File Zero

by Jack Mars

  Zero shook his head. “They didn’t. They probably do now.” Thanks to Hillis. He had little doubt that the DNI would be reporting to Mullen that Zero had been present in the Situation Room and had requested to see the president alone. “I hope you understand how dangerous this is for me. For my family. But it’s important. This could save hundreds of thousands of lives.”

  “All right. Let’s just say, for a moment, that you’re right. You bring this to me now, when it’s almost too late? What do you want me to do about it?”

  “It’s not too late. You’re the only person who could take swift and immediate action.” Zero paused for a moment. “Dismiss them. Fire them. Get rid of them.”

  Pierson scoffed. “You’re asking me to fire my Secretary of Defense while we’re actively dealing with an international crisis?”

  “No, Mr. President. I’m asking you to fire your entire cabinet.”

  Pierson paled. He turned away from Zero and paced slowly. “Zero, I really want to trust you. But you’re out of your mind if you think I can do that and survive the American public, let alone the next election.”

  “That’s what they’re counting on, sir.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to be so drastic. We could open an investigation—”

  “You can’t,” Zero argued. “We have no idea how deep this goes. It’s not just Rigby, Holmes, Hillis, Mullen. It would require more than that. FBI, NSA, congressmen, senators… possibly even the VP.”

  Pierson spun to face him, a flash of anger crossing his face. “There’s a line, Zero—”

  “And crossing it means war.” Zero wasn’t backing down from this and he wasn’t about to apologize. It was his only chance.

  “I’ve known Cole for decades. There’s no way he would keep something like this from me.”

  Zero shook his head sadly. “Believing that makes him the perfect person to do it.”

  Both of their heads turned abruptly at the sound of a sharp knock at the door to the Oval Office. “One moment!” Pierson called out.

  Zero had run out of time. He tugged the USB stick from the laptop and pushed it into Pierson’s hand. “Keep this. Keep it safe. Listen to the other files when you’re able. They’ll sound vague, possibly coded, but if you put them in the context of what I’ve told you, I think you’ll see that I’m right.”

  Pierson nodded. “It’s my military. I won’t let them start a war.”

  “They’ve been planning this for a long time. They’ll find a way. Don’t trust anyone, Mr. President. You can’t afford to.”

  There was a second knock, and then the office door swung open. On the other side were DNI Hillis and Chief of Staff Peter Holmes.

  “Sir,” said Holmes. “We have a statement prepared whenever you’re ready.”

  “Agent Zero.” Hillis smiled pleasantly. “Director Mullen would like to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” said Zero. He had no intention of visiting Mullen or going anywhere near Langley.

  “Thank you, Zero.” Pierson shook his left hand. As he did, Zero leaned in and said, in practically a whisper, “The strait. Iran will close the strait, and that will force your hand. They’re counting on it. Don’t let them.” Then louder he said, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  He headed for the door, passing Peter Holmes as the Chief of Staff entered the office. He had a bad feeling that he hadn’t been as persuasive as he could have been, or could have said more. Pierson was putting his trust in the wrong people, and those people would still be around him when the cards came tumbling down. They’d be the ones whispering in the president’s ear, while Zero—well, the CIA knew now that he had come here, that he had spoken to the president alone.

  They’ve already come after me. Now they have nothing to lose.

  Did I roll the dice and fail?

  As he strode past Hillis, the director turned on a heel and followed. “There’s a car waiting outside to take you to Langley.”

  Zero did not pause, though the DNI kept pace. “I drove myself here. I’ll drive myself there.”

  Hillis’s fake smile did not leave his face. “I don’t think you understand, Agent Zero. I’ll be escorting you there personally.” As he said it, two Secret Service agents fell in stride with them. “Now.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Zero’s throat ran dry. He was in the White House with a hundred people and a thousand cameras. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight his way out of this. The pair of Secret Service agents flanked him on either side, almost shoulder to shoulder.

  “Let’s keep those hands where we can see them,” Hillis said casually.

  Outside, the two Secret Service agents led him toward a waiting black SUV. The DNI got in the passenger-side back seat and motioned for Zero to get in on the other. As soon as the doors were closed again, the Secret Service men retreated back into the White House.

  Behind the wheel was a man clad all in black wearing aviator sunglasses. Beside him was another, similarly dressed and wearing a black ball cap backward on his head. Zero recognized the insignia on the hat: it was a coiled silver snake set in an upside-down triangle.

  They were from the Division.

  Hillis sighed. “This is all just a real shame. You were our top guy. You could have played ball. You could have stayed dead.”

  Zero said nothing, though neither of those were options for him.

  “You think we’re the enemy, but we’re not. This is for the greater good, Zero. The good of the American people. The good of the country. Everyone.”

  Not the innocents who will be slaughtered. Not the people whose homes will be bombed, whose families and neighbors will be killed all for the sake of a resource. But still he said nothing.

  “It will be better for all of us if you don’t try anything,” Hillis continued. “These two gentlemen are pretty disgruntled at the moment, considering their two friends that were found dead in Arlington.”

