Zero Zero

by Jack Mars

  The DNI nodded. “Consider it done.”

  “And once again,” Barkley reminded him, “we cannot stress enough that this is as top-secret as secret can be. The public will know about the accord the day it happens and not a moment sooner. That includes the media.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Rutledge stood, and Strickland did as well. “Director Barren will get you everything you need, including Dr. León. Thank you, Agent Strickland.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” They shook hands, and Strickland marched out of the Oval Office.

  “You think he’s up for the task?” asked Barren once the door was closed again. “He’s young.”

  “So am I,” said Barkley casually, though the intent behind it was enough for Rutledge to chuckle slightly. The Cairo Accord had been almost entirely Barkley’s brainchild; she had even drafted the first version of the document herself.

  “I have every faith in him,” said the president. “And in EOT.”

  The Cairo Accord would be a historic first. It would go down without a hitch. Even if his own confidence waned now and then, he was confident in the people he’d surrounded himself with.

  Still—he wondered what Zero was doing right now.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Zero’s on the plane,” Alan reported.

  “Don’t text and drive,” Mischa scolded.

  Alan scoffed and put the phone down. He’d once changed clothes, head to toe including shoes, while out-driving intelligence officers in Hamburg. He could handle reading a text.

  “Sara is still not answering,” Mischa told him as she tried a third time to call her. They were only a few minutes away from the house. “Will we tell her the truth?”

  “If she asks.” Alan knew they were far past the point of keeping information from the girls. Time was that the less they knew, the better, but Maya was an adult now and Sara was right behind her. The only reason he’d refrained from telling Maya what he knew was that she had a job to do, needed to stay focused. Despite the disdain that Reidigger had for the CIA, not to mention its current management, he knew that Maya had worked hard to get where she was. She didn’t need to jeopardize that over what might turn out to be nothing.

  His phone buzzed again. He read the message and frowned.

  “Don’t text and drive,” Mischa told him again.

  “I’m not texting, I’m reading a text.” He didn’t elaborate, but Zero’s latest message was concerning.

  Flying to NY. Will call from there.

  Why was Zero going to New York? Maybe there were no direct flights available from Zurich to Dulles and connecting in New York was his fastest way home. But even as he thought it, he doubted it. Zero was resourceful and Alan had connections. If he needed to get home fast, they could find other means.

  So what’s in New York?

  He pulled into the driveway of the one-story suburban bungalow. Mischa already had her house key out. She unlocked the door and punched in the six-digit code to disarm the alarm. The fact that the alarm was still armed was promising.

  Alan stood in the foyer and listened for a moment. He heard nothing. No signs of a break-in or even an attempt of one. He went to the basement door and pushed it open. It was dark down there, almost pitch-black, and from somewhere in the space below he heard gentle snoring.

  She was asleep. Of course she was asleep.

  “Sara?” he called down. “Sara.”

  “Sara!” Mischa shouted sharply from his side. Alan jumped a little.

  “Mm? Who?” came the groggy reply.

  “It’s Alan and Mischa,” he said loudly.

  A moment later a light clicked on. Sara appeared at the foot of the stairs, barefoot in pajamas and a ponytail. But her eyes were alert. She knew what this might mean.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I need you to throw some things in a bag and come with us.”

  Sara instantly looked annoyed, and opened her mouth as if to say something, but then she looked to Mischa standing beside Alan. The younger girl nodded just once, and Sara shut her mouth.

  It was a good thing she hadn’t outrun him.

  “Fine.” Sara turned and vanished from sight.

  “You too,” Alan told Mischa. “Grab some essentials, change of clothes for at least two days…”

  The girl scoffed lightly. “As if I don’t have a go bag.” She scurried to her bedroom and reappeared not thirty seconds later with a small duffel. Sara took only another minute before she trudged up the stairs, still in pajamas but her feet in sneakers and a black backpack over one shoulder.

  She didn’t ask any questions as Mischa re-armed the alarm and locked the door behind them. Mischa sat in the center of the truck’s bench seat as Alan pulled out of the driveway.

  “So?” Sara asked at last. “What is it this time?”

  Alan was about to give her the standard “not sure yet” reply, but Mischa spoke first.

  “Zero’s doctor in Zurich was murdered—”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Alan pointed out.

  “Fine. He was found dead. But probably murdered, and probably by Krauss—”

  “We don’t know that either.”

  “And he wants us to… what was it, Alan?”

  “Hunker down.”

  “Yes. We will hunker down until Zero is back.”

  “Ain’t that swell,” Sara said flatly. “So might be something, might be nothing.”

  Alan eased to a halt at the stop sign at the end of their street. He glanced in his rearview, and kept his foot on the brake, frowning.

  Three blocks behind them, a black cargo van rolled to a stop outside Zero’s house, coming from the other direction.

  “Alan?” Sara said.

  “Hang on,” he murmured. At least four men climbed out of the van—four that he could see. They marched briskly up the walkway toward the house. He didn’t see guns in their hands but had little doubt they were armed.

  “So it’s something,” Sara said quietly. She saw the van too, in the angle of the side mirror.

