DEADMAN SWITCH (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 2)

by Sam Powers

  “Hey, man, I just brought you out here. I do not get involved in other people’s fights. It’s bad for business.”

  “I don’t need you to fight; just to drop me off near his base and wait.”

  The call came early in the morning, just after seven o’clock, which was why Myrna Verbish knew it was something important. Few people called her anyway, which Myrna preferred. Those who did so knew her well, and knew she didn’t get up that early any more.

  Alex was already up and Myrna saw her tapping away at a computer keyboard, out of the corner of her eye. The call was short and to the point. “Yes?” she answered.

  “Am I speaking with a Ms. Myrna Verbish?”

  “You are.”

  “My name is Det. John Brink, Ms. Verbish, with Metro D.C. Police. Walter Lang had you listed as an emergency contact on his insurance card.”

  “That’s correct.” Myrna felt her stomach turn.

  “I’m sorry to have to inform you of this ma’am, but Mr. Lang was found dead this morning in his apartment. It appears he was shot during a robbery attempt.”

  Myrna didn’t reply. She was stunned. They’d been friends for so long, and so often coming close to more. They loved each other, she knew. And she hadn’t really realized how much that meant to her until twenty seconds earlier, when she found out she’d never see Walter again.

  “What happened?” she finally managed.

  “It looks as though they jimmied the back window open to his living room. There was a pair of muddy boot prints right under it, although they were too smudged to be of much help. Maybe it’ll be a solid lead. Ms. Verbish, we have an excellent service available to people who are feeling the way you do right now, someone you can speak with…”

  Myrna didn’t need a counsellor. She knew Walter hadn’t been robbed, and the meticulous nature of the crime scene suggested professionals. It was agency business that had taken her best friend, the same kind of business that had prompted her to take early retirement, her nerves near shattered. Now, she just felt numb.

  “Ma’am?”

  She’d zoned out of the moment. “No, that’s fine, detective. I’ll need to contact his friends…”

  “He has next of kin?” The detective sounded surprised.

  “We worked together for the federal government,” she said. “He has an ex-wife and a stepson. They were still close even after they split up.” Contacting Audrey would be awkward for Myrna; she hadn’t learned until near the end of Walter’s marriage that their friendship had contributed to his ex-wife’s ill ease.

  But it had to be done.

  “We can do that for you if you’d like, Ms. Verbish, so that you can have some time…”

  “Thank you, detective, that would be nice.” She knew she should probably make the call herself, make sure the information was sensitively and correctly conveyed; but Myrna felt disconnected, shattered in the pain of the moment, unable to take on much of anything.

  After she’d hung up the phone, she sat down on the sofa, distant still. Eventually, she turned to Malone, who could see abject misery in the wrinkle of Myrna’s brow and her pursed lips. “What? What is it?”

  “It’s Walter.”

  Malone knew immediately that he was dead. “How?” she said.

  “The kind of burglars who leave convenient-but-useless evidence behind,” Myrna said.

  “You think the ACF…”

  “I do,” Myrna said. “If the Chinese intel comes back supporting the notion that the ACF funded multiple international incidents, we’re both in over our heads, Alex,” she explained. “That’s why Walter’s dead, and it may be why someone is going after the ACF. And whoever is behind this has major pull, with governments, with operatives, maybe even within the agency. These people are fighting to survive their own bad behavior, even as someone else tries to take them out the old-fashioned way.”

  “I need to write this,” Malone said. “The world has to know what’s going on; they need to know about Khalidi’s African insurrection, and Fung using the task force to take out gangsters in Harbin. I don’t doubt if we keep looking into La Pierre and Lord Abbott, we’ll find they sanctioned similar misbehavior.”

  Myrna had to keep her grounded, she decided. “Alex, we’ll get the story, and it’ll set the record. But we don’t have it yet, not all of it. We still need a whole lot of answers; and whoever did this to Walter? They wouldn’t think twice about killing you, hon. They may be the same people trying already.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We keep digging,” Myrna said. “And we hope Joe is making some kind of progress. Walter’s death has to mean something.”

