Tipping Point

By Tomas Byrne

AN ECO POLITICAL THRILLER

Ex-US State Department terrorism analyst, Joe Hawkins, and ex-MI6 psychiatrist, Kate Farrow, are whistleblowers wanted by the US and UK authorities—wanted for divulging information relating to a corrupt arms-for-oil deal. Exiled from their homelands, separated from the people they once knew, they are hunted and on the run.

When Joe and Kate learn of the mysterious events unfolding at the headquarters of a prominent environmental group, they know it’s their last chance to fight back. Their journey takes them to the Lost Coast of California and on to an American Indian reservation in the Badlands. Only if they can prevent the loss of innocent life and expose the corporate and government forces conspiring against them, can they stop running.

Tipping Point is a powerful and complex story of intrigue and deceit that takes readers on a ride into the dark politics of climate change.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS

"Tomas Byrne scores again with an important and relentless political thriller that will have you pondering conspiracy theories long into the night... Byrne paints landscapes that even masters like Cormac McCarthy would be proud of. The result is a book that is both wholly engrossing and gorgeous." --bestthrillers.com

"The world of Byrne's novel is balanced on the edge of a cliff--and its story will hold readers captive for as long as it takes for that world to right itself. A tautly written thriller propelled by sharp writing and an ever complicating plot." --Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tomas Byrne
• Release date: Dec 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9789198223248

Tomas Byrne

Canadian author Tomas Byrne is a native of Ontario, and received his education at McGill University, York University and the University of Oxford. For twenty years, he worked in London as a lawyer and banker. His novel, Skin in the Game, is a thriller that raises questions about today's controversial political and social issues. Byrne's writing has roots in his extensive study of philosophy, mythology and religion. He counts Joseph Conrad, Thomas Mann, James Joyce, John le Carré among his literary influences; Friedrich Nietzsche, Gilles Deleuze, Charles Taylor, Murray Bookchin among his philosophical influences. Byrne resides in Sweden with his wife and two sons.

Book preview

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Joe Hawkins - ex State Department terrorism analyst

Kate Farrow - ex MI6 psychiatrist

Tariq Muhammad - manager of Oxford Virtual Security Institute

Frank Clemens - ex CIA / NCS operative

Smash - a hacker

Mr. Jones - a NSA analyst

William Kemp - leader of Green Way

Arthur Fisher - senior member of Green Way

Tim Lawrence - senior member of Green Way

Cora Knight - senior member of Green Way

Mica - Lakota boy

Chanté - Mica’s aunt

Feather - Mica’s uncle

Crazy Bear - Mica’s grandfather, Chanté’s and Feather’s father

Graham - owner of a general store on the Lakota reservation

Bad Crow - manager of a casino on the Lakota reservation

Grey Cloud - Feather’s friend

Grace - Fort McKay native

Barrendt Trace - CEO of Mandrake Resources

the Captain, Robert Trace - cousin of Barrendt Trace

Jeremiah Stock - senior lawyer, Mandrake Resources

Shaun Braman - senior lawyer, Mandrake Resources

Eddie Lamont - junior lawyer, Mandrake Resources

Lincoln Covington - CEO of Baexter Technologies

Senator Trench - Senator of Nebraska

the Canadian spy - private security for Mandrake Resources

Marlon Freeman - senior CIA / NSA executive

Zakhar Kurst - ex Russian GRU operative

CHAPTER 1

Little Mica wished he would one day become a warrior, but knew deep inside he would instead become an animal. A coyote to be exact: either trickster or hero, depending on who you asked. On the day of his vision, when his metamorphosis would begin, the lines demarcating his human body would become just flesh. And when his vision was complete, when he returned to the tribe, he would become imperceptible, to both enemies and friends alike. A spirit traversed by the earth.

It was a cold autumn night in South Dakota, on the rolling hills of the northeastern edge of the reservation. Beneath a full moon and a crystal sky full of stars, Mica could see each breath he exhaled hovering momentarily, a vanishing cloud over the glittering snow. The snow had just begun to fly—unusual for this time of year—and the exhilaration of the changing seasons was fresh in his soul.

