The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  “But Khalidi…”

  “He has a lot to explain, my friend. They paint me as some villain in their grand drama, but we both know the truth. If I get hold of that device and the fool who stole it, I have all the leverage I will ever need.”

  Brennan frowned as he listened. Whatever Bustamante was talking about involved a nuclear weapon, which was about as grand-scale as the agent could imagine. Was he referring to the industrialist, Ahmed Khalidi? What was Bustamante getting at?

  Once it was clear that Bustamante was done for a while, Brennan took off the headphones for a moment and left the audio track recording. It seemed bizarre to be sitting so far from home, so far from Carolyn and the kids, listening to a man talk casually about what sounded like a stolen or missing nuke, when just a few days earlier he’d been fishing with a buddy, wondering if he’d ever get back to work. It reminded him of when he’d first joined the agency, just out of the SEALS, and been immediately dumped into an undercover op in Thailand. He’d forgotten what it was like, trying to keep the nervous tension switched off.

  Thinking about his family didn’t help, so he shut it out, aware even as he did so that perhaps it was bad for the soul.

  He needed more. More detail about the weapon, the shipment and Khalidi, as well as possibly Bustamante’s involvement in the shootings and Abbott’s mistress. There were two choices: running the stakeout indefinitely in the hopes of catching something, or going to the source.

  Brennan figured the path was clear. He’d been told not to engage, but the stakes had changed. He needed to interrogate Tillo Bustamante. He took out his phone and, after contemplating a few options, placed a call.

  12./

  DEC. 10, 2015, PARIS, FRANCE

  Annalise Boudreau’s fingers sought out the thin, smooth surface of the locket that hung from her neck, playing with it absent-mindedly as she looked out the window of her Paris flat.

  The shoppers on Rue Jacob were bustling along the chilly street, bags in hand, the cafes still busy despite the turning season. She knew she’d miss this; the apartment’s location was prime real estate, after all, and the weekly rates were far beyond what she could afford without Anthony’s help.

  And Anthony was dead.

  She crossed her arms, feeling small, resisting the urge to chew on her knuckles out of sheer nervousness. Unaccustomed to supporting herself – she’d been somebody’s mistress in one form or another for twenty years – Annalise wondered what would happen next. She turned her head ninety degrees to catch her reflection in the dressing mirror at the end of the room. She was still attractive, still fit even at forty-two years old. Someone would still…

  She stopped the thought and felt tears coming on, but held them back. Her parents had always taught her to be proud, and although she had been a kept woman for two decades, Annalise had been with the English lord for most of that time, his secret love, away from the cloying, frigid professionalism of his society wife. She’d long stopped thinking of it as survival, or of him as just a meal ticket. She’d really come to love Anthony, his stiff awkwardness when affectionate, the strength of his hold. She certainly loved the lifestyle, as he’d long ago told her that money was no object. He’d known early, instinctively, that she was not inclined to waste.

  Not that that would help when the landlord turned her out, she thought.

  His death had caught her flatfooted. A day before he’d returned to London, they’d gone for brunch at Renoma, shared eggs benedict and bad jokes about English weather. He’d kissed her hand, and he’d reminded her of how much he loved her.

  Less than forty-eight hours later, he was shot dead in the backyard of his family home in suburban London, and her world had been turned upside down.

  Appealing for help to their friends was out of the question, and she wasn’t sure how it would be received in any case. Most of them were society associates, no one she would ever spend private time with or share secrets; no one she could really trust.

  There was a knock on her apartment door, three short, hard raps. Her head turned quickly, surprised by the sound. Normally people had to be buzzed in to the building, to register with the doorman in the lobby.

  She crossed the living room, past the white-and-black checkered retro Habitat furniture. She looked through the peephole; there were at least three men, all dressed in suits.

  Perhaps this was it, she thought. Perhaps this was the landlord’s lawyer, come to tell her that she was no longer welcome in her own home. She frowned; that didn’t make sense; as far as she knew, Anthony had paid the rent for several months in advance.

  She put the chain on and opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

  “Madame Boudreau? We need you to accompany us, please.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “You are familiar with the late Lord Anthony Abbott, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is regarding his assassination.”

  Official business, then. Annalise sighed. She had already talked to the Gendarmes and the English intelligence officials. They’d looked attentive and interested throughout and had taken copious notes, but at the end seemed unconcerned with anything she could tell them.

  “Is this going to take long?” she said. “I’m meeting a friend this evening.”

  The shortest of the three men stood ahead of his two helpers. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, smiling broadly. “We just need to go over a few things.”

  She did not ask the men for a badge, or an arrest warrant, or anything official to confirm their identities and task. It did not occur to her for a moment that anyone might make such a thing up. After all, Annalise had never found herself to be an interesting person, never had the confidence to feel needed by others, never been in trouble. “Let me get my coat,” she said.

  The man put a hand on the door. “May we come in?” he asked, taking a half-step forward before she’d answered. He pushed past her before she had a chance to answer, the two enormous helpers following him.

  “Now excuse me, but I don’t think I said ‘enter’,” she tried to say, backing into the room to get out of their way.

