by Sam Powers
“It’s okay. Like I said, just stay in the car. I’ll get a signal to you either by a call or some other obvious cue, like every light in the place coming on.”
“Or someone throwing you through a window.”
“Probably, yes.”
She smiled. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way. But more than that, he seemed utterly committed to what he thought was right.
“When…”
“Tonight. We can’t wait, for obvious reasons.”
“Obvious?” She’d been travelling, off and on, for weeks; she’d been shot at, seen Myrna killed, lost Walter. Malone was as tired as she’d ever been. “Sorry, but I’m not that well attuned to the obvious right now…”
“Look at the date. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July.”
14./
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The New York arrests left the director with an immediate problem: he now had no doubt that Joe Brennan was right, and that someone was trying to assemble a nuclear weapon; that left the question of whether the attempt had been foiled, or whether there was a contingency. Terrence Corcoran, the ex-SEAL arrested at the scene, had openly bragged of one; and he’d been just as happy to inform their agents that he knew nothing. The computer guys were working on his mail and phone contacts going back a year, trying to run traces on payments and to lock down commonalities between meeting places.
But it wasn’t amounting to much.
The National Security Council meeting had a grave feeling to it, a sense that for the first time in a long time, the discussion was about something tangible and real.
“We’ve locked down New York,” Wilkie told the assembly. At the end of the long conference table, the president leaned on the arm of his chair, propping his chin up with the same hand, looking uncomfortable. “The agency and the NSA are working hand-in-hand to conduct a borough-by-borough search, and we have analysts working around the clock to narrow down potential targets throughout the city.”
The president leaned forward on the table. He’d been listening to Wilkie explain the mission for several minutes and recognized the immediate priorities of the situation. But he was curious about the circumstances. “Nicholas, how is it that it took us so long to cotton on to this? Surely there must have been rumblings in intelligence circles…”
“No, sir, unfortunately not. Our knowledge of this ongoing attempt has come purely as a byproduct of Agent Brennan’s investigation into the sniper shootings and is, in some manner, tied to the same clandestine business association we’d been working to infiltrate for several years.”
The NSA’s Fitzpatrick chimed in, “We know there’s a definite tie between the attempt to secure the weapon and the shootings, because of the evidence uncovered by the reporter, Alex Malone, about Khalidi’s involvement in Africa. But if we could figure out that tie specifically, it would go a long way to pinning down a final target.”
Halfway down one side of the table, the secretary of defense had been quiet, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped on his ample stomach. “Are we sure this is a genuine threat, Mr. President? It seems like these boys don’t have a whole lot to go on, other than the word of some dead Spanish arms dealer and a whole lot of hunches.”
“I’m sure,” Wilkie said. “Brennan could have turned himself in any number of times and taken on Fenton-Wright’s frame-up. But he chose to stay in the line of fire because his objective was too important to give up.”
Jonah was sitting to Wilkie’s right. “Coupled with that,” he interjected, “there’s the fact that the reporter, Alex Malone, has been in heavy contact with him, and we’ve seen some of the leaked material that she has managed to get her hands on. She might be comfortable chasing ghosts, but I doubt her magazine would be, unless they had faith she was onto something big.”
“So we’re taking our cues from the media now?” the defense secretary asked. “Mr. President, what the NSA and CIA are asking – what they’re already doing – has potentially terrifying ramifications. If word gets out in the city that there’s a nuke on the loose, the stampede out of town could hurt a lot of people. The bridges and roads will be jammed. The loss of life from car accidents alone would be high, let alone the panic that can set in during a major episode.”
That prompted a silent pause around the table as people weighed his concern. Jonah couldn’t believe it. He had to say something. He leaned forward on the table. “Mr. President…”
“Yes, Mr. Tarrant?”
“While I understand and commend the defense secretary for his diligence in thinking this through, I think it’s important to consider the alternatives to getting involved. Let’s say the secretary of defense is correct, and there is no nuke. Well, we’ve spent a lot of money on an operation and perhaps made some people nervous. Press might even have a field day with it, if they get it.”
“Okay…”
“But let’s say it’s genuine and we don’t do anything about it. If a weapon went off in the city, it could kill close to ten million people. How would it appear to the world if it knew we had advance knowledge of the threat, but did nothing to stop it?”
Optics aside, the president knew, it was a decision no one could live with; the memory of the twin towers was still fresh for the nation. The trauma of another attack would send a shockwave rippling across America. It would lead to a new era of fear, one that would be easily exploited by his political rivals, to the detriment of his party and the public.
But as ever, his advisors were being more tactful than necessary. “Mark, what’s your take?” he asked Fitzpatrick.
“The defense secretary is correct, sir, in that we don’t have a whole lot to go on,” he said. “The weapon has been missing from the South Africans’ old pre-freedom stockpile for some time, and there have been any number of opportunities before now for someone to use it.”
