Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (31 page)

“He broke my ribs.”

“Unfortunate, as I’ve said. However, you are a foreign national operating illegally in our country. I must ask you to tell me who you work for and perhaps, once we have established your purpose, we can discuss the interest from your embassy in finding out whom the American is that we’re holding.”

“The last guy was more convincing,” Brennan said. “He had that creepy movie villain vibe…”

“This is not a joking matter, Mr. Smith. If we so choose, you could be shot for espionage…”

“But you’re worried that would scare of some of those Yankee dollars, right? So why should I tell you a thing?”

The colonel’s face took on a stony contempt. “Perhaps another dozen hours hanging from the wall of a cell might change your mind,” the military man said, walking back towards the door. “Guards, bring our guest with us. We’re going back to the detention wing.”

April 8, 2016, LUANDA, ANGOLA

Brennan had begun to lose track of the time of day. The Angolans seemed to come and go, no one person always in charge of keeping an eye on him. They’d leave him chained up for five, six hours at a time, then let him down for one, then put him back up on the wall. Every so often, they’d wake him up with a bucket of cold water.

They didn’t seem in any great hurry to make him talk; given that the rats in his cell were the size of Chihuahuas, perhaps they figured eventually his own anxiety would eat at him, and he’d say something just to be free.

Instead, he used the vermin to occupy his mind, trying to identify which rat was specifically which, and then naming them. He’d learned it as a way to pass the time from a Soviet dissident trapped in a Polish church basement for sanctuary, around the reunification in Europe. Of course, the poor Russian had been there for months and his affinity to rodents had extended to predicting which would follow him into battle, so it was possible he’d gone just a little crazy.

But it was working for Brennan – that, and the belief that once he managed to get out of there, he might be able to track Dr. Han down and thank her in person for leaving him behind in Cabinda.

The latch to his cell clicked open and the door swung wide. The same short, mustachioed colonel in dress uniform who had visited him for two weeks entered, flanked by a soldier with a machine gun. “Good Morning, Mr. Smith!” he said cheerfully in English. “And how are you feeling today?”

“I’m chained to a wall. How do you think I’m feeling?”

“More requests for your embassy for information. They’re getting quite testy,” the colonel said. He strode over and stood next to Brennan. “There is an easy solution to your dilemma, Mr. Smith,” he said more quietly. “Simply tell us why you were at the rebel camp in Cabinda and we will let you go home.”

“You were probably a colonel pretty young, eh?” Brennan said.

“Why yes,” the colonel said, smiling brightly. “How did you know?”

“Guy your size and weight is likely to have what we call ‘short man syndrome’, a need to overachieve.”

The colonel wasn’t easily shaken. He smiled, tongue between his teeth and eyes averted as he held his patience. “If we hang you from the wall for much longer, Mr. Smith, your arms are going to start stretching… instead of just your nose.”

“I told you, I’m just a geologist. I was tipped that there might be unclaimed Uranium property around Massabi Lagoon.”

“Your visa to enter the country has shown to be a forgery, Mr. Smith. You have no company affiliation and your torso is covered in such an impressive array of scars and old wounds that I have trouble believing you are merely interested in radioactive rocks.”

“Believe what you want.”

“Explain the camp to me. Explain a dozen dead Cabindans, and an as-yet unidentified European. You’re a spy, Mr. Smith.”

“We’ve been over this… too many times.” The strain of standing constantly and having his arms suspended was only half the reason for his fatigue; his ribs had yet to heal and he winced every time he moved. “They were alive when I got there. They locked me in the shipping container. A bunch of other soldiers showed up and killed them.”

“And left you alive.”

“And left me alive.”

“How fortunate for you.”

Brennan tilted his head and looked around the squalid cell. “Evidently.” The truth was, he didn’t know why Han had been involved or why she’d left him as a witness.

“So what are we to do with you? We could simply execute you as a clear and present danger to the national security of Angola, but we both know that would be both ironic, given our existing social conditions, and quite untrue.”

“Yep.”

“Or we could leave you here. But in short order, that would have diplomatic ramifications also.”

“I’m guessing.”

The colonel’s sneer was sardonic. He leaned in closely. “Were it up to me, Mr. Smith, we would work on you until you either talked, or died. Fortunately for you, my country’s greatly improved relationship with America is essential to business, and I do not wish to receive, how do you say, the ‘heat’ from people above me.”

Brennan looked him over from toes to head. “What are you, five-three? I’d say almost everyone’s above you.”

The colonel turned away for a brief moment then wheeled around quickly, slamming a balled up fist into Brennan’s stomach. Brennan grunted; he’d reflexively stiffened his stomach muscles before the blow and a fist-shaped bruise was spreading across them.

“I may not get the pleasure of having my man working the information out of you, Mr. Smith. But you are here for at least another day. It can be as unpleasant as you wish to make it.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door, followed by the soldier. Then he faced Brennan again. “An embassy official will be here to see you tomorrow,” he said. “My advice would be to do whatever this person says in order to leave Angola. The next time you and I meet, I will not be so cordial.”

The diminutive officer turned to leave. “Hey!” Brennan said. “Aren’t you at least going to let me down?”

“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.”