He slowed his breathing down so as not to attract any attention to himself, and gazed at the black pool in front of him. And he caught a glimpse of his reflection staring back; shivering in the cold, his dark hair waving in the wind. His father’s old leather jacket was still two sizes too big, but he was taller now and ready for the challenges he was about to face.

He had gone out as usual for one of his nightly walks towards the rail lines. Mica loved everything about the trains. The rumble and roar as they approached, the way the solid iron wheels gripped the rails, the shiny black bodies and neatly painted letters, the consistency from car to car. And most of all, the mighty engines that led the weight behind them without ever once giving in to their assigned task. He came here almost every night to see the trains pass through the valley.

As he walked towards his usual viewing spot, he recalled the arguments the men and women of the reservation had had at their last meeting. How the trains were now arriving more frequently and carrying more cargo. How there was money to be made. How there were dangers no one could predict. His aunt had glanced at him as the discussion grew louder and smiled. And he knew that even though she agreed there was more to fear than embrace, she understood his love for the trains.

When he reached the top of the hill overlooking the rails, a coyote howled in the distance and Mica felt a shiver run down his spine. He knew something was not right. But he told himself he was brave; that his aunt knew he was brave. And that the coyotes were not tricksters, not to him. They brought fire to help the tribe find its way and they would guide him through this night. He sat down and waited.

The train approached from the northwest on its way southeast: a black snake making its way through the valley, strangely quiet at first, like the vipers he loved. But slowly its mechanicity could be felt. First came the sound of the whistle blowing. Then, the rumble in the ground. And though one might expect a young boy of eleven years to be wary of the ground shaking beneath him, as the train came into view, Mica planted his feet firmly down and squared his shoulders towards it as if to greet its arrival.

It was then he noticed the two men at the bottom of the hill standing on the other side of the rails. They were about ten yards away from each other and seemed to be disagreeing over something. Something struck him as strange: neither was showing any concern for the oncoming train, so engaged were they in their discussion.

Mica rose and walked slowly and softly down the hill, through the new snow, drawing in closer until he was about thirty yards away. The train was now plainly in view, approaching from the edge of the valley. The sound grew louder, but the two men did not move. They raised their voices even louder still until they were yelling at one another. Mica knew they were far too close to the rails and would surely be hurt if they remained where they were.

One man wore a long black coat, black leather gloves, and a white scarf, like he had just arrived from the city. The lamp hanging from the train booth on the other side of the rails highlighted his bright red hair as he shook his head. The other, much taller, wore a hooded jacket. It seemed to Mica he was pleading with the other man, trying to make him understand something. Then the man with the red hair drew a gun from his coat and pointed it at the other man.

Mica dropped down to the ground like a magnet and lay frozen face down. He felt the vibrations in the earth running through him, shaking the shock and fear from its origin in his chest and distributing it to the rest of his body. He pictured his aunt smiling at him and grit his teeth. The sound of the train had become an overbearing drone. He covered his ears with his hands and then slowly looked up.

Both the men were locked in position. The other man was now pointing a gun at the man with the red hair. The train was heading straight towards them, the conductor blowing the whistle repeatedly, waving his arms in the air. Mica knew the train would not be slowing, would not be stopping here.

He closed his eyes tight and with his ears still covered, screamed as loud as he could. Then he went silent as he heard the train passing directly in front of him. He slowly opened his eyes. He wiped the tears away and gazed at the massive round tubular cars passing before him. The wheels crashed into the rails, ripping a dissonant symphony of steel into the air. Staring straight on, the white letters on the side of the cars whizzed by indecipherable. He turned his head and searched for the men. The man with the red hair lay face down on the ground. The man with the hood perched over him on his knees. He looked from side to side and then scurried off toward the shadows near the end of the train.