  Mischa twisted in her seat. “We should go back. Get answers from them.”

  In response, Alan made a right-hand turn and headed up the street going about five miles over the speed limit. He didn’t want to draw attention but wanted to put some space between them and the men in the van before they realized no one was home.

  “Did you not hear me?” Mischa said indignantly. “They might know—”

  “They won’t know anything,” Alan argued. Whoever was behind this, Krauss or otherwise, knew that Zero couldn’t possibly be back in the US by now. The men in the van were lackeys, foot soldiers, goons, whatever the term might be. And Alan knew from experience that giving men like that more information than they needed was often dangerous to the perpetrators of whatever plot was in play. “Even if they did,” he added, “they don’t exactly look like they’re going to share.”

  “We could make them!” Mischa countered.

  Alan said nothing. Between the two of them, him and her, they probably could. But he’d made a promise, and that promise was to keep the girls safe, not run headlong into a fight.

  As it was, they’d gotten Sara out of there without a minute to spare. He didn’t want to think what might have happened if they’d arrived and found her alone and asleep.

  “So what’s next?” Sara asked. “Where do we hunker?”

  “First we’re going to the garage for some supplies,” Alan told her. “But we’re not staying there.” Few people knew about his identity, but those few were still a few too many when their adversaries were unknown. “There’s a safe house about an hour away, in the sticks. I set it up a little while back for an occasion like this. We’ll go there, wait to hear from your dad.”

  Sara just nodded. Mischa had her arms folded over her thin chest defiantly. He had no doubt that if he’d let her, she would have rushed right back into the house—and probably would have won. But “probably
” was too far from a safe bet.

  And despite how close a call it was, they were safe. For now.

  *

  Alan parked the truck in the alley behind Third Street Garage so it was off the street and out of sight. Only the middle of his garage bays was being used, but he didn’t want anyone to see him pulling in or out. He and the girls entered the office through a back door. He grabbed a canvas bag from under the desk and pushed into the garage. The old beater he’d been working on was still there, a renovation job he’d been doing for an acquaintance in return for a favor. He hadn’t disclosed what the favor would be; just that he’d be owed a favor.

  He didn’t need money. But favors, those could always come in handy.

  “This won’t take long,” he told the girls. “Go into my apartment and grab whatever food and necessities you find. There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom and two gallons of water in the pantry. I’ll meet you there.”

  Sara and Mischa dutifully hurried off. Once they were gone, he tore a poster of Dale Earnhardt off the wall. Behind it was a pressboard panel that pulled away easily, and behind that was a small hollow in the wall that contained a Heckler & Koch MP5. The German submachine gun was small for its capability, elegant, and admittedly looked a bit out of place in his large, calloused hands.

  Alan had nine guns hidden throughout the garage. Some might call him paranoid—and he’d concede it, all things considered—but he had spread them throughout so that he was never more than an arm’s length away from one if need be. Some were easier to get to than others, like the Glock 17 that was hidden in a holster bolted to the underside of his workbench, right under a pneumatic vise so he knew just where to reach. Others were a bit more secured, like the small black Walther PPK he had hidden in a steel toolbox behind the air compressor on the far side of the garage.

  He opened the toolbox and lifted away the false bottom.

  The PPK wasn’t there. Strange, he was certain that’s where he’d left it. It couldn’t have been discovered and stolen; there was a few thousand dollars in cash in the toolbox that had been left behind.

  Eight. Alan had eight guns hidden throughout the garage. He couldn’t concern himself with where he’d misplaced the PPK right now. There were enough others.

  He had five guns in the canvas bag when he heard the sound. Just outside the garage bays. The slightest squeal of brakes. Boots on the ground.

  Alan threw himself to the floor and landed hard on the concrete. Automatic gunfire erupted an instant later, shredding all three of his garage doors. He covered his head and stayed flat as debris fell, as glass shattered. The old beater was buffeted by bullets.

  So much for that favor.

  After what felt like a full minute but was only seconds, the gunfire finally ceased. Alan crawled forward on his elbows and knees until he reached the bag and pulled out the MP5. He dared to rise to a kneeling position and aimed at the open doorway between the office and the garage.

  Glass shattered again as the assailants forced open the office door. But he didn’t fire, not yet.

  He heard their footfalls. They were coming. He could only hope that the girls had made a run for it. But he knew they hadn’t. Mischa wouldn’t run from a fight and Sara wouldn’t leave him behind.

  Just stay where you are, he hoped.

  He saw a barrel track in the doorway, about to spin on him.

  Then he fired.

  The MP5 rattled like the beater’s engine. The first two men trying to come through the door fell dead before half a yelp.

  Alan ceased fire. He didn’t move an inch from his position. From the office he heard a harsh whisper of warning, which meant there were at least two more. If these were the same men he’d seen at the house, there were at least four. Hopefully only four.

  And he was pretty certain he knew where one of them was.

  Alan took careful aim at the thin span of drywall separating the office and garage, and he squeezed the trigger again, tracking left to right. Parabellum rounds pounded the wall, sending chunks of chalky sheetrock airborne.

  A scream. A body thudded to the floor.

