Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,79
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