Agent Zero

by Jack Mars

  The girls will be safe.

  You can get to the sheikh.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “You say you care about me. You say I can trust you. This is your chance to prove it.” He thumbed the hammer of the revolver into safety position and tucked it into the back of his pants. “I’ll come with you. But I’m not giving up the gun.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” She stooped and picked up the two Glocks from the street. Then she motioned with her head and the two agents, Carver and Watson, emerged from their shadowy positions. Neither said a word as the four of them headed toward a black SUV parked on the next block.

  “Where are we going?” Reid asked as they walked.

  “Zurich,” she replied, “to the CIA’s European headquarters.” She chuckled softly.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” Maria said. “I was just thinking about the look on Cartwright’s face when he sees you. He is not going to believe his eyes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Deputy Director Cartwright peered through the two-way glass into an interrogation room, in absolute shock. Agent Zero, back from the dead.

  Johansson sat beside him in a hard plastic chair, the two of them chatting quietly to each other.

  This was troublesome. He hadn’t expected Johansson to actually bring Zero in. He had given Watson and Carver explicit instructions—don’t try anything unless Zero tries to run. Cartwright had fully expected Zero to run. Johansson had her claws in him, that much was certain.

  Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright hadn’t even been in Zurich for six hours when he got the call that Johansson had convinced Kent Steele to come in from the cold, and without a single shot fired (much to his chagrin, as she had relieved Agents Watson and Carver of their service pistols). At the time, Cartwright was asleep in a Hilton near the airport. Upon receiving the call he had leapt out of bed to dress and demanded that a car be sent to fetch him immediately.

  CIA headquarters in Europe was on the fifth floor of the American consulate in Zurich, in a contemporary-designed gray and white building that looked more like a small hotel than a government building. A large American flag flew in the courtyard. A sturdy steel fence surrounded the perimeter, accessible only by an electronic gate with a guard house and twenty-four-hour security detail.

  Cartwright flashed his badge at the security guard and the gate slid aside for him. It was nearly two a.m.; Johansson and Steele had gotten on a plane in Slovenia and flew straight to Zurich, where a waiting car picked them up and brought them to the consulate. They had arrived at the consulate before him. Cartwright didn’t much care for that part—Johansson had waited until the plane was nearly wheels-down before she made the call that she was bringing Steele in. Cartwright had been asleep for less than an hour when his cell phone rang, mere inches from his head, startling him twice—first when waking him, and then again with the news.

  He showed his identification three more times before he was granted admission to the fifth floor—once at the building’s entrance, again at the elevators, and a third time to the seated guard who greeted him when the doors opened.

  They knew his face, but it was protocol. It was also irritating.

  An executive assistant led him to the debriefing room, where he glimpsed in on Johansson and Steele through the two-way glass. He told the assistant to turn on the camera and record everything.

  Then he took a breath, put on his best smile, and went into the room. The two agents abruptly stopped talking and looked up at him. At first, Zero didn’t seem to recognize him, but after a few moments he narrowed his eyes and nodded once.

  “Deputy Director,” he said.

  Cartwright’s smile widened. Zero’s face was bruised and swollen. There were bandages on his neck and forehead. He looked like hell. “Good to see you, Zero.”

  Kent shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine.” Cartwright lowered himself into a chair opposite Kent and folded his hands atop the table. “Hello, Kent.” He turned to Johansson. “Leave us, please.”

  She glanced over at Kent as if waiting for his approval—has she forgotten who the boss is here?—but he nodded again and she left the room.

  Once the door was closed, Cartwright cleared his throat and began. “Ordinarily you would know how this sort of thing works—you tell us everything, start to finish, and we corroborate it with whatever evidence we have available. But I have questions first, so let’s start with those.” He pointed to a camera in the upper corner opposite his seat. “Everything said in here is on the record. We’re not going to hook you up to a polygraph because, frankly, we know you can beat that. We ask that you be completely honest. Treat this room like any court of law. The penalty for perjury is imprisonment—and you know all too well where we send agents that turn their back on us.”

  Kent nodded again, saying nothing. Cartwright was having trouble reading him. Did Steele know that he had been the one to send Reidigger and Morris after him? If he did, he wasn’t showing it.

  “All right then,” said Cartwright, a little too loudly. “I think it’s been well established that contrary to what we believed, you’re not dead. So where have you been these last nineteen months?”

  “Riverdale, in the Bronx,” Kent said simply. “I’ve been teaching European history.”

  Cartwright stared blankly. “Is that a joke?”

  “No.”

  “Under what alias?”

  “Reid Lawson.”

  “Really.” Cartwright almost scoffed. In the follow-up report after Zero was announced KIA, they ran checks on every one of his aliases—but they hadn’t bothered to check his birth name. Even Cartwright himself never would have thought that he’d be so obvious. Yet there he had been, hiding in plain sight the entire time. “And your girls? How are they?”

  Kent’s eyes narrowed. “Not in New York, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Good,” Cartwright said gently. “I’d hate to see anything happen to them.” He had never met Steele’s girls, but he was aware of them. It was hard for him to imagine the cold, seemingly indifferent Agent Zero as a loving father.

