The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  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 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.

  Carolyn 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 had worked 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.”

  “Okay, sending it over now. Give me a ring back if you don’t get it; I’ll be in the office for another twenty minutes, at least.”

  “Back tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He hung up and she waited a few minutes, checking the news headlines online before going into her mail and retrieving the file. It was extensive, with personality profiles and backgrounds, military psych assessments, past test scores.

  None of that mattered. What mattered was the name, staring out of her screen at her like an accusation. Carolyn’s mouth dropped open.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  48./

  BUCHANAN, NEW YORK

  Malone had been expecting something dramatic, and the car that had just shot across the parking lot and crashed through the front of the warehouse certainly qualified; that had to be Joe’s signal.

  She dialed the number he’d given her.

  It only rang once and was answered. “Wilkie.”

  She recognized the name right away. “Is this Nicholas Wilkie? Sir, this is Alex Malone, with News Now.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “That’s not important sir. I’m in New York State, with Joe Brennan.”

  “Where are you?” his voice sounded grave.

  “We’re in a small town called Buchanan, about a mile from the Indian Head nuclear plant. There’s a warehouse at the end of a local avenue.” She began to give him directions but he cut her off.

  “We’ll have a team there within an hour. Don’t move from where you are, Ms. Malone; I can’t stress enough how dangerous this situation is, and we won’t have time to look out for civilians on scene.”

  “Okay.” That didn’t sound good, Malone thought.

  “If you have a safe location now, stay in it. Don’t move a muscle. As I said, we’ll be there within the hour.”

  He hung up.

  Malone lowered the phone and looked at the building. Now what? Brennan had been clear that he wanted her to stay away from any action. But Malone knew she wasn’t going to get the best out of the story by staying in a car a quarter-mile away. She checked her purse and took out her digital camera and her tape recorder. At the very least, she reasoned, she was going to get as close to the action as possible without getting in the way. In her experience, that was pretty close.

  Alex slipped out of her car and quietly made her way to the middle of the lot, crouching behind a car for cover. She used the camera’s optical zoom to get a tightly-cropped view of the action in front of the building, where men in bulletproof vests were pushing the car back out of the building, extricating it from mangled wood framing at the same time. Then she noticed the dim light coming from the building’s west side. A doorway?
If nothing else, she thought, it might be a good vantage point to scope out the interior, see what was going on inside. She started a wide half-circle of the property, looking for an approach that wouldn’t be easily seen and eventually finding one in the shadows of the adjacent building. Only a short mesh fence separated the two properties and she climbed over, dropping into the long grass and brush on the other side.

  The door was unguarded; he’d probably run up front with everyone else, she reasoned. It was just fifteen feet away, and despite Joe’s demand for her to stay on the periphery, much too tempting. Alex took a furtive glance around, then made her way to the door and pushed her way inside.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The jet out of Dulles was just about to take off, taxiing its way to the beginning of its runway. Jonah and the director had seats opposite each other, so that they could compare notes on route to New York State.

  They were landing at Stewart International, an air strip just southeast of Peekskill that served both the military and private planes. The agreement was that nobody federal was to contact anyone local; the chance of a County Mountie tipping the target was too great.

  Before they’d left, he’d met briefly with the NSA’s Fitzpatrick; despite his own misgivings about whether he was ready, Jonah had found himself cast completely in David Fenton-Wright’s former role as deputy director and Wilkie’s right-hand man. That meant liaising frequently with other agencies, the NSA foremost among them. Fitzpatrick had agreed immediately with his assessment that both agencies were needed at ground zero, and that the risk of losing senior staff was far outweighed by the need for leadership on scene.

  Where they’d disagreed was on the tangential issue of operational security; Jonah was convinced Fenton-Wright hadn’t been the only leak in the agency and had suggested as much to Fitzpatrick, who’d answered defensively, arguing that the NSA was as tight as a drum. Outside of the fact that, in reality, no agency could claim to be impervious, it was a rash statement, Jonah thought, particularly when he’d just seen Fitzpatrick, a week earlier, talking to the reporter Alex Malone. The NSA man had justified it by pointing out that she’d tipped him to a meeting with Fenton-Wright, and without her help they wouldn’t have taken the rogue deputy director down. But Jonah suspected Fitzpatrick may have been talking to her long before then; someone had been leaking Malone details of the sniper investigation for months. It could have been David, he thought; he’d utterly misjudged his former mentor’s intentions, after all. But Fitzpatrick’s reluctance to discuss the issue made him suspicious.

  The NSA man was at the other end of the private jet’s passenger cabin reading a magazine; he noticed Jonah watching him and gave him a quick smile, which Jonah returned, before casting his eyes down to the report on the table in front of him. Jonah looked up again and Fitzpatrick was watching him right back.

  “How are you, my boy?” Wilkie said, breaking the silence. “A hell of a first week at the new job, I must say.”

  “Yes sir,” Jonah said. “Just keeping a focus on what we know.”

  “Something’s bothering you.”

  Understatement of the century, Jonah thought. “Several issues, sir.”

  “You don’t believe David was the sole leak, do you?”

  “No sir.” Jonah was surprised by the question. “Do you mind if I ask why…”

  “Because I’d reached the same conclusion,” Wilkie said. “The variety of information, the impact… it’s been too far-reaching for one man and one agenda.”

  “I was thinking…”

  “You were thinking that perhaps our friend Mr. Fitzpatrick likes talking to the press.”

