The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  ‘We have an official denial of any knowledge of any such operation, yes. We don’t believe it for a second.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too much traffic, and too much of it vociferous. Along with the Australian report, we’ve talked to our other overseas partners, and they’re hearing the same things. Again, all very vague, but targeted here.’

  They reached the conference room. Mah pushed the double doors open; the rectangular office space had just one set of furniture, an eighteen-foot-long conference table and chairs, and the entire south wall was covered by a series of flat-screen monitors. Five of the chairs were occupied.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ Tarrant said. ‘Agent Mah tells me you’ve been briefed. The situation is extremely fluid and we have limited intel at this time.’ He sat down at the head of the table, Mah to his right. ‘We’ve been reaching out to our contacts in China as well, and so far have nothing, except a sense of great impetus on their part. There’s been some hyperbole about it being an operation with a major potential impact on both human life and capital. There’s no suggestion of a North Korean connection, other than the test timing. But we’re a long way from any sort of clear and present danger. I’ll take suggestions.’

  ‘Fuck the North Koreans,’ said his lead analyst, Edward Currie. ‘They’re always pulling this stuff. But this Hong Kong situation is out of left field. And we’ve got the heaviest stake in this. We’re down two good men in Kowloon…’

  ‘Priorities, Eddie,’ Tarrant said. ‘We can worry about payback once we figure out what we’re dealing with and whether the two incidents are connected. For now, we need to figure out what to throw at this.’

  ‘Well, the language on ‘Legacy’ suggests a sleeper of some sort,’ Currie said. ‘They’ve used ‘activated’ several times, but there’s also confusion, like they’re not sure what they’re looking for.’

  ‘That’s encouraging,’ Tarrant said dryly. ‘So it could be a Korean Spy or it could be a WMD, or it could be a Mountain Dew machine. Are we hearing anything on the domestic front? John?’

  John Wrexham was the NSA’s senior liaison to the CIA. ‘Nothing like this. What should we be looking for? Do we have anything on the actual nature of the threat?’

  Tarrant shook his head. ‘We know a gangster from Harbin tried to sell information on it to a colleague from Hong Kong, and that as soon as the designator ‘Project Legacy’ went active, a select number of senior Chinese officials went batshit. Then the North Koreans launched a missile. If this is China’s party somehow, it’s incredibly hushed.’

  The fifth man, the scholarly and slight Dr. Roland Massey, had been quiet to that point. As a key presidential adviser on international affairs, his interest was insulating the commander-in-chief when issues were unlikely to have a candid upside. ‘Who are the heaviest hitters, in terms of chatter?’

  ‘Yan Liu Jeng, undersecretary of the security and intelligence oversight committee. Chan Man Wei -- or ‘David Chan’ to those familiar with his business holdings -- the chairman of the security and intelligence service. Wen Xiu, the Interior Minister,’ the CIA’s Currie said. ‘We’re just seeing traffic, mind; it’s all encrypted six ways from Sunday, so we can’t see what they’re actually talking about.’

  Tarrant thought about it. They’d been on it for twelve hours already and it amounted to a whole lot of nothing. ‘Brandon, do you have any ideas on where we can take this?’

  Mah nodded. ‘I have one. There’s a freelancer we turned to a few years ago; he’s suspended right now from the available list for insubordinate behavior. But he’s active in the academic community over there and has the Chinese intelligence contacts, if he isn’t irreparably burned.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Tarrant knew they needed to be up and running quickly; any knowledge that a plan was leaked might push the Chinese to speed up their agenda, causing something to happen before they could uncover and counter it.

  ‘In Macau,’ Mah said. ‘But there’s a problem.’

  ‘Of course there is!’ Tarrant muttered. ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘He’ll only speak with his last handler.’

  ‘Who is…?’

  ‘Joseph Brennan.’

  ‘Ahhh… Hell,’ Tarrant said.

  BEIJING, China.

