FALLOUT ZONE (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 3)

by Sam Powers

This is getting tiresome, Brennan thought. He feinted a blow to the man’s head and when Lee’s right arm came up to block it, Brennan dug low, hammering the man four times with rapid, flat-palmed punches to the solar plexus. It knocked him down and knocked the wind out of him, without doing any real harm.

  Brennan helped the wheezing agent off the floor. “Now, are we going to keep doing this, or are you going to talk to me?”

  A few minutes later they were sitting across from one another in a nearby coffee shop. Brennan had bought them each a tea.

  “Explain,” Lee said when he sat down again.

  “I’m aware of your employer, Mr. Lee,” Brennan said. “And I have no interest in breaking your cover. At least, not now, anyway.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My name is Joe Brennan. I work for the agency, an asset.”

  “Okay.”

  “My sources indicate that you’re a handler for South Korean National Intelligence.”

  Lee crossed his arms. “That’s creative.”

  “Not really. My sources know you fairly well, I’m sorry to say.”

  “State your piece,” Lee said, without confirming anything.

  “I need a piece of intel, intel you might already have.”

  “Again, assuming I had any idea what you’re talking about…”

  “I’m trying to find out why another professor from your school in South Korea, a Dr. Han Chae-Young, might be wrapped up in a smuggling operation of sorts. She’s a nuclear physicist…”

  “Seconded to the Universite Libre de Bruxelles,” Lee said, finishing the thought.

  “Exactly.”

  “She’s dead,” Lee said. “Her partially skeletal remains washed up along the shore near the start of the demilitarized zone in Korea, just under three weeks ago. They figured she’d been dead for at least six months, though the decay made it hard to say for sure.”

  That couldn’t be, Brennan thought. The timing was all wrong. “That’s impossible. I spoke with her in Angola less than two months ago.”

  “You spoke with an imposter,” Lee said. “It is the SKI’s belief that Dr. Han was replaced, likely by a North Korean agent, in an effort to pass nuclear technology to her home country.”

  That made more sense, Brennan thought; but it still didn’t answer the question of why she’d left him alive. “I need to find the imposter; it’s possible she has … vital information.”

  “Good luck then,” Lee said. “Don’t you think we’d have acted by now if we knew her location?”

  “Do you have a picture of the real Dr. Han?”

  The professor took out his phone. After flipping through several other pictures, he held it up for Brennan to see. She looked similar to the woman he’d talked with in Brussels, but was definitely a different person. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s not her.”

  Lee was staring at him as Brennan eyed the photograph. “You realize what you’ve done, don’t you, Mr. Brennan?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You’ve burned me. I can’t go back to my superiors now and claim our operations here are uncompromised.”

  “Hey, I told you: my lips are sealed.”

  “Yes, well, that’s very noble and everything, Mr. Brennan. But we both know the moment you need my help again they will become unsealed. Besides, someone else must have known to tell you, which means too many people know, which means I have to leave. Go home.” He didn’t look happy at the prospect.

  Business was business, Brennan thought. He had no sympathy for the man. “You’re lucky I don’t tip the agency right now. In fact, if I hadn’t promised my sources, your entire network would be down by tomorrow.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Brennan,” he said. “You have already done enough.”

  “As I said, this is between us. You make your own choices. But I can tell you the sources who tipped me are solid; they’ll tell me things they wouldn’t tell their own mothers, let alone the agency or another operative.”

  “I would like to believe that, Mr. Brennan,” Lee said as he rose to leave. “I really would. But the damage is done.”

  “This isn’t a business that is high on sympathy, Mr. Lee,” Brennan said. “I’d suggest that the next time you’re offered a foreign posting, you tell your paymasters how much you love Seoul.”

  8./

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Dulles Airport was typically cram-packed with travelers, and Ellen McLean stood near the front of the crowd outside Callum’s arrival gate, waiting to wave to him and let him know they’d come to pick him up.

  Carolyn had come along, grateful for some support while Joe was away and with the kids staying at her parents’ house for the rest of the weekend. But she’d started to think about what it would be like to greet him; would he even let her know somehow if he was safe, if he was out of danger?

  That didn’t seem likely, so a call to come out to the airport and play happy family seemed equally remote. When push came to shove, Joe was Joe: stubborn and independent, even with his loved ones.

  At least Callum might still be home for him to hang around with if he did return, she reasoned. Callum’s new sales job took him away just about every week, too. But he’d always fly home at the end of the trip. Carolyn had no idea where Joe even was.

  “There he is!” Ellen said, waving to her husband as he stepped through the double sliding doors and jumping excitedly in place. “Hey!”

  Her gesture could’ve been seen from the runway, and Callum smile at the greeting before heading in their direction. When he reached them he leaned down and hugged Carolyn quickly; then he turned to Ellen, his face warm with the glorious familiarity of affection. They put their hands around each other’s waists and just held each other or what seemed a full minute.

  Carolyn felt creeping jealousy, but pushed it down, happy for her friend. Ellen hadn’t talked about anything else all week.’

  Callum looked around quickly. “No Joe?”

  “He’s still off the grid,” Carolyn said.

