The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  28/

  BEIJING, China

  Yan paced his office nervously, waiting for the conference call to begin, his anxiety steadily building.

  He’d never seen the other participants in person, and only knew that they were Chinese patriots, just like him. They were Communists, and they saw China’s emergence in the modern world economy as the loathsome betrayal that it was.

  He was as anonymous, in turn, to each of them.

  They were each recruited by a man who remained in the shadows, funding their movement’s growth and inevitable ascension to control of the Central Committee. And it was this same man who always debriefed and instructed him, always with a tone and air that suggested any misstep would cost him his place among the elites after the new revolution.

  He knew their elusive leader would expect a certain confidence and stoic professionalism from him; but he was genuinely nervous, unsure of how things had progressed in Kowloon. He was supposed to have heard from Wong by now, and the silence felt like condemnation. And there was a rumor from their office in Heilonjiang that an American was snooping around Heihe, looking for the Black Cranes, Master Yip’s Black Society in his youth.

  For a man who had risen to his lofty position through calculated political alignments and coasting on the successes of others, he knew his involvement in Legacy was taking an enormous chance. He was a true believer in the cause, but he also recognized that in change lay the seeds of opportunity. His father, a party organizer from Shanghai who had known Mao personally, had been utterly ashamed of his son’s silken guile and easy charm. He thought him a capitalist at heart. Perhaps, Yan thought, Legacy was a chance to prove his father wrong while still maintaining the power and lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed.

  Or perhaps it was simpler; perhaps it was the opportunity to be immortalized in the annals of history, to ensure that, loved or loathed, he would be remembered.

  A chime signalled that the call was coming in and he checked his posture, even though the caller would only see his face. Confidence was important in such situations.

  As always, the caller was shrouded in shadow, his voice disguised. It was unnerving, but Yan knew that was the point. The man wanted to intimidate and control, and the politician knew the value of both, even if he was on the receiving end at times. They had spoken little about the details, beyond what the Shadow Man had taught him about Project Legacy, how to trigger it, and the massive, deadly consequences to the decadent west. In its wake would rise an army of supporters, recruited from across China over the course of two decades, he was instructed. China would need new blood at the top, and Yan was the perfect man for the job.

  ‘Status report, Yan,’ the leader asked without further greeting.

  ‘We are into the second phase. I expect we’ll see increased intelligence pressure from both sides, but there is no reason to believe any of our work has been compromised. The package will be in place on time.’

  ‘And the opposition?’

  ‘Chasing its tail. Our own agent has been sequestered to Hong Kong, and the Americans need our help to progress. There is...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s nothing, probably.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time, Yan...’

  ‘There’s a report of an American operative in Heihe.’

  ‘Heihe?’

  ‘Black Crane territory. As is Harbin.’

  ‘Ah. And how are you handling it?’

  ‘I’ll be travelling there tonight on official business anyway. The timing is perfect. The Cranes will doubtless pick him up and, assuming they haven’t killed him already, I can ensure he gets no closer to Master Yip.’

  ‘And if necessary, you will have to consider our exposure, what with the revered one at large, even at his age.’ Before Yan could protest the notion of assassinating Jiang Qing’s favored servant and teacher, his contact changed the subject. ‘What about Legacy? Do we have an operational framework in place?’

  ‘We do. The final target is fluid, for obvious reasons, but we’ll have plenty of time once we know what the political road is over the coming days. The third phase is prepared for any eventuality.’

  Neither man ever spoke of the final stage, or the eventual fallout of their plan, the inevitable loss of life, the political discord. Neither preferred it; they just recognized the necessity of revolution when trying to reshape the world.

  DAY 12

  LOS ANGELES

  ‘Tell me about the tattoo on the back of your left hand.’

  The therapist’s voice was calm and level, with just enough of a tinge of interest to make her seem genuine. Zoey looked at the tattoo, one of nine on her hand and left arm, running all the way to her shoulder.

  ‘Who is ‘KMA’? the therapist asked.

  The letters were oversized, in a cartoonish script, intertwined with marijuana leaves. It hadn’t been one of her prouder moments, that tat, and it had hurt like hell, although the alcohol had helped. The small bones in her hand were bruised for a week.

  ‘Not who, what,’ she said. ‘It stands for ‘Kiss My Ass’. When I was seventeen, I thought that was edgy.’ She’d been fired from a particularly dictatorial salon that morning, and had felt like shouting it to the world.

  The therapist smiled warmly. ‘You sound wiser in your old age.’

  ‘Isn’t everybody? I’ve got a few others that are as goofy, but more that I really love. Besides, the bad ones are like lessons you always hold onto.’

  ‘That’s a very positive outlook.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. It’s not really helping much right now.’

  ‘Because of Benjamin?’ the police therapist had access to notes on the case, within limits. The girl was suffering from social separation, emotional trauma, acute distrust of authority... it was a panoply of issues and a sure-fire recipe for anxiety, depression, and avoidant personality disorder.

  ‘Because I can’t find him and confront him. And as well as I thought I knew him, it’s just one more sign that I really didn’t.’

  ‘Los Angeles is a big city...’