  Yan Liu Jeng’s morning felt like navigating a minefield.

  The undersecretary of the security and intelligence oversight committee had not expected his own rapid ascent through the ranks; at forty-six, he was one of the youngest senior officials in the party. But he knew he did not have the experience to survive the constant politicking that surrounded him without help, let alone the judgments of his elders in the powerful central committee. And he relied on his trusted confidantes to ensure he had the right options when problems arose.

  This, however, was a unique situation, and no one, so far, was taking the bait; no one was taking the initiative and suggesting concrete action, which was what Yan really required.

  He knew what he wanted, but he wanted the idea to come from someone else.

  He sat at the head of the semi-circular table and studied the members of the overarching State Security Committee as their assistants delivered them information germane to the day’s discussions.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said softly into the microphone. The dozen other members quickly turned to pay attention, with no need for gavel banging or theatrics. ‘As you are aware, we have credible intelligence that Legacy has been activated and that, despite the long-held belief that it was a myth, we must now face the potential of a catastrophic attack against the United States by agents believing they are acting on our behalf.

  ‘The timing of this has been unfortunate, to say the least. We have reached out to our partners in North Korea and expressed our... extreme dissatisfaction.’

  Toward the end of the table, one of the men was quizzical. ‘Could the two matters be tied?’

  ‘I do not believe so,’ said Yan. ‘We have already taken steps to examine every piece of stored data that may have survived from the period immediately prior to and during Jiang Qing’s incarceration. As you are aware, this is a massive volume of information, but if there is something useful, a pearl among that ocean of history, we shall uncover it; however, it seems impossible for a program from that era to have predicted or had any role in the peninsula’s nuclear capabilities.

  ‘In the meantime, our agent in Macau has found a former intelligence asset who is now teaching there and may have something for us. He interviewed Jiang during the prison years, on several occasions, and stayed in contact with some of her supporters. It is possible that, in her periods of manic fanaticism, she mentioned something important to him about her intentions.’

  To Yan’s right, state security chairman Chan Man Wei -- known as David Chan in the west for his many business investments -- looked typically thoughtful; despite a public persona as a successful entrepreneur and investor, he was known within the Central Committee as an intelligence executive imbued with foresight and reason. ‘Is there any reason yet to assume that the Americans know Legacy even exists?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Yan said, glad the question had come from someone like Chan, who was less inclined to turn it into an attack on his competency. ‘They are… showing an active interest in Hong Kong, due to the loss of an agent.’

  ‘An agent?’

  ‘CIA, we believe. He was running surveillance on the Red Pole. Perhaps that’s why, for reasons of public confidence, they seem inclined to work with us. To what extent, given the potential political ramifications, we are as yet uncertain.’

  At the far right end of the table, Interior Minister Wen Xiu raised a cautious hand. ‘Chairman So… as the other committee members will attest, our staffs have been able to find little-to-no information on this purported project, even in the context of something mythological, or a party legend. And yet we are taking this all on faith that…’

  Yan interrupted. ‘It is somewhat more than that. Th
e criminal who was able to determine Legacy existed and that it has, indeed, been triggered is believed to have met just prior to his death with a loyalist to the Lin Biao and Jiang Qing Counter-Revolutionary Clique,’ he said. ‘The threat is credible and the Americans know we are pursuing it. They also seem aware, according to our agent in Macau, that it involves a sleeper or sleeper cell… and that we have lost track of it.’

  There was a collective groan around the table. The old days were gone; most of the committee members had substantial investments and holdings in the United States. China as a national entity held much of the U.S.’s long-term debt. There was nothing to be gained from some absurd Maoist propaganda attack.

  ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’ Chan called out, re-establishing control. ‘Please… let us see how our agent makes out. It may yet prove to be a minor concern, and as things stand, the Americans concede they know of no specific threat. We may all yet walk away from this with reputations unscathed.’

