by Jack Mars
Whoever he was, the tall priest (as she was now accustomed to thinking of him) closed the thick double doors to the antechamber behind him. It was only the three of them in this room; surprisingly, not a single servant or guard present. Divans and thick cushions in dizzying colors were arranged in some sort of feng-shui-meets-Middle-Eastern sensibility, and even the windows were dressed in heavy velvets.
This was a room where secrets were discussed, a room without ears. And though she did not know what was about to be discussed, Joanna Barkley knew it was precisely the reason she had hoped to return to Washington quickly.
“Please,” said Basheer, gesturing wide to any of the seats in the chamber. “Sit.”
She did so, on a cream-colored divan, but did not recline or make any effort to be comfortable. Joanna sat on the edge of the cushion with her back straight and her hands in her lap. “To what do I owe such an audience?” she dared to ask, skipping any formalities that may have been in store.
Basheer allowed himself a rare smile.
It was no secret that relations between the United States and Saudi Arabia had deteriorated somewhat ever since King Ghazi had fallen ill. Ghazi had been an ally, but when the disease took over and he fell out of the public spotlight, those who should have been speaking for him were oddly silent. The monarchy in Saudi Arabia was the absolute power and held sway over all branches of government, so the US found it prudent to begin furtively following the movements of Crown Prince Basheer.
They did not much like what they had found.
To make matters worse, Joanna was well aware that the former prince adhered strongly to Sharia law and had an obvious disdain for women in power. In his mind they were not and would never be equals or peers. She was beneath him, plain and simple.
“I would like to speak briefly about the future of relations between our great countries,” the king began.
Joanna smiled in kind. “Before you speak your mind, your highness, you should know that I lack the authority to authorize any sanctions on behalf of my country.”
“Yes,” the king agreed. “But anything discussed in this meeting can be relayed to the president in turn.”
Joanna held back a scowl at the suggestion that she was a messenger, but said nothing.
“I understand that America is hosting the Ayatollah of Iran this week,” Basheer continued.
“Indeed we are.” Joanna had organized the visit herself; a key part of President Rutledge’s efforts to bring peace between the US and Middle East was a strategic alliance with Iran. They were aiming high, but as most things in her life, Joanna approached the problem diplomatically and without bias and found that a solution was very possible. “Our countries are reconciling. A treaty is currently being drafted by the United Nations.”
The priest in white flared his nostrils; it would have been nearly an imperceptible movement had he not been standing like a statue beside the double doors. As stock-still as he was, the facial twitch might as well have been a vocal snarl.
“I understand you may not be completely, uh, how would you say—up to speed,” Basheer said haughtily. “As you are new to office—”
“I’m new to the office,” Joanna interrupted. “I assure you, I am not new to office.”
What am I doing? she scolded herself. It was not at all like her to clap back to condescension or even outright derision. Yet something about this young king and his statuesque advisor riled her in a way she’d never felt before. It was more than a disdain for her personally; it was a disdain for her gender, a general outlook that the entirety of womanhood was beneath them. Yet she knew she had to keep herself in check. This was her first major diplomatic mission since taking the office of vice president and she would not let it go awry.
Basheer nodded. “Of course. What I meant to say was, you may not be aware of the history between our countries. That is, Saudi Arabia and Iran. We are sworn enemies, and as such we cannot condone such a treaty. There is a saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ By the same logic, the friend of my enemy is my enemy.”
Joanna chewed the tip of her tongue, biting back what she would have very much liked to say to the headstrong king. Instead of poking holes in faulty logic she said, “Then might I ask what you suggest, in your wisdom, sir?”
“A choice, Madame Vice President,” Basheer said simply. “An alliance with Iran is an affront to my country, my people, and my family.”
“A choice,” Joanna repeated. The notion that Basheer expected the United States to choose peace with only one of the two was ludicrous—unless, she reasoned, he was testing her. “I hope you understand that our goal is peace with all Middle Eastern nations. Not just Iran, and not just Saudi Arabia. This is not personal; this is diplomacy.”
“I cannot help but take it personally,” the king replied instantly. “As the new monarch I will be expected to show strength—”
“And you still can,” Joanna interjected, “by joining us. Peace is not a weakness.”
“Peace is not an option,” Basheer corrected. “The history of tensions between our nations transcends what you may have learned in books or reports—”
Anger flared inside her. “With all due respect—”
“And yet you insist on interrupting!” the king snapped.
Joanna winced. Clearly Basheer was not accustomed to anyone speaking over him, let alone a woman. “Your highness,” she said, keeping her voice measured, “I don’t think this is a terribly appropriate time to speak about this. Not to mention that I am in no position to simply grant what you’re asking.”
“What I am owed,” Basheer told her.
“Nor would I,” Joanna raised her volume, “even if I was.” There was fire in her now that she could not ignore or extinguish. “We are well aware of your… ties, King Basheer. Your personal alliances with some rather unsavory factions.”
She immediately regretted it as Basheer narrowed his eyes at her. Not only had she let slip, in a roundabout way, that the US had been monitoring him, but also that they were aware of growing connections between the Saudi royalty and aggressive insurgent groups both within and outside their borders.