  Zero didn’t recognize either of them the way he had with Baker. Neither of them looked particularly pleasant. The man in the passenger seat held a pistol in his lap.

  “You’re no good to anyone dead,” said the DNI. “Least of all your little girls.”

  “Threaten them again,” he said quietly, “and I’ll kill all of you.”

  Hillis sighed. “You’ve been in the field too long, my friend. This sort of situation can’t be shot at. This is politics. This is the game. Are you really going to make death threats to the Director of National Intelligence? Because we don’t have to go to Langley. We can go straight to Dulles and I can put you on a military plane to H-6.”

  Zero had been to Hell-Six, the nickname for the CIA black site in Morocco, several times. On some occasions he had personally escorted known terrorists there; other times it had been for interrogations of the prisoners held there. But calling it a prison wasn’t accurate. It was an arrangement of holes in the ground where people were thrown and forgotten, left to die, rot, and eventually become the hole.

  Hillis nodded to the driver. “Let’s go.”

  The mercenary turned the key and the engine rumbled to life.

  Before he could shift into drive, white smoke jetted out of the air conditioning vents.

  “What the he—” The shout of the merc in the passenger seat was cut short by a racking spasm of a cough. The white smoke poured out of the vents, filling the SUV in just a few seconds.

  Zero’s eyes burned suddenly and he found himself caught in the paroxysm of a violent cough. He could hear the others, the driver and Hillis, doing the same. His throat burned fiercely; his eyes felt scorched even as he squeezed them shut.

  He tried to pull the collar of his shirt up over his mouth and nose, but the gas had come so quickly and unexpectedly that there was no time. He hacked uncontrollably, unable to breathe, while the roiling nausea in his stomach threatened to make him vomit.

  Then he heard a sound—the click of a car door. There was an arm on his, tugging. He didn’t fight it. He went with i
t, clambering out of the car and falling to the pavement. The door slammed shut again. The arms hefted him up; they weren’t strong enough to lift him, but he rose to his feet, still choking and rasping, his eyes burning so fiercely that he couldn’t see a thing through the tears.

  The arms guided him a short distance away, Zero stumbling and staggering and still coughing. A car door opened and he was shoved inside. The driver’s side door opened. The engine started.

  “Here.” A female voice. A damp cloth in his hand. He pressed it over his face and wiped his eyes, even as he continued to cough and wheeze into it.

  “Thank—” He tried to speak, but coughed again. “Thanks.” The car jolted forward, the tires screeching slightly. “Thanks, Sanders.”

  As his vision began to clear, he saw her hazy figure beside him, staring straight ahead, focusing as she guided the car out to the street and around a corner. Emilia Sanders, the supposed president’s aide, looked different now. She wore an expression of grim determination as she told him, “That was extremely foolish.”

  “Sorry?” he rasped.

  “Why did you get in the car with them?” she demanded.

  “What was I—” He coughed once more. “What was I supposed to do? Punch the Director of National Intelligence?”

  “Considering what you know is at stake? Yes. You should have punched the Director of National Intelligence.”

  He wiped his face once more with the damp cloth and then balled it up and tossed it to the floor of the car. “Who are you?”

  She said nothing in response.

  “If you think I won’t jump out of a moving car, you’ve got another think coming.” He reached for the door handle.

  “I’m not going to tell you my name.” She said it quickly—and not in English, though he understood it nonetheless.

  “You’re Ukrainian.” He scoffed. This was the last thing he wanted, getting mixed up with them again. “Are you FIS?” The Foreign Intelligence Service was Ukraine’s version of the CIA.

  “I was, when I went undercover two and a half years ago,” she admitted. “But now… I don’t know what I am. The FIS is compromised. Russian spies have infiltrated their ranks. Many of my superiors have been bought.”

  “So now you’re just a freedom fighter?” he mused.

  “I suppose.”

  “So how much do you know?”

  “I know that my cover is likely blown,” Sanders said bitingly. “Because you made a stupid decision and got in the car. Did you at least give the president what you had?”

  “How in the hell do you know about…?” He trailed off, examining her. Her height. Her build. Even her facial features. Son of a bitch. “It was you. You posed as my wife to get into my safe deposit box. Where are my documents?”

  “Safe.”

  “Not good enough.” He reached over with his left hand and buckled his seatbelt.

  “What are you—” Sanders started to ask, but before she could finish Zero grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the side.

  The car skidded wildly into oncoming traffic. Brakes squealed and car horns blared as the sedan turned sharply, threatening to slam into the brick façade of a bank. Sanders slammed her foot on the brake, and the car screeched to a stop less than two feet from impact.

  “Are you insane?!” she shrieked at him. “I am trying to help you!”

  “Then answer me!” he hissed back.

  “Let go of the wheel!”

  He did so, and she put the car in reverse. More car horns honked angrily as she pulled back onto the road, letting loose a fusillade of muttered curses in Ukrainian.

