Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (37 page)

But now, the commander-in-chief was close to losing his temper. “We agreed to bring your asset in, David, and instead he goes ballistic at a French aquarium and shoots an old man. Am I getting this right? Am I right on this? Because I recall you saying this guy wanted back in from the cold. It’s not too cold out there right now, David. In fact, it’s pretty goddamned hot.”

Fenton-Wright kept his cool. He didn’t want to antagonize the President, but he also didn’t really have to worry about him, a lame duck with a minority in the house. Whether he had a future with the agency didn’t really matter, either. He’d long since decided that the only person he needed to keep happy was the man paying for his eventual ascension to the ACF board.

“Mr. President, as you know we immediately identified Agent Brennan to the French authorities; while the agency certainly could have done a better job of predicting how unhinged Agent Brennan had become after the Colombian affair, we had no indication that anything like this was possible. In fact, we relied on the opinion of his regular handler, the late Walter Lang…”

Mark Fitzpatrick interjected. “If I may, Mr. President… As you know, David and I don’t share the most cordial working relationship. But it’s clear to us at the NSA, having reviewed the video provided to the agency by its European sources, that this was an unpredictable situation.”

The president leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together as he thought about their options. “Covering ass is all well and good, Gentlemen, but what I need to know now is where we stand, and how we proceed.”

Fitzgerald said, “We’re in better shape than might appear the case. Brennan was below board, so officially he was in Europe on his own time. We’ll be reiterating that position to our colleagues in the EU.”

“And I’ve got a team helping the police over there to track him down,” Fenton-Wright added. “Rest assured, Mr. President: this will be handled properly from here on in.”

Malone watched Myrna prepare her equipment, slotting the lens into place on the front of the camera as she sat in the passenger seat of Malone’s car.

“I don’t like this,” Malone said. “I really don’t.”

“Okay,” Myrna said, “but we’ve been over the reality of the situation. Joe is on the run and won’t be in touch at all until he’s made a few more moves. And your editor is right: if your source ranks highly, he’s not going to walk into court and back up what he’s telling you. You need an insurance policy.”

“Myrna, you’ve been nothing but good to me for the last two months. But revealing my source to you goes against every instinct…”

“Sweetie, you’re in the deep stuff up to your neck,” Myrna said. “This isn’t a normal game played by normal rules. And I hesitate to point this out, but if I wasn’t effectively off the grid, you’d be dead already. Walter knew that, which is why he trusted me to look after you.”

“I know.” She did. But it wasn’t making Malone feel any more comfortable. “Okay, let’s do this.”

The decision to record and photograph the source had been made the night before; the situation in France, where Joe was still on the run, had only strengthened Myrna’s argument: they needed an official connection, someone who couldn’t deny everything down the road. It wasn’t that the elderly ex-spy wanted leverage and she felt genuine distress at the idea of outing a senior source who was doing yeoman’s work just by talking to the press. She didn’t want to burn a whistleblower.

But they needed backup, proof. And that meant Malone wearing a mic and Myrna shooting using a low-light lens, the camera propped on the car dash for stability.

The door to the parking garage stairwell opened and her source stepped out. Malone got out of the car and closed the door gently behind her then walked over to meet him, making sure they were close enough to the overhead lights for his face to be occasionally illuminated, out of the shade for long enough that Myrna could get a shot.

“You haven’t written anything since Miskin,” the source said. “Why?”

“I need proof, hard evidence,” Malone said. “My paper is under a lot of pressure to back up what you and others have been telling me.”

“You had Kalispell. But you didn’t mention the package.”

She was momentarily confused. “What package?”

“Ask yourself why Khalidi’s fixer disappeared with all of that money.”

“Because he’s greedy? It’s money. What other reason…?”

“He had a purpose, a cause. He needed to fund a major purchase, a bomb smuggled out of South Africa at the end of apartheid.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly. “A bomb? As in…”

“Nuclear, yes.”

“Holy shit,” Malone said.

“A whole lot of something, Ms. Malone, but very little holy.”

“So this thing is out there somewhere, and Khalidi funded its purchase?”

“The question is what happened to the device and where it is now,” the source said. “There was buzz in intelligence circles two months ago that it had reappeared on the black market, but things have gone silent ever since.”

“So it could be out there somewhere, with someone who actually might use it?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Do you have any proof of this whatsoever? Because you know my magazine won’t print something that inflammatory without any named sources to support it. There’s no way.”

“Follow the money,” he said. “Someone brokered the sale, a name you’ve already run into.”

“Dmitri Konyakovich.”

“If you can get anything out of him or on his company, perhaps you can figure out who purchased the weapon and where it was headed.”