  The small man turned to face her. His gaze was nearly expressionless. He began to turn back the other way, away from her, but instead pivoted quickly on his heel, bringing a swift backhand around, slapping her hard across the cheek, knocking her down. “Shut up,” he said. “Be quiet while we search and we may let you live.”

  Two of the men began to ransack the apartment, not paying attention to her sitting on the hardwood floor, a look of shock and fear written across her face. Very quickly, Annalise felt that fear grow.

  BARCELONA

  The package arrived at the hotel four hours later, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, as if someone had sent cookies and a few changes of clothes to a kid at camp. The hotel called up to Brennan’s room and he went downstairs to retrieve it. Once back in the room, he cut the string with the steak knife from his breakfast and unwrapped the paper.

  It had cost five thousand dollars, which was highway robbery; but it was the agency’s money. Like most agents, Brennan had access to emergency accounts when needed. The Glock 21 .45 pistol came modified and equipped with a suppressor, as requested, and the three vials of chemicals he would need were intact. There was no way to test them for validity or potency, but the supplier was a long-trusted agency source in the city.

  While waiting for his wares, Brennan had checked back over his notes. Storming the door wasn’t out of the question; if they were sloppy, the guard out front would have a key card on him to the room. Once past him, the element of surprise and the suppressor would probably have done the job. But his instructions were to not engage except when necessary and he knew there had to be an easier path to Bustamante than gunning down his thugs.

  He considered their schedule again, the routine of the four guards inside. Then he put the headphones back on and waited for Bustamante’s man to call room service, which seemed to be the source of a
ll food that was brought to the suite.

  Brennan went down the hall to the elevators and took them to the eighth floor, then waited with his back to the elevator buttons. It took about twenty-five minutes more before the doors slid open and the young waiter pushed the cart out of the car. He stepped behind the waiter and quickly wrapped him up in a choke hold, applying pressure with the crook of his elbow to the carotid artery until the decreased blood flow knocked the kid unconscious. It took less than seven seconds. Brennan knew he only had a minute or two at most before the waiter would awaken and wonder what the hell had just happened to him. He took the kid’s white jacket and put it on, noting it was too short on the sleeves and rolling them up to compensate. Then he used a fireman’s lift to put the waiter over his shoulder, laying him back down on the floor of the elevator car and taking it down to his floor. The doors slid open and he checked the hallway before running as quickly as he could to his room door, the kid a dead weight over his shoulder. He dropped the kid onto the carpet beside the bed then taped his mouth shut and bound his hands and feet. Then he blindfolded the waiter, before heading back down the hallway to the elevators. He punched the button for the twelfth floor.

  In front of the elevators, he removed the lids from the food trays on top of the cart. He withdrew the shortest of the three vials from his pocket. There were five plates, which meant either Bustamante or one of the guards wasn’t eating with the rest. It made sense; at every prior meal for two days, they’d all eaten together, save for the man on front-door duty. He lifted the plate lids; club sandwiches, which was par for the course. Bustamante didn’t exactly eat lightly. He sprinkled a small amount of the colorless, odorless liquid into the food, then re-covered each plate and wheeled the entire cart around the corner, down the hallway to the suite.

  The guard at the door was as wide as the doorway, with slicked back hair in a ponytail, and a moustache. He held up a hand. “I don’t know you,” he said in Spanish. “Where’s Jonathan?”

  “Day off,” Brennan said. “His father is quite ill.”

  The guard lifted the tray lids quickly but seemed satisfied there was nothing amiss.

  Brennan stood and waited as the guard turned towards the door with the cart.

  The guard realized he hadn’t left and turned back. “What do you want?”

  “It is customary for a tip…”

  “Jonathan knows Senor Bustamante does not believe in tipping,” he said. “Go away.”

  “Si Senor,” Brennan replied, trying to seem disappointed and to look unimpressed.

  He walked back to the elevators. Once around the corner from the hallway, he took off the white jacket, balled it up and opened the window; he placed it on the ledge, out of sight, and closed the window again.

  Brennan headed down a floor. Back in his room, he waited the twenty minutes it would take for the drug to kick in. It was important to keep his mind on the task at hand; but he kept thinking about Carolyn, and how she’d almost seemed to be defending David Fenton-Wright and his decisions. Did she even realize how far out on a limb he’d be, operating in the EU without permission from the locals? Did she care?

  Then he buried the idea and chastised himself; this wasn’t on Carolyn; she was just trying to balance her career and her concern for her husband. After all, she was the first person to suggest he try walking away.

  As the now-conscious waiter murmured and kicked against his restraints, Brennan attached the suppressor to the modified Glock barrel then slipped the gun into the back of his waistband, underneath his shirt. Then he took a wad of cotton out of his carry-on and soaked it in the same chemical he’d used in the food.

  He took the stairs back to the eighth floor. It would have been easier to drug the hotel worker, too, but he preferred to avoid exposing an innocent civilian to risk, and the choke hold was unlikely to do any damage. A knockout cocktail could trigger an allergy or worse, a heart attack.