  “We’ve been following you for a long time,” she said at last. “We knew about the case you were building because of your friend, Johansson. It wasn’t difficult to tail you to the bank. We hacked their system and found your deposit box. When you went dark for those two years, we let it lie. But when you were activated again, we took the documents for safekeeping. We weren’t sure if you could be trusted with them, considering your lapsed memory. Or who else might know about them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “My handler has them.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Richmond. He’s hiding out in Richmond and he has the documents. He’s been reviewing them. We’re afraid your case is thin, Zero.”

  “I have evidence of the conspiracy,” he argued. “Those documents would provide just cause for the dismissal of those involved.”

  “You would be extremely naïve to believe that would work. They’ll fight it.”

  “You’re not much of a people person, are you, Sanders?” He scoffed lightly. “Where are we going?”

  “To a rendezvous,” Sanders answered cryptically. “What did you give the president?”

  “Audio files,” he told her. “I had them hidden.”

  “And you think this will be enough?”

  “We’ll see,” Zero answered quietly. “The ball is in Pierson’s court, for now. There’s no way I’m going to get close to him again. They won’t let me. Besides, they’re going to be looking for me.”

  “The CIA?” Sanders asked.

  Zero looked out the window as Washington, DC, passed by. “Everyone.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Add just a little more color under the eyes.” White House Chief of Staff Peter Holmes watched as a makeup artist carefully applied small amounts of foundation to President Pierson’s cheeks, adding some color to his pallor. “No offense, Mr. President, but you’ve looked better.”

  “No kidding,” Pierson murmured.

  Holmes had his suspicions about what the CIA agent, Steele, had said to him when they were alone. But he hadn’t asked, hadn’t said anything at all about it. “Are you ready to address the nation, sir?”

  “No,” Pierson said flatly. “I’m not.” To the makeup artist he said, “Please excuse us.”

  The woman nodded and abruptly left the office.

  As soon as she was gone, Pierson rose from his chair and tugged the white cloth that had been draped over his neck to protect his clothes. He paced anxiously.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Holmes asked cautiously.

  “You’ve been with me since the beginning, Pete.”

  Here it comes, Holmes thought. They had prepared for this.

  “You’ve never given me any reason to suspect you of lying or withholding information.”

  “Of course not, sir.” It was true; Holmes had been the Chief of Staff since Pierson’s inauguration. Their relationship went back even before then; Holmes had previously served in the House of Representatives for Pierson’s home state of New York. The president had appealed to him on behalf of his business dealings to assist with legislation that would aid in aggressive expansion.

  Not more than fifty years ago his position would have been known as Assistant to the President, and though he was glad for the change in title the former might have been more apt. As the Chief of Staff, he managed the president’s schedule, arranged meetings, and controlled the flow of information in and out of the White House.

  In essence, Holmes’s involvement in the upcoming war effort was instrumental.

  “I need the truth now more than ever.” Pierson faced him, locking eyes, imploring him. “I trust you, Pete. I need you to tell me what’s real.”

  Holmes sighed heavily. “I am so sorry, Eli,” he said dramatically, using the president’s first name for effect. “I didn’t want you to have to hear this from me, and I wanted to wait until after your address to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Pierson raised his eyebrow.

  Holmes paused for a long moment. “We have received confirmation from the CIA, straight from Director Mullen himself, that Agent Steele has gone rogue.”

  Pierson frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

  “I understand this might be difficult to hear,” Holmes continued, speaking with conviction the words he had already been instructed to say. “He is, after all, the mo
st decorated agent the CIA has ever known, and he’s done more for this country than we can say about almost any man alive. But it’s no secret that he’s been having issues with his memory. Director Mullen has informed me that Steele has been having delusional episodes. Just last week he sent his two daughters to a safe house because he believed his fellow agents were trying to kill them.”

  “He thought the CIA was going after his children?” Pierson sat again heavily in the chair. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, sir. I know that you two are—were—friendly.”

  Pierson’s gaze flitted from the carpeted floor to his desk, just for a second, but long enough for Holmes to make a realization. Zero gave him something. He would have to report that.

  “It was so convincing.” Pierson had a faraway look in his eye. “He truly believes it.”

  “Mr. President, if you trust me, then you’ll listen to me now.” Holmes positioned himself in front of Pierson so that the president had to look at him, to see the sincerity that he had practiced so carefully. “No one wants war. It’s an economic burden. It’s a loss of American life. It’s an expenditure of resources. Not even General Rigby wants it to come to that. You heard him in the meeting today. We should avoid it at all costs. However… I don’t think it’s wise to have someone that’s potentially unstable whispering in your ear. You built this administration. You built this cabinet. Let us do our jobs. And let the CIA bring Agent Steele in.”

  “I want to speak to him again,” said Pierson. “You get Mullen on the phone and you tell him that Zero isn’t to be harmed. When he’s brought in, I want to talk to him.”

  “Of course, sir.” Holmes was afraid of that wrench in the gears. But then serendipity reared its beautiful head.

  There was a brisk knock at the door and it opened quickly. A black-suited Secret Service agent swept in, a man named Raulsen. Holmes knew him as a former Navy SEAL and particularly discreet ever since both his sons’ tuitions had been paid in full.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. President,” Raulsen said hastily. “Director Hillis was just attacked in his vehicle, along with both of his bodyguards.”