Assassin Zero

by Jack Mars

  Are those mine? Am I losing my hair? It seemed likely enough.

  He hadn’t pardoned a turkey that day. Instead he relegated the task to his eldest daughter, Hannah. Social media was abuzz about it; some thought it a cute publicity stunt, while others shamed him for the breaking of tradition. But he hardly cared about that.

  He was all too aware of the CIA’s snafu in Las Vegas. That was the best he could call it; it wasn’t quite a failure. After all, they’d saved the life of a Russian diplomat with highly sensitive information, and stopped a bombing from occurring. But as far as he knew, they were no closer to finding the sonic weapon or the people behind it.

  The mainstream media had started to link the incident in Havana with what happened in Springfield, Kansas, but without any actual connection it felt largely like sensationalizing. No one had yet mentioned anything about ultrasonic weapons, though there was plenty of speculation that ranged from chemical agents to biological weapons to induced mass hysteria.

  Rutledge worried if he made the right choice or not, sending this Agent Zero after these people. From the stories he’d heard, he imagined some kind of superman, had even concocted a vague appearance of what he thought Zero should look like. But then they had video-conferenced, and Rutledge saw that he was just a man; unassuming, older than the president would have thought, fairly ordinary.

  Like me. Just a man.

  Maybe they were more alike than either would be willing to concede. Maybe Zero was a kindred spirit who had found himself in the right place at the wrong time, and now had insurmountable expectations on his shoulders, too.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. Rutledge already knew who it would be.

  “Come in, Tabby.”

  Tabby Halpern entered the Oval Office alone. She frowned for the slightest of moments, seeing him in an armchair instead of behind the desk, but didn’t mention it. Instead she said, “Sir. I have an update. We’ve just received word that the CIA team has a lead, the vehicle the suspects might be using. They’re tracking all known channels currently…”

  Rutledge waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to know about leads,” he said firmly, firmer than he intended. “I want to know when they’re found, or…” Or when these people do something again. “I want to know about results.”

  Tabby nodded once. “Yes sir. Then might I suggest we involve the FBI? They have field offices all over the country. Anywhere these people crop up, they can be there.”

  Rutledge shook his head. “No. Not yet. If we alert every field office it’ll definitely leak to the media.”

  “Sir,” Tabby pressed, “it’s their job. In fact, as soon as this became a domestic issue, it should have no longer been a concern of the CIA—”

  “Not a concern?” Rutledge rose from his seat. “National security is everyone’s concern, Tabby. As soon as we involve the FBI, they’ll want to involve local law enforcement. Other eyes and ears. It will be impossible to keep the lid on this thing. Do you have any idea what could happen if word gets out about an invisible sonic weapon that could hit anywhere at any time? The panic that could incite?”

  He was growing loud. He forced himself to take a breath, to calm. But he didn’t apologize.

  “Sir,” she began. “Jon. You should eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he muttered as he sank back into the chair. He stared at the floor, and those stray hairs on the carpet taunted him again.

  Tabby remained, standing there for a quiet moment and seeming to wait for him to acknowledge her again. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There are concerns in the administration that you haven’t yet addressed the nation after the Kansas attack.”

  Rutledge sighed. He’d been waiting for a nudge like that. “What am I supposed to say? Do I stand up there and lie, tell the people that everything is fine? Or do I stick to the usual? ‘Our hearts go out to those affected by today’s terrible tragedy’?” He scoffed. “I won’t lie. I never have before, and I won’t start now. I won’t avoid the truth.”

  “So instead you’ll avoid the podium?”

  A flash of anger rushed through him, but he quashed it. He wasn’t angry at her defiance; he was angry at his own inability to act. “Yes,” he murmured.

  There are concerns in the administration.

  Of course there were. He wasn’t the leader they’d elected, but he was the one they were stuck with now. It certainly didn’t help that Secretary of Defense Kressley was rallying cabinet members to his side. The general was so certain that the Russians were behind this that he wanted Rutledge to declare the attack on the Midwestern town as an act of war, which was outright unthinkable.

