by Jack Mars
“Stupid fat man,” Mischa murmured in Russian. Zero blinked, about to rebuke her, but she briefly held Reidigger’s hand and he smiled up at her.
“I’ll be fine, kid. Get out of here, both of you.”
Zero took the gun, and then he gave his best friend’s shoulder a squeeze—his good shoulder, of course. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Course you will.”
It took a lot of effort to get his feet moving toward the door. Zero didn’t want to go, but Alan was right; he couldn’t come with them. He would only be a liability at this point. Still he found himself lingering at the threshold, unable to cross it, unable to leave a friend behind when he’d lost so many.
He felt fingers wrap around his own. Mischa took his hand, nodded once to him, and together they walked wordlessly down the corridor, down the stairs, across the courtyard. At the Piazza Mattei they went the opposite direction as the Metro station and the cops.
“What now?” she asked him.
“First? We get a cab back to the airport. Get back to the Cessna.”
“Can you fly it?”
“I can… mostly fly it.”
“That instills confidence.”
He ignored that. “We need a phone too. A burner. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“I will steal one.”
“We’ll buy one. No stealing unless it’s necessary.”
Father of the Year, right here.
“And then?”
“And then… we’re going to find out just what’s going on in Cairo.”
*
Alan Reidigger waited a full ten minutes after Zero and Mischa had left before he made the call. A part of him thought that Zero might change his mind, might come back and stick a finger in his face and demand that he get his ass up and come along.
Zero didn’t come back. Alan was glad for it. Mostly glad for it.
He knew the number by heart. He’d memorized every important number in his contacts, every number he might someday need in a pinch.
Alan had run out of favors. He’d called in just about every one that he’d accrued; the few he still had out there were ones that couldn’t possibly help him now.
When the operator answered, he said, “Vicente Baraf’s office, please.”
He’d lied about the favor. He wasn’t calling one in; he was doing one.
His shoulder burned. What he wouldn’t give for a couple of hydrocodone.
“Baraf,” said the Italian-accented voice.
“Vicente. It’s Alan Reidigger.”
A pause. “It has been a while, Agent Reidigger.”
“It has. And it’s not agent anymore.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Baraf was a former Interpol agent, now a director, who had been more than a colleague in the past when they’d needed it. He’d been a friend.
Alan had not been a friend. He’d lied about the favor.
He’d lied about Kate too, when the memory came back. It was only a matter of time before Zero realized it. Alan was pretty certain that the déjà vu that Zero had back in New York hadn’t been real. But it was a reminder, and it would only be a matter of time before some actual memory returned that betrayed the secret.
“I’m at an address in Rome,” Alan said. “There was recently a shooting here. And a number of other crimes that have been wrongly attributed to Agent Zero. They weren’t him. They were me. I’m here, now, and I’ll give myself up. But only to you, and you personally. I need that assurance. There are too many people that want me dead.”
Baraf was silent for a long moment, save for the sound of his breathing. “That is… quite the confession. This is no trick?”
“No trick, Vicente. I’m injured. I’m unarmed. I won’t resist—unless someone other than you comes through that door. And then we’ll talk. Will you come?”
“I’ll come,” Baraf promised. “Give me the address.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
In Todd Strickland’s experience, five people could keep a secret. No more than that. Add a sixth, and suddenly everyone knew. In his line of work, that could mean lives lost.
He paced near the south entrance of the convention center, his tie loose around his neck and his jacket off. It was hot in Cairo, ninety-two degrees today, and he feared he might sweat through his shirt as he oversaw security admitting entrance to heads of state and their attachés.
Five people could keep a secret. No more than that, at least in his experience.
So to him it was no less than a marvel, perhaps even a miracle, that it appeared the Cairo Accord would go off without a hitch. There would be a total of eighty-six people in attendance, every single one of them thoroughly cleared and vetted by Strickland and his team, not one person armed, not one cell phone allowed, not one exempt from search.
The accord was being signed at the Cairo International Convention Centre, a sprawling white property dotted with palm trees that housed dozens of halls and rooms, adjacent to Cairo’s International Stadium. Strange, despite being in a city with thousands of years of history, the place looked as if it could have been in South Florida.
Everything from El-Nasr Road to the far side of the stadium was locked down. Police barricades and sentries kept anyone from entering who wasn’t supposed to be there. Staff had the day off, with pay, courtesy of the Egyptian government. All entrances, save for one on the south end of the convention center, were locked and guarded. The accord itself would be signed in a round hall with a dais that bore a remarkable resemblance to a larger version of the US Senate chamber. Police and members of the Egyptian armed forces patrolled the perimeter of the center and the stadium. Agents on loan from the Is-Pal joint task force covered entrances and interior halls. And EOT oversaw it all.
This was going to go off without a hitch, he told himself. His job was to see to that, and he would.