“So that’s all you can give me? A name I already have?” Malone was beginning to wonder whether her source was willing to take the risks she needed, to give her something solid.

“You have to do some of the digging yourself,” he suggested. “I can’t gift wrap this for you. You know my position, how sensitive things are.”

“But I need something, anything I can take back to my paper to tell them this is all real, and not just some insane conspiracy theory dreamed up because of the sniper shootings.”

The source paused for a moment, as if considering the request. “There’s a firm in Las Vegas called DynaTech; ostensibly it makes the interior parts for slot machines and video lottery terminals. In reality it’s a subsidiary of an offshore company called Dynatech Global, based in the Cayman Islands.

“A tax dodge? That’s not much…”

“Not just a tax dodge; a source of funding for Konyakovich’s projects over here. Not all of his money flows out of Russia.”

“So I need a source at DynaTech, is what you’re saying…”

“I’m not telling you how to do the job, Ms. Malone. But I would agree that that’s a good place to start.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“HE WHAT?!?” For the second time in recent weeks, Malone was incensed.

They’d gone back to Myrna’s to look up information on Konyakovich’s Vegas connection. Once Malone had gone through what she’d been told, Myrna realized she needed the whole story.

“I said Joe already knew about the nuke. That’s what he was looking for in Africa.” Myrna knew Alex would be upset but it couldn’t be avoided. She’d known the discussion would happen, eventually. “It was a need-to-know situation, Alex. He was worried…”

“I realize that Myrna, but goddamn…” It wasn’t a trust issue; Malone understood why Joe was playing things close to the vest. But that didn’t make it any less irritating.

“If I’d known how good your source was earlier…”

“But now you know who he is, you’re taking me more seriously?” She had trouble hiding her annoyance. “What else don’t I know?”

Myrna filled Alex in on Borz Abubakar and the theft of the bomb by the South Koreans. “Joe’s feeling is that they were probably working freelance, and plan to resell the device yet again.”

Alex was putting the pieces together. “But if Abubakar was on the bus that blew up, how could…”

“A double.”

Alex sat and thought it through. “My God… you realize …”

“That Abubakar had nearly two dozen innocent people murdered to cover his tracks. Yes.”

“And that there’s a nuclear weapon out there somewhere as a consequence of Khalidi’s African adventure,” Alex said. “That’s why he wants me dead. That’s why Joe’s been burned.”

“Khalidi has connections at the highest levels of national security, and while I’m sure he wants the bomb recovered, he will try to ensure it’s done with reputations protected. If this came out on top of what you’ve already reported…”

“Myrna,” Alex said, looking a little distant, “I think we’re in a whole lot of trouble.”

JUNE 19, 2016, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE

They drove up from the town of Bezier to the small city as midnight neared, the darkness adding a sense of anonymity. They’d changed cars at Victor’s cousin’s place, and he’d taken the wheel as they followed the coastal highway, the Mediterranean to their right barely visible in the evening’s dull glint, lights from villas and hotels dotting the shoreline ahead.

Behind the wheel, the Frenchman stayed silent for the first thirty minutes, giving Brennan time to consider their situation. He wondered why Victor was being so accommodating, whether there might be a bad surprise waiting for them at the other end of the trip.

But he didn’t get that sense. Instead, a terse camaraderie had grown between them over the two days. Eventually, Brennan said, “So do you mind if I ask why you’re helping me? You could have just stayed in Bezier, or gone south to Spain until the heat blew over.”

Victor glanced at him briefly then reaffixed his eyes on the road ahead. “I don’t like being treated as if I do not count,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Back at the apartment, when the police came through the door… you were right, they were shooting to kill. They didn’t care who I was, or who my friend Jacques was, they just wanted you dead. We were just… non-existent. People who act like that? I never liked them too much. And what can I say? You saved my ass. Victor Moutiere honors his obligations.”

Brennan understood that, but he needed to be sure his new friend realized the stakes. “The guy we’re going to see… if he catches us, he won’t be any less likely to kill you than those cops were. There are influential people after me, people who can reach out.”

“Hmmph,” Victor said.

“What?”

“I’ve been a thief my whole life,” the Frenchman said, “ever since I hit the street at age ten. Last time I checked, anyone with anything worth stealing usually took some type of steps to protect it. And I already know what the authorities think of you.”

“There’s no money in this.”

The Frenchman gave him a quick glare, then went back to watching the road.

Clouds obscured the waning moon just after one o’clock and the alley was shrouded in darkness, its only occupants a pair of rats that had been rummaging through an overturned trash can. The cobblestone was slick from rain during the day, the barest light stolen from the tall, ornate street lamp nearby, reflected in the windows of the adjacent buildings.

