Target Zero

by Jack Mars

  A month earlier, when the city of Sion had hosted the Winter Olympics, Rais had plotted to kill Agent Kent Steele. He would have gladly given his life for his mission to be a success—but even so, he had planned for the contingency of his survival, which would have required the necessary means to escape without notice. His circumstances may have changed, but his plan remained viable.

  Across the street from the hotel was Sion’s largest post office, with a revolving door entrance and a sign that read Sion Hauptpost. It opened at seven a.m. At four minutes past the hour, Rais hastily crossed the street, entered the building, and strode straight to a bank of steel-door PO boxes just beyond the foyer. He avoided eye contact with anyone and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. Doing so would only attract attention.

  Instead he went straight to his rented box, number 0276. He slid the key in, opened it, removed the only item inside—a brown leather satchel—and then closed the door again. He was in and out of the Hauptpost in less than two minutes.

  As he crossed the street once again, he pulled the satchel’s strap over his shoulder. Then he entered the small hotel to find a young female clerk at the front desk.

  “Hallo ,” he said pleasantly. “I apologize; my Swiss-German is not good. I am checking in as a guest here later today. For now, may I just use your restroom?”

  The young woman smiled warmly. “Na sicher. ” Of course. She directed him down the hall and to the right. He smiled graciously and followed her instructions.

  As soon as the bathroom door was locked behind him, he set down his satchel and got to work. He was no stranger to altering his appearance; going incognito was a requisite for one whose job had been traveling frequently with the intended goal of committing murder. He took out his implements, one by one, and laid them out on the closed seat of the toilet.

  Rais began by cutting off his hair, first with a small pair of silver scissors and then buzzing it down to short bristles with an electric shaver. He did the same with his facial hair. Next, he inserted brown contact lenses to hide his emerald-green eyes.

  In his satchel was a German passport—not a fake, but a legitimate one sold to another member of Amun by an unscrupulous citizen of Hamburg who needed a thousand euros to post his brother’s bail. The man was of a height and build similar to Rais, but the passport holder was eight years his senior and had a much different facial aspect.

  Rais only had to get close enough for a believable match.

  In the passport photo, the man’s hair was shorn short, as Rais’s now was. His eyes were brown, and he had a fairly substantial beard up both cheeks and hanging down about five inches. The prosthetic in Rais’s satchel was of an approximate length—convincingly real, made of horse hair, and easy enough to find on the internet. The color of it was a shade or two darker than the one in the photo, but it matched Rais’s natural hair color enough to (hopefully) avoid scrutiny.

  He used spirit gum adhesive to attach the beard to his shaven cheeks, applying it as carefully and evenly as possible. He used the scissors to trim and fray the ends of it—it looked too perfectly sculpted, he thought—as well as his own sideburns to blend in with the edges.

  Rais looked at the passport photo again. Next would be the difficult part; the obvious age gap between his face and the photo. After studying it for a moment, he took a tube of rubber cement from his bag and carefully pinched the skin at the corners of his eyes. He beaded the rubber cement into the pinched crevice and held it for a few minutes. His skin burned at first, but he held it fast and the pain eventually subsided to a tingle. When he released it the pinch remained, effectively creating wrinkles around his eyes. He repeated the process twice on each side.

  For additional effect, he removed the denim jacket, T-shirt, and scrub top, and then put the shirt and jacket back on. The scrub top he balled up and tucked beneath his shirt, partially tucked into the hem of his jeans, smoothing it out to create a small paunch.

  Rais took a step back and inspected his new appearance in the mirror. He barely looked like himself anymore. Though, he noted with some concern, the false wrinkles around his eyes looked puckered and forced. He would have to affect a slight squint if he wanted to maintain a natural mien. No easy task to hold for hours, to be sure, but he was nothing if not methodical.