  “If there’s nothing else,” Tabby said.

  “No,” he told her. “Thank you.” But as she turned to leave him he stood suddenly. “Wait. There is one more thing.”

  Tabby paused.

  “I want to enter the formal nomination for Joanna Barkley as vice president. I want Congress to convene for a vote as soon as possible—tomorrow, if we can.”

  Tabby Halpern blinked at him. “Sir, I’m not sure that tomorrow will be feasible.”

  “Why not?” Rutledge demanded. “They’ve been on my back about nominating a VP for weeks now. We can call for a special session.”

  He was well aware that he probably sounded like a lunatic. He expected pushback from Tabby, but instead she said carefully, “I’ll... see what we can do.”

  “Good. Thank you. And see if Barkley is at home or not. I’ll put the call in myself.”

  Tabby nodded, and then she whisked out of the Oval Office.

  Rutledge paced. This was the right call, the one he had been deliberating for so long. He would nominate Senator Barkley, call Congress to vote for approval—and then resign. Barkley could be the strong hand that the White House needed. She could negotiate the trade war with China. She could quash Russian aggression. And he… well, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Retire, perhaps, and enjoy the perks of being a former president.

  Suddenly the idea sounded good, so good that he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders just by thinking about it. His wife could continue to do her charity work. His daughters could go back to their old school and reunite with their friends. The country would be in better hands. It was a win-win all around.

  And besides, he mused, by the time Barkley was sworn in, he wouldn’t have to go down in history as the shortest president to serve; that honor went to William Henry Harrison, who perished from pneumonia only thirty-one days into his presidency. Even if Barkley was sworn in by Monday, Rutledge would be thirty-two days into his term. He could stick it out for just three more days.

  It was such a simple acknowledgment, but as soon as he accepted the fact that he was not cut out for this position, he felt lighter. Almost buoyant.

  Then the door to the Oval Office swung open without so much as a knock, and Tabby Halpern’s face appeared again, etched with concern.

  A knot of dread immediately tightened in his stomach. Did Barkley reconsider? Did she turn down the offer to be the vice president?

  “Sorry for the intrusion, sir. There’s a call for you. It’s… Fyodor Ilyin.”

  “Ilyin?” Rutledge blinked, certain he had her incorrectly. “President Ilyin?”

  She nodded.

  Never mind the fact that he and Russian President Ilyin had not yet met in person, despite the fact that they’d both taken office at about the same time. An impromptu call like that was highly unorthodox; any communication with the newly minted leader of a nation with which they had strained ties would have been planned, with preestablished talking points and a script of measured responses.

  And now Ilyin was on hold for him? In the midst of attacks that felt very much Russian in nature?

  “You don’t have to take it, Mr. President,” Tabby told him. “We can tell him you’re not available, buy some time to prepare…”

  “No.” As the initial shock wo
re off, Rutledge felt a sting of shame for his near-giddiness of a moment prior. Regardless of whether or not he was plotting his resignation, he still had to handle things responsibly and diplomatically. “No, I’ll take it.” He instinctively straightened his tie for some reason. “Is NSA in on this?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And recording?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Rutledge nodded and rounded the desk, taking a seat behind it. Tabby hesitated, her head still visible in the narrow opening.

  “I can stay if you’d like, sir.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Tabby. But I think I’ve got this one.”

  “Good luck, sir.” She vanished and closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in the office to speak with the Russian president—and whoever else was listening in on the line on either side. It was an eerie thought, how the conversation between two of them might be privy to dozens of other ears. But he pushed it aside and lifted the receiver of the red phone on the presidential desk.

  “This is President Rutledge,” he said, hoping he sounded authoritative.

