The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  “Like it’s the first day of the rest of my life.”

  “Good, good. Then you’d enjoy a few more?” He raised the phone book and began hammering Brennan’s side with more punches. Another rib cracked, and the agent groaned loudly.

  “Now, I suspect that was not a groan of pleasure, Mr. Smith,” the smaller man said.

  Brennan was panting from the combination of stress, adrenaline and heat, the pain radiating through his side, throbbing like the world’s biggest bad tooth.

  “Let’s begin again,” the man said. “What is your name?”

  Brennan was too tired to bother trying. “Fuck off,” he said.

  The interrogator shook his head in disappointment. “Round three, I suppose,” he said. “We’ll just have to have a convincing story. Let’s see: perhaps you were attacked by another inmate when you took his food. Yes, that’s a good rationale for losing an eye.” He turned back to the table and when he faced Brennan again was holding a scalpel in his right hand. “You said something about sightseeing, Mr. Smith. Perhaps…” he leaned in close, the blade less than an inch from Brennan’s eyeball, “… we can cure you of your inquisitive nature.”

  He used his other hand to push Brennan’s head back, two fingers pulling back one of the agent’s eyelids. He leaned in, his breath hot and rank, “Don’t worry: soon you’ll have a whole new lack of perspective on things.” The blade crept forward until it was almost touching Brennan’s eye.

  The door to the room swung open; the interrogator took a step back. The man who entered the room was in full military dress, a colonel’s bars on his shoulder. “Leave us,” he said to the interrogator.

  The diminutive psychopath looked disappointed and glanced once angrily at Brennan before listening to his superior and leaving the room. A male nurse was standing behind the colonel in the doorway, anxiously awaiting instruction.

  “Clean him up,” the colonel said.

  The nurse set about binding Brennan’s finger tips in gauze, alcohol-soaked cotton and bandages.

  “My apologies, Mr. Smith,” the colonel said. “It appears word of your captivity has somehow leaked to your fellow countrymen. Or that may be the case; I’m not certain what I’m allowed to say in this regard. However, I must apologize for my comrade’s… overzealous methods of questioning.”

  “He broke my ribs.”

  “Unfortunate, as I’ve said. However, you are a foreign national operating illegally in our country. I must ask you to tell me who you work for and perhaps, once we have established your purpose, we can discuss the interest from your embassy in finding out whom the American is that we’re holding.”

  “The last guy was more convincing,” Brennan said. “He had that creepy movie villain vibe…”

  “This is not a joking matter, Mr. Smith. If we so choose, you could be shot for espionage…”

  “But you’re worried that would scare of some of those Yankee dollars, right? So why should I tell you a thing?”

  The colonel’s face took on a stony contempt. “Perhaps another dozen hours hanging from the wall of a cell might change your mind,” the military man said, walking back towards the door. “Guards, bring our guest with us. We’re going back to the detention wing.”

  April 8, 2016, LUANDA, ANGOLA

  Brennan had begun to lose track of the time of day. The Angolans seemed to come and go, no one person always in charge of keeping an eye on him. They’d leave him chained up for five, six hours at a time, then let him down for one, then put him back up on the wall. Every so often, they’d wake him up with a bucket of cold water.

  They didn’t seem in any great hurry to make him talk; given that the rats in his cell were the size of Chihuahuas, perhaps they figured eventually his own anxiety would eat at him, and he’d say something just to be free.

  Instead, he used the vermin to occupy his mind, trying to identify which rat was specifically which, and then naming them. He’d learned it as a way to pass the time from a Soviet dissident trapped in a Polish church basement for sanctuary, around the reunification in Europe. Of course, the poor Russian had been there for months and his affinity to rodents had extended to predicting which would follow him into battle, so it was possible he’d gone just a little crazy.

  But it was working for Brennan – that, and the belief that once he managed to get out of there, he might be able to track Dr. Han down and thank her in person for leaving him behind in Cabinda.

