small gym to work off the tension and anger she felt. There was a guy in steel-rimmed glasses, a T-shirt, and bike shorts doing hatha yoga in the corner, otherwise the place was empty. She hurried through her own stretching routine, bowed in, and began practicing
djurus,
working the triangle, the
tiga.
Half an hour later, when she was done, she started footwork exercises on the square,
langkas
on the
sliwa.

The moves were there, automatic after so many years, but her mind was elsewhere.

Alex was upset with her, that was obvious. Well, what had she expected? That he would smile and pat her on the head and offer his congratulations? She tried to see it from his viewpoint, but she knew she couldn't have it both ways, not this time. This was the best thing. Working for him had become a sore point even before they had gone to London; he wasn't treating her like he did the other members of the Net Force team, he was shielding her, and she didn't want that, not in the work. So, okay, there was going to be an uncomfortable period while he adjusted to her new job. She didn't like it, but that was how it seemed to be working out.

In the long run, she kept telling herself, it would be better for them. They'd be able to relate to each other more like equals, the personal relationship wouldn't be bogged down in the professional one.

Yeah, but in the long run, we're all dead, aren't we? So what happens after a couple months of nobody having a good time if you or Alex get hit by a bus crossing the street? How is that going to fit in with your "long run" plan, hmm?

Toni stopped moving and stared into the mirror at the
end of the room. Crap. I really don't need this.

But--what
help was there for it? What else could she
do? She had to make a living!

She sighed, went back to her footwork.

A few minutes later, she was aware that the yoga guy had finished his routine and left, but that he'd been replaced by a trio of other men. Two of them were in karate uniforms, the third wore dark blue FBI sweats. One of the karate guys wore a brown cloth belt tied around his waist to keep his
gi
shut, the other a black belt. They were watching her. Watching and smiling. Then the guy in sweats leaned over and said something to the other two.

Pentjak silat
wasn't a flashy art; a lot of what went on in it didn't look particularly impressive to the uninitiated. The last time a martial arts player from another style stood here and watched her practice, he had made the mistake of making some ignorant remarks out loud. She had been having a bad day when that happened--not nearly as bad as this one--and she had demonstrated to the loudmouth that what she was doing was in many ways superior to what he knew about fighting. It had been a painful lesson for the man.

The lesson she had learned was pretty painful, too.

She didn't want to think about what had happened with--and to--that man later, but she couldn't avoid it. Rusty had become her student, then her lover, however briefly, and as a direct result, he was dead.

Given the day so far, the opportunity to offer a correction to any--or all--of these three if they spouted off would feel pretty good. It wasn't part of a self-defense mind-set to entertain such thoughts, but
silat
wasn't primarily a self-defense art, it was a
fighting
art, and there was a big difference in your level of aggressiveness.

Toni stopped what she was doing and walked toward the trio.

"Afternoon," she said. "Can I help you with something?"

The guy in sweats was the oldest of the three men; he had short and curly gray hair. He smiled and gave her a small bow. "No, ma'am," he said. "We were just admiring your art, guru.
Silat Tjimande?"

That surprised her. He got the subset wrong, but he knew it was
silat
and he had enough appreciation and understanding to call her "guru," as well. Damn.

"It's
Serak,"
she said, the "k" silent. "But it's Western Javanese, like
Tjimande.
I'm surprised you recognized it."

"I used to work out with an old Dutch
kuntao
teacher in San Diego," he said. "He had done a little training in
silat
as a boy. My JKD teacher also had some training in
Harimau,
tiger-style."

Toni nodded. JKD--jeet kun do, the way of the intercepting fist--was the style created by the late Bruce Lee. It was a hybrid system, and while they weren't big on forms, many of the moves were based on
wing chun,
which to some people looked at least superficially like
silat.
At least the WC players knew in theory what the centerline was, even if they didn't cover it adequately according to
Serak
standards ...

If Curly here knew enough to recognize and respect what she was doing, he probably wouldn't be interested in trying to deck her to impress his friends.
Silat
fighters didn't go in much for point-sparring, and for that matter, neither did JKD players.

Well. Too bad. Kicking somebody's butt would feel pretty good about now.

And she was going to have to do something or she would explode.

But--what could she do?

Woodland Hills, California

It was dark by the time Michaels got to the theater, and there really wasn't much left to look at by then. Truth was, there really wasn't any good reason for him to be here, except to see things--such as they were--for himself. Anybody involved with this who was still alive was undoubtedly long gone.