Mica sprinted towards the man on the ground. He hopped over a wire fence marking the edge of the reservation and across the tracks. There was a red stain in the snow around his chest. Mica gasped for air as the snow, whipped up by the train, belted him in the face. The man was not moving. As the tail of the train passed by, Mica heard shots firing from the shadows. But then came a sound just like a thunder crack from straight above which in a split second conquered all the noise he had heard so far. Mica gazed at the other end of the valley in horror as the front of train lurched off of the tracks and crashed into the ground.

One by one, the cars jammed into one another as if in slow motion. Fire broke out at the front of the train and for a moment there was a stillness in the air. The fire lit up the scene for Mica. Metal flew out and up in all directions like a bomb had exploded. Then another explosion set off and the fire spread back towards him. He stood frozen in his place, watching the wreckage as it unfolded. Without thinking, he walked towards the crashed cars. From behind the blaze, he saw a blackness spreading ever so slowly. It was thick and heavy and unrelenting. A shiny black pool formed along either side of the tracks and worked its way out into the night.

Mica thought again of the council meeting. More trains, more frequent and longer. Oil trains, making their way from the northwest corner of the state diagonally down to the southeast, traveled along the edge of the reservation. They carted thousands of gallons of oil to the Midwest pipeline system, and south on to Texas and the Gulf. Bakken oil from the fields in North Dakota had changed everything for the Lakota up there. And it was now changing things here as well.

The rush of the others approaching took him by surprise. The sound of the crash had carried back to his village on the other side of the hill, just within the borders of the reservation. Twenty or so men and women of his tribe headed towards him. He gazed at the man lying face down on the ground. Two men rushed towards the man and bent down to see if he was still alive.

One of the men waved for him to approach. Mica! It was Feather, his uncle. Mica bowed his head and walked towards him. As he approached, he stared at the man on the ground and knew there was no longer any life in him.

He is dead, Uncle.

Quiet, Mica.

Mica stopped and turned, and gazed back at the black pool that had by now spread across the field. It seemed a permanent stain. At that moment, he could feel the pain that had left the dead man and had seeped into the fields. As he heard coyotes howling in the distance, he wondered whether his vision had begun; whether the events he had just witnessed were in some way connected to the rite of passage that would soon commence.

CHAPTER 2

Only at its edge does a continental glacier naturally show its true colors. In the middle of a clear day, where the sea washes ice, one might witness bright greens, turquoise and blues from pastel to navy. At sunrise, the glacier turns to warm orange, salmon rose, pink coral, and red; at sunset, mauve, violet, and cold smoky grey. Looking through its glass, one could navigate the stars in the night sky, and simultaneously observe one’s own reflection in shapes and shades like never before.

Kate Farrow and Joe Hawkins had trekked to the Vatnajokull and had glimpsed Europe’s largest glacier under all these circumstances. Just off the western edge where sea, land, and ice meet, they had harbored themselves in a cabin for over three months, spending much of their time walking and hiking and climbing the great pack. Set on the south-eastern side of Iceland, the nearest village was fifty miles and the only city, Reykjavik, a three-hour drive.

Each day, they would walk from their cabin down the craggy cliffs to the stormy sea, and along the rocky shore until they came to the nearest spot to see all of the glacier’s beauty in one glance. Here, immense folds of ice displayed the full progression from unified strength and stability, to unforeseen fracturing and dissent, through to final dissolution and decline at sea. There was violence and serenity in every crashing wave, and in every silent moment.

As Kate released her hand from the last screw in the side of the cliff and jabbed her cleat up into the next perforation in the ice, she sensed the exhilaration and terror that can only be experienced on the edge of life. She had released all harnesses and ropes, and was free climbing now. She looked down to Joe below her, who had freed himself from his own chains, and knew he would catch her if she lost her grip, even if it meant his own peril.

With each step she felt exhilaration transform to resolve as she kept her eyes trained on the line at the top between ice and sky. She climbed her last step and set her foot down on the top of the ice face, alone, the sun beating down on her. For a moment, she thought she saw a black spot on the horizon.

