The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  She’d been dwelling all night on whether he’d make it home for the holiday; even if it was just for a few days, a week before the big day. There was snow outside, the kids presents were already bought and wrapped. They could find an excuse to tell them Santa had come early; she could cook them all a big bird, they could get tipsy after the kids were in bed, maybe work on another…

  She shook it off and glared at the door again. She’d fixated on whether he’d make it back after finding out at work that Joe had been successful, that he’d covered Fawkes’ tracks and recovered intel on the group targeted by the sniper. That meant he was done, didn’t it? At least for now?

  Carolyn looked down morosely at her drink. She loved him, even if she sometimes took advantage of his willingness to follow the ‘happy wife, happy life’ credo. She felt guilty, wondering if her career was responsible for the wedge between them of late; then she frowned and shook it off. That was bullshit, she thought. Whatever had distanced them – perhaps even just actual distance itself – was something they could work out. If only he would come home for Christmas.

  She took another swallow of Bailey’s, relishing the warmth from the fireplace. They’d been married eight years now, and both would have to admit the romance had died down, replaced with a comfortable familiarity – when that comfort wasn’t being undermined by their often separate objectives. Maybe it was his fault; maybe realism suggested her job was the one that needed the most protection, the one that allowed her to come home to her kids each night.

  The last of the Bailey’s stared up enticingly at her, a thick, sweet way to get a little buzz on. The truth was, she thought, trying to blame one another wasn’t going to do their relationship any good. And if there was anything to get past, it was merely the resentment that simmers when words are left unsaid.

  She stared at the door for another minute, but it remained sturdy and stoic, unmoved. Was it too much to ask for a break? To look up and pray to a higher power for some real help? Or was she just being selfish? There were so many people out there in the world that had it worse than their family. Maybe the thing to do, even if he didn’t make it back for Christmas, would be to put on a brave face for the kids and try her darnedest to make a positive from a negative; it was the same attitude that had gotten her ahead at the agency so quickly, after all.

  But it didn’t stop her from feeling sad, and from missing Joe. She drained the rest of the Bailey’s and sighed.

  The deadbolt on the front door turned.

  Carolyn drew in a quick breath and stood up, both hands on the glass as the door swung open.

  Joe stepped inside.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Surprise.”

  She smiled and chewed nervously on her lower lip; it felt like he’d just asked her out again for the first time, and he had the same stupid look on his face as he’d had so many years before.

  DEC. 24, 2015, RURAL VERMONT, NEAR THE CANADIAN BORDER

  The asset was home.

  But it wasn’t really home. It was America, but it was a rented cabin, little more than a three-room shack on the shore of Lake Salem, just outside Newport, Vermont.

  It was in the woods, deep amongst the pines, cut off from the main road and private; and it was nothing like being with the family, enjoying the holidays.

  It had a rough kitchen with a farmer’s sink and a big wood table, and a wood-burning stove that doubled as the cabin’s heat source. The kitchen and living room were one big area, mottled in wood paneling, and the living room floor was covered with a cheap maroon-and-white carpet. A multi-colored quilt had been thrown over the couch to cover spills and stains. A cigarette-burned old coffee table against the wall held an old twenty-inch tube-style TV. Behind the big room were a bedroom and a bathroom, and that was it.

  He’d stopped at the Target store in Newport and bought a bunch of supplies, basic food and some fruit, along with a bottle of scotch at the nearby liquor store that he hadn’t really intended on drinking, but which he figured might come in handy if he got too bored.

  The location was ideal; utterly remote, quiet, but with close proximity to the Canadian border. One of his identities was Canadian, and it was easier to fly out of Montreal with some of his wares than America. But he had no option with respect to going home; until the assignment was complete, that was out of the question now. He had weeks before his next move, and longer still before he’d complete his next job. So he had to be patient.

  It was different, running solo; he felt isolated, introspective in a manner normally alien to him. But with no loved ones around to distract him from his sense of purpose, such was the nature of his duty; such was the nature of his revenge.

  He changed the TV channel; Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby were on a train with Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen, singing about snow. It was on every year and he didn’t enjoy it anymore, not like when he was a kid. Things were more innocent then, and dumb Fifties movies with hackneyed dialogue and Technicolor were part of the holiday fun. Now, they just seemed like a lost cause, a world almost primitive, like a naïve, childish painting.

  The asset hated that all of that was gone.

  But that was the whole point of the assignment, wasn’t it? Lost innocence and a chance to rebalance the scales for once, right? He nodded quietly to himself, resolve strengthened. He was handling things the way an American would back in the nation’s glory days, he told himself, back when we still won wars and unapologetically kicked ass where necessary. He reached over from the couch to the coffee table and retrieved the bottle of whiskey. He was going to drink a toast, and then he was going to drink another, and maybe a few more after that, some scotch and ginger to help wash down those good intentions. And it wouldn’t be drinking out of loneliness, no matter how much he missed his family. Instead, he decided, it would be a celebration of righteousness, the way Christmas was meant to be.