  “Ouch,” Callum said. “I’m sorry. I know you were expecting him back before now.”

  “It is what it is,” she said. “You know the job.”

  He nodded. “No movement from the agency on letting him resign?”

  Carolyn knew she wasn’t allowed to get into the details. “Not exactly, no. It’s complicated.”

  “Shocker,” Callum said. “Complications involving the government.”

  “How was the new job?” Ellen asked, trying to get things back on a positive keel. “Sell any equipment?”

  “We did well,” he said. “New England is a good market for us. California’s looking up, too.”

  Carolyn knew Callum’s new job involved heavy travel. The rest of the details were hazy, which was fine; most people only bore their friends when they talk about their jobs, she’d long decided.

  “How long are you back for?” she asked instead. “If you’re taking Michael fishing, I’m sure Josh wouldn’t mind tagging long.”

  “If we lived closer, they’d be inseparable,” Ellen added. “You can handle that, right hon?”

  “I’ve got five days until I have to go out again; if the weather holds, I’m sure we can drum something up. And if Joe gets back before then…”

  Carolyn smiled bravely. She didn’t know what to expect any more.

  SEATTLE AIRPORT, WASHINGTON

  Brennan dialed the number again, but got the same result, the call kicking over to the answering machine after three rings, Carolyn’s voice telling people they weren’t home just then, and to leave a message.

  “Yeah… Hi babe, hi everyone!” he said trying to sound optimistic. “Just calling to let you know I’m okay and I’m trying to get home real soon. Jessie, Josh, you be good for your mom and I’ll bring you each back something nice. Okay then… I love you.”

  He ended the call and threw the cellphone into the nearby trash can as the thousands of travelers streamed obliviously by them.

&nbs
p; “What’s with the phone?” Malone asked.

  “It’s hot. I had to improvise when I got out of Vancouver. It’s unlikely they connected a missing phone taken from a Canadian with my whereabouts, but you never know. The agency, certainly, might assume I’d resort to theft. So it’s like a homing signal, potentially.”

  She looked up at the departures board. “My flight leaves in twenty. I should get to my gate.”

  “Okay. You’re sure this is the guy?”

  “As best as I can tell from online sources; he’s the definitive expert on keys and locks going back forty years.”

  “Had to be in D.C.,” Brennan said ruefully. “You watch your back, Alex. You got that phone number I gave you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know the drill: before you leave D.C. to meet up with me, you call that number, you tell whoever answers that “Brennan says it’s New York.” They’ll get the context.”

  “Won’t that put them all over your back? Who says they’ll even believe it’s a real threat?”

  “The agency can’t take the chance that I’m right. At the very least, they’ll have a few small teams checking every viable target in the city.”

  “We could always switch places. I’ll go search the New York docks for the nuke, you go talk to the egghead. I may not look like much in terms of ass-kicking, but I play a mean first-person shooter when my nephew comes over.”

  Brennan began to smile, thinking about how pretty Alex was when she was trying to be funny. Then he caught himself. He missed Carolyn too much to start thinking that way.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The President smiled for the cameras, a broad, genuine grin flashing pearly whites as he shook hands with the Italian prime minister, followed by a backslap from the Italian that made even the cynical media types in the audience laugh.

  While everyone else in the press room was still chuckling about the PM’s joke and demonstration of affection, the President was thinking through the rest of his day, doing the math, ensuring he was still on schedule.

  Ten minutes later, his aides were escorting him to the private security briefing, the half-dozen faces all familiar. “Gentlemen,” he said as he entered, irritated by how long it had taken to get out of the press conference, but not showing it, doing up the second button of his dark navy suit coat even as he walked to the head of the long table. “My apologies. As you’re all aware we signed a major agreement with our Italian partners today to work together on new approaches to counteracting germ warfare and protecting the public.”

  There was a light round of applause from around the table, an acknowledgement that even though his term was soon done, the President was still making his mark. With his potential successor, John Younger, still holding a ten-point lead over GOP challenger Addison March, his legacy was looking up.

  With one exception. “So you’ll forgive me,” he said, his tone changing, “if I’m not a little concerned with might be taking a step backwards. I understand this about the sniper situation.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the defense secretary said, his grey hair immaculately coiffed and his red bow tie knotted perfectly, but his fidgeting fingers giving away his nerves. “It’s not exactly a question of deliberately stepping back, insomuch as…”

  On the other side of the table, Nicholas Wilkie recognized the potential damage to his own reputation and the agency if he let someone else own the discussion, particularly the rationales for taking further action. He interrupted. “Mr. President, as the director responsible for this fiasco up to this point, I must take full responsibility,” he said. “While obviously we will have a full branch review to go over the various breakdowns in performance, I will reiterate that the current administration seems to have inherited a rather large and dirty problem from my predecessor.”

  “And which ‘large and dirty’ problem would that be, Nicholas?” the President said pointedly. “The rogue agent who French police believe murdered an elderly tourist? The deputy director who’s been shipping information overseas and killing ex-spies?’

  Wilkie froze for a moment. How had the President found out so much, so quickly? He maintained his stoic expression, but it was difficult, the muscles around his mouth tightening, brow fighting to prevent his eyebrows from raising.