  “Mr. President.” The first word that came to mind when hearing Fyodor Ilyin’s voice was “smarmy.” His tone was purring and placating. “It is a pleasure to speak with you. I hope you are enjoying your holiday.” Ilyin’s English was excellent, but his accent was bizarre; not only Russian, but tinged with a British slant, having spent several of his formative years as an ambassador to the UK.

  “I was, President Ilyin,” he lied. “To what do I owe this unexpected call?”

  “I understand there has been an incident.”

  Which incident? Rutledge almost said. But he realized that Ilyin must have meant the attempted bombing in Las Vegas. “You’re referring to the alleged KGB operatives that tried to murder a diplomat earlier today?”

  “My people have confirmed that the three perpetrators were KGB, once,” Ilyin said. “But they defected some time ago. Considering the already-present strain between our great nations, I thought it prudent to contact you directly to explain the situation. The three people that were apprehended today are traitors and profiteers. They do not represent Russia or her interests.”

  Rutledge almost smirked, for as much as he was able to trust Ilyin at his word. Publicly the man had no known ties to predecessor Aleksandr Kozlovsky—but that held almost no weight, considering that Kozlovsky alleged to have no ties to his predecessor, Ivanov, yet had been secretly working toward the same end of annexing Ukrainian oil assets.

  “And in the interest of cooperation,” Ilyin continued, “I humbly request that you allow us to extradite the three criminals, to be tried in their homeland for their transgressions.”

  Rutledge winced at Ilyin’s stilted lexicon. It was bad enough that his tone was wheedling; everything about the way he spoke made him sound insincere.

  “We have no extradition treaty with Russia,” Rutledge said plainly. “They committed their crimes here on American soil; they will be tried here, on American soil.”

  “As you wish,” Ilyin said simply. “There is another matter.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Russian man they were attempting to kill,” Ilyin said plainly. “He was a collaborator of Kozlovsky’s, a traitor to our nation and a fraud. My sources indicate that he is attempting to barter his freedom for Russian secrets. I personally assure you—and your intelligence agencies—that any information he has is patently false.”

  Of course you would say that, Rutledge thought sourly. Aloud he said, “I’m afraid I’m not privy to those details, but I will gladly pass along the message.”

  Ilyin was silent for a moment. “Then I thank you for your time, President Rutledge,” he said at last. “I look forward to us meeting in person and discussing a brighter future. I can only hope that the circumstances will be more pleasant than this.”

  It won’t be me you’ll be meeting. “Of course, President Ilyin. Thank you for your candor.” A thought struck him suddenly; an opportunity, perhaps. A long shot, to be sure, but a chance nonetheless. As Speaker of the House, he was known to have a firm hand and stand by his scruples. It was time to do that now. “Wait. There is one more matter.”

  “Yes?” Ilyin purred.

  Rutledge hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “There was a… another incident, recently, in the American Midwest. Some sort of attack on a small town.” He made sure not to mention details about the nature of the attack, or the weapon. “We have reason to believe that the perpetrators might have been native to Russia.”

  Through the phone he heard Ilyin take a deep, measured breath and release it as a lengthy sigh. “I assure you, President Rutledge, that my intention as Russia’s leader is to repair the damage that has been done, not exacerbate it.”

  “So you have no knowledge of this?” Rutledge pressed.

  “You have my word that if there has been any violent reprisal on Americans, the order did not come from me or from anyone in my administration,” Ilyin said plainly. “I will further remind you that Russian xenophobia in the United States is at its highest since the Cold War. Is it not?”

  It certainly was, but that was no reason to dismiss the testimony of victims and witnesses.

  “And finally,” Ilyin concluded, “I would like to state in no uncertain terms that if every terroristic event and episode that occurs within your borders is going to place blame on myself and my country… I think we are due for some very difficult times ahead.”

  Rutledge clenched his teeth. Ilyin had somehow made his response sound like both diplomacy and a threat at the same time.

  “Of course,” he said in reply. “Blame was not my intention. We need to be thorough, you understand.”