The defense secretary looked pleased. Then Fitzpatrick added, “Having said that, it’s clear from Fenton-Wright’s betrayal that the covert operation involving Agent Brennan was being influenced by outside players; the very intent could have been to keep us away from this much larger scenario.”
It wasn’t clear what he was recommending, the president thought. Typical of Fitzpatrick to hold as much middle ground as possible.
“So what then, Mark? Keep the New York operation up and running? If so, for how long?”
“I would suggest until it finds something, sir, or we get word from Agent Brennan that there’s nothing to find.”
“Have we had any progress in getting hold of him?” the president asked.
“No sir,” Wilkie admitted. “But we do have a lead on his reporter friend; if we can get through to her, she knows how to reach him.”
“Couldn’t we just broadcast something, some kind of all clear…”
“No sir,” Wilkie said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know where or what situation Brennan is in; broadcasting his picture or a contact request could blow cover, or simply alert whoever he’s tracking that he’s on their trail. It’s a risk we can’t take right now.”
The president sighed. Just a few more months, he thought. “Then let’s hope this reporter is still with him and checking in at work. Unbelievable. The most powerful nation on the planet and we have to rely on a member of the press to get anything done.”
BUCHANAN, NEW YORK
The warehouse at the end of the dead end road was the size of a small aircraft hangar, a tin-siding-covered orange building with a corrugated roof and glass windows at the front that made it look like a former showroom, maybe for off-road vehicles and personal water craft.
Brennan sat across the large parking lot from it, a hundred yards away. He huddled in the tree line and surveyed the area through Ed’s night vision goggles. There were a half-dozen cars parked outside and two large trucks, similar to those he’d seen at the customs yard.
They’d parked by an adjacent business on the other side of the lot, in a spot away from the handful of streetlights, where Malone
could clearly see the front and left-side doors of the building. She’d been nervous about his intentions, wanting something more specific than just “I’ll give you a signal”. But Brennan had insisted they need to play it by ear, improvise a warning. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll let you know somehow,” he’d said.
He refocused the goggles. There were two guards outside, one by the front door, another to the side. He swept the edge of the property but saw no one. Something seemed off; if this was a military-grade op, they would have had guards walking the perimeter, probably with sentry dogs. But there were just the two, both smoking cigarettes, guns slung over their shoulders and not even looking remotely prepared for trouble.
It reminded him of the customs yard and the ship in Seattle; both had seemed like large-scale smuggling operations; neither had been well-protected. Was it just arrogance, a resolute certainty on the part of whoever had planned this? He wasn’t sure, but Brennan was never much of a believer in good fortune. If they were this sloppy, he reasoned, they were foolish enough to actually set the device off. Maybe they weren’t so much sloppy as fanatical and overconfident.
He followed the edge of the lot until he was at the right front corner of the building. There were no signs of alarms, either, which was doubly foolish. A military op would have booby-trapped the perimeter, setting off alarms as soon as someone tripped them. He pressed himself flat to the right-side wall of the building and followed it until he found a window and peeked through.
The place was bigger than a football field, and there were several vehicles parked inside near the front, followed by a series of shipping containers and crates that effectively split up the room. Behind them, towards the back, white tables had been set up so that technicians could work on assembling various components. Just beyond them, another wall of crates cut off Brennan’s view to the back of the room.
He needed a way in. He ducked under the window sill and followed the wall to the rear of the building. There were voices coming from behind, where a loading dock or back door would be, Brennan thought. He listened for a minute as the men talked, trying to get a sense of how many were there.
“What time we supposed to be gone?” one said. His accent was American.
“Figure by noon tomorrow.”
“Noon? We’re gonna get stuck in holiday traffic, just watch.”
“Quit your bitching. Jesus, you complain a lot.”
“You worried about what all of these Chinks are doing with this shit?’
“Hell no. I don’t get paid to worry about that.”
“No?”
“Hell no. I just get paid to shoot any asshole that tries to bother them.”
“Hey Donny! Donny, you got another cigarette I can borrow off you?”
A new voice said, “Borrow? Like you’re going to fucking return it?”
“Then give me one, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Fuck you; support your own habit, motherfucker.”
Ex-army guys probably, Brennan figured, same as at the customs yard. Better to avoid them for now. No percentage in starting a fight with who-knew-how-many others nearby.
He crept back around the building and found a gap in the adjacent tree line, to his right. His shoes had soft soles but even so, he trod carefully, wary of attracting the guards’ attention. It took a good five minutes to silently make his way behind the trees to the opposite side of the building, where another guard stood alone on sentry duty outside the side door. It would have been easy to take him out with a quick choke hold, Brennan figured; the man wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, instead wandering around in circles aimlessly, bored out of his mind after a few hours of duty.
But they were doubtless checking in on radio every so often. If he was going to use one of the existing entries, he was going to have to wait until right after a radio check before taking them down.
