DEADMAN SWITCH (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 2)

by Sam Powers

  “It worked on some people; the intelligence community thinks you’re dead.”

  “That, in turn, would allow me the time to arrange passage of the device from West Africa to Russia.”

  “Your comrades expected you to set the device off in Moscow, or St. Petersburg…”

  He shook his head. “Sochi, on the Black Sea. A matter of geographical convenience. But when the bus blew up, Khalidi was unconvinced; he sent teams out to scour the globe looking for me, had them at every major airport hub. I was stuck in Pointe Noire, unable to travel safely. I had access to money and contacts, but I wasn’t willing to go under the knife for plastic surgery in a small African city with poor medical facilities at best. In the meantime, the Shining Path movement took the blame for the passengers’ deaths.”

  “Your fellow socialist freedom fighters must have really loved you for that.”

  Abubakar took a deep breath. “I was ostracized by the same people who had plotted with me to buy the device and use it against Russia, branded an embarrassing failure.”

  Brennan considered the cave mouth at the back of the camp. “You set up some side business while you bided your time. But you knew there was a chance that the device might be discovered.”

  He nodded. “It had been brought up by the original thieves from South Africa, through Namibia and Angola; they took a smuggler’s vessel from Soyo, at the mouth of the Congo, to Cabinda, and then from land up to Pointe Noire. But they had limited resources and no contacts who would buy the thing. Within two months, the men responsible were both killed in separate criminal incidents; so it sat in storage for more than a decade with surplus farm equipment, in a corrugated tin warehouse.”

  Brennan was beginning to get his strength back and he used the delay to work on his bound hands, trying to pry them loose. “You had been arranging weapons purchases for Khalidi’s Nigerian insurrections and heard about the bomb.”

  “It had been uncovered in Pointe Noire by someone who knew what it was and what it could be worth, a Russian arms dealer with wide-ranging contacts. So I had a price, I had access to Khalidi’s money.”

  “And in Chechnya, you had a cause.”

  “True.”

  “But now you were stuck in Pointe Noire and no one back home wanted your help. So you hid it in one of the caves by the lagoon to disguise the signature of the fissionable material, but then lost track of which one?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing that foolish, I assure you. The cave suffered a collapse. They are artificial, entrances to a deeper pit designed in rudimentary fashion to prevent outside exposure to non-miners; they were designed in the nineteen thirties by a French pharmaceutical firm with a concession from the Belgians. The firm thought it had a use for Uranium in certain cancer treatments. The caves are not deep, but once our cave was cut off, it meant finding the easiest point to break through the dirt and rock from the next cave over.”

  “The one behind that tin shack you call a house.”

  “Quite accurate.”

  “Why try to get to it now? Why come back for it at all?”

  He shrugged. “Money. First, the camp was an ideal spot to sell weapons to the new Cabindan resistance, fighting the Angolans. They have a steady flow of Euros coming in from certain supporters, and most of that now flows through me. We were not initially aware of the background radiation; it has grown as the tunnels have been opened up. Besides, I spend much of my time in Pointe Noire to avoid this place. Second, I concluded that since my brothers in arms betrayed me, and the world thought me dead, I should sell the device and reap a reward for the exile I’ve endured; but it took some time to find a buyer.

  “And you let the locals you’ve hired think this place is safe, I suppose. So this is just…”

  Abubakar cut him off. “No, we’re not going to play that game, American. You wanted to know about the bus victims and I’ve made it clear that that was an unfortunate incident. We need to get back to the point of this: you telling us who you work for and what they know. I think I know the latter, but I am no longer sure of the former.”

  Brennan smiled. “My name is Tom Smith. I’m a geologist. I’m just here to collect samples…”

  “Oh, bravo,” Abubakar said, clapping slowly. “I suppose this all came to the surface because you were investigating Khalidi? Due to the recent murders of his business confederates? Why would that be an American concern? You are American, are you not, Mr. Smith?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Abubakar sighed. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. Hit him again, Mr. Nkube.”

  The interrogator stepped in and held the sponges to Brennan’s side; he convulsed violently as the electric current ran through him. The big African pulled the sponges away and Brennan slumped again, barely conscious.

  “People think it’s the voltage that’s important,” Abubakar said. “But as Mr. Nkube would explain, it’s actually the amperage, the resistance in the electrical current, that determines the damage. Who do you work for, Mr. Smith?”

  “Get… stuffed.”

  The interrogator didn’t need to be told; he stepped in and hammered Brennan with an extended shock, the agent’s torso shaking even after the sponges were removed, his muscles contorted from lactic acidosis, spit flying from his mouth.

  “Enough, Mr. Nkube, enough!” Abubakar said in French. “Don’t kill the man! I need information from him.”

  Abubakar leaned in. “How did you know we’d extracted the device? That I had a buyer?”

  Brennan shook his head. “I didn’t, just that it was on the move. You want truth, there’s some. You were supposed to be a Slovenian arms dealer working for Kalispell ...”

  “If that’s true, my timing is impeccably bad, as usual,” Abubakar said.

  “English is impeccably good….” Brennan said.