  In the bottom of the satchel was a wallet with a photo ID (this one was a fake, created using the passport’s photo and information) and a few thousand euros in cash. There was also a burner phone, the battery likely dead, but he would not risk attempting to reach any of his contacts in Amun anyway. They were probably detained by now or on the lam. Besides, they would be little help in what he was planning to do. He was alone now, and he would do things in his own way.

  I endure , he thought.

  He pulled the battery from the phone and tossed it in the bathroom’s trash.

  Satisfied with his new appearance, he collected his tools, cleaned up the hair as best he could, and flushed it down the toilet. He could affect a German accent fairly well, but still he stood in front of the mirror, squinting his eyes and murmuring phrases to be sure he still sounded the way he ought to. Satisfied, he slung the satchel back over his shoulder. The entire process had taken less than thirty minutes.

  He left the bathroom and, instead of returning to the main entrance, walked further down the hall to a side exit. He could not risk walking past the young lady at the front desk. His appearance was altered, but he was still wearing the same clothes.

  Back out on the streets of Sion, the sun was up and people were filtering out from their homes, on their way to jobs or errands or whatever it was that ordinary people did with their lives. Rais walked among them freely, not warranting a second glance from anyone. As he walked, he dropped the PO box key into a storm drain. He wouldn’t need it anymore. The burner phone, void of a battery, he slipped into a street-corner trash bin three blocks further.

  As he suspected, the police were watching the train station (as they would be the airports and bus depots, and had likely set up roadblocks on major points of egress from the city). First he entered a public restroom. He made sure he was alone before he pried open a paper towel dispenser and hid the Sig P220 in it. He was not happy to leave it behind—it was an excellent gun—but he could not risk trying to get it past security. Then he went into a stall and dropped the second gun into a toilet tank. With any luck, it would be a few days before either was found.

  Rais got on a train to Zurich without incident. He did not speak to anyone; instead, he pretended to be sleeping in order to not be bothered. Once during the train ride he rose and went to the restroom to check his wounds. They were closed, but some stitches remained. He would have to cut them out himself.

  From Zurich he could take a plane to the US, but first he needed to take some precautions to avoid obvious flags. His first stop was to a thrift store, where he found an old suitcase and bought enough items of clothing to make it seem as if he was on a trip. He couldn’t very well get on a plane without luggage.

  Next he went to a pharmacy and purchased a prepaid debit card. The maximum allowable load was two thousand euros, which was most of his cash, but he put it on anyway. At an electronics store on the same block he picked up a new burner phone and paid for a few megabytes of data. The first thing he did was check the internet. Sure enough, Interpol had established a hotline for the public to call in with any potential leads on Rais’s whereabouts. He wasn’t mentioned by name, but his connection with Amun was well noted.

  Next he downloaded a Chinese calling app that would generate international phone numbers for a small fee. He created two accounts, one with an Italian phone number and the second Slovenian. He paid a homeless woman fifty euros to call the Interpol tip line from his Italian number and report, in English, that a man bearing Rais’s description had stolen her car at gunpoint near Bormio, just over the Swiss-Italian border. She told them that the “horrible man” had said something about Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia.

>   Lastly he visited an internet café and booked his flight using the prepaid debit card. To pay for an airline ticket in cash at the counter would be highly suspect—and even more so for someone with a German passport to book one-way travel. He saw that a flight to JFK in New York was departing in less than three hours’ time, with a connection in Madrid, for just under six hundred euros. He booked a return flight for seven days later to Hamburg, to make it appear as if he had traveled first to Switzerland, then to the US, and then to home. He ended up spending about twelve hundred euros on the flight; most of his money was gone, but it would be worth it if it got him where he needed to be.

  Of course there was a police presence at Kloten Airport, but once again his disguise proved worthwhile as he boarded a plane without incident.

  The flight from Zurich to Madrid was just under two and a half hours. While waiting in the terminal at Madrid-Barajas Airport for his connecting flight, he made two more calls. The first was to leave a message with the Interpol hotline. He called from the Slovenian number and used his fake German accent to report that Rais was heading to an Amun safe house about fifty miles outside of Ljubljana.