When Joe arrived, they lay on white clouds of snow and stared straight up at the deep blue sky. Joe rolled on top of her and kissed her. The warmth of their mouths melted the cold still air around them. Consumed in the moment, all of Kate’s worries and anxieties slipped away; only life pulsed within her.

As he drew back from the kiss, Joe caressed Kate’s forehead and stared into her eyes.

Even surrounded by all this beauty, it’s you that makes me feel alive, he said.

She smiled. You’re a romantic, Joe Hawkins. That’s what I love about you.

Back at the cabin, they shed their winter layers and lay in the sauna. Kate felt every pore in her skin open and renew as Joe threw water on the stones and the steam blasted its way over them. As he massaged her back and shoulders, all of the muscles in her neck released and she felt for a moment lighter, like she had left her own body.

The wood cabin was small and spartan, holding a neat galley kitchen, table, iron fireplace, couch, and a double bed all in one room. Behind her, Joe poured wine into two glasses on the side table by the bed as Kate peered out of the window to the sea.

They curled up in the bed and, without saying a word since they had come inside, made love. As their rhythms gradually fell in sync and accelerated forward, Kate pictured in her mind the geysers of Iceland, buried deep beneath the ice and earth, mounting pressure over an eternity and graciously releasing into the sky, only for the water to return and begin again its slow build. As Joe rolled over with his eyes closed, Kate felt like everything inside her was washed fresh and new, alive like it had never been before.

Afterwards, Joe fell into a deep sleep beside her and Kate remained awake as she usually did. She gazed out of the window and watched as the waves settled down for the evening and the moon appeared east of the southern sky. Here in the north, the moon was bigger than in England, closer to the horizon, pulling more on Kate’s thoughts as it hovered over her cabin bliss. Unannounced, time returned and memories crystalized.

Months back, when she rescued Joe from the unlawful torture he had endured at MI6, she had never once imagined she herself would be tortured as well. She shuddered as she recalled painful jolts of electricity crack through her body as her former MI6 boss, Dr. Cameron Krug, explored the limits of his sick mind. If I could get my hands on him now.

She saw herself accepting her role as an agent psychiatrist assisting MI6 fight the battle against terrorism. She had known the job would entail interrogation and psychoanalysis, but had no idea she would become an instrument of an illegal and ghastly torture scheme. She flashed forward to the day she helped Joe break out from the detention center where he was being held and remembered the queasy feeling that filled up inside her: she would never be able to set foot again on English soil.

She bit her lip. She would never work again in government intelligence, nor would she ever again be able to practice as a psychiatrist. She liked to consider herself resilient, but what do you do when you can no longer be the person you have spent a lifetime training to be?

Joe was innocent. He was a University of Oxford professor, and a former terrorism analyst with the State Department; but he was also a man who had been given information from his brother concerning an elaborate corruption scheme involving an oil company, a weapons manufacturer, and the crooked government officials who had assisted them in robbing a third world country of its natural resources. People close to Joe had died, among them Sam Hawkins, his brother; and Sofi Watt, his ally, and lover.

Kate sat up in bed, staring at the moon. Sofi Watt had met a terrible end, tortured and raped and killed. And Joe had been forced to watch it happen, powerless to save her. It had left a scar on his psyche. He sometimes cried for her in his dreams. Kate understood it would take time to heal; he had healed some, and their relationship had blossomed. But how much longer would he be haunted by this sad, sad love?

Kate raised her shaking hand to her brow. Joe and his friend, Frank Clemens, had saved her from her psychotic superior at MI6 and together they had hidden the information they had on the oil company, Mandrake Resources, and the weapons manufacturer, Baexter Technologies. The information was keeping them alive. She clenched her fists; the information was also what was keeping them in danger of losing their lives at any moment. Mandrake and Baexter would not stop until they recovered the evidence; and if they did, she and Joe would be summarily executed.