  The latch to his cell clicked open and the door swung wide. The same short, mustachioed colonel in dress uniform who had visited him for two weeks entered, flanked by a soldier with a machine gun. “Good Morning, Mr. Smith!” he said cheerfully in English. “And how are you feeling today?”

  “I’m chained to a wall. How do you think I’m feeling?”

  “More requests for your embassy for information. They’re getting quite testy,” the colonel said. He strode over and stood next to Brennan. “There is an easy solution to your dilemma, Mr. Smith,” he said more quietly. “Simply tell us why you were at the rebel camp in Cabinda and we will let you go home.”

  “You were probably a colonel pretty young, eh?” Brennan said.

  “Why, yes,” the colonel said, smiling brightly. “How did you know?”

  “Guy your size and weight is likely to have what we call ‘short man syndrome’, a need to overachieve.”

  The colonel wasn’t easily shaken. He smiled, tongue between his teeth and eyes averted as he held his patience. “If we hang you from the wall for much longer, Mr. Smith, your arms are going to start stretching… instead of just your nose.”

  “I told you, I’m just a geologist. I was tipped that there might be an unclaimed Uranium property around Massabi Lagoon.”

  “Your visa to enter the country has shown to be a forgery, Mr. Smith. You have no company affiliation and your torso is covered in such an impressive array of scars and old wounds that I have trouble believing you are merely interested in radioactive rocks.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “Explain the camp to me. Explain a dozen dead Cabindans, and an as-yet unidentified European. You’re a spy, Mr. Smith.”

  “We’ve been over this… too many times.” The strain of standing constantly and having his arms suspended was only half the reason for his fatigue; his ribs had yet to heal and he winced every time he moved. “They were alive when I got there. They locked me in the shipping container. A bunch of other soldiers showed up and killed them.”

  “And left you alive.”

  “And left me alive.”

  “How fortunate for you.”

  Brennan tilted his head and looked around the squalid cell. “Evidently.” The truth was, he didn’t know why Han had been involved or why she’d left him as a witness.

  “So what are we to do with you? We could simply execute you as a clear and present danger to the national security of Angola, but we both know that would be ironic, given our existing social conditions, and quite untrue.”

  “Yep.”

  “Or we could leave you here. But in short order, that would have diplomatic ramifications also.”

  “I’m guessing.”

  The colonel’s sneer was sardonic. He leaned in closely. “Were it up to me, Mr. Smith, we would work on you until you either talked, or died. Fortunately for you, my country’s greatly improved relationship with America is essential to business, and I do not wish to receive, how do you say, the ‘heat’ from people above me.”

  Brennan looked him over from toes to head. “What are you, five-three? I’d say almost everyone’s heat is above you.”

  The colonel turned away for a brief moment then wheeled around quickly, slamming a balled up fist into Brennan’s stomach. Brennan grunted; he’d reflexively stiffened his stomach muscles before the blow and a fist-shaped bruise was spreading across them.

  “I may not get the pleasure of having my man working the information out of you, Mr. Smith. But you are here for at least another day. It can be
as unpleasant as you wish to make it.”

  He turned on his heel and headed for the door, followed by the soldier. Then he faced Brennan again. “An embassy official will be here to see you tomorrow,” he said. “My advice would be to do whatever this person says in order to leave Angola. The next time you and I meet, I will not be so cordial.”

  The diminutive officer turned to leave. “Hey!” Brennan said. “Aren’t you at least going to let me down?”

  “You seemed uninclined to help me, Mr. Smith, and so I am uninclined to help you. But rest assured, they will have you cleaned up tomorrow before your government stops by.”

  True to his word, Brennan spent the rest of the night standing, sleeping by leaning against the wall when he could. The next morning, a pair of guards came for him a few hours after sunrise. They made him strip out of his filthy trousers and hosed him down in a shower room, tossing him a bar of soap halfway through. They watched him as he shaved away the two weeks of facial hair; and then they gave him back his clothing, washed and pressed.