Then there was the window, where he’d started. He quietly made his way back; the view through it to the room inside was cut off by the crates, but if he could find cover quickly, Brennan thought, he could worry about moving around inside after. He checked the window lightly to see if it was locked, pushing up against the top outside frame. It slid up six inches, but then locked into place.
Have to find the latch, he thought, reaching around the corner of the window with his right arm.
He heard voices. Brennan snatched his arm back. A few more seconds passed and they got closer. They passed by, and Brennan heard a snippet of another language. Korean? He wasn’t sure. He moved to the corner of the window and slowly peeked over. One of the two men had continued on and was just rounding the corner, where the crates separated the front and back of the warehouse. The other had stationed himself directly in front of the window.
So much for the easy route.
Need a diversion, Brennan thought, something conclusive enough to ensure they’ll move away from my entry points.
He used the cover of the trees to move south, until he was adjacent to the edge of the lot and the handful of parked vehicles. Lighting one on fire wouldn’t do it; unlike the movies, cars don’t blow up when lit, Brennan knew. The tires might pop, but mostly it would just be a bonfire as the gas evaporated. If there was anyone intelligent inside the warehouse, they’d send a couple of guys to deal with it before anyone local was alerted.
No, he needed something more significant.
One of the cars was a late nineties model, and Brennan used the shadows to make his way over to the older green sedan. Its parking stall was pointed directly at the building. The timing would have to be perfect, he knew. There was a good chance the one guard in front of the building would scurry out of the way, which would give Brennan time to get back into cover.
He searched the tree line until he found the object he needed, a heavy rock with one flat side. He crept around the car until he reached the drivers’ side and tried the handle. It was unlocked, which saved a few seconds. Once in the driver’s seat, he took the sling bag from over his shoulder and opened it, taking out his multi-tool to crack the plastic open on the bottom of the steering column and accessed the ignition. He’d needed an older car; anything newer would have engine arrest protection in case someone tried to hotwire it.
Brennan started the car, the day running lights immediately flaring, the guard in front of the building suddenly alert, gun coming off of his shoulder. He peered toward the car when it suddenly started revving its engine, like someone was flooring the pedal in neutral. Then it shot forward towards the startled man, his eyes wide as the car’s headlights race towards him. He dove out of the way as the car smashed through the front windows of the building, a terrific crunch of glass and wood.
At the edge of the parking lot, Brennan was too busy moving quickly to watch the the wreckage, although the car had continued on into the building for a good twenty yards before slamming into a heavy container, the rock becoming dislodged from the gas pedal. As he’d expected, the devastation had sent the rest of the dozen or so hired hands running in that direction. Brennan made it to the window; he slipped inside quickly, guessing correctly that its guard would have been one of the first to run to the front.
He dropped to the floor inside, crouched. The crates to his left were stacked twenty feet high and cut off the view of the front of the warehouse. Those to his right cut off the back; at the end of both rows was a small gap, just big enough for a forklift to turn around and to use as a corridor through the building. There was a set of stairs on the opposite wall, running above the side exit to a metal runway that circled the building, just below roof height, and allowed access to a truncated second floor, which only covered half of the building’s length but doubtless contained the office area. It was a good vantage point. He crossed quickly to the other side of the warehouse and made it up the stairs before any of the guards returned; then he began to look for an overview position that might tell him what they were actually dealing with.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Car
olyn was exhausted, tempted to put her head down on her office desk and get some sleep, even though it was just barely nine o’clock at night.
Ellen was looking after the kids. Carolyn been working for two days to find someone, anyone, who might be able to get in touch with Joe; she’d gone through every scrap he’d ever kept from his SEAL days, every memento, contact, note or commendation. She’d parsed every computer file, rung up every old friend.
She hadn’t really expected to find anything, because she knew how careful he was. He kept his work and home lives separate, and it was evident. So she’d gone in to work and asked for every record involving her husband that she was allowed to access, every mission debriefing, every training notation, every folder.
Her office phone buzzed, which was odd given the hour.
“Carolyn Brennan-Boyle.”
“Carolyn? Hi, it’s Terry Menzies… from research?”
She hardly knew him, but Terry had a good rep. “What’s up Terry?”
“Well… yeah. I have this request here that we’ve been working on for a while. Only thing is, it was put in by Walter Lang, and as you’re no doubt aware…
“Of course,” she said.
“Anyway, Walter had us putting together a list of potential shooters, anyone with a sharpshooter rating from the Forces who might be working freelance now. I’d almost finished it when he died, so I figured I’d hang back tonight and take a crack at it.”
“Okay.”
“It was mighty long, we’re talking more than three dozen individuals.”
“Not much of a shortlist.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought; but Walter was looking for anyone with a tie to the deadly bus blast in Peru a few years back, so I took it on as a little project and I came up with a name. You want me to email all of this over to you?”
Really, she knew, it should have gone to Jonah or the director first. “Sure,” she said, for once ignoring the little voice that told her to play it safe, by the books. “Sure, I’ll take a look.”