by Jack Mars
“Crepes?” She couldn’t suppress her smirk.
“We’re in France, so yeah. Crepes. Or how about some escargot? Perhaps some ratatouille? Or foie gras…”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s the extent of your knowledge of French cuisine, isn’t it?”
He frowned, but then snapped his fingers and added, “Croissants.”
Maya snorted. But all the same, her stomach rumbled. “Sure. Food sounds good. But not foie gras. That’s duck liver.”
“No kidding? Huh.” Trent sat on the floor to pull his shoes on. “So food, for sure, but if we’re going to be playing house we’ll need a few other things. Something to sleep on, at least. How much of a princess are you, anyway? On a scale of sleeping bag to Egyptian cotton.”
“A sleeping bag would be fine.” Then she quickly added, “Two of them.”
Trent Coleman looked up at her quizzically. “Yeah, of course two. Jeez, keep your pants on, Lawson.”
Her cheeks turned pink and her ears burned.
Trent grinned, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “I’ll be back in a flash. Keep an eye on our boy.”
He was headed across the empty apartment toward the front door when a flat tone sounded. He paused, cocking his head slightly like an inquisitive dog. It took Maya a moment to realize that the tone was the satellite phone in her bag. She quickly pulled it out. The number, of course, was listed as “restricted.”
“Agent Lawson,” she answered.
“Maya, it’s me.”
“Penny?” Maya frowned. Penny wasn’t the tech assigned to their op.
“Don’t say anything, just listen. Everyone is safe, but some new information has come to light. It’s possible that someone might have access to CIA intel, and both you and I would be on their list, if you catch my drift. It’s imperative that you’re extremely careful. Do not let your guard down. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t, not fully.
“I’m sorry I can’t say any more than that on this line,” she said quickly. “But everyone is safe. Just take care of yourself.”
“I will,” Maya confirmed. She didn’t like the way Penny felt the need to repeat that everyone was safe, without elaborating on who “everyone” was.
The call ended just as abruptly.
“What was that about?” Trent asked, standing just before the door.
“Um…”
Someone might have access to CIA intel. Both you and I would be on their list.
That would mean they might know where she was. Where they were.
“Just an NSA update,” she lied. “No new chatter.”
Trent looked her over. “You said ‘Penny.’”
“Yeah. Penny made the call.”
He took a small step away from the door. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Because we’re supposed to be partners. If there’s something I should know—”
Maya jumped at a sudden, thunderous bang.
Something slammed against the door of the apartment. Trent spun as the jamb splintered and the wooden door flew open. The edge of it struck him right in the forehead and he reeled, flopping to the floor.
Behind him, a figure in a black ski mask took a single stride into the apartment and raised a pistol.
Maya threw herself forward as the gun chirped twice. Suppressed shots. One round struck the window, breaking a pane of glass. The second hit the wall, sending chunks of plaster skittering across the floor.
Maya rolled, or tried to, but there wasn’t enough runway and she hit the wall. She righted herself and hurled the sat phone, sending it end over end and smacking into the assailant’s face. He grunted and staggered, giving her just enough time to reach for the nearest makeshift weapon she had—the camera and tripod setup.
The man in the ski mask raised the pistol again as Maya brought the tripod over her head and down. The camera broke over his wrist and he howled. The pistol fell from his hand. She swung again, upward this time, and caught him just under the chin, sending him flat onto his back.
She dropped the tripod and twisted the stunned gunman’s arm in a painful lock. He hissed through gritted teeth.
“Trent! You okay?”
He groaned and sat up. “Yeah. Think so.” Trent gingerly touched his hairline and his hand came away with a small amount of blood. “Dammit. Got me good.” He crawled over to her and grabbed the silenced pistol from the floor.
Maya turned her attention back to the gunman. She held the arm lock tightly with one hand and tugged his ski mask off with the other.
In the moment, she was half-expecting—or maybe half-wishing—that she would find Stefan Krauss beneath it. But this man was bald, his head shaved, a snarling brown moustache on his lip. She didn’t recognize him.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Go to hell,” he grimaced.
“I’ll break your arm,” she warned.
“She’ll do it,” Trent chimed in, holding the gun on the downed man.
“How did you know about this place? Who sent you here?” She twisted the arm a centimeter further and the man yelped.
“Wait! Wait,” he panted. “Don’t break it. I was paid. All I had to do was—”
Thwip!
A bullet entered the man’s forehead before Maya even knew what was happening. His head jerked with the impact. Maya leapt back in shock.
Trent’s eyes were wide, even as he continued to point the gun downward at the dead assailant.
“What did you do that for?!” Maya demanded, incredulous.
“His hand!” Trent insisted. “He was going for something on his belt with his other hand! I-I panicked. I thought he had a knife or something…”
Maya glanced from Trent to the body on the floor. The man’s other hand had been pinned beneath him while Maya had him in the lock. He couldn’t have been going for a knife.
Someone might have access to CIA intel. Both you and I would be on their list.
That would mean they might know where she was. And she couldn’t help but think of how easy it had been to convince Walsh to send them together.
