DEADMAN SWITCH (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 2)

by Sam Powers

  So he urged caution as they took the elevator up from the parking garage to the News Network’s fourteenth floor studio.

  “I just think that two days after Christmas is an inopportune time to do any heavy lifting when it comes to interviews, senator,” he said. “The public’s collective mind is still focused on the holidays, getting visiting family out of their hair, bargain shopping… that sort of thing.”

  March snorted at the suggestion. “The public’s collective mind could fit on the head of a pin and leave enough room for a dance number. But if it will put your mind at ease, Christopher, I will refrain from attacking POTUS and focus instead on that buffoon John Younger.”

  March’s ego worried Enright; he expected it from any politician, in varying degrees. But in March’s case, his lengthy success record both in business and politics had rendered him immune to self-criticism or introspection. The fact, for example, that John Younger had had every bit as much success both personally and professionally would seem to discount him being a buffoon. Underestimating your opponent was never good in an important race, Enright thought.

  It was that kind of lack of foresight that made him think sometimes that he was backing the wrong horse. In economic policy, there was little real difference between the two de facto nominees; both were intrinsically indebted for political fundraising reasons to the financial sector. Foreign policy was where they differed, with March scoring big points among frustrated lower income voters by playing the race card, arguing that floods of Mexican and Central American migrant workers were driving down wages among the poorest. At the same time, he favored tariffs on Chinese products to help rebuild the American middle class manufacturing sector.

  Younger, meanwhile, was a “new age” Liberal, soft on corporate malfeasance and sheer capitalism, but demanding of social change that reflected the latest research, of programs like Success by Six to help young, poor parents cope and of improved rehabilitation programs for those convicted of crimes. His softhearted approach scared Enright half to death; the modern world was a serious place, he thought, full of seriously bad people. The John Youngers of the world didn’t have the mettle for it.

  So despite his reservations about March’s style and his occasional hotheadedness, Enright had stuck with him. And of late, March’s shots at Younger for being soft on security had been scoring with the pollsters. They were up four points from a week earlier, still trailing, but just barely.

  “They’re going to go hard on this suggestion from Sen. Reid that you’re being hypocritical over China because of your own overseas investments,” Enright reminded him. “You’re good on our key messages there?”

  “I know, son, I know,” the Tennessee veteran said. “For the benefit of that public you’re so smitten with, I will once again point out that owning chocolate farms in South America is not the same as destroying the American middle class with cheap Chinese imports.” March hated this part of the campaign, the kotowing to the least informed.

  “It plays well with your base, Senator,” Enright said. “Remember, without the tax revolt crowd, the old guard would still be shutting you out.” The Republican old guard had made a lot of mistakes, Enright thought; but the biggest was losing sight of the average everyday voting Republican, the blue collar guy who believed in the same things they believed, even if not much of the wealth was trickling down his way. The guy with principles.

  It took less than fifteen minutes to get the senator into makeup for the interview, which was being handled by Richard Glazer, a veteran anchor. March had been questioned by Glazer before and had marginally less contempt for the TV man than for most of his journalist ilk. He prided himself on the fact that he’d been successful enough for long enough in politics that he could predict most of the questions Glazer would ask.

  He was right. Again. For the first five minutes of the twelve-minute segment Glazer waxed liberal about the plight of the Mexican migrant and the need for workplace equity, as well as throwing out some softball queries about life on the campaign trail.

  And then with two minutes left, Glazer threw him a curve.

  “Senator March, there has been a buzz for the last week in the Beltway about foreign money…”

  March cut him off. “As I’ve noted before, all of my investments are with U.S. companies who just happen to produce some of their components…”

  Glazer interrupted him. “Senator… please… senator, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m referring of course to the buzz that when you were in private business, you had a working relationship with the Latrobe Corporation, a Texas oil concern that is in part owned by the controversial Jordanian businessman Ahmed Khalidi.”

  It was a gross misrepresentation, of course, the senator thought. March had been senior partner in a firm that had done some work for Latrobe, but he personally had no role in it. “Now that’s just inaccurate as all get out, Richard,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “I would think a veteran journalist such as you would check his facts before making such a statement.”

  “Perhaps you could clarify…” Glazer began.

  “I will only point out as a matter for the record that while lawyers at my firm did some work with Latrobe many years ago, I personally had no role in that work. So no, I never did work for Khalidi’s company.”

  To the side of the set, Enright grimaced. For a veteran, March was so reliant on his charisma with the public that he was exceedingly sloppy. All he had to do was deny it; he had his version and that made it accurate, and that was all that was needed. Instead, he’d not only planted the seed of public doubt by calling it “my firm”, he’d then gone on refer to Khalidi by name. It was a disaster. The communications team was going to laugh him out of the office.

  He could almost feel the polls dropping.

  March 12, 2016, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE

  In his palatial office overlooking the broad public square called Place de la Comedie, Yoshi Funomora had just finished reading the report on his agent’s death. The rest of the ACF board waited on the conference call line.

  “Well?” the chairman asked. “I take it your agent failed.”

  “He appears to have been killed professionally, chairman. Ms. Malone has friends in the intelligence community. I recommend we liaise with our security contact in the United States and determine what he thinks has taken place.”