  He’d checked his phone when he’d gotten in from the airport; she’d left a message, an acknowledgement that she knew he’d call back if he could, and that they’d miss him at Christmas, especially the boy. He’d saved up his allowance to get him something nice, she said.

  Outside, the Vermont woods were blanketed with a coating of snow, but it was raining gently and the temperature was nearly above freezing. The sun should have been warming the horizon, going down for the evening; but the thickets of trees cut it off from view.

  The asset changed the channel. Thank Christ the cabin had a decent antenna, even if the offerings were limited. The Main NBC affiliate had Meet the Press on, with clips from a news conference involving Sen. John Younger of Utah, the current Democratic golden boy. Like most former military personnel, the asset had disdain for politicians in general. Their bullshit flowed down hill onto the enlisted man, he knew. Still, it was something other than Bing and Danny; he turned it up as Younger addressed the Commerce Club of Greater Los Angeles.

  “….would ask the question in return: what is Addison March doing to promote American values? He’s fond of trooping the flag, but only when it’s about votes, and rarely when it’s about jobs. He’ll close our borders; not just to illegals, but also to companies that do billions of dollars’ worth of business with American firms every year. Now I ask you… is that American?”

  “It is not,” the asset said to the empty cabin.

  “Addison March says he’s for a stronger America,” Younger said. “Yet he voted against a bill that would have increased drug coverage for our veterans. Is that American? Is that building a stronger America?”

  The asset took a slug of whiskey. He wondered if the whole speech would be a shot at Younger’s opponent. Probably. The election season was brewing. It was the only time any politician voluntarily talked about veterans’ treatment, a shameful reality through multiple presidents, multiple administrations, multiple ideologies.

  “My fellow Americans,” Younger said, “the America in which I grew up was the greatest nation on Earth and remains so t
o this day.” The crowd cheered madly, and the politician gave them a moment before signaling with both hands for quiet. “But we didn’t have an easy road; it took guts, and bravery, and the iron will of a nation. When I was a young man, I saw our Nation’s greatness corrupted in the McCarthy era, done in by scaremongers not unlike a certain breed we hear from commonly today, the people who fear and hate. I’m grateful that that era only lasted for a few years, that the forces of good triumphed, that America stood up to the black listers and fearmongers and said ‘Hell no.’

  “America rediscovered its direction. We did it by knowing we could always do better; we could always achieve more, always strive … for more. For a legacy we could leave our kids, and grandkids. And we won’t continue to grow and thrive and develop if we allow the forces of negativity and selfishness to grow as they have in the past. We have to say ‘Heck yes’ to the kind of America we foresaw in the Golden days of yesteryear, the promise of JFK, Dr. King, Jimmy Carter. And yes, of our beloved president, celebrating his second term, setting the stage for the kind of positive change upon which this country has always thrived, a change drive by the heartbeat of the American people.”

  The crowd roared with a collective white noise that signaled Younger had hit his mark. The asset smiled for the first time all day, not a broad, toothy grin, but a satisfied wry line, content at the notion that maybe, just maybe there were reasons to be optimistic.

  Of course, he knew things. He knew things the politicians didn’t.

  In a few more weeks, he thought, I’ll kill another one. And we’ll be one step closer to a better world.

  16./

  Jan. 1, 2016, BRUSSELS, BELGIUM.

  Despite the nip in the air, the tree-shrouded strolls of the Parc Royal were busy. Its broad paths – divided by a five-foot wide grass belt into two lanes – teemed with cyclists, baby strollers, joggers and power walkers rushing by the odd pedestrian commuter.

  Most of the people in the park were young fitness enthusiasts. At other times of year they might have lounged in the grass, although it was too cold for that now, just below zero and jackets mandatory.

  Professor Allan Ballantine looked out of place. Ballantine was approaching sixty, both broad of shoulder and large of stomach, a six-foot-something hulk with curly brown hair, a short beard, glasses. In his red corduroy shirt and brown sports jacket, he looked like the road manager for a Seventies rock band.

  He had his hands shoved into his coat pockets as he strolled along the wooded path and he looked around furtively, as if trying to find a familiar landmark. Joe Brennan was seated on a bench fifty yards away and had been waiting for twenty minutes, watching the light dusting of snow fall. When it became apparent that Ballantine hadn’t spotted him, he gave the older man a wave and Ballantine walked over.

  “Joe Brennan?” he asked, extending a hand to shake.

  Brennan got up and reciprocated. “Walter says hello.”

  “I hadn’t heard from Walter in years before he called yesterday. I must say, it was a bit of a surprise.”

  “Yeah… sorry about that, professor. Please…” Brennan motioned to the bench and both men sat down.

  “No, it’s fine. But you know how it is when someone’s been inactive for years. I had this terrifying moment where I thought they might want me to do something in the field and, as I said, it’s been a very long time.”

  Twenty years, according to Walter Lang.

