DEADMAN SWITCH (Joe Brennan Trilogy Book 2)

by Sam Powers

  “You seemed uninclined to help me, Mr. Smith, and so I am uninclined to help you. But rest assured, they will have you cleaned up tomorrow before your government stops by.”

  True to his word, Brennan spent the rest of the night standing, sleeping by leaning against the wall when he could. The next morning, a pair of guards came for him a few hours after sunrise. They made him strip out of his filthy trousers and hosed him down in a shower room, tossing him a bar of soap halfway through. They watched him as he shaved away the two weeks of facial hair; and then they gave him back his clothing, washed and pressed, for his meeting.

  He wondered how he’d handle the meeting with the embassy official without blowing his cover. He couldn’t claim agency affiliation, but he needed some way to let the person know he needed extraction.

  The problem solved itself when the man showed up, shortly after lunch. They moved Brennan to a meeting area adjacent to his cell block, a single table behind bulletproof glass, which was perforated with air holes, allowing just enough sound through for them to talk.

  The official was tall, over six feet, and wearing a grey suit; he had dark grey hair and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. And Brennan recognized him immediately. “Bill Weeks? Weeksy?”

  Weeks gave him a small wave through the glass. “Good to see you too,” he said loudly. “Have they charged you with anything?”

  Weeks and Brennan had gone through agency training together. “No. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Consular attaché.” Weeks could hardly keep a straight face when he said it. It basically meant he was the agency’s point man in Angola.

  “I haven’t talked to you in… how long has it been?”

  “About five years. When they showed me the mugshot of “Tom Smith” I almost did a spit take with my coffee. Look, if they haven’t charged you, I think I can get you sprung by later today. Officially, we don’t get involved in the local justice system, but unofficially these guys want us around these days. This country’s a damn sight more corporate than it used to be.”

  “From Bolsheviks to boardrooms.”

  “Pretty much,” Weeks said. “How’re they treating you?”

  “Tough. Rough joint, but not the worst I’ve ever been in. I feel like shit, buddy. I need to be gone.”

  “Well, just hang tight. Look…”

  “What?” The tone suggested bad news is coming.

  “Well, we’ve had a discussion with the guys upstairs already, and they want you out too. But DFW wants your balls in a sling; he said you were supposed to be in the EU working the sniper case. He’s going to hold this against you…”

  “Damn it.”

  “That’s not all. There’s some bad news, too. I’ve got to assume you didn’t hear about Walter Lang.”

  Brennan felt anxiety, fear. He’d known something was wrong in the camp, when he’d been unable to reach his friend. “What? What about Walter?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, but he’s dead, Joe.”

  “How?”

  “Double-tap. Professional job, though the official line is they were burglars.”

  Brennan hung his head. “Goddamn it.”

  “I know he was your mentor…”

  “A good friend, too.”

  “Yeah… well, look, I’ll be back to you see you in the morning, okay? I’m going to make a couple of calls, but we’ll get you out of here and on your way.”

  “I need to get home, find out what happened,” Brennan said. He’d been looking forward to seeing his wife and kids more than anything. Now he had to find out about Walter.

  But Weeks shook his head. “Sorry, Joe. DFW says you’re going back to Europe. They’ve still got this shooter at the top of their minds. Miskin has a series of speeches planned during the next two months at various European locations, designed to answer questions that are being raised about his involvement with Ahmed Khalidi. It’s going to put him so far out there publicly that if your guy is still active, he’ll be sorely tempted to take a shot.”

  “Has anyone shared this with Miskin?”

  “He knows the risks, although he hasn’t seen our intelligence.”

  “Let’s not use that term too charitably,” Brennan said. “And there are bigger things here that might be at play, despite what Fenton-Wright thinks.”

  “Yeah, DFW indicated you had a theory. He wasn’t too receptive.”

  “Shocker. Let’s hope his lack of interest doesn’t kill a whole lot of people; it’s not a theory anymore.”

  “What are we talking about here?” the field agent asked. “Or do I want to know?”

  Brennan knew the limitations of having solid intel that he couldn’t back up with evidence. “Not now, not yet. But maybe soon.”

  Weeks got up and gave Brennan thumbs up. “Hang tight, bud,” he said loudly. “Before you know it, you’ll be on a flight out of here. That’s a start.”

  April 23, 2016, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The President liked to stand while speaking to visitors in the Oval Office. It was probably, on some level, unbecoming of a chief executive to pace by the great windows overlooking the Rose Garden. He knew his predecessors had showed typical executive mettle by seating visitors across from them and passing on sage wisdom from on high, from behind the safety of the Resolute Desk. But he liked to stand and pace while he thought, and on those occasions when things were less officious and more cordial, to sit across from them on the plush guest sofas.

  So while his potential successor sat looking uncomfortable, ahead of his desk, the President was by the windows, pacing in small circles. In the other chair, Nicholas Wilkie glanced at Younger occasionally, feeling as uncomfortable as Younger looked. He didn’t like this, the mixing of agency business with presidential politics.