  ‘But he’s a creature of habit,’ she said. ‘He folds his socks, for crying out loud. It’s just not possible...’

  ‘That he killed someone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Zoey felt better for talking about it, but it wasn’t because she expected the therapist to actually resolve anything. That closure wasn’t going to come until she talked to Ben again. It was a familiar sadness, the same despair she felt when she thought about her childhood, her abusive father, her time on the street. It was a sense that no one really loved her.

  ‘Do you have any friends or family out of town?’ the therapist asked. ‘A change of scenery can do wonders sometimes in this situation.’

  She shook her head. She’d never had a real vacation, or gone on a long trip. The closest had been when Benjamin took her for a quiet weekend at a little motel in Santa Barbara. They’d walked along the beach, and had dinner on a patio at an Italian restaurant. And then back at the motel, she’d rocked his world...

  ‘What about here in town?’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend now. She’s been really great. We didn’t really know each other before this.’

  ‘She’s also a former dancer?’

  ‘Current hooker.’

  ‘Oh. And you’re okay with that?’

  ‘My life hasn’t exactly been squeaky clean,’ Zoey said. ‘I try not to judge.’

  ‘That wasn’t my...’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ Zoey said. ‘I understand that I don’t really fit in with normal people. But a lot of them are not so nice on the inside, you know? I mean, there are a lot of people who look more normal than me, but when anyone gets in their way, they find out these people are crazy bad. Like, corporate executive types, politicians, gangsters...’

  ‘Plastic surgeons?’

  Zoey hadn’t really considered it, the possibility that Ben had always been bad, had always had a secret side. The i
dea that the mild-mannered Jewish kid from... well, she didn’t really know where from anymore... but the idea of him slipping away to cater to dark, hidden whims was absurd.

  ‘Am I in denial?’ she asked the psychiatrist. ‘Is it possible to be so in love with someone that you can’t tell they’re a monster?’

  Zoey walked back to Valentyna’s apartment from the psychiatrist’s office. At the first cafe with a patio, she decided to take a break for a cup of coffee. The session had thrown her, made her think about her own past, everything she’d had to go through to improve her life. Maybe what Ben really deserved was a punch in the nose. He had everything, and he was walking away, enthralled by something.

  Or maybe someone?

  It angered her that he could walk away without explanation, that he could try to hurt her. It angered her that she was angry, because she’d put the constant tension and explosiveness of life on the street behind her.

  She thought back to the trip up the coast, just six months earlier. He’d acted like he was going to propose, or like maybe it was a scouting trip to find the perfect spot for them. They’d gone around town and tried the local restaurants, a few bars, a couple of days beachcombing, the walk under the stars, where he’d held her hands in his by the shoreline and told her that she was the only person who had ever made him feel like he could be himself...

  Zoey took out her phone and pulled up a map of Santa Barbara. The Motel had been among several within walking distance of the beach. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a clean room, and it was private.

  That struck her as odd, though. She hadn’t really thought about it until then, but Benji never worried about money like that. His fitness club, his car, their place, his clothes; everything was expensive and classy. At the time, the whole trip had been so romantic that she’d just put it down to him wanting a place as near to the beach as possible.

  She checked the map again; there were resorts and first-class places within the same walking distance to the beach, a couple right on the coast, the ocean outside the back doors.

  Then why that place, in particular? It was more anonymous; if they’d been having a fling, she could see it. But she’d lived with Ben for three months already by then.

  Zoey wondered if she’d missed anything else that seemed strange or out of place. She felt anger and resentment welling up again at his betrayal. Why Santa Barbara? What else had he been up to? She resisted the notion of another woman, as petty as anything of that nature seemed in the current light; it wouldn’t make sense to take her along anyway.

  So... maybe it had just been what it was, a romantic episode in a relationship that seemed utterly real but was now utterly ruined.

  She sipped her coffee. That motel, though...

  Something wasn’t right.

  She took out her phone and hit redial.

  He answered on the second ring. ‘Drabek.’

  ‘Norm? It’s Zoey. I think I have something we need to check out.’

  DETROIT, Michigan

  Det. Ed Kinnear hung up the phone and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d worked overtime for two days straight on the Gessler case but they were nowhere.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, partner.’ Underheath was on the other side of the two-man desk behind his computer, looking up something and sipping on a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Kinnear said. ‘Cases like this, the guy has usually flipped out and he’s either caught near the scene, or he’s picked up fleeing after doing something stupid in traffic. If it were random, he just disappears. That I can see. But he killed his wife, and now there’s no trace of him.’

  ‘Credit cards come back?’

  ‘Yeah, nothing. He last used his debit card at a cash machine two days ago. He took out twenty bucks right before visiting the liquor store down the street. The victim used hers the day before him to buy groceries. The credit cards haven’t been touched in several months and the balances are near the max.’

  ‘That means he has cash on him or no money at all.’

  ‘He can’t get anywhere without either money or a brash desire to rob gas stations, and we’d have heard about that by now,’ Kinnear said. ‘What have you got in terms of getting his profile together?’

