Dead Zero

by Stephen Hunter

  He quickly worked the political angle.

  “Now, do you want to run a huge case against me? Do you want the dirty laundry in the world press for months? Do you want the Agency, the Marine Corps, and the FBI in a pissing match for all to see? Maybe you do, but you have to also see that it does nobody any good. I know the Administration doesn’t want that, and I believe that by this time next week, once they’ve made their assessments, you will get orders to back off. I think you’ll find I’m too big to fail. Tell you what: here’s my offer. I will resign immediately and disappear even faster. You don’t have a piece of evidence against me except the fact that my phone number happened to be on some gun-crazy screwball’s satellite phone. How do we know I gave him that phone and all the equipment? You’ll never prove it because, after all, we are the CIA and rather nimble at hiding stuff like that. Then consider the following: I actually succeeded. I put such pressure on your security teams that even if we didn’t get Cruz, we made it impossible for anyone to get to Zarzi. Zarzi gets his medal”—he made a show of checking his watch to see the time—“in a few hours at the White House, which is impregnable, he’s out of here tomorrow, and I won my little gambit. And as a special parting gift, I’ll use my considerable influence to get Okada a promotion, though in my opinion she should be up on charges of treason. Her career will take off, she’ll even get my old job, under a new Afghan Desk. Her life will be fabulous, except, most sadly, she won’t be able to have that lunch with me, which would have been so much fun for her.”

  It went on like that. Meanwhile, Susan duly informed CIA, and a damage-assessment committee began to look into the charges, and meetings were set up to deal with potential public relations problems, while at the same time, arguments were broached at the White House and the Justice Department in favor of covering up the operation after accepting Dixson’s resignation. The main worry appeared to be that some reporter would break the story, and then all havoc would come out to play.

  “Sometimes I think these people lost all their goddamned moral bearings,” Swagger said. “To me it’s black and white, over and done with. The guy’s a murderer. He killed Skelton, thirty-one Afghans, Colonel Chambers, nine Filipinos, and four cops. Put him on the needle. End of story.”

  “It’s not that easy,” said Nick. “In the Marine Corps it’s Us, Them. In Washington it’s Us, the Us who are with Us, the Us who are not sure about Us, and the many Us-es who don’t care. The other team, our mortal enemies, are also Us, it’s just that they happen to be against the Us that is Us; they’re the other Us, and they have other Us-es who are against Us, then their own huge numbers of people who don’t care one way or the other, and finally, between the two Us-es, there are thousands who aren’t sure yet and are waiting for a signal from the Administration, from the pundits, from the blogosphere, from party headquarters or the union or the Internet message boards about which Us is really their Us. I should add, each Us is always one hundred percent right and has never, ever acknowledged a mistake in judgment, interpretation, execution, or public relations. Dysfunctional as hell, but at least you can say this—it doesn’t work. Never has, never will. Bob, I told you this coming in. Sergeant Cruz, sorry to shock you, but political considerations will play a part. What I’m betting we get is a shake-up at the Agency—bye-bye Jack Collins and whoever was in his clique—and a compromise jail term on Dixson, maybe a soft five for conspiracy, which he’ll use to write a book making himself out to be the smartest guy in the room. That’s possible.”

  “What about the scandal?” asked Bob.

  “Uh, today’s press isn’t eager to discredit this president. They backed him so hard they’re invested in him. And anyhow, are you going to blow the whistle to your good friend David Banjax? I didn’t think so. So it stays out of the papers and off the news.”

  “May I say something?” asked Cruz.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Once again, it seems like you’re accepting this at face value. It is what it is, it’s a marginal triumph for the good guys, that is, what we’ve accomplished, there’s some justice for Two-Two in it, but that’s all it is, and now it’s over. But maybe it’s not over. Maybe it’s just starting.”

  “Here we go again on the conspiracy merry-go-round,” said Susan.

  “Ma’am, I know how Zarzi operated around Qalat. I’ve seen young marines blown to ribbons by IEDs his people planted and then they went and hid in his off-limits compound. I don’t see how he could have this ‘change’ that everybody says he had so fast.”

  “Sergeant Cruz,” she said, “I have to tell you that our people went over Zarzi time after time, from all angles, using all technologies, from drugs to polygraphs to psychological evaluation to sleep deprivation. He volunteered, he got through it easily. If he’s holding something back, it’s beyond our science to detect it, which to me at least means he’s not holding something back.”

  “Sergeant Cruz, you are an extraordinary man,” said Nick. “Brave, resilient, the only man I’ve ever seen who’s the equal of Sergeant Swagger here. But there’s not a shred of evidence that anything is set for tonight. If it were there, I’d act on it, believe me. But I—”

  The phone rang.

  Hmm, Nick had given instructions not to be interrupted.

  He picked it up.

  “Nick, is that you? Jesus, you’re hard to find.”

  “Sorry, Jim. I’m really in the middle—”

  “I’ve got something for you on this guy Zarzi.”