“Give me the gun, Trent.” She held out her hand.
His throat flexed. “Why?”
“Because I asked for it.” She kept her tone calm, measured. “Please. Give me the gun.”
No one else was supposed to know they were here.
Trent Coleman had volunteered to leave. Had Maya not gotten the call from Penny, he would have been gone a full minute before the gunman arrived.
When the door hit him, Trent fell to the floor. The gunman could have easily and quickly put a single bullet in him. But he didn’t. He was gunning for Maya.
All of these facts whirled through her head and told her one thing.
“Give me the gun, Trent.”
He shook his head a little. “Not until you tell me who was really on the phone, and why.”
He looked terrified.
Perhaps because his cover had been blown. Perhaps because she knew, and he knew, that he wasn’t to be trusted.
She took a small step toward the door. “If you won’t give me the gun, then I’m leaving.”
“Maya, wait!” he pleaded. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I can’t stay here. I have to go. You have a choice here, Trent. You can shoot me, or you can let me leave, but you can’t follow me.” She took another slow step backward.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” he said softly, still staring down at the body.
She reached the open doorway, the broken jamb, and made a run for it. She sprinted down the hall to the stairs, and took them three at a time, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to see if Trent was following her.
He wasn’t.
If he was part of it, the attempt on her life had failed.
If he wasn’t, he was in far less danger without her than with her.
If someone knew where she was, and was trying to kill her, she’d be better on her
own.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I’m sure she’s safe,” Alan told him for what must have been the twentieth time.
“I know,” Zero said, more for his own benefit than Alan’s. He rubbed his face. He was exhausted. To sleep for even just a short while, to catch a catnap, would be a small mercy, but he couldn’t do that. Not yet.
After his encounter with Krauss he’d fled from the warehouse and hotwired a delivery truck he found on the next block. They wouldn’t even know it was missing until morning. Then he’d driven as fast as he dared, due south from New York back to Virginia, under the cover of night.
He knew his home was compromised and Third Street Garage was rubble, so process of elimination dictated where he headed next. Alan had told him about the safe house two months prior when he’d set it up, so he headed there, ditching the delivery truck in a parking lot and jogging the rest of the way.
While he was relieved to find Alan and Mischa alive and well, he was as dismayed as he was alarmed to find that Sara had not made it there with them. Alan explained the situation, bolstered by Penny’s previous reassurances that Sara had had the foresight to turn her phone off, and was making sure she wouldn’t be found, and had likely holed up with a friend.
“I’m sure she’s safe,” Zero parroted quietly, because he had no choice but to believe it. As much as he wanted to go out there and find her, to see her safe with his own two eyes, he’d only be putting her at greater potential risk.
Because if he found her, and Krauss found him, he’d likely try to kill them both.
Meanwhile, Penny had promised that she would contact Maya in Paris and issue a warning. After all, if Zero’s hunch was correct, then the very same people who had sent her there were the ones behind the newest revelation.
“Tell me again,” Mischa asked. She’d been mildly concussed when Third Street Garage had exploded, so Alan had dutifully kept her awake, but now she seemed clear-headed and cogent. “You fought with Krauss? You saw him?”
“Yeah,” Zero confirmed. “But he wasn’t Krauss anymore. They—someone—put a memory suppressor in his head. He didn’t know me, or who he was. He didn’t even know what he did.”
Mischa shook her head. “He still deserves to die.”
“You’re right,” Alan agreed. “And he will. But right now he might be the only one that can lead us to whoever is behind this.”
“That… might not be entirely true.” Zero had a lot of time to think on the frantic drive south. “I may have an idea. Though it might be sleep-deprived insanity talking…”
“That sounds about status quo,” Alan quipped. “What are you thinking?”
Zero hesitated. His logic was simple; Krauss had a memory suppressor in his head. The only people who knew about it that weren’t actively being killed or pursued were in the CIA. Therefore, they needed answers from the CIA, answers that not even Penny had or could get.
“I think we should kidnap and interrogate CIA Director Shaw,” he said at last.
“I’m in,” Alan said instantly.
“Same,” Mischa agreed.
“This isn’t something to take lightly,” he reminded them. As pleased as he was at their zeal (and that they hadn’t immediately dismissed it as insane), he couldn’t help but feel that it was more than a little personal for both of them.
All of them, if he was being honest. Shaw had tried to get rid of Zero from the first day they’d worked together, and had tried to get him sent to prison on the last day they’d worked together. The former NSA-turned-CIA director had kept Mischa locked in a Langley holding cell for more than three months with no visitors other than Maria. And Alan—well, Alan had his reasons, though he didn’t really need anything further than the man’s job title to have immense disdain for him.
“We have no protection, no immunity, and few resources,” he said. “If we’re going to do this, we have to plan carefully and execute perfectly. One misstep and we’ll be facing severe criminal charges. There won’t be anyone or anything to hide behind.”
“Still in,” Alan told him.
“As am I,” Mischa nodded.
“All right,” Zero relented, half-wishing that at least one of them would attempt to talk him out of it. “Mischa, grab us some paper and a pen so we can get started on a plan.”