“Leave,” Basheer grunted.
That’s been the plan all along, Joanna thought wryly as she stood. In lieu of anything else to say she simply offered a curt, “Thank you for your hospitality,” and turned on a heel toward the door.
“I don’t think you understand,” said Basheer loudly. “I am not only asking you to leave. I am telling you that the United States is to vacate my country. The embassies are closed, effective immediately. Any and all American troops, American citizens, American diplomats are hereby deported. Until your government comes to their senses and is willing to speak seriously about this, we are severing ties.”
Joanna Barkley’s mouth fell open slightly as she attempted to gauge if Basheer was being genuine or calling a bluff. All indications pointed to him being deadly serious. “You would make us an enemy out of spite for Iran?”
“You have made me your enemy first.” Basheer motioned toward the door without rising. “Go and tell your president that.”
There was nothing more to be said. Vice President Joanna Barkley pulled open the door to the antechamber without a single glance at the stoic priest that still stood alongside it. She was met right away with the din of a hundred chattering voices; she had almost forgotten that the funeral procession was ongoing. But she paid them no mind as she crossed to the far side of the wide auditorium, where her two Secret Service members waited.
“Let’s go,” she told them curtly. “And get President Rutledge on the phone before wheels are up.”
She feared that she had failed in her first diplomatic task as vice president, one that should have been simple and routine. But moreover, she feared that peace with one Middle Eastern country would only mean war with another.
*
“The insolence!” Basheer growled in Arabic as he paced the antechamber. “The audacity! This is why
America is failing. This is why they will fall. Rutledge is weak. That woman is insufferable. Was she Saudi, I’d have her publicly executed!”
The sheikh had not moved from his position for several minutes, despite how much he had desired to draw the thin blade hidden in his sleeve and rake it across the American politician’s throat. He took two long strides into the room, his lanky legs carrying him several meters toward his king. “Patience, highness. This is not a moment to lose composure. This is the time for discipline and tact.”
Basheer nodded, though his lips were still curled in a snarl. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, you are right. Of course.”
Under normal circumstances, a tribal sheikh like Salman would never be at the right hand of the king. But while others had ingratiated themselves to Ghazi, Salman had looked to the future and turned his attentions to the eldest son, Basheer, who would one day be king. Since the prince was sixteen years of age Salman had used every opportunity to whisper in the boy’s ear. To remind him of his greatness. To encourage that he would be a stronger king than his father ever was. To ingrain the necessity of the fall of the West and the expansion of the Saudi kingdom in equal measure. Salman would never, could never be king—but he could stand at the king’s side, and his name could be known the world over in the same breath.
“I’m afraid I’ve acted rashly,” Basheer muttered. “This will not bode well for us.”
“On the contrary,” Salman assured him. “You’ve shown that your will is strong. Next we must prove that you have an equally strong hand.”
“How? Tell me how,” Basheer implored him. “If they are successful in a treaty with Iran, we will have no allies. We will look foolish before the world. We cannot stand against the US army. We cannot afford a war with them.”
“No,” Salman agreed, placing a spindly hand on the young king’s shoulder. “We cannot. But we may not need to. There is a plan, highness, one already in motion. And if we see it through, the western world will learn a painful lesson—and the world will watch our rise.”
CHAPTER THREE
Don’t worry
About a thing,
’Cause every little thing…
’Cause every little thing…
“Dammit,” Zero murmured. “You know this.” He’d been whistling the tune while reciting the lyrics in his head—the girls had asked him multiple times to stop singing—but he’d never gotten caught on that line before. “What was it?”
“Are you talking to yourself?” Sara asked as she entered the small kitchen of his apartment in Bethesda, Maryland. She wore sweats, her blonde hair was a disheveled mess on her head, and judging by the dark circles under her eyes she’d forgotten (or neglected) to wash the mascara off her face the night before.
“Sure am.” Zero kissed the top of her head as she pulled open the refrigerator. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Mm,” Sara said in response as she retrieved the jug of orange juice. She’d been staying with Zero ever since Thanksgiving—ever since she had escaped from the rehab clinic he’d sent her to and ended up under a pier and nearly kidnapped. She was sixteen, almost seventeen now, he reminded himself, though her features were mature enough to pass for at least a couple of years older. It was painful enough that his girls were growing up, even more so that the trauma she had been through had aged her prematurely, but most of all that she looked more like her late mother with every passing day.
“What are you making?” she asked, craning her neck over his shoulder to peer into the pan.
“Oh, this? This, my dear, is a frittata.” Zero plucked up the frying pan, shook it twice, and then expertly flipped the frittata in the air once.
Sara wrinkled her nose. “Looks like an omelet.”
“It is omelet-esque. Omelet-adjacent, you might say. Like if an omelet and a pizza had a baby. A frittata.”
“Please stop saying—”
“Frittata.”
Sara rolled her eyes as she took a long gulp from the orange juice. “You’re weird.”