  “Thank you. I’ve had years to learn.”

  “… for a murderous scumbag.”

  The Chechen’s face was red, flustered. “And what of my loss?!?” he yelled, slapping himself on the chest. “My country. My family. My name! I’ve lost everything! Once I get out of here, even my face.”

  “You were going to use the device on Russians civilians.”

  “Spare me your sanctimony!” Abubakar said. “You’re an American. Your people have killed millions in wars, insurrections and revolutions around the globe, either directly like Iraq and Vietnam, or indirectly by funding dictators and murderers. You have no moral high ground, Mr. ‘Smith’. I suppose your stubbornness with respect to revealing your employer means that it is government, an agency. If you were just a hired hand you would not care enough to dig in and endure this. Maybe the CIA, yes? I don’t think it would be Khalidi. Does anyone else know where I am, other than Francisco?”

  “You answer a question for me first.”

  The Chechen eyed him suspiciously. “American, you piss me off, you presume so much.”

  “Who’d you sell the weapon to? You wouldn’t be this frantic to move it right now if you hadn’t found a buyer.”

  Abubakar turned his head, exasperated. “You know, this was not how I wanted to spend today,” he told Brennan. “Hit him again, Mr. Nkube.

  The big torturer leaned in again, smiling.

  13./

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Myrna leaned forward over the steering wheel and scanned the parking garage again. “Are you sure he’ll be here? It’s been nearly an hour, hon,” she told Malone.

  They’d parked at the far end of the second level, on Malone’s suggestion, so that Myrna could be nearby and Malone wouldn’t be potentially spotted on the street while walking in. It was unlikely her source’s newspaper code had been broken, but after Walter’s death, Alex wasn’t taking any chances.

  Instead, they waited for him to arrive. “Just remember: stay out of sight while we meet,” Alex said. “I don’t want him seeing you, and I have to respect his anonymity, so I don’t want you seeing him. We’
re cool with that, right?”

  Myrna gave her a sour look. “Sweetie, I was playing this game long before you were born. I think I know how to…”

  “Down!” Alex snapped, as a figure appeared out of the stairwell that led up to the mall above. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She got out of the car and closed the door, slinging her purse over her shoulder in the same motion. She walked towards the man, and they met midway across the darkened parking level, their shadows cast long by the emergency lights overhead.

  “I expected to hear from you before now,” the source said. “You haven’t written an article in a while, either.”

  “You must have known it would be difficult to confirm the information you gave me,” Alex said. “But we’re getting there. Don’t worry.”

  “If you need evidence, perhaps you should go back to Miskin. My sources suggest he’s nervous; he suspects one of his fellow ACF board members, perhaps even the chairman, may be behind the shootings.”

  “Why? What…”

  “Don’t be naïve; there are any numbers of reasons. A power grab; to cover up bad decisions from the past; perhaps what you need to do is ask Miskin.”

  “When you say ‘mistakes from the past’, you’re talking about Khalidi and Kalispell Properties; am I correct?”

  “That’s one interpretation. But he’s not the only ACF board member who has overreached, Ms. Malone. You should know that much by now.”

  “You mean the Chinese delegate…”

  “I mean all of them. Like I said, don’t be naïve.”

  “So you agree with Miskin?”

  “I didn’t say that. There are plenty of political forces from outside the ACF who could stand to see it exposed, to see it fail. Follow the money, Ms. Malone. Who benefits from Khalidi’s group being exposed, or wiped out, or both? Where does this seem to be headed to you?”

  He turned around and began to walk away.

  “Wait!” she said. “I think the ACF might have had Walter killed. I think they might be trying to kill me.”

  “I guarantee it,” he said as he walked, without turning. “But don’t give up, Ms. Malone. The story is too big.”

  He reached the street door, opened it, and was gone.

  They’d debated shooting Brennan on the spot but in the end had decided to hold onto him as a potential bargaining chip. He hadn’t revealed who he worked for, but it was probably an American agency, Abubakar had suggested, and they might be willing to pay to get him back.

  So they’d housed him in a shipping container, not unlike those that made up the walls of Abubakar’s house, except that it had just one small window, big enough to let some air in but not enough to do more than reach out an arm.

  It was stifling in the crate, well over a hundred degrees, and dehydration had begun to set in, his eyes itching, his head hurting, breath getting shallower. Brennan went over to the window hole against and sucked in some air from outside, then scanned the environment. The guards never walked close enough to the hole to grab at keys or a weapon, so escape seemed out of the question.

  If Francisco was planning any kind of rescue attempt, he was taking his sweet time, Brennan thought. Not that he suspected it to be the case; the arms dealer had almost certainly cut his losses and long since left. He wondered how often outsiders visited, whether there would be an opportunity to attract attention. He thought for a moment about Carolyn and the kids, then pushed everything personal out of his mind as unproductive, detrimental to getting the task done.

  There were voices near the entrance and he craned his neck trying to see it from an acute angle through the tiny hole. The big double gates swung open and a pair of military style transport trucks slowly entered the compound, followed by a Humvee with a top-mounted machine gunner. The figures getting out of the vehicles were all in army-style fatigues, but not from any of the local militia, as far as Brennan could tell.