The Citroen backed into the alley slowly, its headlights out.

“Are you sure this is the best approach?” Victor asked as he gazed over his shoulder and steered the vehicle carefully into the dark. Both men were dressed head-to-toe in black clothing.

“We can’t be seen carrying a ladder down the street at this time of night without eliciting questions,” Joe said. He’d dyed his hair jet black and touched up two days’ worth of stubble. “There’s no other way in.”

“What about alarms? I guarantee you he’s got security and a system, if this guy is as important as you say.”

“Let me worry about that. Just keep the car in front of the ladder and yourself on that bus stop bench out on the street. If any police officers come along, you explain that you’ve broken down and are waiting for the tow but it will be up to forty-five minutes. I guarantee you, he will have better things to do that to sit there and wait.”

“What if they have my description out?”

“We got out quickly, and there was a lot going down. Couple that with your new glasses and haircut and my new look and we should be okay. Just be cool.”

“And if something goes wrong…”

“You don’t owe me anything. Take the five thousand I’ve already paid you and get out. Just don’t shoot any cops.”

“You fuck this up, maybe I stay in Beziers for a few months, eh?”

“Nice work if you can get it.” Joe got out of the car. He opened the trunk of the car and took out the collapsing ladder.

Victor followed suit. He looked at it curiously in the half-dark. “Is that high enough? He’s on the third story.”

“This is only eighteen feet, but it will get me close enough to the roof to toss up a grappling hook. The edge up there is solid concrete. Then it’s twelve more feet to the window ledge.”

“And then?”

“And then I do what I do. Like I said, let me worry about it.”

Three minutes later, he was crouched on the edge of the wide stone window sill. Victor took the ladder down, as instructed.

Brennan looked the window over. As he’d expected, it was wired to the alarm via a silver contact strip that ran unobtrusively around its outside edge. Vanity was often the enemy of decent security; he’s noted. Had the strip run across the middle of the window pane, or had he carelessly shattered it, the effort might actually have done some good. He took the small bag from over his shoulder. He removed a plastic pouch, opened it, and withdrew a golf ball-sized piece of putty, which he placed in the center of the pane. Then he took out a thin metallic object, with a ball of plastic at one end and a stylus-like blade at the other. He placed the ball of plastic in the middle of the putty and settled it until it was right on the glass but also stuck to gummy material. Then he moved the tool in a circle, rotating it from the ball in the center like a giant compass, the industrial-diamond tipped blade at the other end cutting the glass in a large circle.

He pushed inwards, gently, holding onto the metal bar of the tool. The circle of glass separated cleanly from the rest of the window, the putty keeping the pane from dropping inwards. He leaned through the hole and scanned the room, looking for any sign of pressure trigger wiring. Then Brennan dropped into the room, which appeared to be a study. He placed the piece of glass on top of the nearby desk.

Outside, Victor sat on the bus bench in front of the house, staring out at the street and keeping lookout. He tapped the cordless earpiece. “You in?”

“Yeah. Looks like his study. Doors are all magnetic strip protected but that’s easy enough to get around.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t just grab this guy and we beat it out of him, eh?”

“There’s that famous French subtlety again,” Brennan said. “I’m going to see what he’s got in his desk and if there’s a safe in here. Just be cool for a few, tell me if anyone comes in the front door of the building. I don’t want any unexpected visitors waking this guy up.”

Brennan checked the desk hutches and tried the drawers but they were locked. He used the letter opened from the top hutch to pry each open, easily defeating the weak locks. There was a family photo on top. The drawers contained some banking information, some personal papers and mementos, but nothing incriminating. He scanned the room, looking for the least impressive piece of art. There was a small Dutch impressionist piece of a windmill on the exterior wall. He pulled it back and found a safe. But Brennan doubted it would contain anything related to the committee: wall safes are too easily physically removed from their housing.

He looked down at the floor. If Yoshi Funomora had anything of value in his Montpellier home, it would be anchored into concrete. Brennan surveyed the room again; there was a throw rug that curiously stuck out from under each side of the desk, too narrow to suit the position but long enough cover up something else. He walked behind the desk and moved the chair aside, then pulled back the end of the rug.

Funomora’s floor safe was modern, a digital keypad set into the front next to the giant tumbler so that either or both could be used to secure it. Brennan suspected the latter, but it didn’t matter. He’d been cracking tougher safes for a long time, under war zone pressure sometimes. The tumbler would be no problem; the safe was small and thin enough that, while too difficult to cut through, the sound of the tumbler discs slotting into place could be picked up with a stethoscope.

The digital lock was another matter.