  He even gave them the address.

  Immediately after ending the call, he made another to a number he had dedicated to memory. He wasn’t sure if anyone would pick up, but on the third ring the line was answered. But whoever did said nothing.

  “As Amun, we endure,” Rais said in plain English, quietly so that no one else in the terminal would hear him.

  “Who is this?” a male voice hissed. His accent sounded Serbian.

  “A brother,” Rais replied. At least I was. “Agents will soon be en route to your location. Be prepared.”

  “How do you—”

  Rais hung up before the man could finish his question. If Amun members were hiding out in the Slovenian safe house, they would either have to vacate or attempt an ambush. It didn’t matter; what was important was that the CIA and Interpol believed him to be heading east.

  He deleted the calling app from his phone and pulled the battery. In the restroom, he broke the phone in two and disposed of its pieces in three different receptacles.

  *

  Rais did not pause as he stepped off the second plane. He did not hesitate and he did not linger. He simply nodded politely to the flight attendant at the exit and followed the long line of weary passengers as they disembarked. He was, after all, incognito, and he had never been much of one for sentimentality.

  Even so, it was the first time he had stepped foot on American soil in nearly two years.

  As he made his way toward customs, he ran a hand over his shorn hair, cut close to the scalp. He casually patted at the dark, prosthetic beard, as if scratching an itch, to ensure it was still adhered firmly. He made sure to keep the omnipresent squint at the corners of his eyes (no easy task to maintain for a nine-hour flight) to give him the appearance of being several years older.

  He had gotten quite lucky, it would seem. As he made his way toward customs he heard the collective groans and complaints of would-be passengers awaiting their flight. International travel was being shut down in the United States. Intercom announcements and digital boards scrolling through rows and rows of canceled flights told him that something was definitively amiss in the world. He did not know what, and it didn’t matter. He had reached his destination.

  On the eight-hour flight from Madrid to New York, Rais slept fitfully in a window seat beside a polite middle-aged Spanish woman who, thankfully, had little interest in talking with him. In between catching bits of sleep, Rais plotted. He had no resources at his disposal, and only a bit of money to get where he needed to be. But he had his wits, and he had his knowledge, and his body was, for the most part, back in working order.

  It would have to be enough.

  Much like his long nights in the hospital, Rais plotted every scenario he could conceive of how to find Kent Steele’s residence. Finally he landed upon an idea that, if done correctly, he was confident would work.

  At John F. Kennedy International Airport, his ears filled with the gripes and outcries of irate travelers whose flights abroad were being canceled. Yet he was hardly curious. It did not concern him.

  At the customs desk, a blasé security official inspected his German passport and asked if Rais had anything to declare. He told the man no.

  Internally, however, he had much to declare.

  I endure.

  I will find Kent Steele.

  And he will suffer in unimaginable ways.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Reid’s phone chimed as the Gulfstream descended from the sky toward Athens.

  It was Langley.

  “You’re cutting it awfully close,” Reid answered. “We’re about to set down.”

  “Well, it wasn’t easy to find,” Cartwright replied somberly. “Outside of the Syrian refugee registry, there wasn’t a single mention of a Muhammad al-Mahdi.” Reid’s heart sank for a moment, thinking Greece a dead end, until the deputy director added, “But we did locate an M. Mahdi. He’s had a suite reserved at the Athens Grand for eleven days now.”

  Reid frowned. The Athens Grand is a five-star hotel , his brain told him. He had been there; he had a sudden and keen recollection of marble floors, vaulted ceilings, white columns, and suited bellboys. The way his memory was coming back was interesting, different from last time; while before he would get brief flashes of memories, like scenes cut from a movie, he was now getting names, images, and full recollections, as if the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place the more he was able to recover.

  “The Athens Grand seems like kind of a posh place for a displaced Syrian, don’t you think?” he said.

