The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  16/

  DAY 9

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Stoicism can carry one far in a world filled with conflict. Secretary of State Robert Tully knew he could look cool and calm standing in the middle of a forest fire, which he had no doubt had been a large part of his corporate success, prior to getting into politics.

  In business, it made him seem indispensable. No matter how grave the circumstance, he appeared to be the one man in the room who was afraid of nothing. To a president focussed on the economy, he must have seemed ideal to bring into the fold.

  The truth was, he was terrified.

  In his nine months on the job, he’d followed the mandate handed him by the president: keep the economic wheels greased and keep us out of trouble. That hadn’t been difficult, given that it had been followed by month-after-month of meetings with staunch allies and fawning would-be democracies.

  Nine months without needing to address significant conflict or terrorism was unheard of in modern diplomacy. Tully had ridden it to a shift in public perception from ‘wrongly appointed corporate toady’ to ‘honest effort, learning the ropes.’ Keeping the momentum positive meant diplomatic wins, not taking on thorny issues like North Korea and extremism.

  And yet that was clearly what was about to happen. Even before the Chinese reached out and asked for the video conference, Tully was receiving security briefings on North Korea’s latest missile test, and the likely reaction from the largest of few allies. He was in deep, and he knew it.

  To his left, his deputy was reviewing notes. ‘As we suspected and discussed in the briefing, you’re going to be speaking with Zhao Fuhua, the deputy foreign secretary. We expect he will take their usual brusque initial tone, dismissing any notion of American interests in the region.’

  They’d also discussed his approach. Tully was to be forceful, reiterating the President’s perception that North Korea was, in effect, China’s responsibility. If China decided to shirk that responsibility, the U.S. would have to shoulder the burden, up to and including military intervention.

  ‘We expect him to focus on North Korea’s sovereignty and the inherent danger to South Korea in insulting the Dear Leader. Although we have no doubt that the North now has the capacity to destroy Seoul, this line of approach is a bluff on the Chinese part; it is a detente situation, with North Korea well aware that any strike on South Korea or Japan would result in a global exercise in regime change.’

  Tully’s Texas drawl was more pronounced under stress. ‘And then I lean heavily on the fact that China’s economic interests and ours are so heavily tied that they’ll suffer as much from this as anyone.’

  ‘Exactly. You’ll do a fine job, as always, sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, Bobby. Let’s hope so.’

  A voice came over the room speakers. ‘We’re going to connect you now sir,’ a technician’s voice said.

  The lights went down. On the wall ahead of them, the sixty-inch flat screen flared to life. A middle-aged Chinese man appeared unaware the camera was on for a moment, then gestured with a quick nod to someone off screen. ‘Secretary Tully. It is good to speak with you finally.’

  ‘Well now, the feeling sure is mutual,’ Tully said. ‘I want to thank you for being willing to talk at what must be a rather busy and difficult time. And the hour, of course, isn’t favorable in your part of the world.’ It was just after one-thirty in the afternoon D.C. time, but that was three-thirty in the morning in Beijing.

  ‘You are most kind,’ Zhao said. ‘Of course, we are concerned that America feels a need to dialog about this at all. North Korea is a sovereign nation, after all, and its decisions are its own.’

  Tully smiled, revealing perfectly capped teeth. ‘The United States understands and affirms that position. We also recognize that there are important talks about increased trade and co-operation about to take place between our two leaders. Having said that, North Korea’s continued unwillingness to step back from increased militarism in the region has begun to somewhat force our hand. Just as the People’s Republic of China has assets in the United States that are vital, America has allies in the region who are valued and vital. And they have reason to be nervous. The missile test...’

  ‘The missile test was ill-advised, but there was no technical threat,’ Zhao said. ‘We are informed its payload was disarmed and that this was merely a guidance experiment.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. deputy secretary, it was a pretty spectacular failure. The Japanese are incensed, as they have every right to be. One of their citizens nearly lost his life when that missile ditched, and many others are now terrified.’ Tully tried to add some concern to his tone, as if the worries of the Japanese were his own.

  ‘Regrettable,’ Zhao said. ‘Nevertheless, that is a matter for discussion between Japan and North Korea; there is no need for an American battle group to be anywhere near by.’

  ‘We have allies to protect,’ Tully said forcefully, ‘and the President has directed me to be crystal clear that we will do so to the utmost of our ability. China can go a long way to ensuring that doesn’t happen by ensuring its partner knows the implications of attacking the United States or an ally. And with the session coming up between our two leaders, it’s imperative these implications are considered...’

  ‘Implications are a two-way street, Secretary Tully,’ Zhao argued. ‘As there may be implications for North Korea, so too will there be many for the South. It is much closer to PyongYan than Japan is, after all.’

  Tully tried to flash a paternal, forgiving smile. ‘The President is well aware, Mr. Zhao, that North Korean intelligence will have analyzed the likelihood of military intervention in the region and, recognizing the sheer number of potential opponents after the fact, will have dismissed a nuclear option out of hand. The North Koreans know something I learned myself years ago, down on the farm in East Texas.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘It’s one thing to bait the bull, Mr. Zhao. It’s another thing to try to grab it by the horns.’