She hurried from the room. Almost as soon as she was gone, Zero turned to Alan.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the last couple of weeks. I’ve been distant—”
Alan held up a hand. “There are more important things going on. We’re good.”
“We’re good?”
Alan nodded. “Now, what’s really on your mind?”
Zero almost chuckled. No one could read him like Alan Reidigger could. Despite his best attempts to hide it, he may as well have been grimacing.
“Just between you and me,” Zero began. He’d had a lot of time to think on the frantic drive south. Try as he might, there was one thing he simply could not get off his mind. “When I was in New York, at the old house, I had a… I don’t know. A memory? A flashback. Some kind of intense déjà vu. It was about Kate. It had happened there.”
Alan lowered his voice. “What did?”
“At some point before she died,” he explained, “I… I heard her talking on the phone to someone. Checking in, like a status report on an op. Talking about changes in behavior, speech… and memory.”
Alan shook his head. “What are you saying, Zero?”
He almost rolled his eyes. Did he need to spell it out so plainly? “I’m saying I had a memory of Kate that wasn’t there before, and she was talking to someone. Like an operative. Like she was undercover.”
Reidigger stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrow, as if trying to determine whether Zero was being genuine or not. Then he chuckled slightly. “Zero, come on…”
“Don’t laugh. This is serious.”
Alan’s expression straightened. “I’m sorry. It’s just—come on. Kate was… she was Kate. She restored paintings for the Met. She was the mother of your kids. She wasn’t a spy.”
He’d told himself as much no fewer than fifty times. Yet somehow, coming from Reidigger it was far more assuring. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Look. Didn’t the doctor say this sort of thing would happen? That more false memories might come up as you get closer…” Alan trailed off. He looked away.
He didn’t need to finish the statement.
As you get closer to the end. It was a stark reminder that Guyer was dead, and with him, Zero’s best hope of a successful treatment for his deteriorating brain.
Alan looked past him and cleared his throat. Mischa had returned. She spread a few sheets of paper on the chipped kitchen table between them and laid out pens.
Zero nodded his thanks. “Okay. Let’s figure out how to kidnap the director of the CIA.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They left the safe house just before dawn broke.
With the time it took to form a plan, Zero had about an hour to relax and try to doze. Try as he might, even fully relaxing eluded him. There was simply too much on his mind.
Krauss. Kate. Sara. Guyer. Names and faces haunted him, the dead and alive alike.
Then Reidigger was there, in the doorway of one of the safe house’s small bedroom, the wallpaper peeling and the floorboards bowing underfoot, and it was time.
Though Zero had never been anything anyone would describe as close to his former boss, there were some things he knew about Edward Shaw. First, that he had come up in the NSA and had gained a reputation that approached paranoia. His home, Zero assumed, would have a state-of-the-art security system and likely cameras. His car would have GPS tracking. His phone would be a way to find him at any time deemed necessary.
So they simply had to separate him from those elements until they had only the man, no way to trace him, and no eyewitnesses.
If Zero’s long career had taught him anything, it was that the best and most effe
ctive plans were simple ones. It didn’t matter how smart or capable one’s team was; a plan too complicated could go haywire from a single misstep. A complex plan left little room to improvise. It got people killed.
So they kept their plan simple.
They left the safe house just before dawn broke. Reidigger drove the Buick the hour drive back toward Langley. Zero sat in the passenger seat and Mischa behind the driver’s.
“Seat belt,” he reminded her, and she clicked it into place.
Zero also knew that Shaw was an early riser. He was one of those corporate types that believed the boss should be in before anyone else—though Zero suspected that was more so he could watch them come, see their routines, rebuke them for tardiness if need be.
As the sun rose they came to Salona Village, an admittedly beautiful neighborhood of McLean, Virginia, that looked more like Martha’s Vineyard than only twenty minutes removed from the Capitol Building. Zero was a little surprised that someone like Shaw would choose to settle here over the ritzier neighborhoods like Georgetown or even Capitol Hill. Salona Village had a quaint charm to it, as if time moved a little slower there.
It was almost a shame they were there for an abduction.
They were only three minutes from Shaw’s home when Alan slowed the car and dropped Mischa off first to get into position, along a stretch of tree-lined road in view of only two homes. About a quarter mile’s distance up the same road Alan stopped again, and this time Zero got out.
“Good luck,” Alan called to him.
“See you shortly.” He watched as the Buick pulled away, and adjusted his radio earpiece. “Mischa, do you copy? Over.”
“I copy. Over.”
“Just testing. Maintain silence until Alan gives the signal. Over.”
He waited for a reply, and then realized she’d taken his request for radio silence very seriously, and suppressed a smile. Most fathers took their preteen daughters shopping, or to lunch, or to the movies. Not tracking deadly assassins and kidnapped high-ranking CIA members.
Just another bonding experience.
Then he put his hands in his pockets, and as casually as possible he began to walk back toward Mischa’s position. He didn’t walk too quickly, to avoid getting there before it was time; he didn’t walk too slowly to make anyone suspicious. He just walked as if he was out for a morning stroll.