  The guard at the door had seen him before, which worked to Brennan’s advantage. He walked up to him smiling, a hand raised in a wave of good nature.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said to the guard, “but I wanted to talk to about that tip I did not get, from about a half hour ago, when I was on shift? I do not intend to be impetuous, but I do not make much per hour, and in the present economy…”

  The guard stiffened at the request and his grip tightened around the machine pistol. “Madre de… Are you stupid? Go away. The rooms on this floor are private residences and hotel staff are not welcome. And, as I said before…”

  “My apologies, sir,” Brennan said. He turned his body slightly to the left, as if he were about to gesture down the hallway behind him, using his left hand to slip the pistol out sight unseen. He turned quickly and pressed the suppressor against the middle of the guard’s forehead. “Do not be brave, my friend. I pull this trigger and your brains will cover this door, understand?”

  The guard nodded carefully and raised his hands, the pistol hanging loosely from its shoulder strap. “Turn around,” Brennan ordered. The man complied. Brennan kept the gun trained on the back of the man’s head, then reached around him with his right hand and held the cotton to the man’s mouth and nose. He went to struggle instinctively, grabbing at Brennan’s arm, but within a few seconds was slumping to sleep at the foot of the door. Brennan reached inside his coat and found his key card. He used it to flash the sensor on the handle and opened the suite.

  The drug had worked as planned; all five men were face down over their meals around the dining table. It was powerful, and they would be out for at least thirty minutes and probably more, he’d calculated. There were security cameras around the suite, but if they were being live-monitored somewhere, it was with no great efficiency. Brennan had no intention of returning to the hotel once he had what he needed, and didn’t worry about his face being caught on tape. The idea was to get the job done with no harm to anyone, before getting out of Barcelona for another decade or so.

  He moved the food cart until it was right next to Bustamante, then rolled the man out of his chair and onto the floor; he pulled the sides of the table cloth up then moved the industrialist onto the bottom shelf of the cart, pushing his legs in so that he was curled up in a sitting position before lowering the table cloth again. He wheeled the card out of the suite, past the downed doorman and to the elevators.

  Ten minutes later, Bustamante was tied securely to a chair in Brennan’s room, next to the tall windows. The agent had moved the waiter, still awake and frightened, into the closet.

  Brennan removed one of the last two vials from the top of the dresser and drew half into a hypodermic syringe. Then he placed a tie around Bustamante’s arm until a large vein was evident, and slowly injected the mixture into his sleeping suspect.

  The chemicals were a potent cocktail of sodium thiopental and scopolamine, and would be followed with a stimulant to counteract the initial knockout drops. The stimulant would keep him awake while the cocktail lowered the suspect’s resistance to questions. It wasn’t a ‘truth serum’, as no such beast exists; but Brennan had found in the past that if he had a decent factual starting point, the cocktail could shake all sorts of things loose.

  He injected the stimulant, then waited five minutes, then tried to revive the gangster. Then he repeated the dose. It took another dose to stir Bustamante enough to be comprehensible, and to get him talking somewhat fluidly. His eyes flitted around in the confused manner of someone suffering a concussion, and he nodded his head slightly in all directions.

  “Tillo! Padron!” Brennan said in his best Catalan accent, standing behind the chair. “I think you drink too much old friend.”

  Bustamante smiled groggily. “I … I can’t see so well. Who …?”

  “It’s your old friend Juan,” Brennan said, banking that Bustamante knew at least one Juan. “You don’t look so good, Tillo. Maybe you need another drink.”

  Bustamante shook his head. “No, no more. Feel so drunk in my head.”

 
“You remember what you were saying? About Khalidi?”

  He gave a half-nod, his head slumping back. “Si, si, the chairman. Bastardo! I was promised a place, you know. Then they reneged, turned against me.”

  “Over the shootings?” Brennan asked. “Because they think you… “

  “Foolishness and nonsense. It was long before.” Bustamante said, his eyes flitting closed, lids heavy. “They are all dragons, you know.”

  That didn’t make any sense, and Brennan put it down to the chemicals. “That’s funny, old friend,” Brennan said with a light laugh. “Very funny. I almost thought you shot them yourself, after how they treated you.”

  Bustamante shook his head wildly.

  “This is not so funny,” the drugged man said. “Not funny so….”

  “So you didn’t…”

  “No. Where am I?” The drugs were fully taking hold now and the industrialist had a confused, frightened look in his eyes. “Juan, I can’t see you.”

  “I’m here old friend,” Brennan said, staying behind the chair. “Do you want another drink?”

  Bustamante shook his head again, “No, too much already, too much.”

  “So you didn’t have La Pierre shot, and Abbott?”

  “No, no. Not worth my time. Cut one down, another would take its place, like weeds.”

  “Maybe the chairman is angry with you over the bomb. Chairman Khalidi, that is.”

  Bustamante looked confused. “No, this is not about me. I don’t understand…”

  “Yes, the nuke. The South Africans lost it, right?”

  “Yes, yes, the South Africans. Big money. Bigger than you know. That is on them, too. I just look, like everyone.”

  “Them?”

  Bustamante squinted. “You know, stupid, Khalidi’s group. The ACF. I … I dream of being a boy again, Juan.”

  “You are a rich man, my friend,” Brennan said.