The bodies had been removed, the screenwriters released after giving their statements, and the local police still puzzled as to what had happened. The mainline FBI op who showed up to meet Michaels was a junior man, not the special-agent-in-charge, but he was willing to say what he thought. His name was Dixon.

Michaels and Agent Dixon ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape covering the doors and went into the building.

"Here's what we know," Dixon said. "The dead men, all thirteen of them, were shot in the theater proper. We have identification on six so far"--he looked at his palm computer--"Wu, Morrison, a screenwriter named C. B. Shane, and three men with criminal records: two Vietnamese-Americans, Jimmy Nguyen and Phuc Khiev, and a man named Maxim Schell. Nguyen, Khiev, Schell, and Morrison were armed with handguns. Nguyen's was in his hand, Khiev's on the floor under his body, Schell's still tucked into his belt. None of them got a shot off, though some of the other dead men did fire their weapons.

"Morrison's gun, a little .22, was locked in his right hand in a death grip, and shot empty. Nobody got hit with a .22 that we can tell. We haven't come up with IDs on the other dead men yet, but all of them had guns, too."

Michaels said, "So what do you think happened here?"

"No way to tell for sure. The dead guys were mostly shot in the back or back of the head, so what it looks like is some kind of ambush. You have to figure that if you have a dozen armed men, most of whom didn't do any shooting before they got taken down, there were a lot of other guys in here blasting away, too. Forensics hasn't gotten the blood all sorted out, but a quick prelim says there were a few who got hit hard enough to bleed, but who didn't stick around."

"Jesus."

"We'd take his help if he offered. You must have some ideas. You got anything for us?"

Michaels thought about it. Toni would tell the director anyway, it was her job now, so it didn't matter if Dixon knew. He said, "Morrison had some kind of valuable data and he used it against the Chinese. We think maybe they were after him. Maybe they caught up with him."

"What kind of data?"

"Sorry, that's need-to-know only."

Dixon shook his head. "Doesn't seem right. The dead guys were all sitting down when the shooting started. And according to the interviews with the screenwriters, everything was quiet until somebody yelled 'Gun!' At which point, all hell busted loose. It sounds more like a negotiation than a face-off."

"It must have been an ugly scene in here."

"Yeah. Though a couple of the screenwriters were more pissed because they didn't get to see the movie than they were upset about all the corpses. Welcome to L.A."

Michaels considered what Dixon had said. A negotiation. Yes, it did, didn't it? Why would the Chinese be negotiating with a man who had wiped out a couple of their villages?

Maybe they wanted him to tell them how. Maybe they were willing to pay for it?

Well, if Wu was the guy negotiating, he hadn't done too good a job of it, had he? And Morrison wasn't going to be pedaling anything, either.

Paris, France

Jay sat slouched in a wicker chair at the Cafe Emile, looking out on the Champs Elysees, not far from the Arc de Triomphe. He sipped black, bitter espresso from a tiny china cup, and smiled at the couples who strolled past. The war was over nearly two years, the Nazi occupation history. Postwar Paris in the spring was a much nicer place than a military surplus store in any season.

Henri, the waiter, approached. He had in his hand a small paper tablet. He gave Jay a nod that was both servile and arrogant and offered him the tablet. " 'Ere iz ze list you wanted, Monsieur Greedlee."

"Merci." Jay took the tablet and waved Henri away. He looked at the list, scanned down the row of names--no ... no ... no ... wait!

Jay sat upright, bumped the table, and sloshed espresso from the cup. Yes! There it was!

He snapped his fingers loudly, caught Henri's attention.
"Garcon! Voulez-vous bien m'indiquer ou se trouve le telephone? Je desire appelez faire!"

Henri rewarded Jay with a sneer. "Bettair you should work on ze pronunciation and ze grammar first, monsieur!"

The arrogant prick knew he wanted to make a call, but he had to correct his French first.

"Montrez du doigt, asshole!"

Henri shrugged off the insult and did as Jay requested--he pointed toward the cafe.

Jay stood and hurried to find the phone.

Wednesday, June 15th

Woodland Hills, California

Michaels had supper at the hotel, and when room service brought him the chicken sandwich, it had bean sprouts on it. Well, of course. This was L.A.

He ate the sandwich mechanically, not really tasting it. He was screwed, there was nowhere to go from here. Toni had been right, he wasn't a field agent. He couldn't just hop on a plane, fly to a crime scene, and expect to spot some crucial clue that the local police and FBI forensics team had somehow missed. He knew better. But he had needed to see the place for himself, hoping it would somehow jog something in him.

Well, it hadn't. And here he was in a hotel in La-La Land, eating a chicken sandwich with bean sprouts, without a clue as to what he should do next.