  “I want answers too.” Kent leaned forward, his steely gaze unblinking. “Did you send Agent Morris after me?”

  Cartwright frowned deeply. “No. No, of course not. In fact, upon further investigation, it seems you were correct—Agent Morris was working with the Fraternity. We did a little digging and discovered a bank account in the Cayman Islands with more than two million dollars in it. It was under the name of a fake holdings company. The CEO was listed as Morris’s grandmother—except she’s been dead for seven years.” Cartwright had been shocked to discover Morris’s involvement with the Fraternity, but it was fortuitous for him, since it took the scrutiny off of Morris’s failed attempt on Zero’s life. “My turn. Did you kill Clint Morris?”

  “No,” said Kent. “But I witnessed it. He was killed by an Amun assassin—”

  “Amun?”

  “That’s what the Fraternity calls themselves.”

  Cartwright’s brow furrowed. “What does it mean?”

  “Amun was an ancient Egyptian god,” Kent explained. “I don’t have all the details yet, but I believe this group is based on a fanatical cult that died out in the sixth century.”

  “What are they after?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Some vague notion of ‘a return to old ways.’”

  Cartwright smirked. “What, like pharaohs and pyramids?”

  “Don’t be pedantic,” Kent said. Cartwright’s smirk vanished. “I’m not certain what they aim to achieve, but I do know that at the height of their influence, Amun’s priests were powerful. They controlled regimes. They whispered in the pharaoh’s ear and he listened. I believe they want to do something similar again—to control. But just like they did with the eighteenth dynasty of Egypt, if they want to regain control, they’d first have to destroy the established hierarchy.”

  Cartwright
would never admit it out loud, but he was a little impressed. This Agent Zero sitting across from him was a far cry from the self-assured, borderline-haughty Kent Steele that he knew before. “When do they plan to do this? Do we have a timetable?”

  Kent shrugged one shoulder. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. That’s why I’m here—I need help to get to them.”

  “And we’ll give it to you,” Cartwright said. It was an outright lie. His intention was to take Steele’s debrief, pin the murders of Reidigger and Morris on him, and then throw him in a black-site cell for the rest of his life—which would be rather short, once they organized an unfortunate accident to befall him. “But first, a few more questions. Did you kill Alan Reidigger?”

  “No. He was dead when I found him in the apartment here in Zurich.”

  “And why did you go to the apartment in Zurich?”

  “A Russian bomb-maker had Reidigger’s address in his phone. I believe that someone gave the address to the Russian, who in turn gave it to the Iranians—the same men that took me from my home in New York four days ago.”

  “And who is this someone? Morris wouldn’t have had access to that information.” Cartwright’s eyes narrowed as he realized Kent’s insinuation. “Are you suggesting that someone within the CIA—?”

  Before he could finish his question, someone rapped twice on the door and then pushed it open without waiting for a reply. It was the executive assistant, a woman in a gray business suit with her hair pulled up in a tight bun.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said politely. “There’s a—”

  “Excuse me,” Cartwright said sharply, “this is a closed meeting, and we are not finished here.”

  The woman held out a cell phone. “But you have a call, sir. It’s Director Mullen. He said it’s urgent.”

  Cartwright’s throat ran dry.

  Kent Steele sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You’re going to want to take that,” Kent said.

  Cartwright took the phone. “Thank you,” he said curtly. He waited until the woman left and then put the phone to his ear. Kent raised an eyebrow, but otherwise showed no emotion.

  “Director,” said Cartwright.

  “Cartwright,” Mullen barked through the phone. “Do you enjoy your position?”

  “Most of the time, sir.” Though this was not one of those times, he thought bitterly.

  “Then you’d better have one hell of a good explanation for why the goddamn DNI just called me directly!” Mullen shouted.

  The color drained from Cartwright’s face. The DNI? How?

  Mullen may have been the director of the CIA, but his boss was the Director of National Intelligence—and the only person the DNI answered to was the president himself.

  Cartwright was at a loss for words. “Sir, I… I don’t know…”

  “Save it,” Mullen snapped. “The director just called for an emergency conference…” Mullen continued, but Cartwright barely heard it because at the same time, Kent Steele rose from his seat and headed toward the door.

  Cartwright lowered the phone and hissed, “Where do you think you’re going? We’re not finished here! Sit down!”

  “Are you sure?” Kent asked. “Seems like we’re finished here.”

  “Cartwright? Cartwright! Are you listening to me?” Mullen’s voice sounded small and distant.

  Cartwright put the phone back to his ear as Steele left the room. “Sir, yes. Sorry. Emergency conference. When?”

  “Right now.” Mullen hung up.

  Cartwright gulped.

  He hastily left the room to find Steele gone. But someone was waiting outside in the hall—Maria Johansson leaned against the smooth wall with her arms folded and a satisfied smirk on her face. “Seems there’s an emergency conference,” she said casually. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Cartwright fumed. He balled his fists angrily at his sides, but maintained a calm expression on his face as they walked side by side down the hall.

  “How?” he asked quietly. “How in the hell did you contact the DNI directly?”

