The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  He nodded Brennan’s way. ‘You still have that map that Mah gave you?’

  ‘Sure.’ He got up and walked over to the bedroom, returning a few seconds later and handing Drabek the folded sheet of paper.

  Drabek spread it out on the coffee table. The route was simple enough to monitor for a well-organized squad. That wasn’t it. And they’d managed to eventually convince the Chinese not to allow an open-top car but rather window waves. A sniper from above would have that much more difficult of a time with an already acute angle. He looked at the guidelines underneath for travel speed and anticipated stops, choke points along the route.

  But he still couldn’t see it.

  ‘What’s bugging you so much, anyway?’ Brennan asked. ‘You’re fidgeting like a child.’

  ‘Something…’ Drabek shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Something about the route is off.’

  ‘I drove it yesterday at the same time as you,’ Brennan said. ‘I didn’t spot anything. Mah’s an expert at these and he didn’t spot anything.’

  ‘I know, I know…’ The stress hit him and Drabek closed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair nervously. ‘I just… Gah! Something’s off. When you get the feeling, it’s never wrong. It’s a warning…’

  Brennan shrugged. Then he leaned forward and sighed, recognizing he was being a jerk for not taking the veteran cop seriously. ‘Here, let me look again.’

  ‘I’m getting a coffee,’ Drabek said, rising to walk to the kitchen.

  Brennan stared at the map, tracing the route with his finger, looking at the various cross streets and sidestreets, where the most dangerous intersections might be. ‘You know they’ll have people all along each block as well, right?’ he said more loudly, so that Drabek could hear him in the kitchenette around the corner.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Drabek said. He leaned out of the kitchenette area and poked his head toward the front hallway to the door. ‘Hey Mike, you want a coffee?’

  The NSA man guarding the door leaned in. ‘Don’t mind if I do?’

  Drabek walked over and handed it to him, then went back to his own cup.

  Brennan ran the route backwards, then went over to the desk and found his laptop. He put it down next to the map on the coffee table. He opened a browser and pulled up an overhead of Manhattan, then zoomed into the same area. He looked at the high-res image of six-to-eight blocks of real estate. Then he checked the route again.

  Drabek was right. Something was off.

  And Brennan also had no idea what it was.

  ‘You know… you might be onto something here,’ he said.

  Drabek looked around the corner but remained standing, sipping from his cup. ‘Is that good news or bad?’

  ‘Probably the latter, in the bigger picture,’ Brenan said.

  ‘So what is it…?’

  ‘That the thing: I don’t know either. I can’t figure it out, but something is off.’ He stared at the two images like a kid with a Spot the Differences puzzle. ‘I’m just… not seeing what it is.’

  Zoey looked worried. ‘Should we talk to the NSA guy? Maybe call your boss?’

  Brennan waved the idea off. ‘I’ve been in worse situations than this and he’s ignored them. We need something specific.’

  He went back to the two maps, poring over the page and screen.

  Drabek signalled silently to Zoey with a head nod. She got up quietly and walked over to the kitchenette.

  He held a finger up to his lip. ‘Keep it quiet.’

  ‘What’s up?’ she whispered.

  ‘We’re a half hour from downtown Manhattan, but the traffic tie ups today mean it’ll take me an hour to get down there…’

  ‘You’re GOING??’ she muttered.

  ‘Shh! Keep it cool, okay? The guy at the front door? He’s going to get really sleepy in about ten minutes courtesy of some Rohypnol…’

  ‘You roofied the guard?’

  ‘I have to go down there and catch this guy, Zoey… if he’s even there. If this is even a thing. I can’t just sit here.’

  ‘Then I’m going with you. You have no more authority here than I do, and I need to know… I need to see him, Norm!’

  ‘No! I can’t put you in danger…’

  ‘It’s not up to you, damn it! Just for once in my entire life, the hard decision is going to be mine to make, not someone else’s. Not yours. Not theirs. Not Benjamin-whoever-you-are-goddamned-Levitt,’ she hissed.