  “Thank you for flying in to meet with us, John” he said. “I know you need to be out there campaigning, so I do appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You also know I’m a man who has a great deal of patience when it comes to getting my way. I’ve dealt with nothing but obstruction since getting into office, but I haven’t swayed from the things I believe will keep this country great.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Younger said. His shirt collar felt tight and it was warm in the Oval Office. He just wanted to make a good impression.

  “Gentlemen, I wanted this Fawkes thing dealt with before Florida and the primary, so that I can begin working for John’s candidacy publicly and in earnest without worrying about a major diplomatic bomb dropping,” the President said. “But now we’re into the full campaign swing and it’s still out there.”

  “I realize that Mr. President, and I know you must disappointed,” Wilkie said. “We’re still working on it; but we have to consider the possibility that, with no more ACF board members targeted, this may blow over before Fawkes’ cover is blown.”

  “Disappointed? That’s hardly the issue. It’s just a reality that my administration will look terrible if Fawkes’ identity is revealed. And that means, by extension, that Senator Younger’s campaign will suffer. That in turn hurts the American people.”

  “I understand that, Mr. President,” Wilkie said.

  “I want to see some real progress on this. I want you to talk to both agencies, see if we can’t put a push on this.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We’ll redouble our efforts. There is one area of concern…”

  “There are a lot more than one, Nicholas, but go ahead…”

  “NSA is continuing to exhibit friction at working with the clandestine boys at Langley. There’s a real fear of a leak in the agency because of the recent press attention.”

  “You think someone at Langley is trying to scuttle this thing?”

  “I think someone’s passing out information they shouldn’t, yes. But I feel confident we can get ahead of it,” Wilkie said. “I’ve got one of my best guys on it.”

  “Anyone I know?” the president asked.

  “Yes, my
deputy director, David Fenton-Wright. Perfect man for the job.”

  April 29, 2016, PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  The crowd was a chanting throng, an arena full of proud Republicans certain they were just nine months away from ending eight years in the political wilderness. Their faces were full of hope, and happiness, and a sense of security that they were about to be led back to glory by Addison March.

  At the podium, he used both hands to motion for quiet, and the keeners near the front of the audience shushed everyone else. “Thank you,” March said as it quieted, “Thank you. Thank you.” He pointed to some supporters near the front randomly, as if singling out favorites. A group of about a dozen delegates all assumed he was pointing at them.

  They’d been using the applause breaks in his lengthy speech to chant “March! March! March to Washington! March! March! March to Washington!”

  He motioned with his hands yet again for quiet and the throng’s volume slowly dissipated. “My fellow Americans, I am humbled by the support I’ve seen and heard today,” March said. “I am humbled by it … and yet I am troubled also.” He looked down slightly, showing the gravitas of true concern. “I am troubled that we have come to a point in the history of the greatest nation on the planet in which our values, our efforts and those of our forefathers are being constantly questioned.

  “I am troubled that we live in an age where people who achieve and strive for better are cast as villains. I’m troubled that, in our America, it has become acceptable to demand – not ask for, but demand – charity from people who’ve worked hard to earn their living, whether that demand comes from government in the form of overtaxation, or from the Liberal left and their ongoing desire to turn our national work ethic into an easy ride. I’m troubled – but I’m not going to stand by and let it happen.”

  The crowd stood and roared in unison, a sheet of a hundred-and-twenty-decibel white noise. March stood smiling, nodding sagely. After a minute, he raised his hands again for more quiet.

  “This country was built on the backs of the men and women who sculpted our greatness from the mud, dust and clay of the west, men and women who understood the danger of a handout, of training people to be dependent. They kept us safe from the scourge of communism – the ultimate lefty system – for five decades. They provided the nation’s workers with jobs, homes and futures. They built the working capital that runs our economy and made it possible for any American, whether it’s a mom running a home business while she takes care of the kids or a college student who has paid his way through school with a second and third job, to achieve greatness and pursue their dreams.

  “And that’s the America that I love and want to protect. That’s our America. The question we are being asked in this election is whether we are ready to take it back.”

  The ovation was thunderous again, delegates letting March know they were. “March! March! March to Washington!” they chanted, a thousand people seemingly bouncing in place from elation.

  Christopher Enright hit pause on the recording. They were watching his speech for the second time, just before midnight, in March’s palatial hotel suite in Scottsdale.

  “We had a great night, senator. We straw-polled the media bus after you were finished and even the hardcore Dem outlets thought it was electric. I mean, even the guy from the Post was saying he had to give it to you: you were brilliant.”

  March would never have told his assistant but he’d dreamed of the primaries for years; dreams of grandeur and achievement and a broad social acceptance of his ideas and positions, of public demand for his leadership. “It went well,” he simply said instead. “It went very well. But onward and upward, my boy. We’ve got Nevada in ten days.”

  Enright hadn’t expected March’s charisma and presence to be so effective at closing the gap on his competitor, John Younger. But that was exactly what the polls seemed to suggest was happening. The latest had the Republican just nine points behind his opponent despite starting the campaign with a weight around his neck caused by a handful of party scandals. None had involved him, but they did involve public money and trust, and that kind of issue could undo a lot of hard political maneuvering.