  He wondered how he’d handle the meeting with the embassy official without blowing his cover. He couldn’t claim agency affiliation, but he needed some way to let the person know he needed extraction.

  The problem solved itself when the man showed up, shortly after lunch. They moved Brennan to a meeting area adjacent to his cell block, a single table behind bulletproof glass, which was perforated with air holes, allowing just enough sound through for them to talk.

  The official was tall, over six feet, and wearing a grey suit; he had dark grey hair and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. And Brennan recognized him immediately. “Bill Weeks? Weeksy?”

  Weeks gave him a small wave through the glass. “Good to see you too,” he said loudly. “Have they charged you with anything?”

  Weeks and Brennan had gone through agency training together. “No. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Consular attaché.” Weeks could hardly keep a straight face when he said it. It basically meant he was the agency’s point man in Angola.

  “I haven’t talked to you in… how long has it been?”

  “About five years. When they showed me the mugshot of “Tom Smith” I almost did a spit take with my coffee. Look, if they haven’t charged you, I think I can get you sprung by later today. Officially, we don’t get involved in the local justice system, but unofficially these guys want us around these days. This country’s a damn sight more corporate than it used to be.”

  “From Bolsheviks to boardrooms.”

  “Pretty much,” Weeks said. “How’re they treating you?”

  “Tough. Rough joint, but not the worst I’ve ever been in. I feel like shit, buddy. I need to be gone.”

  “Well, just hang tight. Look…”

  “What?” The tone suggested bad news is coming.

  “Well, we’ve had a discussion with the guys upstairs already, and they want you out too. But DFW wants your balls in a sling; he said you were supposed to be in the EU working the sniper case. He’s going to hold this against you…”

  “Damn it.”

  “That’s not all. There’s some bad news, too. I’ve got to assume you didn’t hear about Walter Lang.”

  Brennan felt anxiety, fear. He’d known something was wrong in the camp, when he’d been unable to reach his friend. “What? What about Walter?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, but he’s dead, Joe.”

  “How?”

  “Double-tap. Professional job, though the official line is they were burglars.”

  Brennan hung his head. “Goddamn it.”

  “I know he was your mentor…”

  “A good friend, too.”

  “Yeah… well, look, I’ll be back to see you in the morning, okay? I’m going to make a couple of calls, but we’ll get you out of here and on your way.”

  “I need to get home, find out what happened,” Brennan said. He’d been looking forward to seeing his wife and kids more than anything. Now he had to find out about Walter.

  But Weeks shook his head. “Sorry, Joe. DFW says you’re going back to Europe. They’ve still got this shooter at the top of their minds. Miskin has a series of speeches planned during the next two months at various European locations, designed to answer questions that are being raised about his involvement with Ahmed Khalidi. It’s going to put him so far out there publicly that if your guy is still active, he’ll be sorely tempted to take a shot.”

  “Has anyone shared this with Miskin?”

  “He knows the risks, although he hasn’t seen our intelligence.”

  “Let’s not use that term too charitably,” Brennan said. “And there are bigger things here that might be at play, despite what Fenton-Wright thinks.”

  “Yeah, DFW indicated you had a theory. He wasn’t too receptive.”

  “Shocker. Let’s hope his lack of interest doesn’t kill a whole lot of people; it’s not a theory anymore.”

  “What are we talking about here?” the field agent asked. “Or do I want to know?”

  Brennan knew the limitations of having solid intel that he couldn’t back up with evidence. “Not now, not yet. But maybe soon.”

  Weeks got up and gave Brennan thumbs up. “Hang tight, bud,” he said loudly. “Before you know it, you’ll be on a flight out of here. That’s a start.”