  ‘China will not sit idly by if the United States intervenes,’ Zhao stated bluntly.

  ‘Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Tully said. ‘Let’s hope we can get this all sorted long before that happens.’

  MERIDA, Mexico.

  Brennan paced his hotel room and was fuming by the time Jonah Tarrant answered his private encrypted line. ‘Do you have any more useful intel for me? Maybe something ticking ominously that we can shake?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The professor was grabbed, potentially by a local crime lord named Ramon Santerra. We would have gotten away together, cleanly, but our friend from Macau decided to show her face again.’

  Tarrant cursed inwardly. ‘At least she didn’t grab him before us. How much trouble is he in?’

  ‘He owes a local meth dealer a bunch of investment capital. He’s been selling graphene tech as snake oil, cashing in on the fact that it’s years from market.’

  ‘Uh huh. It’s not hard to see how this guy ended up in a Chinese prison. Do you think he’s as advertised?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Brennan replied. ‘We’d only just started talking about Legacy when the guys with the guns showed up. Again, do we even do proper background work anymore?’

  ‘We were sending you in on a day’s notice. Look, we can still get the horse back into the barn. Find out where this Santerra guy has him holed up and whether you can snatch Pon back. Try not to engage the locals; but I highly doubt the Merida cops will cry too many tears if things get messy.’

  Get the horse back into the barn? The longer Tarrant spent in the deputy director’s chair, the more he’d begun to act exactly like the men above him, Brennan figured. It was like he’d forgotten the pressure of three years earlier, and the near-miss, and his boss’s betrayal.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Brennan said. ‘What about Daisy Lee?’

  ‘The same rules still apply. The North Korea situation
is... tenuous, at best. We need relations to resemble something cordial, at the very least.’

  ‘So don’t kill her and don’t hurt her. Got it. If she tries to brain me with another right cross?’

  ‘Duck.’

  It had taken a few hundred pesos tipped to a pair of cabbies to find Ramon Santerra’s building, an office block in the south of the city. It was one of Merida’s taller efforts at a dozen storeys, topped only by the Hyatt and a couple of other hotels. The men in blue blazers hovering around the front and back doors suggested he controlled the whole place.

  Brennan had already circled the building from across the street, getting a general lay of the land. There was a cafe with a sidewalk patio to the south of the place, and it gave him a perfect view of the doors. He gazed up and across from the building to its neighbor due west. It was at least four stories lower, although there was what appeared to be a patio about eight stories up.

  The sports bag under the table at his feet contained a grappling hook. Technically, it looked possible to cross the gap between the two buildings and enter the building via the balcony. But even at night there was a severe risk of being spotted; and there had to be an easier way, he knew. He just needed a day to get plans for the building, an idea of the guard rotations...

  Across the street, a taxi pulled up to the front doors. The driver got out and opened the back door hurriedly, like impressions meant something. Then he held out a hand to help his passenger out to the sidewalk; the woman wore a black evening dress and elbow length gloves, as if headed to a formal dinner. She tipped the driver and turned her head slightly as she did so.

  Daisy Lee. And judging from the way the guards at the door parted to accommodate her -- and opened the front door -- she obviously had an invite.

  ‘Well doesn’t that just beat everything,’ Brennan muttered.

  A waiter approached his table. ‘Sir, would you like to order?’

  ‘Just a cup of decaffeinated coffee please. Black.’

  Her arrival took the decision out of his hands. He couldn’t storm the back or front doors, the ground level windows were covered six ways from Sunday and they already knew both his appearance and to expect him. That meant a vertical approach. He looked back at the other building wistfully. So much for the best-laid plans.

  He waited until an hour after dark. She’d been in the building for nearly three hours, and from his perch atop the adjacent building he could see both exits clearly. The balcony was slightly lower, perhaps seven or eight feet below his rooftop. There was no sign of any regular guard rotation or even a camera above the door to the broad ninth-storey patio.

  Brennan loaded the grappling hook into the gun and used the rail on the side of the roof to brace it for precision. The pneumatics punched the grapple and wire through the air in a long lazy arc. They clattered onto the balcony and he pulled until the hook caught the balcony railing. He peered over the edge at the toy-sized traffic. No one appeared to have noticed anything. He tied the free end around the chimney behind him then tried the line for tension. Satisfied, he threw the two-handled leather slide over the line and propelled himself across the divide.

  He slid quickly down the line, careful to turn his shoulder to take the brunt of the impact as he thudded to a halt against the side of the balcony wall. The wall was flush with the balcony floor and there was nowhere on the outside to stand; he moved his hands close together and pulled upwards so that he could grasp the leather slide with one hand to support his weight, and the balcony railing with the other. Then he quickly swung his other hand to the rail and used the momentum to swing one leg up and over.

  Brennan saw the men through the long glass wall that fronted the adjacent corridor, about ten feet before they reached the balcony door. He knew they couldn’t be allowed to see the grappling hook, or he was done. He reached over and detached it, letting it swing across the street and clatter into the opposite building. The door opened. He dropped over the side, reaching to grasp the rail with his right hand as well as his left, but missing. He hung there, his left arm taking his full weight, the men who’d just noisily exited to the balcony unaware of his presence.