  The drive back to his impressive four-bedroom home in ChaoYan District shouldn’t have taken Yan more than fifteen minutes, but terrible traffic and a driver he’d already decided was witless had combined forces to stretch it to nearly a half hour. When his wife Mai greeted him at the door, he ignored her attempt to peck him on the cheek and walked past her to the butler, who took his coat.

  ‘I’ll be in my office,’ he said perfunctorily. Mai watched him and felt ignored, which was nothing new. She was not accustomed to her husband slowing down just because he’d come home. Or explaining himself.

  Yan followed the short entry hallway to the vast American-style kitchen and living room, with its wall of windows overlooking the lights of the city’s downtown. Though he’d been raised in Hong Kong and educated in England, he felt an affinity for all things American, at least in matters of style and aesthetics. He turned right and walked straight through the room to another short corridor, taking the first door on his left.

  The office was the size of a studio apartment and along with his broad oak desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves also featured a small lounge for a reading area. The wall between the office and corridor was nearly covered with a one-hundred-inch projection screen. Yan reached for a switch by the door and dimmed the lights; then he walked over to the desk, took out his government-issued phone and placed it in a metal box. He opened the top drawer and withdrew another phone, turned it on and paused for a moment. Speaking with the leader always unnerved him.

  He dialled a number. The big screen on the wall sprung to life as the conference call connected.

  The man on the screen was front-lit, shrouding him in shadow and anonymity. When he spoke, his voice was filtered and modulated as part of the transmission’s encryption.

  ‘Yan.’

  ‘Sir, my apologies first for not calling you privately in advance of the committee session...’

  ‘It could not be avoided.’

  ‘The situation is fluid, but the central committee is inclined to send an agent to Macau, where there is reportedly a source of intelligence on Legacy.’

  ‘Are we in control of the North Korean operation?’

  ‘We are not.’

  The man was thoughtfully quiet for a moment.

  ‘Are we still in control of Legacy?’

  ‘We are.’ Yan knew he dared not show weakness.

  ‘And our next step?’

  ‘To cut off the source and take care of the official response with one single stroke.’

  ‘The Americans will hear of it.’

  ‘But they won’t be able to stop it or get involved until it’s too late.’ It seemed unlikely, anyway, Yan thought. It had been many years since the Americans had a firm information footing in the region.

  ‘Unless their existing intelligence has already pointed them to a source from the time,’ the leader warned. ‘Do not take this threat lightly, Yan. As you are doubtless aware, Legacy relies on absolute discretion. That’s why the approach is so... unconventional. Do we have the assets in place to achieve this ‘single stroke,’ as you put it?’

  Yan nodded. ‘We do, sir.’

  ‘Who is the Macau source?’

  ‘We believe it’s an English college professor named Stanley Lawson. He’s been in the area since he was a small boy, just after the Second World War. His intelligence connections are extensive but his gambling and drinking habits preclude him being taken seriously any more within the community. He did some work for us two decades ago and we think worked for the Americans as well.’

  ‘How much is he likely to know?’

  ‘I assume he knows the Dorian Fan story or, at the least, the version that was floating around Harbin twenty years ago.’

  ‘That alone will not take him anywhere.’’

  ‘No,’ Yan said, ‘No, it won’t. But it may well lead him to another source. And another. Eventually it would prove catastrophic.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I have an asset in mind. We merely await your word...’ Yan felt a surge of adrenaline, secure that he’d taken the right approach with the people he feared and respected the most.

  ‘Deal with Mr. Lawson,’ the man in the shadows insisted. ‘Demonstrate your worth to me, and cement China’s glorious future.’

  5/

  DAY 3

  JACKSON HOLE, Wyoming

  The old sheep ranch had been in the Bernard family for more than a century. It wasn’t much as farms go, with a pen for the shrinking flock and a few paddocks of lush green grass for grazing, as well as a few dozen acres of arable land. But it was picturesque. They’d repainted the house red with white trim a few years earlier, to match the color scheme of the bigger barn’s aging, peeling walls. Eventually, it would get a new coat too, when there weren’t greater priorities. Which, as is the case on most farms, there always seemed to be.