  April 23, 2016, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The President liked to stand while speaking to visitors in the Oval Office. It was probably, on some level, unbecoming of a chief executive to pace by the great windows overlooking the Rose Garden. He knew his predecessors had showed typical executive mettle by seating visitors across from them and passing on sage wisdom from on high, from behind the safety of the Resolute Desk. But he liked to stand and pace while he thought, and on those occasions when things were less officious and more cordial, to sit across from them on the plush guest sofas.

  So while his potential successor sat looking uncomfortable, ahead of his desk, the President was by the windows, pacing in small circles. In the other chair, Nicholas Wilkie glanced at Younger occasionally, feeling as uncomfortable as Younger looked. He didn’t like this, the mixing of agency business with presidential politics.

  “Thank you for flying in to meet with us, John” he said. “I know you need to be out there campaigning, so I do appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You also know I’m a man who has a great deal of patience when it comes to getting my way. I’ve dealt with nothing but obstruction since getting into office, but I haven’t swayed from the things I believe will keep this country great.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Younger said. His shirt collar felt tight and it was warm in the Oval Office. He just wanted to make a good impression.

  “Gentlemen, I wanted this Fawkes thing dealt with before Florida and the primary, so that I can begin working for John’s candidacy publicly and in earnest without worrying about a major diplomatic bomb dropping,” the President said. “But now we’re into the full campaign swing and it’s still out there.”

  “I realize that Mr. President, and I know you must disappointed,” Wilkie said. “We’re still working on it; but we have to consider the possibility that, with no more ACF board members targeted, this may blow over before Fawkes’ cover is blown.”

  “Disappointed? That’s hardly the issue. It’s just a reality that my administration will look terrible if Fawkes’ identity is revealed. And that means, by extension, that Senator Younger’s campaign will suffer. That in turn hurts the American people.”

  “I understand that, Mr. President,” Wilkie said.

  “I want to see some real progress on this. I want you to talk to both agencies, see if we can’t put a push on this.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We’ll redouble our efforts. There is one area of concern…”

  “There are a lot more than one, Nicholas, but go ahead…”

  “NSA is continuing to exhibit friction at working with the clande
stine boys at Langley. There’s a real fear of a leak in the agency because of the recent press attention.”

  “You think someone at Langley is trying to scuttle this thing?”

  “I think someone’s passing out information they shouldn’t, yes. But I feel confident we can get ahead of it,” Wilkie said. “I’ve got one of my best guys on it.”

  “Anyone I know?” the president asked.

  “Yes, my deputy director, David Fenton-Wright. Perfect man for the job.”

  April 29, 2016, PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  The crowd was a chanting throng, an arena full of proud Republicans certain they were just nine months away from ending eight years in the political wilderness. Their faces were full of hope, and happiness, and a sense of security that they were about to be led back to glory by Addison March.

  At the podium, he used both hands to motion for quiet, and the keeners near the front of the audience shushed everyone else. “Thank you,” March said as it quieted, “Thank you. Thank you.” He pointed to some supporters near the front randomly, as if singling out favorites. A group of about a dozen delegates all assumed he was pointing at them.

  They’d been using the applause breaks in his lengthy speech to chant “March! March! March to Washington! March! March! March to Washington!”

  He motioned with his hands yet again for quiet and the throng’s volume slowly dissipated. “My fellow Americans, I am humbled by the support I’ve seen and heard today,” March said. “I am humbled by it … and yet I am troubled also.” He looked down slightly, showing the gravitas of true concern. “I am troubled that we have come to a point in the history of the greatest nation on the planet in which our values, our efforts and those of our forefathers are being constantly questioned.

  “I am troubled that we live in an age where people who achieve and strive for better are cast as villains. I’m troubled that, in our America, it has become acceptable to demand – not ask for, but demand – charity from people who’ve worked hard to earn their living, whether that demand comes from government in the form of overtaxation, or from the Liberal left and their ongoing desire to turn our national work ethic into an easy ride. I’m troubled – but I’m not going to stand by and let it happen.”