  ‘OKAY!’ he said, trying to keep it low. ‘Okay. Just… follow my lead. Head back to your chair for now. I’ll hang here until I see the guard go to sit down. Then you make an excuse if need be to Brennan and follow me out. Okay?’

  She nodded, then returned to the armchair.

  Brennan had switched the internet screen from overhead satellite view to another map of downtown Manhattan and was comparing the street layouts without any distraction. Again, there was nothing obviously wrong. He looked up at the television; the news had switched to a story about wild animals showing up in the suburbs, looking for food. Have to feed those twenty-second attention spans, he thought ruefully.

  He went back to the maps and traced the route again.

  ‘I need to pee,’ Zoey said, getting up and walking off.

  Brennan went back to his work. The NSA’s map had been taken from official sources, so there was no reason to think it inaccurate. On top of that, both Mah and Parnell had walked the route twice the night before, each covering one side of Canal Street, auditing the position of every cop and vehicle, to be damn sure there were no surprises.

  And yet there was something…

  Wait…

  It was on the fringe of his thought process. But instead of straining to remember it, Brennan let his experience take over, blanking his mind, going to darkness so that his passive thoughts had free reign.

  There. His attention shot back to the web map, and he went back to the overhead satellite image, then zoomed in.

  There, a block from the turn onto Broadway, by the meet-and-greet. He went back to the official plan map again. It showed the south intersection with Cortlandt Alley as closed to traffic, blocked off by a firetruck with the number designator ENG-201. He traced his finger back up the blocks. Four other closed intersections were blocked with fire trucks, eight more in total, before police representatives took over. But the alley was the only one-way approach.

  Each of the other firetrucks had a much smaller number: ENG- 15, ENG-18. The largest other was ENG-24.

  He frowned, not knowing anything about the fire department’s systems. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Brennan switched to an internet browser and plugged the numbers in, along with ‘FDNY’ and a few other search terms.

  A map listing came up. He opened it, and tags showed the location of each of the ‘Engine Numbers’ for various stations. All of the lower numbers were from Manhattan stations. But the larger designator, 201, was from Brooklyn.

  Why? Why would they borrow a truck from another borough when they’re only blocking of a small portion of the route? Maybe it was just triage planning, he thought, borrowing the least-busy engine…

  But it was a loose end, something that felt off. The higher number was probably what had tweaked Drabek, too. He was just too upset to realize it.

  Then… how? How would they get…

  An inside man.

  They’d anticipated an insider, someone in law enforcement with good access to the mission’s parameters and objectives. The old man’s story suggested a woman, the grown Amelia, from the fictional town of Plenty.

  He looked at the plan again. Parnell and Mah were bringing up the rear. Parnell had made the arrangements with city emergency services. It had been her idea, although endorsed happily by Mah.

  Brennan pulled out his phone and frantically dialled Jonah. It rang through to his voicemail. ‘Jonah, call me now, it’s urgent. It’s Joe.’

  Damn it. He dialled another number.

  Adrianne Hayes answered on the first r
ing. ‘Mr. Brennan. To what do I owe the distinct honor…’

  ‘Cut the bullshit, okay Adrianne? We have a Clear and Present Danger, an emerging threat. Can you get a message through to Mah…’

  ‘Brennan, I’ll thank you to watch your language. Okay? I’m your superior, not some greasy informant in one of your third-world dives. Show some damned respect.’

  Oh, God, fuck you and your politically correct bullshit right now, you pencil pusher… ‘Adrianne, there’s a glitch in the plan. There’s a flaw, a choke point they may have compromised….’

  ‘You really think you’re something, don’t you, Brennan? You act like some flawless avatar for truth and justice, a modern-day James Bond or some such bullshit. But the fact of the matter is, you’re a government employee, mister, just like me. And this is not your assignment.’

  ‘The plan…’

  ‘I went over the plan myself, and with Agent Parnell. She’s highly decorated and extremely competent, by the way, and you could learn a thing or two from the way she handles herself.’