  The Chinese delegate, Fung, was feeling vindicated. He had been warning his colleagues about Funomora’s incompetence or months. Now, perhaps, he could see him removed and a more amiable colleague from Asia installed in his place.

  “Our Japanese colleague would, of course, recommend going to another source for our information, given that his agent has failed miserably, and with fatal consequences. Typical. Perhaps, Mr. Chairman…”

  “Perhaps,” said Khalidi, “we could focus on the problems at hand.” For once, he wanted Fung to stow his rivalry with Funomora until the larger issues has been addressed. “Japan, can we be briefed by our American contact?”

  “I’ve arranged for it already, chairman,” the stocky politician said. “He’ll be on the line in just a moment.”

  A conference call operator said “go ahead, please.”

  “Is this line secure?” David Fenton-Wright asked.

  He’d been briefing the ACF for nearly two years, an implied bargain in exchange for a future position among the seven. Fenton-Wright’s desire to join wasn’t mere vanity or self-enrichment; he knew the truth about the ACF’s ambitions. Its star chamber-like power came from relationships with top security officials in every developed nation, and from its own rapid response resources. Fenton-Wright had been recruited to aide its mission representing America, and he intended one day to chair the ACF himself.

  “The operator is shut out of the call and our voices are scrambled,” Funomora noted. “Go ahead.”

  “Our asset in Europe was behind the Bustamante shooting,” Fenton-Wright said. “But he is convinced that Bustamante was not, in fact, respons
ible for the sniper. I’ve told him to stay there and off the radar until we can provide further direction. As for the larger issue of the missing package, I’ve told him it’s not his concern, so I would not anticipate any further inquiries in that vein.”

  “That is welcome news,” the chairman said. “You do yourself credit.”

  “Thank you chairman,” Fenton-Wright fawned. “I can only hope to be as much help to the Association in the future.”

  The Chinese delegate was dissatisfied. “Perhaps our American colleague can inform us as to why there has been no progress in tracking down the sniper?”

  Fenton-Wright had anticipated the question. “It is a matter of the shooter having gone to ground, vice-chairman. He stressed the word “vice” to remind the Fung that he had the chairman’s support. “However, we continue to follow leads and investigate probability matrices …”

  “Probability matrices?” Fung jeered. “Perhaps when the would-be member has decided to take this seriously…”

  “I’m sure he has,” Khalidi said, wary of another debate beginning. “And I’m certain our friend will prove his worth once more as the investigation continues.”

  “Thank you chairman,” Fenton-Wright said. “Your support, as always, is much appreciated.”

  Fenton-Wright returned home after eight o’clock. He’d always been a workaholic, even in high school, which he had always assumed was the biggest reason for his success in class and his unpopularity with the other students. It had been a similar story in his various college classes. And he’d never made many friends at the agency, either, for that matter.

  And so he invariably returned home alone. He’d never really minded much, and it afforded him privacy. He closed the door to his apartment and locked it behind him, then checked his messages. Only one mattered, from an overseas number. He took out his phone and dialed it immediately.

  The call was answered after a single ring. “Thank you for being so prompt,” said Faisal Mohammed. “We need you to perform an additional task, one the chairman does not wish to discuss with the rest of the board.”

  MARCH 16, 2016, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Myrna and Alex worked in near silence, each transfixed by the content of their monitor as they sat next to each other at Myrna’s twin computers, in her apartment study.

  The longtime former analyst had access to a series of decent databases, including most major newspapers. They’d been going through headline after headline, cover after cover, edition after edition, searching for any sign of the ACF’s unofficial activities. Bustamante had mentioned Bosnia and East Timor, and they made good starting points; they’d then expanded the hunt to include other nations in conflict over the past two decades.

  She was a fascinating person, Malone thought. Her complete focus was on the task, to the point that she’d joked about having to remind herself to go to the bathroom. It was no surprise that she’d impressed Walter. Myrna stuck her as having been self-sufficient in the womb.

  The older woman broke the silence. “It’s probably what we should have expected, but even where there are battles or ambushes involving foreigners, there’s not a hint to connect them to the ACF. If there are connections here, they’re buried deeply beneath a surface that these stories barely scratch.”

  The headlines were beginning to blur together; Myrna didn’t want to admit it to young Alex but she was usually in bed by nine o’clock, and it was nearly eleven. She yawned deeply, then reached for her coffee and had a big sip. The mouse wheel rolled under her finger repetitively, the screen parsing by at a rate so uniform it was probably contributing to her growing sense of fatigue.

  And then she stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute now… what’s this?”

  Malone looked over at the screen. “It’s in Chinese. You speak Chinese?”

  “Mandarin and Cantonese, a couple of lesser-known dialects.” Myrna kept her eyes on the screen. “This is a story from eighteen months ago in the northeastern province of Heilongjiang.” She read through it quickly. “An organized crime family of some note in the city of Harbin has ended a decade-long harassment and extortion racket targeting construction companies after a deadly gun battle that left sixteen of its members dead and more wounded. The remainder of the gang, which turned itself over to police last week, was said by police to have admitted their guilt in exchange for life sentences and not the death penalty. Police said there was no truth to the wild rumors that spread after the incident, in which hardened gang members claimed they were set upon in a warehouse by foreign devils and tortured.”

