by Sam Powers
Malone had been thinking about Brennan’s African run-in with the scientist. “The question, to me, is why South Koreans are after a nuke in the first place,” she said. “Maybe if we answer that, we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.”
The waitress came over and refilled their coffee cups. Brennan poured some cream into his decaf and waited until the woman had left. “You have any Korean sources?” he asked, “someone solid on their domestic and international policy, or in intelligence?”
“One guy,” she said. “Possibly. He’s a professor at George Washington. We… went out a couple of times. It was uncomfortable. He was very needy and clingy for a first and second date.”
She had a look of distaste on her face and Brennan stifled a chuckle. “You want to give loverboy a call, or just pass me his number?”
Her head slumped at the thought. “I’ll do it. But if you can think of anyone else who might…”
“Eddie.”
“Eh?”
“My pilot friend. He’s got contacts in every agency, everywhere. He must know someone over there; or maybe someone from over there who’s over here.”
“Okay, we try that,” she said. “Otherwise, I have to call Ken Cheong and ask for a favor; and I’d rather be roasted in bulgogi sauce.”
June 27, 2016, HARBIN, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA
The dining room was elegant, a long room dominated by an eighteen-seat formal table, and accentuated by the lush, dark wood of the sideboard that ran along one wall. On each wall, gilded gold frames housed masterworks of art from more than a century earlier, imposing Dutch figures perhaps as disconnected from modern-day China as was possible.
It was near silent, save for the odd clink of cutlery and the faint strains of classical string music from the adjacent study. Fung sat at one end of the table, his wife Wen at the other, some twenty-five feet away. In the middle, and off to one side, was a waiter, keeping watch over a silver serving cart that had conveyed their roast partridge and vegetables from the kitchen next door.
He sliced a Brussel sprout into two then chewed on one half slowly, trying to keep his attention on his plate, trying not to stare at his wife. He was angry with her, and she already knew that was the case; Fung had always considered himself a master of self-control; he dabbed at his mouth absently with a white linen napkin and tried to keep his mind empty, to avoid saying something with long-term consequences. He sliced another Brussel sprout into perfect halves and ate each in turn.
At the other end of the table, Wen picked slowly at the partridge, pulling away the crispy skin and cutting off tiny portions of white meat. She ate each in labored fashion, subconsciously looking up as she did so, tense and nervous at how he would react to her public embarrassment. She had dressed up for dinner in a traditional silk dress, her dark hair pushed up, her white powder makeup more accentuated. She wished to appear perfect and elegant, to give him an image close to the one he’d fallen in love with many years before.
He watched her through occasional glances as he leaned forward over his plate, sullen at her obvious attempt to curry favor; like so many husbands of party wives before him, he was tired of her overstepping her bounds.
The plates and cutlery clinked, the waiter nearby stoic as a statue, a veteran of the household staff, his survival instinct honed enough to know that no matter what was said between them, he heard nothing, he repeated nothing, and he knew nothing. When Fung finished his glass of wine, the waiter was at his side with the bottle as soon as his worthy leader’s head began to turn to make the request.
Fung chewed on a bite of the game bird, his irritation growing, one arm leaning against the edge of the table, dinner knife in hand. She looked up and saw him watch her, and Wen forced a small, shy smile.
But his expression went cold, instantly, his gaze narrowed, his mouth contemptuous. “What are you smiling at?” he demanded. “What reason do you have to smile? Tell me that.”
“I…”
“You what? You thought that while I was away, you would step into my shoes? Become Madame Fung, the Empress of Harbin? Rule over the party and the gangs alike?” He stabbed angrily at the partridge. Then he caught himself and took a deep, cleansing breath, letting the stress out. He went back to his dinner, but his mind was on the matter at hand now. How much damage had she done? Would there be an official investigation? Most certainly. But would it be serious this time, a message from the central committee that his time as the region’s defacto overseer was done – and perhaps his life with it?
Corruption scandals had become all the rage. The slow shift in China to a blend of capitalism and authoritarianism had finally seemed to reach a peak point, where the excesses of one-party control were no longer any more tolerated than those of capitalism. There was a technocracy developing, a state that functioned to maintain growth, development. The committee members were increasingly leery of the old guard, increasingly willing to purge their ranks, the sheer irony of
“progressives” cleaning house apparently no factor in their decision making.
Yet, despite that, she had used his extended time in Europe to flaunt his power, to demand levels of tribute from the shady operators, to exact revenge on old enemies. She had worked with Liu Bin, the wife of his business associate, to build a local powerbase through the traditional means: attacking his business enemies as “subversive and anti-state” in newspaper columns and articles, soliciting public support of those positions from his most groveling associates.
She watched him as he ate and did not reply, concerned any comment at that point might set him off again. In truth, she had simply tried to run his business for him while he was gone; perhaps she had been overzealous in a few areas; but she knew her husband, and that his own history in the city and province was hardly one of political moderation. So she remained quiet, afraid that the wrong facial expression or tone of voice might push him farther than he had gone before, to dangerous extents.