  “Thorough,” Ilyin mused. “Yes. I understand. With that, I bid you good evening, President Rutledge.”

  “To you as well, President Ilyin.”

  Rutledge replaced the receiver, his fingers trembling slightly. He was sure that certain cabinet members were going to disapprove of him so brashly accusing Russia’s leaders of the attacks. And worse, Ilyin had given away nothing. If the Russians truly were unaware of the attack, then it meant the CIA was working off a false lead. If the Russians were behind it… well, then Ilyin’s vague threat of “difficult times ahead” could mean escalation.

  He could only hope that Agent Zero and his team would come through in time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Zero was doubtful that they would find their missing box truck in the whole of the continental United States, even with a nationwide APB and all their monitoring resources. A thousand things could have happened since the Midwest attack—the perpetrators could have ditched the truck, switched the license plate, boarded another plane, or even (ideally) left the country.

  All of which was why he was quite surprised when Bixby’s tech team, in cooperation with the NSA, started getting hits on its trail.

  No sooner had they boarded the Gulfstream in Las Vegas than Maria announced, “Highway cams on the border between Kansas and Missouri caught a glimpse of them.” She turned the tablet’s screen for them to see. The photo was blurred with the speed of the grocery truck, but the driver behind the wheel was unmistakably a redheaded woman. “That was less than five hours ago.” She alerted the pilot that they were heading east, and to stay at low altitude to avoid the regular air traffic lanes. They had no destination yet.

  Two minutes later, another hit came through: a gas station less than a hundred miles down eastbound I-70. Maria squirmed in her seat as she waited impatiently for updates, for a definitive location. Zero hadn’t seen her like this in a long time; usually he was the obsessed one, the one who had to find the target, complete the op, come hell or high water. Maria was usually the level-headed one.

  He couldn’t help but wonder why this seemed to have become so personal for her. Maybe because of what she’d said earlier, her failure to understand them and their motives. Maybe she feared she was losing her touch, her ability to get in
side their heads and think like the other side.

  What does that say for me? he wondered. He thought he understood these people, or at least that they were atypical in the vein of the usual sorts they pursued. Maybe he too was off-base.

  Maria’s face suddenly lit up like Christmas and she stood suddenly in the narrow aisle of the Gulfstream. “We’ve got ’em!” she all but shouted. “Illinois state trooper just flagged the truck heading north on I-55!”

  “Heading where?” Strickland asked. “Chicago? Indianapolis, maybe?”

  “Does it matter?” Maria retorted. “We’re going to nail those sons of bitches long before they get there. An unmarked statie is trailing them as we speak. We just have to find an airfield and cut them off.” She hurried to the cockpit to confer with the pilot.

  Zero wished he could share in her enthusiasm. He was just as eager to stop them, but this felt a lot like it did before—like every time they got new information, there were more questions than answers.

  “What is it?” Strickland asked.

  “Huh?”

  Todd was staring at him. “You’ve got that pointed look on your face. I can actually hear the gears turning in your head. What’s up?”

  Zero sighed shortly. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? They’ve been so careful so far. They vanished from Havana, snuck into the country, and hopped a plane to Kansas. They’ve been staying off of all frequencies and phones, and now we just… find them driving down the highway, plain as day?”

  “Look,” said Strickland, leaning toward the aisle. “It sounds to me that you’re assuming we’re dealing with some masterminds here. But let me tell you, from my experience: most of these types aren’t brilliant strategists. They’re lunatics with bombs and guns—or sonic weapons. You’re trying to second-guess their logic like they have some genius plan. But I’m betting they’re just psychos with a powerful weapon.”

  “Yeah,” Zero murmured. “You might be right.” But he didn’t actually believe that. He didn’t believe these people were the run-of-the-mill insurgent types that Strickland had dealt with for so many years as a soldier—and he was pretty certain that neither of his team members really understood who, or what, they might be dealing with.