  The agency had always had leaks. Every large group does; in fact, the tighter it was perceived to clamp down on leaks, the worse they often were, Wilkie knew. But this one could cost him dearly.

  Just play it cool, old man, he told himself. He leaned forward slightly on the table, trying to show confidence with his body language. “That’s a colorful way of putting it, Mr. President,” he said, smiling at everyone in the room, waiting as they smiled back, everyone having a slight chuckle as if it just wasn’t that big a deal. “But essentially yes, that’s exactly the situation I find myself having to clean up.”

  Fitzpatrick threw him a lifeline. “I would say it’s a fair assessment, Mr. President.”

  “And where is the NSA’s director today, pray tell?”

  “The colonel’s receiving treatment at Johns Hopkins, Mr. President. Today’s one of his radiation therapy days.”

  “Ah.” The Commander-in-Chief felt momentarily mortified for not making the assumption and asking more tactfully.

  Wilkie said, “Mr. President, we believe the two issues are directly related, once again; the information regarding Agent Brennan’s alleged malfeasance in France has been demonstrated to have been falsified by David Fenton-Wright who, as you’re aware, is also being sought by every agency we can notify.”

  The President raised both hands in a show of momentary chagrin. “So is that good? We’re only after one rogue agent, but he’s responsible for both incidents?”

  “It’s… more easily contained,” Wilkie suggested.

  The defense secretary snorted. “Where have we heard this before?”

  “I’m taking personal control of this, Mr. Secretary,” the director said, his mouth a serious line, expression all business, no nonsense. “We will find David, and we will bring him to justice.”

  “What about Brennan?”

  Wilkie was surprised; the President could have avoided asking. It made him wonder what he meant, exactly. “We’re still unsure of his whereabouts,” he said cautiously.

  “But he’s healthy?”

  “As far as we know, he evaded police in Vancouver a few days ago in connection with the Konyakovich shooting.”

  “My God… I thought we’d pegged that as his competitor…”

  “We’ve reassessed, sir,” Wilkie said. “At this point we suspect he may have been embroiled in Khalidi’s business and the same sniper may have once again been responsible. As for Brennan, they lost track of him just off the coast of British Columbia, but they couldn’t find the personal watercraft he’d commandeered.”

  “Personal watercraft?” the President asked.

  “A jet ski, sir,” an aide said.

  “So how are you going to handle this?” the President leaned back in his chair and arched his fingertips.

  Wilkie knew he had to get the answer right. It was probably the closest to a final chance he’d receive. “I … would suggest that if we can get a message through to him somehow, we should call him in. We can apologize in due time to the police agencies involved and share the information regarding David’s treachery with the French.”

  The President knew that even a limited release of information would cause Wilkie no end of embarrassment. He admired him for being willing to take it; he was old, wealthy, powerful. He could have just resigned quietly, claimed it was a decision of age. “Fine. But gentlemen: I don’t think I need to point out that we all have reputations riding on this being handled with tact. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Malone’s flight got into Dulles just after two o’clock, the day sunny. She bought a hot dog from a café in the terminal before heading outside and hailing a cab, scarfing down the late lunch in a few quick bites.

  Traf
fic was heavy and it took forty minutes to get downtown. The cab pulled up outside an older building with apartments upstairs and a small retail shop at ground level, the large window framed by wood painted a deep red. The door matched it, and a bell jingled as Malone pushed it open. There was a glass cabinet running the length of the small storefront, perhaps fifteen feet in total, with a cash register at one end. Behind the cabinet, on the wall, thousands of different keys and blanks sat on hooks, each meticulously labelled and numbered.

  “Hello!” It was a man’s voice, cheerful and older, slightly accented. “For keys and locks, you’ve tumbled into the right place!” He had grey hair and a grey-white moustache, half glasses perched on his nose. He was perhaps in his seventies or maybe even eighties, she thought. He reminded her of Geppetto, the puppet master from Pinocchio. “Sorry, I just had a little joke there. What can I do for you today, miss?”

  “Mr. Yagel?”

  “Theodore Jacob Yagel at your service,” he said with a half-bow. He made a grimacing face as he straightened up. “Oy! The back is not what it used to be, you know, it hurts like the fershluginah unit that it is, it does…”

  She smiled awkwardly at his familiarity. “I understand you have a gift for recognizing the manufacturers of keys, and I have one I’m trying to match with a lock...”

  “Don’t we all!” he said. “In fact, if you think about it, that’s probably a pretty good metaphor for life. We’re all trying to… ah, never mind. I digress. Let me see.”

  She took out Konyakovich’s key. “I know this is asking a lot, as this might not even come from America,” she said. “But if…”

  He held up a hand. “Miss, this is the most common publicly shared key in the country, just about. It’s an American Lockers key.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Sure as cheeseburgers ain’t kosher.”

  “How would I find the locker?”

  His eyes widened. “Okay, good I may be, but a mind reader I’m not. But you see this small number here? That’s so that a replacement can be made if it’s lost. It’s made for them by the Master company. This your key, miss?”