She remembered the moment that all her hope for justice had evaporated. When they presented their case to the UK government authorities, the government had mounted a massive cover-up response, framing them both for treason.

But we’re not traitors, Kate said out loud.

The peace inside had left her, as it often did just when she was letting go. There was no use trying to have a nap at this point. Angry with herself, she decided to have a shower. As she ran the water, she stared into the mirror above the sink. Tiny threads of red had formed in the whites of her eyes. We did the right thing. We had no choice.

We had to leave, she muttered to herself.

Their friends, Frank Clemens and Tariq Muhammad, had helped. Tariq had come up with the idea of coming to Iceland—it had a reputation for protecting whistleblowers. Frank had engineered their passage; had come up with the plan to smuggle them out of the UK. And here they were, blissfully in hiding. The plan was to fight back: expose more government scandals, help others with similar information. But so far, none of that had materialized. And it had been months since they had taken their stand. What if it was their first and last?

And what had they given up in the process? Their professional lives, but what else? Joe said he was no longer interested in belonging, that he wanted to be free of the chains of society. But how long can one stay in the wilderness, where there are no people? Unless the government changed their stance, she would never be allowed back in her country, she would never again be with her family. She held close her ideals, her sense of right and wrong, but wasn’t this too high a price to pay?

As she stared at herself in the mirror, she saw exhaustion—wrinkles splaying out from her eyes. And I’ve just turned thirty, she thought. When did I become so serious? Or was I always this serious? Outside the window, the ice seemed to go on forever, arcs and depressions in the snow marked only by the slightest variations on grey. For a moment she felt herself falling from that ice cliff. Would Joe catch her? Was that all there was between her and rock bottom? She turned to the mirror and slapped her face gently, as she often did. She hardened her stare. You silly girl, are you really going to ruin a perfectly good day? Then she glanced out of the window once again, and the ice seemed a little brighter, but there was still that spot on the horizon she thought she had seen earlier in the day. Stop searching for something wrong.

After the shower, Joe woke up from his short sleep. She watched as he dressed himself. He was a beautiful man, slender and toned, with long dark hair and pools for eyes that seemed capable of taking on all of the colors of a glacier. After all he’d been through, as heavy as his heart could be at times, he had a lightness to him, a sense of freedom she was drawn to.

It’s 8:00 pm, she said. When are we supposed to meet Tariq?

After midnight, he said. Reykjavik is a late night town.

I hope he has some good ideas. We need to keep moving forward.

Joe smiled. So you’re not content staying here in the wilderness with me forever?

Kate shook her head ruefully. I don’t think we have forever.

We’ve been safe so far, he said.

They’re still looking for us, Joe. They’re not going to stop.

I know.

So, maybe our best defense is offense?

What do you mean? he asked.

I mean: we can’t just sit here waiting to get caught. Surviving is great. But maybe we need to find a way to beat them.

Maybe.

Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the bed beside him and watched as he tied his shoelaces. When he was finished, he held out her wine glass and they toasted. She closed her eyes and relaxed as he brushed his fingertips across her back from shoulder to shoulder.

I don’t like hiding any more than you do, said Joe. And I want to see Mandrake and Baexter exposed just as badly. It’s just that it’s been so good here. The time and space, to feel close to you  … Why don’t we see what Tariq has to say?

She sipped on her wine and felt it warm her throat.

I had a dream I was with my brother, he said. When we were children. Fishing … It was a happy dream.

Do you ever think about having children?

Sure. But knowing what we do, could we ever bring kids into this world?

I think so. She stared into his eyes. "They may have thrown the worst fear, but children are our only hope."

Perhaps you’re right. But not an option for us right now.

Kate turned to the window and gazed out across the ice to the sea. She observed the tracks through the snow under the window and tilted her head. That’s odd, she thought.

Were you out front today?

No, said Joe.