  Carolyn was having a fine day. A darn fine day, indeed, she decided. First, the director had made an appearance, had mentioned some of her analysis and had given her credit. That was a perfecto trifecta, she’d decided over her second coffee of the day.

  Then she’d realized her contract-mandated raise was kicking in that week, a little upside, to keep her mind off of Joe still being gone and the kids missing him terribly; and, to top it all off, her friend had bought her lunch again, the third time in a month. He was gay and non-threatening, and he was good company when she needed to vent and bitch.

  Her instant messaging flashed a message from David Fenton-Wright. “Come see me, please, when you have a second.”

  They’d just met, an hour earlier. She got a nervous sensation, a tightening in her stomach. Maybe it was news about Joe. Maybe it was bad. She shook the idea off, refusing to think negatively. Maybe David had considered her request to transfer out of intelligence and into science and tech. She was convinced she could advance more quickly there, where those ahead of her were younger, less entrenched, more inclined to move into the private sector for a better deal. Her father had been an Air Force pilot, and had great respect for the science and tech division. She liked to think he would’ve been proud of her for making it to a leadership position on that side of the yard.

  She took the elevator to his floor, her hands clasped in front of her nervously. At his office, his secretary told her to go right in. As she approached Fenton-Wright’s door, she saw Jonah out of the corner of her eye, peeking around the edge of his office door from behind his desk, doubtless curious.

  Carolyn knocked twice then entered.

  David Fenton-Wright was behind his desk. “Ah, Carolyn, come in and have a seat if you could, I’ll just be a minute.”

  She’d been around long enough to expect a short wait. Everyone in upper management did it; she wasn’t sure if it was a ploy to unnerve or unsettle someone or if it was subconscious, a chance to exercise a little of the power that was so rarely required during the day-to-day.

  After he’d finished making his point, he turned away from his computer and leaned on the desk. “Walter Lang died this morning,” he said. His delivery was flat, emotionless. He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, gauging her reaction. Carolyn’s mouth had dropped open slightly and she looked shocked.

  “How…?”

  “Metro Police say a pair of thugs broke into his apartment and shot him when he caught them robbing the place.”

  “God, no… Joe’s going to be crushed.”

  “Can you contact him?”

  “No, he’s off the grid. Oh God, David, this is terrible…”

  “Yes,” Fenton-Wright said. “It’s going to be harder for Joe if he finds out far after the fact. I wonder if he’s left a contact with anyone else. Maybe that reporter friend of his, Alex Malone?”

  She looked genuinely oblivious, Fenton-Wright thought. Damn. Faisal had been clear about the reporter, about dealing with her.

  “I don’t know him,” Carolyn said.

  Still, Fenton-Wright decided, it couldn’t hurt to unsettle her a bit, get her worrying about his friends. “Her. Very attractive News Now writer; does great pieces on international policy. I think they met in Europe, or something. That’s why I was thinking she might have a contact.”

&nbs
p; “Oh.” An attractive female newspaper reporter he’d met in Europe. “No. No, I don’t know her.”

  She looked a little shocked to Fenton-Wright. Perfect, he thought. “Hmmm… Anyway, we’re planning a formal agency service for Walter, likely this Saturday. Can you attend?”

  “Yes,” she said, her mind overwhelmed by the shock of the moment, of Walter’s death, of Joe’s female friend. “Yes, of course. I can get my friend Ellen to look after the kids.”

  “Thank you for coming in then, Carolyn. I do appreciate your time.” He rose and extended a hand, her cue to exit.

  She walked back to the elevators feeling numb; not because of Walter’s death, which had shocked her; and not because of Alex Malone. She was shocked because Carolyn was nobody’s fool: she knew right away that David was trying to drive a wedge between her and her husband; that Joe would never cheat on her, let alone risk giving information to a newspaper reporter. And that meant David Fenton-Wright was up to something devious.