  NEW YORK TIMES EDITORIAL PAGE

  SATURDAY MORNING

  The Administration is to be congratulated on its heroic decision to continue business as usual with the Freedom Medal presentation to Afghan presidential candidate Ibrahim Zarzi. The violence that occurred yesterday in Washington when four police officers were killed and many more wounded by two as yet unidentified gunmen with a modern arsenal of assault-type weapons has not been allowed to stand in the way. This Administration’s desire to bring peace, and with it American withdrawal, to a region much troubled by war, remains firm.

  Though details are as yet unknown, the gunmen’s modus operandi clearly suggests they were either far-right domestic terrorists or violent Zionists, possibly a combination of both. Extremists have more in common with each other than with the responsible middle-of-the-road adherents to their causes.

  Mr. Zarzi himself must be singled out for courage and dedication. His selfless commitment to peace, his campaign to restore righteousness to a reputation much besmirched by political opponents who attempted to hang the nickname “the Beheader” on him, and his willingness to be a symbol of a peaceful, cooperative Islam are to be admired. The Administration is lucky to have him, he is lucky to have the Administration, and we are lucky to have both.

  FOUR SEASONS HOTEL

  SUITE 500

  M STREET NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1800 HOURS

  The suit—bespoke from Jay Kos, New York, dark gray lightweight Italian silk—fit superbly but with a muted elegance, too light for a funeral, too dark for a nightclub, perfect. Cuff links, gold, by Tiffany, thank you very much.

  Glory to you, oh Allah, and yours is the praise.

  The socks: Egyptian cotton, black, John Weitz. The shoes, again bespoke, from GJ Cleverley, Jermyn Street, London SW1. The tie, red, with small, subtle checks of gold, by Anderson & Sheppard, also Jermyn Street, London SW1. The shirt, bespoke of course, blindingly white, the white of movie star teeth, Anderson & Sheppard, Jermyn Street, London SW1.

  In the name of God, the Infinitely Compassionate and Merciful, praise be to God, lord of all the worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler on the Day of Reckoning.

  Cologne: Chanel. Mousse: Revlon cosmetics. Fingernail polish (clear): Revlon cosmetics. Underwear: 100 percent silk, Anderson & Sheppard, Jermyn Street, London SW1.

  You alone do we worship, and you alone do we ask for help. Guide us on the straight path, the path of those who have received your grace, not the
path of those who have brought down wrath, nor of those who wander astray.

  Jewelry: gold diamond ring, Cartier; gold necklace with Islamic talisman in 24-carat gold, Jacques du Ritz; watch . . . watch? Watch?

  I seek refuge in Allah from Satan, the Accursed. God is great.

  The watch: black plastic, Casio DW5600E-1V G-Shock classic digital, Walmart, $37.95.

  “Sir, the limousine to the White House has arrived.”

  FBI HQ

  FBI INTERROGATION SUITE 101

  HOOVER BUILDING

  PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1900 HOURS

  Okay, Jim, just a second.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Jim Stanford is head of counterespionage, DC. His people monitor, follow, infiltrate, tap, whatever, various ‘diplomatic’ initiatives here in the capitol.” He went back to the phone. “Jim, I’m with my staff now trying to figure out what’s going on with this guy. Can I put you on speaker?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Jim and waited while Nick tried to figure out the phone, couldn’t, and a young agent came over and pushed the necessary buttons.

  “Okay, Jim, you’re on loud and clear, go ahead please.”

  “A week ago you sent out a confidential e-mail request to all coalition intelligence services with offices in DC embassies asking for any updates they came across on Ibrahim Zarzi, right?”

  “I did. I got nothing out of it. But frankly, I expected nothing out of it, I did it to cover my ass in case later anyone said, ‘Why didn’t you blah blah.’”

  “Understood. But of course Mossad got it from a dozen or so sources.”

  “They’re pretty good, huh?”

  “Not since the hot days of the Cold War and the classic KGB operators have I seen guys so good.”

  “Cool.”

  “You probably knew that. But here’s what you don’t know. The Israelis have a guy at the Four Seasons.”

  “Wow.”

  “He’s contract, probably would work for anybody, but he’s real good too, freelancer, keeps tabs on diplomatic guests whose policies might have a bearing on Israel.”

  “Got it.”

  “He told them, they told me, and now I’m telling you something that may or may not have some significance.”

  “We’re listening.”

  “A week or so ago, Zarzi was in a very strange mood. This is a cosmopolitan man, mind you, with the tastes of a Saudi prince and the morals of an alley cat.”

  “We’re aware of that.”

  “But he does this very odd thing. He offers a servant a choice between two watches. As a gift. Never done that before, never done that since, not known for that, a parsimonious man who tips the minimum and basically treats staff like cattle.”

  Nick looked around at the people in the room.

  “These two watches were both expensive. But one was really expensive. It was one of these custom jobs, a Paul Berger—Paul makes twelve or so a year, the big richies love them, it takes a fifteen-year wait to get one, that sort of thing, and it doesn’t keep time any better than a Timex, maybe even worse. It probably costs a hundred thousand or so. Of course the kid chose the wrong one, even if it was a nice watch, but the larger issue is: what the fuck?”

  “Yeah,” said Nick, “what the fuck?”