  It could be something, Malone thought, but there was no way to know for sure. “It’s not much,” she said.

  “Well, no – not until you consider that Harbin is also the home city of Fung So Dook, the vice-chairman of the committee.”

  She might have something, Malone thought. As a reporter, she’d never been a big believer in coincidences. “Let’s flag it for a deeper look. Is Walter coming around tonight?” She was curious to see them together again, see how much deference the agency man showed Mryna.

  “I don’t think so,” her host said. “He said he got called in for some work thing.”

  “He pushes himself too hard. Did you notice how pale and thin he’s been looking?”

  Myrna nodded. “I do worry about him. He’s a good soul, you know, even though he’s been in a dirty business for a long time. But he’s always been guarded and private. There was one point at which he and I…” She let the idea hang there.

  “What!” said Malone. “You and Walter, an item?”

  “Well, yeah… but it never went anywhere. Who knows, maybe we just weren’t attracted enough to each other. Or maybe we were frightened of alienating one of the few people either of us knew at the agency who could be trusted. Still, no regrets.” Myrna nodded towards Malone’s cup. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “I should probably quit it for the night, if I want to sleep. But it was very nice.”

  “Speaking of very nice, did I get the impression correctly that you were enjoying being saved by our friend ‘Joe’?”

  She smiled ruefully. “You did, but Walter said he’s married. So that’s not going anywhere.”

  Malone wouldn’t lie to herself; she’d considered giving him a shot anyway, secure in the knowledge she was unlikely to ever meet Mrs. Joe. But then she’d remembered how she felt when her parents briefly separated, and wondered whether Joe and his wife had kids.

  “Oh, well… then I hope you have better luck in the New Year, dear,” Myrna said. She went back to her screen. “It says they targeted the Fei Long shopping market on the edge of the city initially then began to demand protection money from other grocers as well. This went on and grew over the course of several years, until they were receiving proceeds from almost every Harbin construction business.”

  “No mention of Fung?”

  “No, but I might be able to find a copy of the court proceedings on an Asian database I’ve used a few times before.” She typed and searched for a minute more. “Yes, here it is. There’s a list of the affected companies.”

  They searched the list of names one by one.

  “Nothing,” Myrna said after about ten minutes. “You?”

  Malone shook no. “Company directors?”

  “Why not?”

  It took another hour to build a list of directors for each firm then run their names.

  “Hang on,” Malone said. “Here we go: the Xi Jiansung Company has a director listed as Wen Mah Ling….”

  “… which also happens to be the name of Fung’s wife.” Myrna got up and took out her phone. “We need someone on the ground. I’ve got some contacts over there who owe me.”

  “You’re quite a marvel,” Malone suggested.

  Myrna smiled at that. “It has been so noted.”

  “Myrna…”

  “Hmm? Yes, dear?”

  “Do you think there’s any chance still that you and Walter could end up together?” She wasn’t
just being nosy; Malone’s career had always seemed to get in the way of her own prospects. Maybe, she thought, being Myrna’s age and single made a person give up entirely, assume love was never in the cards.

  Myrna smiled and thought about her friend. She’d known Walter Lang for two decades; he was so dedicated to his job, so wrapped up in agency business; she’d thought she’d lost him after the Colombia incident. But Myrna had to admit – at least to herself – that she held out hope for the two of them. She’d been alone, awash in her need for control of every second of her own life, for far too long. She needed to open up to somebody, feel that affection and familiarity.

  “Maybe, dear. One never knows. Maybe.”

  10./

  MARCH 25, 2016 CABINDA, WEST AFRICA

  The flight got in early, which Brennan figured was a good thing; he needed at least a few extra hours to recover from it.

  They’d taken off from a private strip just north of Luanda in what could charitably be called a plane. It was an old junker of a twin prop from the late fifties, a yellow buckboard thing. One of the cabin doors was missing and the pilots spent the first half-hour arguing about flight procedures, one eventually grabbing a manual from under his chair, in full view of the handful of passengers, and using it to demonstrate to the other pilot how to properly fly it.

  Turbulence had beaten the plane around until everyone was green in the gills. Everyone except Francisco, who insisted he had an iron-clad stomach. “Wait until you taste funge with pirri pirri gindungo,” he’d said, his voice raised over the roar of the props. “It’s a corn paste log covered in palm oil and pirri pirri peppers that have been picked in onions and garlic, usually with whisky or brandy. It’s Angola’s national dish and the hottest on the planet, yet also the blandest… an amazing and diabolical contradiction.”

  Cabinda’s airport was a lime-green concrete pillbox, its name scrawled in cartoonish paint letters, like something out of a 1960s daycare. From the air, Brennan noted, it sure looked a lot like Luanda; and it was technically Angolan territory, even though a sliver of the Democratic Republic of the Congo separated the two and a fair swath of Cabindans wanted independence, based on their cultural individuality. Their dialect of Bantu was even a different language from the tribal tongues used in the south. But their living conditions were similar, shrouded in poverty.