  Underheath hit a key on the PC to save something, then moved out from behind it to his desk proper. ‘Pretty much what we suspected from the house. He’s part of the American Independents of Michigan, a militia group. Going by its chat board, it attracts a lot of young, white, underemployed individuals, most of whom have no faith or trust in any political institution anymore.’

  ‘And what do they do, these unhappy few?’

  ‘Mostly they go off into the woods and shoot targets, then get drunk and complain about life.’

  ‘Ah. Old school, then. They couldn’t just go hunting like any other pissed off kids in the UP, could they?’ Kinnear suggested.

  ‘Apparently not. I cross-referenced a few of the members and about half of them have minor convictions for assault, drunk and disorderly, a few B-and-Es... A winning bunch. You get anything on him speaking other languages?’

  ‘His former supervisor had a good laugh over that. It seems Mr. Gessler is a pretty racist guy. He’s never been outside America, as far as anyone can tell. He’s never applied for a passport. He’s never even been to Canada and it’s only a few hours away. I talked to a local neurologist...that’s a brain doctor...’

  ‘I know, Ed...’

  ‘Anyway, he says there have been cases in the past of people remembering languages they’d learned as kids and then forgotten; and there have been cases of people developing foreign accents after a blow to the head or stroke. But they’ve never seen a case where a grown man spontaneously learned something as complicated as Vietnamese or Chinese.’

  ‘Maybe we should revisit the little brown guy from next door. Maybe he was schtupping the wife,’ Underheath suggested. ‘Maybe that’s why they had the confrontation outside. Gessler goes home and kills the wife, goes looking for Patel, Patel gets the drop on him...’

  Kinnear looked at him curiously. ‘What have you been smoking, exactly? The twenty-something East Indian engineer next door was sleeping with forty-something, five-foot-six, one hundred- and sixty-pound Mrs. Gessler?’

  Underheath shrugged. ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘It wasn’t much of one.’

  ‘What next, then?’

  ‘Next, we hit up his former co-workers, his buddies, anyone called from the home phone. Then we wait. Something has to come out of either forensics or Mr. Paul Gessler making a mistake, or an appearance,’ Kinnear suggested. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to shoot anyone else in the meantime.’

  SANTA BARBARA, California

  The Palms Motel hadn’t changed much since the Nineteen Fifties. It wasn’t better off for it, but it gave the weathered, beaten-up overnight stop a certain charm. The sign, for one, was the same rotating piece of black-type-on-bright-yellow glass that had been there since it opened. It had been broken and repaired a few times, but it kept on turning with the same predictability as the seasonal ebb and flow of tourists.

  Drabek rolled down the driver’s-side window on the air-conditioned sedan and eyeballed the rest of the building. It had ten units, each beside the other. Across the road was The International, an almost identical motel with a non-rotating yellow-on-red sign. It was perhaps ten years’ newer, from the swinging sixties, and had the very bottom of an old billboard frame still attached to the longest part of the roof.

  Neither motel would be mistaken for club med. But to Drabek’s eye, they both looked okay, certainly as good as anything in Hollywood at the same price range.

  ‘Yeah, okay, I get it,’ he said. Zoey was in the seat next to him. ‘I’m guessing these places don’t get a lot of plastic surgeons away for the weekend unless the person next to them is someone other than Mrs. Plastic Surgeon.’ He undid his seat-belt. ‘Come on, let’s go talk to the front desk. Maybe he’s be
en back.’

  The main office had been all drab wood panelling at some point, but someone had had the smart idea to paint everything white, and it was clean and cheerful. The front counter was glass and featured souvenirs and post-cards inside. Some of them were yellowing around the edges. Behind the counter, a curvaceous, large blonde woman with her hair in a bun and wearing bright pink sweatpants was talking to someone on the phone.

  ‘... so she SLAPS the card down on the table and yells Bingo! Bingo!... and sure enough, she’s grabbed the card off the table from the large, angry drunk guy who’d stumbled off to the bathroom. And just as she yells it, he comes back...’ She noticed them waiting for her. ‘Just a second, sweetie...’ She looked at Drabek. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We sure hope so,’ Drabek said. ‘My name is Detective Norman Drabek, and I work missing persons. This here is Zoey Roberson. Her boyfriend is missing.’

  The woman registered surprise, and some concern. ‘Oh... oh dear.’ She lifted the receiver again. ‘Janice, I’m going to have to call you back, sweetie, this is important.’ She hung up the phone. ‘Now, what can I help you with, sir? Were you thinking maybe this fella was staying here? ‘Cause, we only got the three guests right now.’

  Drabek showed her the photo. ‘You remember this guy?’

  Her eyes narrowed and she peered at Zoey. ‘I remember you now,’ she said. ‘I remember your tattoos. This is the guy that was with you, huh?’

  Zoey’s disappointment was obvious. If she didn’t even remember Ben, then... ‘He’s not here?’

  The woman looked sad for her. ‘I’m sorry, hon, I really am.’

  They walked back to Drabek’s sedan silently. The sun was streaming down, cooking the asphalt and making the car uncomfortably hot.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Zoey said. ‘I really thought maybe there was something to this, that he had to have had some ulterior motive for driving us all the way up here...’