Recall Zero
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R E C A L L Z E R O
(AN AGENT ZERO SPY THRILLER—BOOK 6)
J A C K M A R S
Jack Mars
Jack Mars is the USA Today bestselling author of the LUKE STONE thriller series, which includes seven books. He is also the author of the new FORGING OF LUKE STONE prequel series, comprising three books (and counting); and of the AGENT ZERO spy thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).
ANY MEANS NECESSARY (book #1), which has over 800 five star reviews, is available as a free download on Kobo!
Jack loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.Jackmarsauthor.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!
Copyright © 2019 by Jack Mars. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS BY JACK MARS
LUKE STONE THRILLER SERIES
ANY MEANS NECESSARY (Book #1)
OATH OF OFFICE (Book #2)
SITUATION ROOM (Book #3)
OPPOSE ANY FOE (Book #4)
PRESIDENT ELECT (Book #5)
OUR SACRED HONOR (Book #6)
HOUSE DIVIDED (Book #7)
FORGING OF LUKE STONE PREQUEL SERIES
PRIMARY TARGET (Book #1)
PRIMARY COMMAND (Book #2)
PRIMARY THREAT (Book #3)
AN AGENT ZERO SPY THRILLER SERIES
AGENT ZERO (Book #1)
TARGET ZERO (Book #2)
HUNTING ZERO (Book #3)
TRAPPING ZERO (Book #4)
FILE ZERO (Book #5)
RECALL ZERO (Book #6)
ASSASSIN ZERO (Book #7)
FILE ZERO (Book #5) - Summary
As an international crisis threatens to spark a new world war, shadows within the highest levels of the US government work to further their own plot. The only person outside their ranks that knows about it is CIA Agent Kent Steele, who makes a desperate bid to save the lives of millions while keeping those close to him out of the hands of those whose interests would be served.
Agent Zero: His lost memories now restored, Zero took what he knew from years earlier to the highest level, the President of the United States—which only inspired those working behind the scenes to target the president and blame the assassination on Iran. Zero successfully stopped the assassination attempt, and in the process discovered that his friend and ally, Agent John Watson, was the one that killed Zero’s wife and the mother of his children, at the behest of CIA superiors.
Maya and Sara Lawson: Both of Zero’s daughters have grown keen and capable in the wake of multiple threats on their lives, but they are unaware of the harrowing details surrounding their mother’s demise that their father recently discovered.
Agent Maria Johansson: Maria’s cooperation with the Ukrainians was based on discovering whether her father, a high-ranking member of the National Security Council, was involved in the conspiracy. She discovered that he was not, and after helping Zero stop the assassination attempt, broke ties with the Ukrainian FIS. Her father was named as interim CIA director in the wake of the scandal and ensuing arrests.
Alan Reidigger: Zero’s best friend and a fellow CIA agent that all thought was long dead, Reidigger reappears under the guise of Mitch, the burly mechanic that helped Zero previously. His appearance has been drastically altered, but with Zero’s memories back, he was quickly able to recognize his old friend.
Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright: Though Zero was dubious about Cartwright’s innocence in the plot to initiate a war in the Middle East, Cartwright proved himself loyal when he helped Zero escape from The Division. However, Cartwright was gunned down in a basement while holding the mercenaries off.
Deputy Director Ashleigh Riker and Director Mullen: The two heads of the CIA that were involved in the plot and actively working against Zero were both arrested in the wake of the assassination attempt, along with dozens of others that included much of the president’s cabinet.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
PROLOGUE
Karina Pavlo watched as the two men on either side of her at the conference table rose from their seats. She rose as well, because she knew she was supposed to, though her legs felt weak and tremulous. She watched as they smiled amiably at one another, these two men in expensive suits, these starkly contrasting heads of state. She said nothing as they concluded their business by shaking hands across the table.
Karina was still in shock over what she had just heard; over the words that had spilled from her own lips.
She had never been to the White House before, but the part of the structure that she was visiting was one rarely in the public eye. The basement (if it could even be called that, since it hardly resembled anyone’s idea of a basement) beneath the North Portico contained all manner of impedimenta, including but not at all limited to a bowling alley, laundry facilities, carpenter’s shop, dental office, the Situation Room, the president’s workspace, three conference rooms, and a comfortable waiting area into which Karina had been ushered upon her arrival.