  “He’s one of the few people who had access to everything Alex Malone reported,” Jonah said. “They were together at the parking garage; she’s been right all the way down the line, which is rare for any reporter these days.”

  “If you’re correct,” Wilkie said, “the question will be what we do with it. There is the rather important fact that everything she reported has been of vital national interest. The stories spurred action and led us to where we are now.”

  “We can’t just let it go,” Jonah warned.

  “We won’t. But there may be some tact required in dealing with Mr. Fitzpatrick. It could be quite valuable to leverage an ally within the NSA.”

  BUCHANAN, NEW YORK

  The asset had been reading when the car crashed through the front of the warehouse. His perch in the upper rafters of the building, just above the front entrance, gave him a perfect overview not only of the warehouse, but in particular of the accident.

  Or distraction. That seemed more likely, he thought as he watched the hired guns surround the car, weapons at the ready. Something weighing the gas pedal down would do the trick. He’d been expecting something, anyway; he’d been told there would be some sort of attempt to shut the operation down.

  Not that any of it mattered to the asset; his orders consisted of a short instruction list, with just one task: eliminate a single final target.

  He picked up his rifle and braced it on the tripod, then used the power scope to survey the enormous building. After a few seconds of seeing nothing, he clicked the small switch on the side of the scope mount and turned on thermal imaging.

  There. While the men below him were conveniently occupied with the car, there was a target sneaking in from the east, through the window. He followed the body heat signature as its man-like shape moved up the staircase to the second level. Then he switched off the thermal and tried to get a closer look.

  No dice. The man was sixty yards away and had his head turned, facing towards the warehouse’s back end, probably trying to figure out what the crew of Koreans was up to. It was possible the intruder might be a mission impediment; but it didn’t seem likely. He wondered briefly if he was the same operative he’d spotted sneaking out of Funomora’s building in Montpellier.

  It didn’t matter. The asset had one task that night, one shot to take. And then it would all be over.

  Then Sarah could finally rest.

  The upper floor of the warehouse was little more than a short steel grate floor and some desks. Brennan followed the catwalk around the perimeter of the building and looked the area over before he was certain he was alone. Then he took up a vantage point where the gaps in the grate were large enough to see into the back area of the lower level.

  He counted eight lab-coated technicians. There was someone in uniform barking orders at them, a woman; again, it sounded like Korean. He couldn’t make her out right away, but the voice was already familiar.

  Park Jae Soo, the North Korean operative.

  He could just barely make out what they were doing, which seemed to involve placing the device in a final casing. It looked like an oversized bullet that had been stretched on a rack, the chrome gleaming slightly under the harsh overhead lights. The men moved carefully with the internal workings, a mish-mash of wires on a circuit board, a large cylinder of material in yellow packaging – an explosive perhaps? There was a long metal tube leading from the packaging towards the front of the device, a delivery barrel or pipe of some sort. It led into a larger chamber that filled up the nosecone.

  It suddenly occurred to Brennan that, for all of his work in the months prior, he hadn’t taken the time to actually learn the inner workings of such a device. He’d gotten a general outline from Ballantine in Brussels; but if push came to shove, he realized, he had no idea how to defuse one safely. He’d just have to rip the wiring out, and pray like hell.

  He craned his neck slightly to get a steeper viewing angle into the room, trying to figure out security. He knew the three men stationed at the rear of the warehouse would have an open entry point, which meant he’d have to deal with them, at the least. The scientists were probably specialists, and unlikely to engage. Park was a different matter; she was probably highly trained, his most obvious obstacle.

  Ed had left him with a few tricks. A flashbang would take everyone in the room out for a minut
e or so, long enough to get in and destroy the device’s wiring. But that didn’t help him with the three-on-one guard situation outside the back door.

  Park had stopped giving orders to the technicians and taken out her phone. She made a quick call.

  “It’s ready,” she said simply. Then she nodded a few affirmatives. “A call from your phone will trigger it, and as you requested, we have a backup from my phone.” She offered a few more affirmatives. “Yes sir, I realize that. Thank you sir; it’s my honor and duty.”

  That didn’t sound good, Brennan thought. If Park was the backup plan, that meant she was willing to die for the operation.

  Malone crept furtively along the western wall of the warehouse, sticking to the shadows near the stairs. She’d seen a few guards but had managed to stay out of sight herself. She needed to find Brennan, Malone figured; wherever he went, her story tended to follow. There was an area past the last line of packing crates; judging by the space to the wall, it was at least six hundred square feet. She moved to the edge of the crates and peered around the corner.

  A handful of men were working at tables, while two were crouched in front of a long bomb-like cylinder, minus the tail fins. A Korean woman barked instructions at people for several minutes before taking a phone call. She nodded several times and the call took about a minute. Then she put the phone away and went back to goading her workers. She was tough, not letting up on them an inch, and even though Malone couldn’t understand the words, it was obvious she was trying to keep them to some sort of timetable.

  She needed to get closer; a picture of them actually working on the device could be Pulitzer material, Malone knew. She slipped the digital camera out of her coat pocket and leaned around the corner. It was a risk to move into their line of sight, she knew, but the workers had their heads down, and the woman wasn’t looking her way. She lined up a picture, a close-cropped shot of a technician with a screwdriver; he was bull-necked, with a pencil-thin moustache, and he was working meticulously on a peripheral device attached to a circuit board.