  ‘Adrianne, you have to listen to me; we know there’s another shooter, and the old man, he said it was the girl…’

  ‘Who?!?’

  Oh goddamn it. She hasn’t even read my debrief. Goddamn you for promoting a political shark, Jonah. I saved your life, you little bastard. ‘Amelia, the third assassin, is still unaccounted for…’

  ‘Brennan, you have officially lost your mind. I’m hanging up now. Don’t call me back! Once today is over, I’m going to call your Director of Human Resources and request a full psych eval…’

  ‘Oh… fuck you.’ He hung up, frustrated.

  There was no other choice. He checked the time. The parade was already under way, and perhaps forty minutes from the block in question. If he and Drabek rushed, they could make it down there before any attack could take place. All they’d need to do was get by the guy at the door.

  ‘Drabek, get over here for a second,’ he called out.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Drabek!’

  Then he realized the girl, Zoey, hadn’t returned. She’d said something a few minutes earlier when he was concentrating on the map, what… she was going to the bathroom.

  He got up quickly and looked around the corner, but there was no sign of Drabek. ‘Zoey!’ he called out.

  Damn it. He jogged over to the front door and opened it. The guard was still in the metal folding chair the hotel had provided, but he was leaning against the floral wallpaper, snoring gently, a half-spilled cup of coffee tilted over in his lap.

  Brennan closed his eyes and held his breath in for a second. He’d let them skip out without noticing. And he knew exactly where they were headed.

  43/

  MANHATTAN, New York

  The delegation was on schedule. The parade route into Chinatown was lined with well-wishers, protestors, curious tourists, thousands of people held back on each side of the road by makeshift cordons. Police were doing a sterling job of keeping the crowds controlled.

  Agent Jennifer Parnell signalled a thumbs up to her CIA counterpart, Brandon Mah. He was in an office above the donut shop across the road. The four blocks making up the end of the route between The Bowery and Centre Street represented the last opportunity someone would have to stage a ground attack. After the meet and greet, they would continue on at speed down Broadway; but the parade would be slowed after turning off The Bowery and onto Canal. Airspace was free and clear.

  Their job was simple: in twenty minutes, the procession would pass. There were seven limousines, police cars ahead and behind, four motorcycle cops rolling beside the secret service, and twelve agents assigned to run with the lead car and the Chinese delegate car, two vehicles back. Once they’d passed, Mah would lead his team of Parnell and two plain-clothes police officers as trailers, ensuring no one attempted a last-moment diversion or ambush. Her NSA colleagues had the twenty-minute section up to her location, and the police and secret service were handling the first section, starting at Seward Park and East Broadway.

  ‘Are we good?’ Mah’s voice crackled to life over her earpiece.

  ‘Yeah, smooth sailing so far. The drones are reporting nothing suspicious from the overhead look either. It looks like this all might have been much ado about nothing, chief.’

  Mah held his tongue. He wasn’t a suspicious man, but he’d been an agent long enough to know the operation wasn’t over until everyone was home safe. ‘Just keep watch, keep your ears on for any alerts. Another half-hour and we can all breathe a little easier.’

  He looked down through the floor-to-ceiling window in the empty dentist’s office. She was looking up, wearing aviator sunglasses to go with her olive green dress suit. She stuck out like a sore thumb as a fed, he figured. Not that it would probably matter much. Any action by Legacy’s sleepers would be brutal, direct and rapid. No one would be sneaking around thousands of people, drones, security.

  Mah had been an agent for more than a decade. He trusted his instincts. And something about the woman just rubbed him the wrong way. He knew she had a hell of a resume; she’d worked on the disappearance of Sarah Evans, the agency recruit that had turned out to be a suicide a decade earlier, when Parnell was still a D.C. cop. And she’d been receiving commendations ever since. Her retraining scores were out of this world, the type even he was jealous of; and she had American parents, which meant less pressure.

  Maybe that was it, he told himself. Maybe he was just jealous that someone was getting ahead even more quickly than he was. Adrianne Hayes certainly loved her work.