  Now, they were looking at double digit defeat in the rearview mirror and the real potential that the GOP candidate could score an upset.

  There was a knock on the connecting door to the next room. A second later, it opened, and communications director Neal Foreman walked in. “Senator, Chris,” he said.

  “You’re up late,” March said. “We’ve got Tucson in the morning, and that’s hostile territory these days.”

  “I know; my apologies. But I got hold of a first edition of tomorrow morning’s New York Times.”

  “What’s the gist?” March said, assuming he was talking about the primary.

  “They loved the speech. But it got about three inches of space at the bottom of a story about your overseas investments.”

  March’s head slumped for a split second, just long enough for him to be conscious of showing weakness in front of the troops. Younger and various opponents had used his former law firm’s connections as fodder. Now what? “Okay, what?” He said.

  “The central thesis is that you own shares in a company call TeleFonity, which is selling Voice over Internet Protocol, or VOIP software, to countries and companies in the Middle East. One of those companies is an oilfield tech services firm from Saudi named BID Ltd., or Baghribi Injection Drilling. It’s already controversial for natural gas fracking and oil recovery techniques that use a lot of water in a region that sorely needs it.”

  “Neal, I’m tired. Can we get to the punchline, please?”

  “Yes sir,” Foreman said. “Well, it seems one of the principals in BID is a gentleman named Moukhtar Al-Maghrebi. Unfortunately, he’s on the State Department’s watch list for supplying financing and arms to Islamic militants in Libya and Algeria.”

  If March was shaken, his face barely betrayed a hint of it. “How involved is this guy in the company in which I’m vested?”

  Neal shook his head. “It really doesn’t matter, Senator. There’s no win on this one. What we need you to do is divest yourself of any of that stock tomorrow morning at first light, and then we’ll hold off the press for an extra hour. You can point out that the Times story is “no longer accurate” and that you in fact “had already” sold that stock in BID. If they ask you for harder timelines and pursue it, point out that this was just part of a larger investment portfolio being managed for you by an outside firm and remind them again that once you knew about the tie, you immediately sold the stock. Again, don’t get into timelines, just take a couple of questions from local TV reporters for the softball nature, avoid the print guys, and move on.”

  “So we’re going to duck and cover?” March hated trying to avoid questions and innuendo; he believed his politics and policy direction were open books, and that meant he could be as direct and strident as he liked.

  “Just for a couple of days. On Saturday, Younger is attending the wedding of one of his fellow congregation members back in Germantown. What he’s apparently unaware of is that back in his college days, this congregation friend – and heavy donor – ran a Campus political group called “Christ Loves Fags”, with which he and supporters rallied against homosexuality and demanded people “love the sinner but hate the sin” by harassing people outside a notorious gay bar in Provo.”

  March smiled broadly. “So he’s going to get eviscerated by his own base for saying something many of our voters would wholeheartedly agree with. There’s a certain tasty irony in that, Neal.”

  “Like I said, senator, don’t worry about tomorrow. We’ll handle that, and in a few days, Younger will have made the problem disappear all by his lonesome.”

  15./

  May 11, 2016, PARIS, FRANCE

  Funomora was on thin ice, and he knew it. His position faced reconfirmation in less than a year; Khalidi’s ground rules were made clear when he’d established and funded the ACF, a dec
ade before.

  The veteran Japanese diplomat wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted; in Japan, his political currency had badly faded, leaving the committee as his one remaining keycard into the corridors of power. To rebuild his connections at home would mean spending less time in Europe; spending less time in Europe would be seen by the Jordanian as a lack of commitment to their mutual enrichment. It seemed a no-win situation, one his rivals – Fung chief among them – would doubtless attribute to his own poor decisions.

  The ACF wasn’t exactly a smooth ride in and of itself; decisions had unleashed the odd powder keg, from regional insurrections to civil disobedience and assassinations; things had seemed out of control for several years, and the economic consequences – often benefitting the board members to extremely generous ends – were going to eventually be brought to light. And then they would all be done for, politically, socially and economically.

  Three positions remained unfilled and would remain so until the sniper was caught, the chairman had already decided. If Funomora walked away, he would be seen publicly as a coward. If he didn’t, he would be embroiled in perhaps career-ending scandal. If he walked away, he would sink anonymously back into the ranks of corporate Japan. If he didn’t, the notoriety that came with the position might both ruin his reputation and place him next in the sniper’s sights.

  And so he attended the ACF’s emergency session unsure of where he stood, yet tasked with the responsibility of keeping the remaining three delegates – all of whom he had come to despise – safe for another month.

  Miskin, who had been feuding with the chairman for two years, had just completed his third public engagement in as many months. There had been no hint of an incident and security had been drum tight. But Funomora could not help escape the feeling that pinning the three previous deaths on Tilo Bustamante was just too easy an answer, and that the threat was still out there. Not one of the board members really believed Wilhelm’s death to be an accident.