He moved back to the desk. In Brennan’s experience, men over fifty – particularly successful, busy ones – didn’t have the hardest passwords to crack, and they often wrote down a copy in case they forgot the sequence, usually somewhere in an office. He tried the drawers again, looking to see if it had been taped to the bottom on one side or the other. He reached in behind each to make sure there was no wadded up piece of paper. He checked the underside of the desk calendar/blotter, but found nothing.

The bookshelf along the left wall was a possibility and he looked for a book that had perhaps been pulled out more recently and was sticking our further than the rest. He checked the titles for something Funomora might find sentimental or ironic.

He sensed that he’d missed something, so Brennan moved back to the desk. There was a fountain pen on top, and he opened it up to check the cartridge container, but found it empty. What was he missing. He scanned the desk again. The hutches, the pen, the family photo…

The family photo. Funomora didn’t seem like the sentimental type and he spent most of the year away from his wife, who stayed in Japan. He grabbed the framed and opened it up to take out the print.

On the back, in pencil, it said “14-38-22.”

WICKFORD, RHODE ISLAND

The day was beginning to drag. The Rhode Island primary was just twenty-four hours away and Sen. John Younger had shaken so many hands in the prior six hours, he was beginning to develop calluses. And yet, there he was outside a local grocery store at four in the afternoon, cutting a “grand reopening” ribbon.”

He smiled for the cameras – the national press corps never took a day off during a campaign – then leaned over to whisper in an aide’s ear. “I swear, if I ever have to do this again, shoot me on the spot, okay?” he said.

“It’s our weakest support state for the nomination, sir,” the campaign worker said. “After the showing in 2012, it’s important…”

“I know, I know,” Younger said, waving him off, irritated. “I’ve been doing this for a few years.”

After the ribbon cutting had concluded, hands were shaken and backs slapped; Younger took questions from the press informally. Most were about his immigration policy or, as Addison March had been reminding everyone, lack thereof. The incessant focus on one aspect of his platform didn’t upset Younger; he’d been around too long to expect context and depth from the daily media.

“Senator,” a reporter near the front asked, “you mentioned during the event this morning that you still… and I quote… ‘weren’t comfortable’ with Senator March’s business ties. He claimed during a speech this morning that it’s a drive-by slur campaign without foundation. Can you comment on that?”

Why would March have brought that issue up? Younger was surprised. They’d scored serious points over March’s old legal firm and there didn’t seem to be any percentage in him raising it again. What was he up to?

“While it’s hardly worthy of rebuttal, I suspect Mr. March is eager to do anything he can to appear more in touch with the American people, given his numbers. My advice to him is to spend more time working with American companies and less time kowtowing to his friends in the Middle East. I think it’s mind-boggling that my Republican opponent can simply push to the side the two decades his party has spent trying to destabilize that region – which just happens to have a lot of oil – for its own ends. Now, he’s the great conciliator, doing business with militant Islamists and sharing lawyers with Ahmed Khalidi.”

It was a gross exaggeration, but no one in the press corps was going to call him on it. The sound bites were too good, the reporters too cynical to think any of the campaign messages did much in the way of shifting the population from entrenched ideology and beliefs.

“Senator, Mr. Khalidi has appealed to the international community for calm with respect to the ongoing attacks on his business associates,” a reporter said. “Given the revelations of the past week, shouldn’t America be examining his businesses here?”

It was the first intelligent question he’d been asked in about ten days, Younger thought. “I would say, sir, that the revelations in News Now at the end of March about his involvement in African atrocities, or at the very least in funding them, indicate Mr. Khalidi still has a lot of explaining to do to win back the support of the international community.”

When the press conference had wrapped, he went back to his limousine with his handlers. His phone rang as soon as he’d sat down in the backseat. “Talk to me,” he said.

“Senator, it’s Mark Fitzpatrick. I just caught your press conference live on the news networks.”

“Mark,” Younger said. “Good to hear from you, as always. I assume you’re calling about the handful of questions at the end?”

“I am indeed, sir. I’m already working up a background on the reporter who asked them, to see if he has a personal axe to grind.”

“You heard about March’s speech?”

“I think he’s taking a strange approach,” Fitzpatrick said. “But maybe the strategy is just working extremely well. He seems obsessed with proving he’s not an Islamist sympathizer.”

Younger smiled at that. “Give a true believer a shot to the core of their belief, and they’ll move Heaven and Earth to prove it’s sacrosanct and unvarnished. It’s because they really believe it,” Younger said. “He’s so vehement in his belief that immigration is tarnishing this nation that he can’t see the reality, which is that it contributes much more than it costs. But that will work to our advantage, Mark.”