The cat was nearly out of the bag anyway. Air Force One couldn’t fly from Andrews to Dulles without the public knowing; it was no secret that President Rutledge was in Cairo. The same applied for several other world leaders, and if Strickland was a social media type of person he would probably see plenty of buzz about what was afoot. But it was all hearsay for now; no press was allowed. The White House Press Secretary had arranged for two cameras to be present, only two, and a crew of four operators who would patch the signing of the accord via satellite and stream it online for the world to see.
Within an hour, the world would know what was happening here. The formal announcement would come only when everyone was present and accounted for. This was history in the making, and he was a part of it.
Strickland touched the earpiece radio in his left ear. “O’Neill, copy?”
“I copy,” said the familiar female voice. O’Neill was an eight-year Army veteran and helicopter pilot, now his second-in-command on EOT, tough as they came and unflappable. She was currently covering the eastern side of the convention center with a team of six Is-Pal members. “All clear here, over.”
“Copy that. Hauser?”
“You worry too much, chief.” Hauser’s voice came through the radio, an affable former Louisianan who’d spent five years and change with the Secret Service. “Security here is tighter than a nun’s—”
“Hey now,” Strickland interrupted. “Let’s keep it professional.”
“Of course, boss. All clear here, over.”
“McMahon, copy?”
“I copy,” said Preston McMahon from his position between the convention center and the stadium. The newest member of EOT was also its youngest at twenty-eight, but McMahon had proven himself more than capable. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was the grandson of former President William McMahon. “We had a tourist couple slip past the barricades and try to get close, they’re being questioned now.”
Strickland’s jaw tensed. “American?”
“British.”
“Detain them,” Todd ordered.
“You serious? They’re like sixty. I thi
nk they were just curious…”
“We’re taking no chances,” Strickland said firmly. “Have local PD hold them for a few hours. If they have nothing to hide they’ll be fine, and maybe they’ll learn a lesson about crossing police barricades.”
“Ice cold, boss,” Hauser chuckled in the radio.
“Stay alert,” he reminded them. “We’re taking no chances. Anything goes down today, it is directly on us. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yeah, boss.”
Boss. It was still strange to be leading EOT. But he’d led platoons before. He’d led squads into hostile territory, into firefights, into uncertainty. He could do this; he was made for it.
A familiar sight approached him from the south lawn and he couldn’t help but smile. Penny almost looked like a stranger in a black pantsuit, a white shirt with a collar crisper than his own, her dark hair pulled up into a neat bun. Before today he hadn’t even been aware she’d owned any such outfit, but apparently the situation called for it.
“Christ, it’s hot out here.”
“What are you doing out here? You should be inside,” he told her.
“Security has it handled. I’ve done my part.” She smiled, but there was something in the smile that seemed… sad? No, that wasn’t right. Remorseful.
“What is it? Is something up?”
She nodded once, and then she slipped her arms around his waist in a hug. At least he thought it was a hug, until he heard the click. Penny had reached around him, to the radio clipped at the back of his belt, and she’d switched it off.
Now he was concerned. “Penny… what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Todd. I really am.” Penny reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and produced a phone. “There’s a call for you, and I really need you to take it.”
Strickland’s throat ran dry. He recognized that phone; it was a secure burner that she kept for emergencies, in the event someone needed to contact her without the CIA tracing them.
He had a very strong suspicion about who would be on the other end of the call.
And if he was right, it would mean she had lied to him. That she knew exactly what was going on, what he was involved in. She’d lied to the president, the vice president, and the DNI.
But most importantly, she’d lied to him.
His expression must have given him away, because she shook her head and said again, “I’m sorry, Todd. Later we’re obviously going to have a long talk. But right now, I need you to take this call.”
Strickland sighed, and he took the phone.
“Zero?”
“Todd,” the voice said through the phone. Zero spoke quickly, with urgency. “I know we haven’t spoken, but I really need you to listen now—”
“I can’t be talking to you,” Strickland interjected. “You’re wanted in… what, three countries now? In connection to nine murders? Maybe more? What the hell have you done?”
“Todd, please. I can explain all of that, but not now. I have reason to believe that something is going to happen at the Cairo Accord.”
Strickland’s blood ran cold despite the Egyptian heat. “What did you just say?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “How do you know about that?”
“Through a friend,” Zero said quickly. “A friend who’s dead now, because he found out about it. I’ll admit I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m guessing it’s the top-secret deal you and Penny have been working on…”
Todd scoffed and shot Penny a look. She looked away. It wasn’t bad enough she’d known about Zero’s antics, but she’d told him about their work? She’d betrayed national security?
He’d been wrong. Four people could keep a secret. Apparently no more than that. Add a fifth, particularly Penelope León, and suddenly everyone knew.
“Zero,” Todd snapped. “You’d better get to your point extremely quick. I’ve got a job to do here, and I could lose it just by having this conversation.”
“Fine. Then just listen. Remember Mr. Shade, the guy at H-6 that was funding the Palestinian terrorists? He has a partner, goes by the name Mr. Bright. The CIA gave Bright the memory suppressor technology, the same tech I used after Kate died. He put a chip in Krauss’s head—”
“Hang on,” Todd stopped him. “Just hang on.” Zero was ranting; this sounded insane.