  On the far side of the street, just inside the cordon, Parnell shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. She wondered whether Mah had family in China, how they felt about all of it. The constant animosity between two peoples.

  There was something wrong in any man who would betray such a glorious cultural legacy, she thought.

  Across the street, one of the plainclothes officers from the NYPD gave her a thumbs up and flashed a quick, wry smile under his short, clipped brown moustache. He probably thought that was cute; she smiled back. No point in worrying about him; they’d all be gone by the next day, assuming the exit plan proved viable. Air had seen to that. He’d followed her instructions perfectly. Now, all the woman once known as Amy Sawyer had to do was wait. She was like Water, fluid-yet-constant, in control and yet capable of unleashing anarchy. And she was quite certain that a glorious new dawn was just fifteen minutes away.

  The cab hit heavy traffic ten blocks from their destination, slowing to a halting crawl, horns sounding on the one-way street as multiple lanes tried to make progress.

  ‘What do you think?’ Zoey asked Drabek. ‘Would it be quicker now if we just got out and ran?’

  ‘We’re still more than a mile away, there’s people all over the sidewalks…’

  ‘What if you don’t figure this out before we get there? What then?’

  She had a new edge of panic in her voice, Drabek noticed. She was taking the entire threat too personally, as if she was responsible for Ben’s behavior. ‘Then we do the best we can: we find Mah or Parnell and we warn them, we tell them something’s wrong with the route.’

  ‘Parnell then,’ Zoey said. ‘She mentioned she used to be a D.C. cop. before she joined the NSA.’

  ‘A little sympathy goes along way. Okay, Parnell it is, if we can find her,’ Drabek agreed.

  The cab crawled ten more yards then slowed to a halt again.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ the detective said. ‘It’ll be tomorrow by the time we get to Chinatown.’ He pulled out his wallet and handed the driver two twenties. ‘We’re getting out here, okay?’

  The cabbie shrugged, then looked at the meter. It read twenty-one-twenty-five. ‘Hey…wait! I owe you…’

  But the door slammed behind them and the pair were off, pushing around the sidewalk crowd.

  Six blocks away, Brennan’s route was cut off by the closed streets. He dumped the red compact rental at the cu
rb and made off on foot. When he got to Grand and Clinton, the last of the cars in the entourage had already passed.

  He checked the cross street. He was eight blocks from Chinatown and behind, but the convoy was moving very slowly. He took off on a run, dodging other pedestrians, trying to make good time.

  From an adjacent building, an NSA agent saw a man running through the crowd, upending people. He had an open-neck shirt and three-day stubble, a wild look on his face. The agent tapped his radio microphone call button.’

  ‘Yeah, ah… Eagle Seven to Papa Bird; Eagle Seven to Papa Bird…’

  Its speaker crackled to life. ‘Go ahead, Eagle Seven.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a runner of some sort… sketchy looking guy in aviators, top two buttons on a grey shirt undone, sleeves rolled up. He’s pushing people aside, knocking them over. He’s probably just a drunk or a pickpocket who got caught or something, but…’

  ‘Roger that, Eagle Seven, we’re responding with two on the ground. Papa Bird to Ground 2, come in Ground 2.’

  ‘Roger that, Papa bird, reading you.’

  ‘Ground 2, we’ve got a runner on your side of the street coming up on your block. You want to put him down hard, please? He’s probably just a sneak thief or junkie or something, but we want people seeing how safe it is out there today, okay?’

  Brennan had to slow down, the foot traffic too dense to keep shoving his way through. Chinatown was only a couple of blocks away. He checked his battered Seiko wristwatch; the procession was on schedule and he was keeping pace with the last car, at least. Over the crowd, he could see the heads of the dozen secret service agents surrounding the lead vehicles.

  The plainclothes officer seemed to come out of nowhere; one second, Brennan was looking over the onlookers, and in the next, someone was grabbing his upper left arm, trying to pull him aside.