From the study, the stereo switched to Handel’s Symphony Number One in G Major, the strings entirely too optimistic and up-tempo for the mood of the dinner. Fung briefly thought about going next door and smashing it, before once again bringing his anger under control. Perhaps if he were to beat her severely…
No. He had tried that in the past, and it had merely made her more devious. Instead, he knew, he was going to have to fix this personally, grovel before the highest-ranking committee members who would acquiesce to meet with him. He would have to bring in her powerful father and once again lose face before him, look like less of a man in front of the individual he least liked.
And he would do it, because he loved her.
He hated her, too. But ultimately, Wen was as much a part of Fung’s life as his own hands, central to his existence, even when he was away from her, and cursing her name. She had borne his children and stood by him in the early days, when his own family had all-but disowned him.
At the other end of the table, she watched him more attentively now, able to read his facial expressions as he worked through what he wanted to say to her. She could see his inner conflict, his anger, but also his desire to work something out, to find a solution to the very real public image problem she created.
He looked up at her again, and this time he just looked slightly sad, like a man whose job is a necessary evil, the soul taken out of him just slightly. She smiled again, because she knew what it meant, that he was going to fix everything, protect her.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “sometimes you drive me to the point of madness.”
The music switched to Symphony Number Two in F Major, the optimistic, bouncy fourth part, more nuanced and not as bombastic as Handel’s more famous “Messiah”, but just as enthusiastic. She wasn’t quite sure what to say and she watched him eat a few more bites of food before she answered. “I know,” she said, smiling. “I will try harder. I promise.”
He nodded gently as the strings swelled and slowed, reach the final crescendo, before fa
ding out.
The bullet pierced the window of the dining room that sat between two of the gold-frame portraits, piercing Fung’s cheekbone in a single clean hole before passing through his neck, severing his brain from his spinal column. His head thudded to the table, his last thought that perhaps they could work everything out after all.
The asset felt ill at ease; he’d had to insist on shooting Fung, his paymasters demanding he leave it until later and instead take a role in their larger objective of preventing the ACF from ever meeting again. But that wasn’t why he was there, to be some anonymous cog in a larger machine. They knew that when he took the job. They knew it was personal.
He took the rifle off of the tripod and began to disassemble it, checking the chamber first then removing the clip, then the barrel and suppressor, followed by the collapsible stock. The evening moonlight shone brightly through the stained glass in the upper part of the old synagogue’s attic window. It was one of the oldest buildings in the city, a remnant of the days when Harbin was once home to an extensive Jewish population. It offered a direct line-of-sight across five hundred meters of space between the synagogue and Fung’s palatial home. By the time police experts on scene had figuring out angles of deflection, he’d be at the airport, on his way back to America.
It was the first time since everything had started that he felt somewhat bitter; they’d fought his decision, insisting he stay in Vancouver until further notice, his final series of tasks not far off, they promised. Ultimately, he would kill Khalidi, and exact a measure of justice for Sarah.
He kept packing his things even as he thought of his sister. She was so positive, such a happy person. She’d developed a bone condition in her teens that forced her to walk with a cane, but it hadn’t even slowed her; she’d taught English to kids around the world, undertaken missionary work in other countries and even run for local office in their hometown, all before the age of thirty. When he’d been away on duty, she’d helped their mom take care of their pop, who had Alzheimer’s. But more than any of that, when they’d been kids together, she’d adored him, looked up to him, never anyone other than a great sister and friend.
Fung wasn’t just a necessary part of his revenge; despite what his handlers thought, the asset was convinced killing the Chinese member of the ACF would heap more suspicion upon Khalidi, who was already in isolation, facing increasing public pressure to resign, his cabal decimated by assassination, his global reputation in tatters as a result of his greed. The asset had never taken pleasure in killing, but had always derived great satisfaction from his belief that a good man with a gun could solve a lot of problems.
He placed the rifle parts in the attaché-style case and closed it, spinning the combination locks on either side of the latches then making his way out of the room towards the stairs. A moment later he was outside, heading for the busier streets a few blocks away, where a cab would take him anonymously to the airport, as the police sirens wailed in the distance.
7./
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Wilkie used the remote to turn off the small flatscreen television that sat in the corner of his office, on top of a small side-table that his predecessor had used as a bar. The director had been watching news network coverage of the shooting in China, the scenes fairly typical of any big police investigation, reporters huddled at night behind yellow tape while officers wearing luminous yellow vests over their uniforms kept them at bay and held the peace for the investigators.
What the hell had DFW become embroiled in? The intel coming in about Fung over the month prior had been anything but complimentary, painting him as one step short of an international criminal. Coupled with the revelations about Khalidi’s African dealings, it was one more sign that the ACF had run a virtual star chamber, and one without moral restraint.
And he’d missed it all; or, at least, his charges at the agency had. It had taken the late Lord Abbott – the American agent codenamed Fawkes – to bring the ACF’s work to light.