  “Maybe it fits into a pattern, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a tell on his psychology of the moment. But it’s so out of character for this actor. That’s all. Thought you should know.”

  “And you’re sure on this?”

  “I am. My guy is one hundred percent with me. He does me, I do him, you know.”

  “I got you. Thanks, Jim.”

  He put the phone down, faced a dozen bewildered faces.

  “So?”

  Nobody said a thing.

  Then, of course, Swagger: “A guy like him only gets rid of wordly treasure when he’s preparing to die. No other reason.”

  “Well, then wouldn’t he dump it all?” said Nick. “Not just a selective, tiny percentage?”

  “He knows if he did that, it would be noticed. This is ‘symbolic,’ or some crap that an egghead psycho nutcase like him would take as ‘symbolic.’ He’s the kind of asshole who needs symbols.”

  “It’s a reach,” said Nick. “There’s nothing solid there.”

  “He’s dumping his shit because he’s getting ready to blow himself up. And the president and the cabinet and the head of the CIA and all those generals, all of them, along with him. Tonight’s the night, this is the hour, and the minute is very close.”

  “Impossible,” said Susan. “Not merely because of the exhaustive psychological penetration we’ve put him through, but also because White House security is extraordinary and there’s no way at all he can get an explosive beyond it. Even if he’s swallowed it or, excuse me, had it anally implanted, he will be examined and x-rayed, he agreed to that. He can’t be cleaner.”

  “Then why’s he passing off watches to peons?” asked Bob. “It ain’t a bit like him.”

  “Possibly he had an erectile dysfunction,” said Susan, “and he couldn’t find his Viagra and he was really depressed at his failure and in that vulnerable mood he uncharacteristically gave something of value to a servant. Been known to happen.”

  “It’s not really actionable, Nick,” said Chandler. “Provocative, as Mr. Swagger says, but not actionable. I’d hate to take it to the White House.”

  Nick glanced at his watch. “Practically speaking, there isn’t time to take it to the White House. They’re committed to this event, it’s already starting, we’d only get the duty officer and it would never reach the president. Anyhow, Chandler, pick an office and make the call with our recommendation that the event be canceled. Just so we’re on the record.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chandler, trundling off.

  “Now what?” Nick said.

  “Well, well, well,” said Susan.

  “What?”

  She pointed to one of the many monitors in the room; this was a security feed from the White House, just beyond the 15th Street entry, where all guests were wanded, prodded, poked, sniffed, and inappropriately touched to make sure they weren’t carrying any fizzing, bowling-ball-like cordite bombs.

  “It’s the man himself. Can you rewind and show the last ten seconds?” she asked. “Number 5, the center screen. Go back to 1745 or something.”

  Nick said, “Someone young, make it happen.”

  A couple of junior agents scurried off, and in seconds the images on monitor number 5 began to run backward until they reached 1745, at which point they froze, showing a blur, then lurched forward.

  The crew in the room watched as an obedient Ibrahim Zarzi allowed himself to be probed, etc., etc.

  “There. Stop,” she cried, and the image froze.

  It caught Zarzi with his hands up, his elegant suit momentarily drooping sloppily from the awkwardness of the position. His hands above his head as someone blurrily waved the metal-seeking wand across his body, his sleeves fallen back under the power of gravity. The angle, from slightly behind him, was such that his watch was displayed.

  “Well, unless I miss my guess, that’s no fifteen-hundred-dollar Cartier, much less a Berger hundred-thousand-dollar model. It looks more like something you’d pick up in a Seven-Eleven,” she said, as if someone as elegant as Susan, much less Zarzi, had ever been in a 7-Eleven.

  “Some kind of big, ugly plastic junk,” said Nick. “Again, unlike him.”

  “Very unlike him,” she said.

  “If he’s getting ready to do something nuts, the way his mind works, he wouldn’t wear a good watch,” said Bob.

  “Very good catch, Ms. Okada. But . . .”

  “But so what, you’re saying? Maybe Swagger is right. It’s an indicator.”

  “Nick,” said ever-rational Starling, back from her call to the White House, “it is another indicator. But it sure as hell isn’t actionable. This is very touchy stuff, seeing as he’s an official State Department guest
, under their protection.”

  “I don’t see how I can do anything on that,” said Nick. “Let’s note it, and it goes into the CIA file, just in case this turns out real bad.”

  The monitor reverted to real time, and it now displayed the actual time, 1814.12 and emptiness at the security point. Other monitors showed something else: all the heads and swells were gathered in the Rose Garden in the warm late summer evening, and in a few minutes the president would come to the podium, make a few kissy-kissy comments, call Ibrahim Zarzi to the podium and present him with the Freedom Medal as a ringing endorsement of his commitment to America, to democracy, to the joint future of their countries, to the friendship of Islam and the West, to a bright and bloodless tomorrow. Then it was over. A few minutes and it was over.

  Nick thought: It is not going to happen. It is too fantastic. There is nothing he can do.

  And then he thought: That’s what everybody said on 9/10 as well. They are cunning assholes. They are not smart, but they figured out how to destroy a nation’s confidence and plunge the world into extended decades of darkness with $19 worth of X-acto knives.