It was there in that waiting room that a Secret Service agent had taken her personal items, her cell phone and a small black clutch, and then asked that she remove her dark blazer. The agent had checked it thoroughly, every pocket and seam, and then performed a thorough yet mechanical pat-down with her arms held out at ninety degrees. He asked her to open her mouth, to lift her tongue, to remove her shoes, and to remain still while he ran a metal-detecting wand over her.
The only things Karina had been allowed to bring into the meeting were the clothes on her back and the pearl stud earrings she wore. Yet the rigor of the security was not out of the ordinary; Karina had been an interpreter for some years now, had served in chambers of the
United Nations and translated for multiple heads of state. Born in Ukraine, Russian-educated in Volgograd, and having spent enough time in the US to qualify for a permanent visa, Karina considered herself a citizen of the world. She was fluent in four languages and conversational in three more. Her security clearance was as high as any civilian’s could be.
Yet this was the big time. The opportunity to visit the White House to interpret a meeting between the new presidents of both Russia and the United States had seemed, not twenty minutes earlier, as if it would become the new pinnacle of her career.
How very wrong she was.
To her left, Russian President Aleksandr Kozlovsky buttoned the topmost button of his suit jacket, a fluid and practiced gesture that appeared irrationally casual to Karina, considering what she had just heard uttered only moments prior. At six-foot-three, Kozlovsky towered over the both of them, his thin build and long-limbed gait giving him the appearance of a cellar spider. His features were bland, his face smooth and wrinkle-free, as if it were still a work in progress.
Eighteen months ago, the former Russian president, Dmitri Ivanov, had retired. At least that’s what they were calling it. In the wake of the enormity of the American scandal, it was simultaneously discovered that the Russian government had been colluding, not only lending their support to the US in the Middle East, but biding their time and waiting for the world’s focus to be on the Strait of Hormuz so they could seize Ukrainian oil-producing assets in the Baltic Sea.
No arrests had been made in Russia. No sentence handed down, no prison time served. Under pressure from the UN and the world at large, Ivanov simply resigned from his position and was summarily replaced by Kozlovsky, who Karina knew was far more of an understudy than he was any sort of political rival, as the media made him out to be.
Kozlovsky smiled smugly. “A pleasure, President Harris.” To Pavlo, he simply gave a curt nod before turning sharply and striding out of the room.
Twenty minutes earlier, the Secret Service man had escorted Karina to the smallest of three conference rooms in the White House basement, inside which was a long dark table of some exotic wood, eight leather chairs, a television screen, and nothing else. Not a soul. When Karina had been tasked as interpreter, she had assumed the meeting would involve cameras, news reporters, members of both governments’ cabinets, the press and media.
But it had been only her, and then Kozlovsky, and then Samuel Harris.
President of the United States Samuel Harris, standing to her right, was seventy years old, half bald, his face creased with age and stress and his shoulders perpetually slumped from a back injury he had sustained while serving in Vietnam. Yet he moved with great purpose, and his husky voice was far more commanding than anyone would have assumed he could muster.
Harris had easily defeated the former president, Eli Pierson, in the election the previous November. Despite some sympathy from the public due to the assassination attempt on Pierson’s life eighteen months earlier, as well as the former president’s fairly noble efforts to rebuild his cabinet in the wake of the Iranian scandal that had come to light, America had lost their faith in him.
To Karina, Harris was reminiscent of a vulture, made all the more apt by the way he had swooped in and stolen the votes from Pierson like a carrion bird tearing entrails from the carcass of far too many mistakes and trust in the wrong people. Harris, as the Democratic candidate, had barely had to make any promises other than to unearth and promptly end any further corruption in the White House. But as Karina Pavlo had only just discovered, the further corruption in the White House was entrenched firmly—and perhaps solely—in the office of the presidency.
The visit from Russian President Kozlovsky was well publicized, covered by nearly every media outlet in the US. It was the first time since the deceitful cabal in both governments had been revealed that the two new world leaders had met face to face. There had been press conferences, constant media coverage, meetings with a hundred cameras in the room to discuss how the two nations might move forward from near catastrophe in an amiable and aligned manner.
But Karina now knew it was all a sham. The last several minutes that she had spent with the two world leaders, the spider and the vulture, had proven that. Kozlovsky’s English was rudimentary at best and Harris spoke not a lick of Russian, so her presence had been warranted and their speech became hers.