  There was movement in the office through the holes he’d made, someone getting out of the way quickly.

  Alan knelt there. He waited.

  So did whoever was on the other side. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, but now he was fairly certain he’d been right. There’d been four. Now one.

  “If you put it down,” said the man in the office, “I won’t hurt those kids.”

  Alan said nothing in return. These men had already made it perfectly clear they weren’t there to take anyone alive.

  “You want something to happen to them? Huh? So how about we—”

  Thwip!

  Alan heard the telltale chirp of a silenced gunshot. The dull thud of a body hitting the floor. Then silence.

  He was bewildered. Was there another one of them out there? Had Mischa gotten her hand on a gun?

  “It’s… it’s just me.” Sara’s voice. “I’m coming in.”

  She rounded the corner. In her hand was a stubby black pistol with a suppressor on its end. A Walther PPK.

  It struck him suddenly and painfully. The real reason she’d visited the night before wasn’t to talk to him. The reason she’d run off in such a hurry wasn’t because he’d given such good advice.

  And now Sara had killed someone, shot them dead, and stood there just as lucid and plain as could be.

  This is not the first time Sara has killed someone, he realized dully. But now was not the time to deal with that.

  “We have to move,” he said urgently as he stood and hefted the canvas bag. He traded the MP5 for the Glock 17 and sidled to the office door. The entire neighborhood would have heard those shots; the police had undoubtedly been called, but still he had to make sure there had only been four.

  “Are any still alive?” Mischa asked from the open back door.

  “Just meet me at the truck,” Alan told them. “Go.” Sara wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  He peered out through the broken glass of the office door. The black van he’d seen earlier was parked sideways right outside the garage, the engine off but the doors open. He didn’t see any movement, so he cautiously stepped outside and had a quick look around, keeping the gun pointed downward.

  He brought it up level as he cleared the van. It smelled of stale cigar smoke but was empty, other than a black rectangular utility trunk on the floor of the backseat.

  He flipped the clasps and opened it.

  Then he ran.

  Alan Reidigger knew a bomb when he saw one, even if it didn’t have an active countdown at six seconds. He didn’t have time to shout a warning; he simply bolted back to the office, across its small span in three strides, to the back door.

  Mischa stood there, just beyond the door. Why was she there? She was supposed to go back to the truck. No time. His mind registered her like a photograph, frozen there, brow furrowed in confusion about why he was barreling toward her as fast as he was capable of moving.

  The explosion was so loud it jarred every sense at once. The shockwave pushed him off his feet, through the open rear door, into Mischa. He landed hard with a grunt of pain and rolled on the concrete just outside the entrance to his apartment.

  His ears rang as flaming debris rained down around him. He coughed as he pushed himself to his elbows and knees.

  The garage was burning. What was left of it, anyway. A failsafe, he realized; a bomb on a timer in case their assailants failed to kill them. Had they been successful one of them probably could have disarmed it with a flip of a switch.

  Whoever was behind this wanted them dead, and they were willing to sacrifice their own people to get the job done.

  “Mischa,” he said breathlessly. The girl had landed a few yards from him. She lay on her side with her eyes closed and her mouth open. He scrambled over to her and felt for a pulse.

  It was there. She was alive. Just unconscious.

 
No time. Police would arrive soon. Others. They’d want to ask questions. They’d want Mischa to go to a hospital and Alan to go to the precinct. And if that happened, whoever was after them would know exactly where to find them.

  He slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and scooped Mischa up in his arms. She felt like a frail bird in his hands, limp and barely weighing a thing. He hurried toward the alley, the waiting truck, and Sara…

  And found only two of those things.

  “Sara!” he called out, his voice hoarse. “Sara!” He didn’t see her. He didn’t hear her. She wasn’t inside at the time the bomb went off. Where was she?

  He quickly put Mischa in the cab of the truck and reached for his cell phone. Then he groaned; the screen was cracked and it refused to power up. He’d crushed it when he was thrown by the bomb’s impact.

  Sirens wailed. They weren’t far off. Alan had a decision to make, a difficult one. Sara was alive somewhere. She hadn’t been inside. He just knew it. Had Mischa been conscious, maybe he’d choose a different route. But as it was, he had no choice. He couldn’t lose them both.

  Alan climbed behind the wheel with a grunt and started the truck. He’d have to take Mischa to the safe house. Get her secure, and then find Sara.

  He would just have to hope she’d still be alive when he did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Her ears still rang from the explosion. It had happened so suddenly she still felt disoriented. Still felt the dense, congealed fear in the pit of her stomach. One moment she’d been crossing the small concrete courtyard between Alan’s apartment and the alley.

  “Wait,” Mischa had said. “The bag.” She’d left a bag in the office. She turned to go back for it. Sara took one step closer to the alley. And then…

  And then she’d been forced to the ground as if she’d been hit by an invisible truck. The sound of it was so loud it could hardly even be described as a sound at all, more like a force, one that shook her bones and rattled her teeth and made her instantly nauseous. Her head swam; stars swirled in her vision.

  When she climbed to her feet she was dizzy, taking staggering steps. The office and the garage behind her were on fire.