  That, in turn, meant Joe was in trouble.

  12./

  MARCH 27, 2016 MASSALI LAGOON, CABINDA

  Francisco put the Land Rover into neutral and it rolled the last kilometer. He stopped before the last bend, unable to switch off the day running lights but wanting to avoid attention in the still of the evening. It was eleven o’clock, and once the Land Rover was quieted, the jungle was silent save for the camp sounds, and the surrounding hiss, chirrup, crack and cry of the jungle insects.

  “This is my stop,” Brennan said, his face and hands darkened with boot black, smeared in thick lines. “This might get hellish loud when it goes down, but hang tight and we’ll be back in no time.”

  “Sure, sure,” Francisco said, relighting the stub of his cigar. “But I still get the extra five thousand, right?”

  In the end, it wasn’t such a bad deal, Brennan thought as he climbed out of the Land Rover. The handful of small extras Francisco had coughed up was probably worth half the money.

  He used the road for the first three-quarters of a kilometer, staying close enough to the edge of the overgrowth that he could duck into it if a vehicle came, but avoiding excessive noise caused by tramping over a kilometer of foliage. Once he was within site of the gates, he moved a few steps into the jungle, out of sight. He had to push forward slowly, moving brush, branches and vines aside, mindful of running into local wildlife. A snake bite would end his evening really quickly, Brennan knew.

  His initial foray was a simple recon mission; he’d trace the perimeter of the compound from just inside the tree line looking for entry points, weaknesses and guard movement patterns. His mind flitted back to Colombia, three years earlier; he pushed the thought away, an unnecessary distraction. During his pass around, he’d set a charge for a distraction; he planned to enter the camp and find Kovacic, blow the charge when needed to divert attention or if cornered, and take the Chechen strongman with him. Francisco had insisted he had a safe route out through the Congo to the North and Porte Noire, if they absolutely needed it.

  The jungle was almost impenetrably thick, foliage crashing into itself, branches twisted and knotted together; he got about twenty yards before pushing into a spider web so large it could have swallowed a wild pig. It was tacky like glue and strong as fishing line, ripping leaves away as he stumbled into it; Brennan had to back track a few paces to clean off – including some of the family of basically harmless Tarantulas living in the web. He reached into his small kit bag and took out the half-sized machete. It was small for convenient storage but razor-sharp, with a short row of teeth halfway up the blade to rip through branches.

  But it was making a lot of noise. Within a hundred yards of the camp, he stopped cutting and went back to methodically pulling the jungle aside, moving a foot every minute. The camp guards and workers had a radio on, playing a typically West African guitar and drum dance song, the ancestral roots of samba, blues and reggae all obviously there. Brennan took out his night-vision goggles and moved to the edge of the tree-line. There was a gate tower, but it appeared empty. The main gate was out of the question anyway, with two guards outside and another directly in. The perimeter of the property was surrounded by good old-fashioned barbed wire, up to about seven feet. It wouldn’t prove much challenge. In the center of the yard, near where they’d parked, was a small hut with a front flap. It could have been a machine gun nest … or a bar. But Brennan didn’t play odds; he just assessed where potential fire might come from, looked for the best cover to get in and out unseen and unharmed. Extractions weren’t about kicking ass or being a superhuman athlete, or being able to hit guys on the run from fifty yards – which doesn’t really happen in real life, except by happy accident and massive gunfire. They were about finding and maintaining good cover, avoiding being seen and, if detected, giving the enemy as little to hit as possible until out and away. Given the usually overwhelming numerical advantage to the home team, it just made sense.

  The compound was poorly lit, mostly only effective against animal predators, to keep them from bumping into the barbed wire in the dark. The corners were shrouded in shadows, making easy entry points. It was a question of figuring out the angles, judging the guards and their lines of sight as they patrolled, and breaking down access. He looked at the barbed wire fence, then at the container house. The back of the top floor had a section cut away at one end, to make a balcony. It was perhaps twenty yards to cover past the fence, in potential sight of the guards. The question was whether the edge of the balcony was too high to reach. If it was anything over about ten feet, he’d have no chance of grabbing the rail above and pulling himself up.