  “It’s why it was checked last, but lo and behold. The hotel isn’t far from the airport, so you should be able to get there quickly.” Cartwright sighed. “Listen, this lead was discovered by our friends at Interpol. They shared it with us, but you can bet that agents are en route right now, and that Greek police are going to know in minutes. You’ve got a very narrow window of opportunity.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to keep them at bay?” Reid implored. “We should keep this covert. If this guy is here, I don’t want him spooked.”

  “We’re already sticking our necks out big-time,” Cartwright replied. “Our hands are tied. Get there fast and see what’s what. And remember, this is one of those situations that might be worse for us if you’re right than if you’re wrong…”

  “So we’ll proceed with extreme caution,” Reid interrupted. He was beginning to feel like Kent again, the way he had back in February. A nervous excitement bubbled within him, and try as he might to stifle it, he had to admit that he enjoyed the thrill.

  “You should know, Steele, the president has ordered a cease on all international travel into the US,” Cartwright told him. “As has the entire EU, Morocco, and Mexico. Reports of infection are coming from as far north as central France…”

  Reid’s breath caught in his throat. “Another attack?”

  “We don’t think so; seems like it’s still fallout from the Barcelona outbreak. All the same, it doesn’t bode well if the WHO can’t contain it. And word is starting to get out on this. There are some in the media that are reporting suspicions of terrorist activity.”

  “We’ll get it done,” Reid promised. It was more of a vow to himself than to the CIA.

  “Report back with an update…”

  “Wait, one more thing,” Reid said hurriedly. He bounced slightly in his seat as the wheels of the Gulfstream touched down on the Athens tarmac. “That Amun assassin, Rais, he’s still out there. I’d like my girls moved to a safe house until I get back.”

  The deputy director was silent for a moment. “Kent, your girls are safe. We need you concentrating out there—”

  “I won’t be able to concentrate unless I know they’re okay,” Reid interrupted. It came out harsher than he expected. Two rows in front of him, Dr. Barnard twisted in his seat to thro
w a quizzical glance Reid’s way. He lowered his voice. “If anything were to happen to them…”

  “Kent, listen to me. Our latest intel suggests he’s moving towards Russia. Besides, with ports of entry shut down, there’s no way for him to get into the country. Your girls are fine. As soon as we hang up, I’ll call Thompson myself.”

  Reid’s nostrils flared. It wasn’t an outlandish request, nor was it a difficult thing for Cartwright to do. But he also understood the severity of their current op, and he imagined that the deputy director, much like himself, wanted to stay focused on the task at hand.

  “Fine,” he said finally. “But if we have any reason to believe otherwise…”

  “We’ll move them in a heartbeat,” Cartwright promised. “I’ll handle it myself. We’re a little short-handed right now as it is, but as soon as we have an agent available I’ll send them over and have them picked up, all right? Now get to it. Athens Grand, room 405. Quick, quiet, and keep it clean.” Cartwright hung up.

  The plane slowed to a stop and Agent Watson lowered the exit ramp. “We have a destination?”

  “Athens Grand Hotel, room 405,” Reid told them. His team exited the plane—Watson, Carver, Maria, Barnard, and himself. There was a dark SUV waiting for them on the tarmac, another arrangement by Cartwright and Riker.

  As they climbed in, Carver asked, “We have anything to go on here? A description, an age, any distinguishing features…?”

  “Outside of being Syrian, no.” Reid got into the backseat, Maria beside him and Barnard at the window. Watson drove, with Carver in the passenger side. “So our target is whoever is in room 405. We keep this non-lethal. Our aim is to detain, search, and question.”

  Watson punched the Athens Grand into the GPS console of the car. Cartwright was right; the onboard computer told them it was only a six-minute drive to reach the hotel.

  “Johansson, Carver, I want you to take the stairs up,” Reid instructed. It was strange to him how just being around the familiarity of an op could bring back his nature as an agent. It was almost as if he’d never left. “Watson and I will wait in the lobby, in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Radio down to us when you’re in position and we’ll take the elevator up.”