“Hey, Squeak,” Maya announced as she entered the kitchen. “Let me get some of that.” She was dressed in shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, sneakers on and a sweatband over her forehead. Her dark hair was cut short in something close to a bob—a “pixie cut,” the kids called it—and while her younger sister’s features were reminiscent of their mother, Maya’s youthful face was much more the shadow of Zero’s.
Maya was staying with him as well, making the two-bedroom apartment feel cozy yet a bit cramped at the same time. His girls, almost-seventeen and nineteen respectively, had been sharing a room but hadn’t complained once. Zero chalked it up to the amount of time they’d spent apart while Sara was living in Florida and Maya had been enrolled at West Point. But his eldest had skipped the remainder of the fall semester, and now the spring semester as well, and though he hadn’t broached the subject yet he was hopeful that she would eventually return and finish her education.
Sara passed the orange juice to Maya, who took an ample swig. “Maya, hasn’t Dad been weird lately?”
“You mean weirder than usual? Yeah. Definitely.”
“First of all,” Zero said, “get a glass. I didn’t raise a couple of heathens. Secondly, how am I weird?”
“You’ve been singing a lot,” Maya said.
“I stopped doing that when you asked.”
“Now you whistle a lot,” Sara told him.
“What’s wrong with whistling?”
“Are you cooking a frittata?” Maya asked.
“He’s been cooking a lot,” Sara said as if he wasn’t even in the room.
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Maya agreed. “It’s like he’s… happier.”
“Why is that weird?” Zero protested.
“In this family?” Sara scoffed. “It’s weird.”
“Ouch.” Zero held a hand over his heart and mimed a heart attack. “So sorry for trying to enrich the lives of those I love.”
“I don’t trust it,” Sara side-mouthed to her sister.
“Where were you last week?”
The question came so suddenly that Zero almost got whiplash. His eldest stared him down with one eyebrow precipitously high on her forehead, waiting.
“I told you. I was in California…”
“Right,” Maya said, “seeing a specialist for your hand.”
“Right.”
“Except that I checked with our health insurance provider and no paperwork was submitted,” Maya said casually. “No deductible paid. So… where were you last week?”
I was tracking a blacklisted CIA engineer to see if he could tell me why my own brain was trying to kill me. That was the truth, but not only would he not tell them that—his apartment could be bugged, for all he knew—but they had no idea about his lost memories, his recent issues, or the dire warning that Guyer had given him.
So instead he forced a coy smile and said, “Maybe it’s none of your business.”
Maya mimicked the fake smile perfectly. “Maybe you shouldn’t lie to your daughters.”
“Maybe I’m trying to keep them safe.”
“Maybe they don’t need you to.”
“Maybe—”
A brisk knock at the door interrupted him. To Zero’s chagrin, it was still his first instinct to reach for the Glock that was hidden in the silverware drawer. Despite the number of times his own home had been raided, he had to remind himself that terrorists did not knock first, and forced his muscles to relax and shook it off as Maya called out, “It’s open!”
The apartment door swung open and a woman entered. She was two years younger than Zero, not yet forty, though she could pass for a decade younger if needed. When they weren’t on an op, she wore her thick blonde hair down, cascading around her shoulders in a way that perfectly framed her face and slate-gray eyes. She was dressed in slim-cut jeans, black boots, and a downy black coat. Zero had seen her at her best, in evening wear and gowns, and at her worst, with blood on her face and a gun in her hand, and y
et the sight of her still always made his heart skip a beat.
Maria strode into the kitchen, gave Zero a kiss on the cheek, and dropped a white box on the counter. “Morning all! Brought croissants.”
“Perfect.” Maya plucked one up and took a bite. “I could use the carbs before my run.”
“But frittata,” Zero murmured.
“Maria, settle something for us,” Sara piped up. “Has Dad been weird lately?”
Maria frowned. “Weird? I don’t know about weird. Different though. Happier, maybe?”
“Told you.” Sara grabbed a croissant.
“Are you sticking around?” Zero asked her as he transferred his unwanted, omelet-adjacent dish to a plate.
“Just dropped in on my way,” Maria told him. “I have to go to Langley.”
“On a Saturday?” Zero raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Paperwork.”
“Paperwork,” he repeated. He knew perfectly well there was no paperwork. “Paperwork” was the excuse they gave one another when they couldn’t tell the truth but didn’t want to outright lie—the irony, of course, being that “paperwork” was in fact an outright lie.
“And where were you last week?” Maria asked with faux innocence.
Zero smirked. “Paperwork.”
“Touché.”
Maria didn’t know about Bixby, and Zero intended to keep it that way.
He quickly shifted gears. “Will I see you tonight?”
“Definitely.” She smiled and grabbed a croissant from the box. “But I have to run. Taking one for the road. Call you later.”
“Gotta run too,” Maya added. “Literally.”
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Sara announced.
“Hey, wait!” Zero called out as they all tried to leave the kitchen at once. “Hang on a sec.” Three expectant faces turned back to him. “Um, I was thinking… Valentine’s Day is just a few days away. So maybe don’t make any plans.”
They glanced at one another. “Who?” Maya asked.