  He stooped and ran to the fence line, then crouched down on one knee to cut through the wire. Brennan entered in the shadows, nearly invisible. The back fence ran right to the cave mouth, while the container home was thirty yards ahead. He waited until the guards were turned and sprinted for the back of the house, flattening against it then checking around the corner to ensure no guards had seen him and were closing. Then he jumped for the edge of the balcony, pulling himself up onto the second level.

  A screen door led inside; it was quiet and the lights were out.

  The upper level had been opened up, the walls between three connected crates removed and reconfigured, to make three big rooms with a corridor just in front of them, off the balcony. Brennan checked the first and second rooms, but both were shared accommodations, with a pair of single beds, all four sound asleep.

  The third room was unlocked, and Brennan swung the door in cautiously. It was more lush, well-furnished with a queen-sized bed. Kovacic was asleep in the bed in one corner. Joe crept over, leaning down to place the silenced Russian pistol against the back of the sleeping figure’s head. “Andraz, wake up,” he said gently.

  “I’m already awake, my inquisitive friend.” The voice came from behind him. Someone cocked a pistol.

  Brennan raised his hands and stood up. Whoever was in the bed wasn’t his target.

  “Hands behind your head, please,” Kovacic said. “You are in for a long night; this I can guarantee.”

  MARCH 28, 2016

  “Wake up.”

  Cold water shocked Brennan back to consciousness, and he shook his head quickly to get the water out of his eyes, blinking through the haze.

  They’d bound him and cuffed his hands, attached him to a chair. The room was dimly lit, maybe one of the barracks offices. Kovacic was standing ten feet ahead of him, weight on one hip, one arm crossing his body, tucked under his other as he raised the cigarette to his lips. The interrogator standing next to him was such a cliché that Brennan started to chuckle: bald, hyper muscular, a big scar across his face, wearing a black vest and holding a pair of electrified sponge paddles.

  “What’s so funny, my friend?” Kovacic asked. “We have been doing this for over an hour. I would think you would have run out of reasons to laugh by now.”

  “Your guy here,” Brennan managed, nodding towards the torturer, his breath heavy from
fatigue and pain. “He needs to branch out, try other roles.”

  The interrogator didn’t like that answer. He reached in quickly with both paddles and pressed them to Brennan’s ribs, the current stunning his nervous system, a shocking pain that jolted through every bone in his body. The dose ended, and Brennan slumped in the chair again.

  “Now that was not very wise, was it?” Kovacic asked.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” Brennan said.

  Kovacic looked puzzled. “Now you want to talk all of a sudden?”

  “Maybe you weren’t asking the right questions. But I’ve got one.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why no plastic surgery? You obviously had work done on the dupe who was blown up in Peru. You are Borz Abubakar, aren’t you?”

  His look darkened. “I suppose that answers the question of how much you know. I must assume a great deal.”

  “You blew up a bus full of innocent people…”

  “A diversion; a ploy; a way for me to disappear for a while.”

  “Why the double, the misdirection?” Brennan asked. “And where was the weapon you’d purchased with the money stolen from Khalidi?”

  “That was arranged by my compatriots in Europe and Chechnya, who had contacts for reasons of ideology with the Shining Path movement in Peru. The double was being sent on a circuitous route, designed to waste the time of pursuers. There was a meeting of heads of state in a Peruvian border town at the same time, a viable target. And there were…certain parties other than Khalidi who were unhappy with us.”

  “Certain parties?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Let’s just say that not everyone involved in the deal was fairly compensated. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. The double had been exposed to enriched uranium while staying in a “safe house” and was going to die before anyone uncovered his actual identity. Keep in mind that we compensated his family very well,” Abubakar said. “By the time he was discovered, even if he hadn’t died yet, the very fact that he was contaminated would convince Khalidi’s many intelligence associates that he was really me.”