Age was a factor, the director knew; that was at least part of why he’d devolved so much control down to Fenton-Wright, the loyal deputy. But beyond that, he knew he’d been taken in. There was no doubt, based on the NSA evidence and the doctored video found on Fenton-Wright’s computer, that he was guilty of treason at the least, and likely much worse. Wilkie was hurt, but ignoring his own feelings, pushing them down. He knew from other cases, other times that spotting a double was just about impossible.
The personal considerations were secondary; the director needed to set things in motion, mitigating steps that would help the agency protect its image. What would Walter have done? He wondered how things might have gone had he made different decisions years earlier, been less worried about whether Lang was too maverick, too set in his beliefs to compromise, promoted him instead of David. It had been such a long time…
Had he handled things correctly with Caroyln and Jonah? Both were respected in the department, that much was obvious. Both were level-headed, calm. They lacked DFW’s outward passion, but either might have been a better choice at one point that his protégé.
Wilkie picked up the phone. Carolyn couldn’t become any more involved in the case than she already was, due to her obvious conflict of interest regarding her wayward husband. But Jonah? Jonah was eager to please and sharp. Perhaps he could find Fenton-Wright, get to him before he was arrested, get a feel for what had gone so terribly wrong.
June 28, 2016, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
It was a shame Eddie couldn’t have arranged something formal, Brennan thought. Just getting a name out of him had taken serious negotiations, given that the South Korean contact in question was deep undercover.
In fact, the statement “are you out of your freakin’ mind?!?” had been repeated during the conversation more than once.
But ultimately, Eddie had given him the name, on the promise there would be no indication of how Brennan got the information. If he was planning on outing a spy, Eddie wanted nothing to do with it. That sort of thing was bad for business.
Now the problem was how to approach Lee Kyu Sun without spooking the man. They were both seated on opposite sides of the university cafeteria, which was mostly empty, although the clatter of kitchen utensils made it seem otherwise. Brennan stared across the banks of long tables and watched his target eat alone, occasionally flicking through the pages of a folded-over magazine.
Ostensibly, Lee was a visiting professor of political science from the University of Seoul. His real job was handling western-based covert operatives for his nation’s security service. Given that most of its work involved industrial espionage, and very little of it was actually in the field, he was not a busy handler, Brennan had decided.
He’d met a few of the more studious intelligence types of the years; they didn’t usually like to get their hands dirty.
Brennan scoped out the cafeteria again. Most of the lunch crowd was gone. He pondered confronting him at his table, to make fleeing a poorer option; the last thing Lee probably wanted was an issue with his cover job.
Instead, he waited until the professor had finished his meal then began to follow him across campus and out onto the streets of the city. If Lee was a long-time agent, he hadn’t spent much actual time in the field, Brennan decided: he hadn’t shoulder checked once, and he was walking too far from the adjacent store windows along the street to use them as angles of reflection, to check his six. On a hunch, Brennan checked the other side of the street; some handlers had watchers around to make their jobs easier, convenient muscle if the need arose. But he spotted no one.
Ahead, Lee turned a corner and took the narrow cross street, which was closed to road traffic. Brennan stayed with him, far back enough to not be noticed. He turned the corner… and ducked, just as the spinning round kick connected with the spot where his head had just been.
Lee was in a tae-kwon do opening stance, relaxed, weight back. “Why are you following me? If you’re after money, you picked the wrong guy,” he sa
id, his accent somewhere between foreign and American.
Lee took a half-step forward before throwing out a front kick, which Brennan blocked easily.
“I’m not here to fight you,” Brennan said, raising both hands. “I just need your help.”
“Leave me alone, or I’ll call the cops,” the professor said. “I mean it.”
Brennan smirked at him. “No, Mr. Lee, you won’t. We both know that’s the case.”
Lee’s face froze for a moment in a look of surprise; he’d realized it wasn’t about school or a simple mugging. He turned on his heel, and ran north up the street.
For an academic, he was in good shape, Brennan thought. He wasn’t going to outrun the former SEAL, however, and thirty seconds later, Brennan was closing on him. Lee turned into an alley and Brennan followed.
It was a dead end. The Korean looked around for an egress point amidst the trash and garbage dumpsters. Seeing nothing, he squared off with Brennan again in a fighting stance. “I warned you,” Lee said. He sprinted at the American, dropping at the last second and sliding along the slick concrete so that he could plant a low punch into Brennan’s groin, finish things early. Instead, Brennan blocked the blow, took a half-step backwards and, before Lee could rise and right himself, stepped on the man’s chest, pinning him down.
For a fighter, he made a heck of a university professor. He struggled, grabbing Brennan’s foot and attempting to pry himself free, like a beetle stuck under a rock.
“Just relax,” Brennan said. “I just need to talk to you, for Chrissake!”
He tentatively removed his foot. Lee used both hands to push up off the ground and leaped to his feet. “You won’t manage that again,” he said, going back into a fighting stance.