It had started off innocently enough, pleasantries exchanged, English passing from Harris to her and then from her to Kozlovsky in Russian as if Karina were a translating automaton. The two men held each other’s gaze, not once asking her questions or even acknowledging her presence once the meeting began. She mechanically regurgitated their words like a processor, entering her ears in one language and exiting her throat as another.
It was not until the sinister motivation for the private meeting unveiled itself that Karina realized that this—this handful of minutes in a locked room in the subterranean level of the White House with only the two of them and an interpreter present—was the real reason for the Russian president’s visit to the United States. It was all she could do to translate as dispassionately as possible and desperately hope that her own expression hadn’t betrayed her.
Suddenly Karina Pavlo became quite aware that she was unlikely to leave the White House basement alive.
With Kozlovsky having exited the room, President Harris turned to her, flashing his leering smile as if the conversation she’d been privy to hadn’t just happened, as if this was nothing more than a formality. “Thank you, Ms. Pavlo,” he said paternally. “Your experience and expertise have been appreciated and invaluable.”
Perhaps it was the shock of what she had just learned that prompted her to force a smile of her own. Or perhaps it was the ease with which Harris seemed to summon such a polite demeanor while full well knowing that the interpreter had just heard every single word, and in fact had repeated each and every one of them to the other party. In any case, Karina found her lips curling upward against her will and her voice saying, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. President.”
He smiled again. She did not like it, his smile; there was no mirth in it. It was more leering than cheerful. She had seen it a hundred times on television, on his campaign trail, but in person it was even more awkward to witness. It made it seem as if he knew something that she did not—which was certainly true.
An alarm blared in her head. She wondered how far she might get if she shoved him and made a run for it. Not far, she imagined; she had seen at least six Secret Service agents in the corridors of the basement, and she was equally certain that the route she’d taken down there would be guarded.
The president cleared his throat. “You know,” Harris told her, “there was no one else in this room for good reason. As I’m sure you can imagine.” He chuckled slightly, as if the threat to global security of which Karina had just been apprised was a joke. “You are the only one in the entire world that is aware of the content of this conversation. If it were to leak, I would know who leaked it. And things would not go well for that person.”
The smile remained on Harris’s face, but it was in no way reassuring.
She forced her lips to smile graciously. “Of course, sir. Discretion is one of my best qualities.”
He reached over and patted her hand. “I believe you.”
I know too much.
“And I trust you’ll remain silent.”
He’s placating me. There’s no way they’re going to let me live.
“In fact, I’m certain I’ll have a need for your skills again in the near future.”
There was nothing Harris could say to dissuade her instincts. The president could have asked for her hand in marriage right there on the spot and still the prickling sensation at the nape of her neck that told her she was in imminent danger would linger.
Harris stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “Come along. I’ll walk you out.” He led the way out of the room and Karina followed. Her knees felt weak
. She was in one of the most secure places on the planet, surrounded by trained agents of the Secret Service. As they reached the corridor she saw that the half dozen agents were posted there, standing with their backs to the walls with their hands clasped in front of them, waiting for the president.
Or possibly for her.
Stay calm.
“Joe.” Harris motioned for the agent who had first retrieved her from the waiting room. “See to it that Ms. Pavlo here gets back to her hotel safely, yes? Best car we’ve got.”
“Yes sir,” said the agent with a slight nod. A strange nod, to her. A nod of understanding.
“Thank you,” she said as graciously as she could muster, “but I can take a cab. My hotel is not far.”
“Nonsense,” Harris said pleasantly. “What’s the point of working for the president if you can’t enjoy some of the perks?” He chuckled. “Thank you again. It was a pleasure meeting you. We’ll be in touch.”
He shook her hand. She shook his. His smile lingered, but his eyes betrayed him.
Karina had little choice. She followed the Secret Service agent, the man called Joe (if that was his real name), through the White House sublevel. Every muscle in her body was taut, anxious, ready at a moment’s notice for fight or flight to kick in. But to her surprise, the agent actually escorted her up a set of stairs and down a hall and to another door that led outside. He guided her wordlessly to a small parking garage with a private fleet of vehicles, and then he opened the passenger door of a black SUV for her.
Don’t get in.
She got in. If she fought now or tried to run she’d never even make it to the gate.
Two minutes later they were off of White House property, driving down Pennsylvania Avenue. He’s taking me somewhere to do it. They’ll get rid of me elsewhere. Somewhere no one will ever find me.