Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,95
don’t hang out in hospitals tempting fate if they can help it.”
They were in the conference room at HQ. Somebody had put a pot of coffee and a box of assorted pastries on the table. Michaels picked up a bear claw, examined it, and put it back. He selected a glazed donut instead. A nice sugar rush and a little caffeine, just what he needed, so he could rot his teeth, court diabetes, and raise his blood pressure all at the same time.
Hell with it. Given the way things had been going lately, what difference would it make? He took a big bite of the donut.
“Julio says Howard’s ready to come back to work now.”
“He can take a few days off and heal. So can you.”
Jay shook his head. “I’m fine. I want to be here for this. It’ll be a lot less strenuous in VR. I can ride the net here, or I can do it at home, but I’m gonna ride somewhere.”
“All right,” Michaels said. “Let’s review what we have. According to your Mr. Fiscus, the man we are looking for used to be some kind of freelance hired assassin who supposedly got out of that business and into bodyguarding a few years back. Aside from ‘Dick Grayson,’ he uses a variety of names, among them Diego, Gabriel, Harbor, Colorado, and Ventura. Is he Hispanic, do we think?”
Jay laughed, then said, “Ow.” He pressed his hand against his sore rib.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t laugh. I don’t think he’s necessarily Hispanic or Latino, Boss. Those are all names of Los Angeles freeways.”
Michaels nodded. “Okay, so he knows about Batman and the SoCal highway system. What else do we have?”
“Zip. I looked in the phone directories,” Jay said. “He ain’t listed, and we haven’t been able to get a facial-points match on any police agency computers. Man has a very low e-profile.”
Michaels looked at Toni. He had to ask. “You’re going to take the job with mainstream, aren’t you? Working for the director?”
“I—yes.”
“So is the information flow going to be both ways?”
“That’s what the job description says.”
“Okay. See what you can get from them on this.”
If they could find out who this Ventura character was, if they could background and history him, they might be able to track him down. And if they found him, they’d find Morrison.
The intercom blipped. “Yes?”
His secretary said, “Sir, we have an incoming call from the director for Toni Fiorella.”
Michaels frowned. He waved at Toni, who picked up a handset on the table.
“Yes, ma’am?”
The director said something, and Toni nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I have decided.” She glanced at Michaels. “I’ll take it.”
His gut twisted a little at that, but she was a grown woman, she had to make her own choices.
“Yes, ma’am, go ahead.”
Toni listened for what seemed like a long time. Neither Michaels nor Jay made any pretense they were doing anything other than listening to her end of the conversation.
“I see. Yes, I’ll tell them. Yes, ma’am, I’m glad to be onboard.”
She cradled the phone, looking disturbed.
“What?” Michaels said.
“Sheriff’s deputies in Woodland Hills, California, were called to a disturbance at a movie theater there a few minutes ago. Inside, they found more than a dozen bodies, all shot dead, plus a locked storeroom full of screenwriters.”
“Corpses and a room full of screenwriters? This concerns us how?” Jay put in.
“One of the bodies was IDed as a man named Qian Ho Wu, a registered foreign lobbyist who the FBI Counter Espionage Unit has tagged as a probable spy for China.”
“Uh-huh?”
“One of the bodies has been identified as Dr. Patrick Morrison.”
“Oh, shit,” Jay said. Then he thought about it a second, and said, “But that solves our problem, doesn’t it? Dead men don’t generate radio broadcasts.”
Toni said it before Michaels had a chance to say it: “You’re assuming he didn’t tell anybody how he did it before he died.”
“Well, he probably didn’t tell the Chinese. Maybe they were after him because they figured out he was responsible for what happened to their villages. They caught up with him, there was a shoot-out, end of story.”
“Too easy,” Michaels said. He tapped the com. “Get me on the next flight going to Los Angeles.”
“You’re not a field agent, Alex,” Toni said. “The FBI will take care of this, you can’t—”
“But I can,” he said, cutting her off. “Portland got zapped with some kind of death ray, the leader of my strike team is in bed nursing a gunshot wound, and my top computer whiz just got the crap beat