A roar of thunder rose from the sea above the cliffs and hovered over the ice. As they turned, they saw a black helicopter gunship rushing towards the cabin; flying low, the choppers winding up to the deafening sound of swords crashing into one another. For a moment, they sat motionless, watching as it sped towards them. Then Joe wrapped his arm around Kate and fell to the floor. He crawled to the corner of the room, pulling her with him around behind the bed.

A flurry of bullets smashed through the window and ripped through the wood, blasting shrapnel around the cabin and pummeling everything in its path. Joe tightened his arm around Kate and flattened them prostrate behind the bed. Chairs and tables and all order of smaller items blew back from the barrage of bullets and were pulverized in a flash. There was nowhere to move.

When they heard the crack of the rooftop as the front wall fell and it came undone, panic flashed through his face, and he gripped her tight. Kate dug her head into his chest and closed her eyes. As they lay frozen on the floor, waiting for the roof to fall, all Kate could hear was Joe’s heart beating loud inside.

But it didn’t fall, and the bullets stopped.

An eerie silence overtook the space around them. They raised their heads and stared out towards the sea; the helicopter was retreating back from where it came. Kate gasped for air and turned to Joe. He shook his head. They watched as the gunship faded below the cliffs.

A cold wind blew in from where the wall had once been, and the roof cracked. Joe ran to the side of the room and hurled some clothes at Kate. As she flung the clothes on, he clambered for a few essentials and threw them in a bag. She stood before him, shivering in the cold.

With a fearful look in his eyes, he grasped for her forearms. We have to go.

CHAPTER 3

Joe and Kate ran down to the silver Toyota truck parked about 200 feet below the cabin. They jumped in and raced along a dirt path leading away from the glacier. As the path wound its way off of the moraine and around gigantic rock boulders, the sea came back into view; the cliffs behind them in the distance.

Suddenly, their truck careened over a depression in the land and a boulder perched directly in their path came into view. Joe swerved the truck, and Kate’s head banged into the side window.

Can you see them? asked Joe.

There’s no sign of them, anywhere, she said, massaging the side of her head.

Sorry. Are you ok?

Yeah. I am. We are. That’s the strange thing.

What do you mean?

Whoever that was, they were long gone before they could confirm we were dead.

Joe kept his eyes focused on the path in front. I think they had good reason to believe we were dead, he said.

She ran her eyes over him. He was engaged, gripping the wheel, but his body seemed perfectly calm and unaffected. It didn’t seem right.

"Are you ok?" she asked.

Yeah, just trying piece together who that was.

What do you think?

Judging from the gunship, AH-64 Apache, my best guess would be CIA Special Activities Division, said Joe.

American? Not British? How could the CIA know we’re here?

I don’t know, he said.

The road meandered through glacial debris, large rocks, dirt and melting chunks of ice, then linked up with a bigger road that led towards the coastline. When the expanse along the shore opened up, Kate scanned the sky for a sign of the helicopter. At one point, she imagined she saw a black image with pinpoints of light hovering over the dark sea. But the image dissolved with the shifting shadows as the truck changed position.

She let go and leaned back in the seat. As the tension released, fear replaced panic as she replayed the onslaught in her mind. Her hands were shaking, her head was pounding and her body ached. She winced as she pictured the bullets flying around her. She closed her eyes and the darkness set in. As her body jolted from side to side with the bumps on the road, her mind flashed back to the day she and Joe had been captured and taken to Dr. Krug’s makeshift torture chamber.

A pin prick in her arm and she is floating. Her body goes limp and her mind goes numb. She watches paralyzed as she is stripped naked, and her body is laid out on the soaking wet mattress. Dr. Krug smiles and exposes his yellow crooked row of teeth as he attaches electrical nodes to her body. She turns away and sees Joe, chained to a chair across the room, beaten and drugged unconscious. ‘You fool,’ Dr. Krug snarls, ‘you should never have disobeyed me. You will never leave here.’ He throws a bucket of water over her body. She sees the splash but feels no wetness. He holds the switch. ‘You will now feel pain like never before. And I will feel pleasure, better than sex.’ He flicks the switch. And her