  It was set in a small valley surrounded by emerald foothills winding their way to the horizon, where they seemed to suddenly shrink in the presence of the Teton mountains’ towering crags and peaks. The sun was still hanging around a hazy sky. A slight breeze rustled through the leaves of the forests of white pine and poplar that dotted the hillsides.

  Joe Brennan stood on the back porch of the farmhouse, watching his nine-year-old son and his twelve-year-old daughter play volleyball against the Bernard’s grandkids. Josh’s hair had turned from blonde like his father’s to a reddish-brown, like his mother’s. He was a happy kid, Joe figured, at least most of the time. His life was uncomplicated, regimented, protected by his loving parents. Jessica was another story; she was twelve going on nineteen, maturing so quickly it terrified both of them. Carolyn kept muttering things about finally understanding why they used to send girls to convents. Her daughter’s latest preoccupations were smoking cigarettes and swearing, although she continued to get straight ‘A’s and to embarrass her teachers intellectually whenever possible.

  It all worried Joe, but it didn’t surprise him. Not in the slightest. She had a little of her mother’s ambition and her father’s rebellion, but was smarter than both of them. There were things about her that reminded him of his late friend Myrna, an Agency analyst who’d passed a few years earlier in the line of duty. Myrna had been savant-level brilliant, but also socially withdrawn. That made him feel both blessed and doubly terrified.

  On the plus side, she had no idea what her father had done for a living for most of his adult life. She knew her mother used to work for the CIA and was now with the National Security Agency. And she knew her father spent a lot of time on the road. And that was about it. Some sort of sales job, she used to tell her friends. Totes boring.

  There was a slight creak to the door spring on the screen door behind him. He glanced over his right shoulder as Carolyn joined him. She handed him an open bottle of Michelob. ‘How are they doing? I figured after the hike they’d be tired and wanting to crash or watch movies or something...’

  ‘What? You figured we’d actually get a night of peace to just hang out with Mike and Vicky? Maybe dr
ink a little too much vino? Maybe smoke some of that ‘medicine’ of Mike’s?’

  ‘Yeah, I know... Loony Tunes, right? Crazy notion.’

  ‘If they’re down by nine o’clock we’ll be lucky,’ Brennan suggested.

  ‘If Mike’s still conscious at nine it’ll be a miracle.’

  Carolyn wasn’t exaggerating. His agency mentor had been pounding back drinks since the morning. Brennan turned slightly so that he could look back through the sliding door to the living room, where Mike and Vicky were watching the news. ‘He wasn’t always like that. You know his background.’

  ‘I do. It’s one of the reasons we need your retirement to come through officially. The old man signs those papers...’

  She was far more enthusiastic about it than he was, Brennan had to admit to himself. It had taken his wife a year of solid lobbying, but he’d finally agreed to not just quit the agency but to get out of covert operations entirely. No insanely-well-paid-but-risky merc contracts; no freelancing; no protection details or bodyguarding; nothing that involved the imminent risk of a bullet to the head. He’d noticed how, over the week prior, she kept maneuvering them into positions where he’d get a prolonged view of the kids playing. Carolyn was tenacious, but she’d never exactly been subtle.

  She was also right, he told himself. His kids deserved a father who was around, not one who used the spectre of honor and duty to his country to skip out of town whenever he felt the itch. It wasn’t right, he knew. He had a duty to be there for them, as well.

  The patio door slid open again. ‘When was the Agency ever there for you, Joe?’

  Mike knew how to make an entrance, Brennan figured. But then, that wasn’t unusual: the dramatics usually got ramped up a little after the tenth beer.

  He turned to face him. ‘Chief. Is it that obvious when I’ve got work on my mind.’