  Brennan had contacted the veteran agency man after a rescue in Paris and an interrogation in Barcelona revealed a rogue nuke might soon be on the black market; both men realized he needed intel support. Lang in turn had given him Ballantine’s name, because the professor was an expert in Weapons of Mass Destruction, particularly nuclear. He’d spent the prior five years working with the EU on nuclear energy policies for emerging nations, along with developing weapons inspection criteria for more traditional powers.

  “Sorry I didn’t just come to your office…”

  “That’s all right, really,” the professor said. “I imagine there’s some cloak-and-dagger explanation for meeting here…?”

  “It’s an unofficial get together,” Brennan said. “Officially, I’m not here.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds serious. And because you’ve come to me, I must assume it’s nuclear.”

  “Something like that. Walter said you’re encyclopedic with respect to the massive changes in the global arsenal over the last quarter-century.”

  “Well, one doesn’t like to toot one’s own horn,” Ballantine said, “but I’ve kept reasonably up to date.”

  “What do you know about a bomb that might be available on the open market? It would have to be extremely small and lightweight, no bigger than a computer, and it has to have been around for a while.

  The professor’s attention was rapt. “So you’re looking for a suitcase-sized nuke, something with a uranium core?”

  “Something that might have involved the South Africans,” Brennan said.

  A knowing look crossed Ballantine’s face. “Oh…. I know where this is headed, I think. The was a rumor that about twenty years ago, during its disarmament that ended its nuclear weapons program, the South Africans had lost a bomb.”

  “Lost?”

  “Lost track of, I should say. There seems to have been a general agreement over the years to consider it merely a clerical error; that the bomb in question never existed. An urban myth, if you will.”

  “But you don’t agree?”

  “No,” Ballantine said. “My conversations with a variety of their officials over the years have merely convinced me that the initial reports were correct. It’s a story they don’t like to talk about very much, particularly, as the missing bomb was an older weapon.”

  “Surely there have been international community attempts…”

  “Oh, certainly, certainly. They’ve already investigated it several times, without luck. There are any numbers of unaccounted for weapons out there, thanks to the collapse of the Soviets. There is one train of thought…”

  “What?”

  “Well, there was a theory floated around that a radioactive signature spotted in the debris field of a bus explosion in South America a few years ago might have been caused by the fissionable material from the device. The source could never be determined but people were quite certain at the time that the wreckage was too contaminated to have not been in contact with some sort of core. But there’s a problem with that theory.”

  “How so?”

  “For one, the South African low-yield weapons used a gun assembly; they would shoot one small portion of fissionable material into another, a uranium bullet, achieving a critical mass. But this form is highly unstable when introduced to water, because it produces neutron moderation, which can also cause critical mass. The bus exploded when it went off of the road and much of it ended up in the Pacific Ocean, bordering the highway it was travelling at the time. If there had been an active core aboard, it’s quite possible we would have seen a devastating explosion. And for another, whoever had it would have needed to get the thing into Peru somehow.”

  “What happened to the bus?”

  “You might remember it; there was some belief among the leftists in Peru that the government had attacked it with a rocket, which just seemed bizarre. In any rate, they never did identify a definite cause; the unofficial word was that a freelance terrorist type affiliated with the Shining Path movement blew himself up by mistake and took the rest of the bus along with him.”

  About thirty people had died in the crash. Brennan remembered the news stories, but few details. “Wasn’t that just…”

  “Six or seven years ago, yes,” Ballantine said. “And the weapon went missing twenty years ago. So if there is a connection, it is a circuitous one, at best.”

  “What kind of damage would this device have been capable of?”

  Ballantine crossed his arms. The park was quiet as they moved past the lunch hour, into the afternoon, with just the odd couple
passing by. “If the rumors are true, it would be something in the twenty megaton range.”

  “Which means…?”

  “Which means everything in a one-mile radius from the blast would be instantly vaporized. Radiation burns and fallout would kill everyone for another ten to fifteen miles beyond that in relatively short order. Beyond that? Depending on where it was set off…”

  “It could kill millions of people?”

  Ballantine nodded. “There’s a reason countries never actually build these things anymore, you know. If someone has that weapon and intends to use it, the consequences would be utterly devastating.”

  They talked for a few more minutes until it became clear to Brennan that he had as much information as Ballantine could offer. But he did suggest another local research scientist might have more detail, particularly on the South African story; they were discussing the best way to get in touch with her when Brennan noticed the man in his periphery, pretending to not pay attention to them.

  He was sitting down the lane on a park bench, wearing sunglasses and a dark suit. He’d raised and lowered his newspaper too many times in the few minutes they’d been there. Either he was a speed reader of amazing talent, Brennan thought, or he wasn’t really reading. “Where does this scientist work, exactly?” he asked the professor, keeping his eye on the man watching them.

  “She’s teaching and doing research at the Universite Libre de Bruxelles,” the older man said. “She’s very helpful; I can call ahead and we can take a cab over to meet her, if she’s available.”

  “Sure,” Brennan said. “In just a few minutes. Don’t look up, but I think someone’s keeping tabs on us.”

  “The man in the suit down the path a little way? Yes, I noticed him too. What should we do?”