  He heard one light a cigarette. A few seconds later, he smelled American tobacco burning. They were close, maybe just a few feet away.

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ one of the men said in Spanish. ‘We’re supposed to be downstairs for his big speech.’

  A man took a loud drag off the cigarette. He blew out the smoke contemptuously. ‘You go then, guard the man while he preens, like a child in a school play.’

  ‘He pays the bills.’

  Brennan gritted his teeth; he was flexing his shoulder and neck muscles, trying to take some strain off his arm. But it was a painful exercise.

  ‘So? Like I said, go without me.’

  ‘Just take another drag and put it out for now and let’s get the fuck out of here, okay? If you piss of Santerra, you know what happens. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t throw you off this balcony.’

  The other guard took one more loud puff, then exhaled. ‘Fine.’

  Brennan heard steps. Then the roof door clicked open, and a moment later, it swung shut. Brennan pulled up with all his might, but his arm felt nearly numb. Instead, he relied on his grip strength, swinging himself gently, first right, then left, then right again, until he had enough momentum to reach the rail with his right hand, his left wrist feeling like it might break. He pulled up with both arms until he could hook an elbow over the rail, then swing his left leg up and over.

  He collapsed on the tile floor, the effort exhausting. He took a few deep breaths to reoxygenate his blood then rose to his feet.

  Not the smoothest start, Brennan told himself. But we’re on the ninth floor; here’s betting they didn’t even lock the patio door...

  He opened the door and peeked down the neighboring hallway. Halfway along, near the ceiling, a security camera panned slowly back and forth. He waited until it began to turn away from his direction, then followed the wall, flattening himself against it once he was under the camera. As it panned down the hall toward the balcony, he moved quickly to the next corner. There were more cameras, this time at each end of the hall. Trying to avoid them all was going to prove impossible, he knew, but the less time on camera, the less chance there was of him being spotted by a bored guard at the front desk, tasked with watching multiple switching feeds all night.

  At the end of the hallway was a door. Jonah wanted things handled quietly, Brennan knew. He withdrew the six-inch tube from his belt pouch and loaded a dart into one end. A guard circled back and passed in front of the entrance. Brennan blew hard into one end of the pipe, the dart finding the guard’s neck unerringly. The man looked surprised, irritated. His hand drifted to his neck and he snatched at the dart to remove it, the powerful sedative kicking in at the same time, the effort spasmodic. He collapsed to the floor unconscious.

  Brennan moved to the end of the hall and checked the man for his phone and electronic key card. There was at least one more guard, he knew, likely in the suite, and then the men in the lobby to be handled. He doubted he could talk Pon into rappelling down the side of the building. He reached into the waist pouch and withdrew a second dart, before loading the blow pipe. He swiped the key card against the door lock with his other hand and turned the handle on a green light.

  He pushed the door open quickly, anticipating a professional, alert to danger. He crouched as he did so, lowering his target profile and surprising the guard. The man had been standing just beyond the door and was still trying to pull the pistol from his shoulder holster when Brennan’s dart found its mark.

  In the room were a pair of queen-sized beds, a floor lamp and bureau, like any hotel room. Pon was sitting on the end of one of the queen-sized beds. He rose, a surprised look on his face. ‘I thought you’d been killed.’

  ‘Not this week. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. Santerra is busy with something but was going to be visiting me shortly
for a discussion, I was told. I took it to mean some sort of ultimatum. Or perhaps he simply planned to kill me.’

  ‘Is there any point in lecturing a man of your... advanced life experience on how dumb it was to borrow money from a gangster?’

  ‘Probably not. I’m acutely aware of how much trouble I’m in.’

  ‘Are you acutely aware of a route we can take out of this building? You don’t look like rappelling would be your strength. But it sounds like Santerra is tied up with some sort of dinner.’

  ‘I noticed an emergency exit sign on the other doors by the elevators. Maybe there are back stairs?’ Pon suggested.

  ‘Okay, that’s a start. If they lead to the back door, we might have minimal opposition other than the building’s rear guard. Lead the way, professor.’

  Pon rose and led them both out of the room. ‘The elevators are the end of this corridor,’ he said.

  The lobby in front of the elevators was perhaps fifteen-by-twenty feet square, like a small room, with a door on the far wall. Pon nodded toward it. ‘That’s it.’

  The elevator shuddered slightly as it came to a stop. The door pinged and slid open, and Brennan turned to face it.

  His eyes widened.

  17/

  LOS ANGELES

  The computer screen was blurry, a photo increased in size and resolution artificially, details slowly being filled in by a piece of software that cost more than Drabek’s apartment.

  ‘What am I looking at here, Vic?’

  Sgt. Vic Ady, the officer tasked with learning to use the arcane application, looked over his shoulder at the detective and beamed proudly. ‘That, my friend, is your suspect, coming out of an electronics store on Brentwood, taken by the security camera in the lobby of the apartment building across the street. But that’s not the best part.’