“I’m not done. He’s out there somewhere, Krauss is, with no idea who he is. The only thing in his mind is the target Bright set him on. I’ve got a hunch that this Cairo Accord is an effort on Rutledge’s part to secure peace, which is very bad for business if you’re Bright. See where I’m going with this? I think Krauss’s target is there. In Cairo. I think he’s going to show up. I think he’s going to try something.”
Strickland pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d trusted Zero in the past, but this… this sounded like he’d lost his mind.
Maybe he has. Maybe the condition in his brain had finally cracked him.
Or—maybe he was right. They’d operated on Zero’s hunches before and it had worked out. Not always. But sometimes.
“I know how this sounds,” Zero said. “But please. Believe me on this.”
“Look,” said Strickland. “Whether I do or I don’t doesn’t matter. Security is tight as a drum here. No one, not even Stefan Krauss, is getting into that chamber without my say-so. If you’re right and he tries something, we’ll get him. But no one knows about this. We’ve kept the lid on it this long, not even this Bright character could know—”
“I know about it,” Zero countered. “Bixby knew about it!”
“Bixby?” Strickland said aloud.
Penny snapped to attention at the sound of her mentor’s name.
Through a friend, Zero had said. A friend who’s dead now.
“What about him?” Penny demanded. “What about Bixby?”
Strickland opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t come.
“Don’t tell her,” Zero said in the phone. “Not now. Not like this.”
But there was no keeping it from her. Penny’s gaze darted left and right, as if searching his face for some sign that it wasn’t true.
“Is he…?” she asked. “He’s not…?”
“I’m sorry,” Todd said quietly.
Tears welled in her eyes. He hadn’t known Bixby all that well himself, but Penny had spoken of him fondly and often. He had been like a father to her.
She nodded slowly. “I see.” She wiped her eyes before a single tear could run down a cheek. “I… I have to go.”
“Penny, wait—”
She jogged away from him, toward the convention center. Strickland wanted to go after her, but then he heard the voice in his ear again, almost forgot that he was still holding the phone.
“I didn’t want her to find out like that,” Zero said softly.
Too much. This was too much. Strickland had worked too hard for this to have Zero swoop in and unravel it. And he didn’t mean just the job; Zero was singlehandedly ruining his relationship, possibly his life, just by being a voice through a phone.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“On a plane,” Zero said vaguely.
“Listen to me,” Todd warned him. “You stay away from this place, you understand? Or you will be arrested, and you will be charged for every possible crime you’ve committed. This isn’t the Zero Show anymore. If Krauss wants to come, he can come and get himself killed. I’ll shoot him myself. But if I see you, and I have even the slightest hint that you’re trying to disrupt this based on a hunch… I’ll shoot you too. You’ve run out of chances. Do you understand?”
Zero was silent.
“Tell me you understand!” Strickland nearly shouted into the phone.
“I understand, Todd. Thanks. For hearing me out. Be safe.” The call ended.
Strickland stood there for a long moment, holding the phone and trying to process the last minute of his life. Penny had lied. Zero had either lost i
t or stumbled onto something big that could get him killed. Bixby was dead.
“Sir?”
He turned to find a Secret Service agent there, sweating from the forehead under a black suit. “King Basheer of Saudi Arabia has arrived. I assume you would like to see him in personally.”
“Yes,” Todd murmured. “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”
He still had a job to do. Everything else had to wait.
Strickland turned his radio back on. “Team? Let’s do another sweep. Tighten things down if we can. I know we’ve taken every precaution, but let’s take them again.”
He heard the echoes of “yes sir” in his ear. They’d prepared for this.
Nothing was going to happen here. He would see to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Zero guided the Cessna southeast over the Mediterranean Sea. He’d managed to take off with little difficulty, and keeping it steady wasn’t an issue. Landing—now that would be another thing entirely, but he’d worry about that later.
“Did you get it?” he asked his copilot.
“I did.” Mischa sat beside him in the small cockpit, the headset comically large on her small head. She navigated the touch screen of a burner they’d picked up just outside the airport in Rome. “The signal came from the Cairo International Convention Centre.”
Penny had put herself on the line once again for them. Just before handing the phone off to Strickland, she’d turning on location sharing and pinged them.
He felt a deep pang of remorse at her finding out about Bixby in such a callous fashion. He wanted to tell her himself, in person, to explain that he was with him at the end, to justify the cause Bixby had died for. He could still try, assuming he ever saw Penny again—assuming he lived long enough to see her again—but the damage had been done.
“You know it?” Mischa asked.
He nodded. “A few miles east of the Nile, next to the stadium.”
“We are not seriously going to go there?”
“No choice,” he answered. “Bixby was right; Rutledge’s efforts to bring peace to the Middle East are a direct assault on Bright’s business. An accord threatens him far more than me or Krauss or anyone else ever could, and he’s got the perfect patsy in his new assassin. He’ll try something there. I just know he will.”