  At the front of the convoy, one of Abubakar’s lieutenants was talking to someone. It looked like… was that a woman? The body shape suggested so. Brennan couldn’t see her face, but got a glimpse of aviator shades. She had long black hair under a maroon beret, and she held an M16 copy in her left hand, pointed skyward.

  The discussion became animated. The lieutenant was getting angry about something, raising his voice. Brennan could see her other hand resting on the pistol butt at her hip. The lieutenant was gesticulating now, pointing towards the two barracks-style buildings, then at the truck. He took a half-step forward and she drew the pistol and fired, hitting him in the head.

  One of her underlings slapped the sides of the trucks and troops began to pour out the back of each. Abubakar’s men were roused from sleep, hurrying out of their barracks in a state of half-undress, guns in hand even as they buttoned up shirts and pants. The new arrivals moved methodically among them, a few steps, a volley of three shots, another one put down for good. The camp’s residents were so undertrained and unprepared that the soldiers had wiped all but a few out within gunfire-filled minutes.

  Brennan watched the slaughter grimly; whoever had cut a deal with Abubakar for the device appeared to have reneged. Either that, or the Angolans had discovered the camp. Neither was a positive prospect.

  After a period, the gunfire slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He waited, tense. He had few options; he could hide behind one half of the container doors, hope they opened the other, try to surprise whoever was there. But that was suicide, with a guard full of armed men who actually knew what they were doing.

  The decision was made for him. The giant bolts clanged back and both doors swung open simultaneously. There were a half-dozen men facing him, all with guns at the ready. But the woman standing at the front shook her head and pushed down one of their barrels, indicating to the rest that she expected them to stand down.

  “Well,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Brennan.”

  “Hello, Dr. Han.” The military fatigues and glasses had changed her look considerably, Brennan thought, since his visit with Allan Ballantine to her lab in Brussels. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to see you, either.”

  She smiled. “I suppose I might have foreseen this based on your line of questioning. You’ve certainly forced various parties to amend their schedules, Mr. Brennan. Can I take it that it’s a waste of time to ask for whom you really work?”

  “You can. Same question, right back at you.”

  “Same answer.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a thought to mind. “But the way you approached me in Europe, through Allan… that suggested to me that you’re not exactly on official business. Am I right?” He tried to stay stoic, but she must have seen something in his gaze that she liked, Brennan figured. “Yes, I think that’s it. You’re working off the books, probably looking into whatever that naughty Ahmed Khalidi has been up to.”

  “That’s one theory,” he said. “What about you? I can’t figure too many research professors keep SIG P226s in their nightstands, or cart them around on expeditions.”

  “Well…” she thought about it with mock seriousness. “Let’s just say that, like you, I got in on loan and leave it at that.”

  “SIG P226 is standard issue for South Korean National Intelligence Service, isn’t it?”

  “They must get a nice discount,” she said. “I’m sure the SIG Sauer company is happy to have their business.”

  “Now what?” Brennan said. “You snag the nuke, whisk me out of the danger zone and save the day?”

  She smiled again. “Afraid not. Unfortunately, all of the excitement around here tonight is almost certainly going to bring the Angolans down on this place, probably by the morning at the latest. That means we have to get going as soon as the item is loaded. You’re a time sink, Mr. Brennan, and one who might get in the way.”

  She barked a series of commands at the soldiers in mixed French and Portuguese. Brennan got the gist. One of the guards took Brennan’s arm and pushed him back into the container, then closed the door be
hind him. He heard the bolt slide into place.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he yelled out through the small square window. “Hey… we’re supposed to be on the same side!”

  But if Han was listening, she didn’t let him know.

  14./

  March 29, 2016, ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA

  Carolyn pushed her food around the plate. Their friends Callum and Ellen McLean had invited her over for dinner, picked up from one of several local Korean barbecue places. It wasn’t dislike; she just didn’t have much appetite after two weeks with no word from Joe.

  The kids were with her mother for the night. She’d thought getting out of the house would take her mind off of it, but her friends had wanted to talk politics and that had turned into her thinking about the agency, which in turn was a steady reminder that the father of her children might be in harm’s way.

  But at least she was with friends who understood. Callum was technically retired from the SEALS, but was consulting and still away occasionally. And when he’d been serving, he was gone constantly. “You can only take it a day at a time,” Ellen had told her over short ribs and bulgogi, a thin-sliced barbecued beef dish. “I know you’re used to Joe telling you when he’ll be back, or expect to be; but try to think about it like he’s just delayed. There’s no point fretting about worst-case senarios.”

  She couldn’t tell them why he was gone, or where, and they understood that. Carolyn also had to admit to herself that she’d become more upset after going around to their house; seeing Callum and Ellen enjoying normalcy made her yearn for it. She was just wanted him home.

  “We’ve seen him for about six hours in the last two months,” she said. “Josh told me yesterday that for a few minutes, he forgot what his father looks like.”

  Ellen gave her an awkward look but it was obviously something she’d never encountered. “Ouch,” she eventually managed. “What did you…”