  Johansson shrugged. “You haven’t been keeping up on your political appointments, have you, Deputy Director?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “My father,” said Johansson, “was appointed to the National Security Council six months ago. I heard the recommendation came from John Hillis himself.”

  Cartwright was aghast. “Your father…?” She was right; he hadn’t been paying close enough attention. His eyes widened with sudden realization. Her father was a former senator who had previously sat on the Homeland Security Council. And in the time it had taken Cartwright to get from his hotel to the consulate, she had managed to contact the DNI. Which meant…

  Which meant that Steele’s debrief was little more than a bid to buy some time while the conference was arranged. They had played him, plain and simple.

  “I don’t believe this,” he murmured.

  “You should get used to that.” Johansson smirked again. “I think the next hour or so is going to be quite eye-opening.”

  *

  The lights were dimmed in Conference Room C, the smallest in the facility. There were six people present—Cartwright, Steele, Johansson, two other deputy directors, and the Director of Operations in Zurich, who oversaw the daily activity of the European headquarters. There were two wide LCD screens hastily installed at either end of the conference table. On one was CIA Director Mullen, his bald head shining more than usual in the bright light of his home office.

  On the other screen was an older man, in his mid-sixties. The skin beneath his chin hung in jowls but his eyes were as sharp and observant as a bird of prey. Director of National Intelligence John Hillis did not look pleased.

  A young male technician plugged two cables into the back of Hillis’s monitor. “Sir?” he said. “Can you hear us?”

  “Yes. Thank you, son.”

  “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” The technician left in a hurry.

  Hillis’s gaze floated around the table before he spoke. “I have called this emergency conference in order to attempt to substantiate claims that have very recently come to my attention,” he said sternly. “These claims involve potential terrorism within the Central Intelligence Agency. I find this to be gravely sobering, and it is of the utmost importance that we get to the bottom of this immediately.” His discerning eye fell on Kent. “Agent Steele.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have the floor. I will remind you that everything you say is on record, is being recorded, and will be shared with both the National Security Council and the Homeland Security Council.”

  “Understood, sir. Thank you.” Kent Steele rose from his seat. “We didn’t have time for a complete debrief before this conference was called, so I would like to do that now, on the record. Some parts of what I’m about to tell you may sound beyond belief. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Given our choice in careers and what we’ve all seen, I think you’ll agree that the events of the last four days are not implausible.” He took a deep breath. Cartwright noticed Johansson nod assuredly his way. “Nineteen months ago, Kent Steele, also known as Agent Zero, was announced killed in action. Yet here I am. For the past year and a half, I’ve been living in New York with my two daughters, teaching European history at Columbia University. Up until four days ago, I had no memory of ever being an agent in the CIA.”

  No memory? Cartwright blinked in surprise. What’s his angle here?

  Steele told them everything. He began with his kidnapping from his home in the Bronx by a trio of Iranian men. Waking up in a basement in Paris. Having a memory suppression chip torn from his skull. At that, Cartwright was in utter shock. A memory suppressor… he knew that such things existed. If it was true, it was a brilliant ploy, and he had no doubt whatsoever that Alan Reidigger had a hand in it. Alan had double-crossed Cartwright, from the very moment he had volunteered to kill his best friend right up to his untimely murde
r.

  Kent told them about the bomb-making facility in Belgium. He told them about finding Reidigger’s body in Zurich, along with a photograph that led him to Rome. He explained how he reconnected with Johansson and about Morris’s subsequent attack.

  Cartwright’s mind was reeling a mile a minute as Steele spoke. If he’s being honest, and his memory really was gone, perhaps he doesn’t remember who came for him nineteen months ago. If Zero did recall, he wasn’t saying. But that would make sense too; he would be stupid to call Cartwright out right then and there. If he remembered, he had a trump card. Even if he truly didn’t, the deputy director would still have to tread extremely carefully from that moment on.

  “Agent Johansson came for me in Maribor,” Steele said as he came to his conclusion. “She convinced me that the best course of action was for me to come in, despite my distrust. Together we have deduced that this organization, Amun, could not have gotten all of their information from Agent Morris. He would not have known Agent Reidigger’s or Johansson’s whereabouts, and he certainly would not have known that Reidigger knew my location. Therefore, we have strong reason to believe that someone higher than the field-agent level in the CIA is supplying Amun with intel.”

  Steele fell quiet. The conference room was devastatingly silent. Cartwright could tell by their expressions that the other directors were equally stunned. Even Mullen, who ordinarily had complete control over the subtleties of his reactions, was clearly astonished.

  “One final thing, Directors,” said Kent. “I understand that my actions of late were in no way sanctioned by the CIA or the US government. I’ve probably broken a dozen laws in the last twenty-four hours alone. I am fully aware of this, and I will accept whatever punitive measures you deem necessary.” He murmured, “Thank you,” and took his seat once again.

  Director Hillis cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Agent Steele, but I believe we all need a moment to process what you’ve just told us.” He tented his fingers in front of his mouth and sighed into them. “If this is all true, it is an extremely bizarre set of circumstances—but as you said, not entirely implausible. These are very serious allegations, and we have to consider them carefully.”