File Zero

by Jack Mars

  Just for good measure, Carver aimed the submachine gun and fired a volley of powerful rounds, emptying the remainder of the magazine. Then he spat over the side and made a call.

  The call was answered mid-ring. “It’s done,” he said immediately.

  “Already?” Riker sounded either impressed or sarcastic. He couldn’t tell which. “Good. Bring me the body.”

  “Body’s in the Potomac.”

  “Find it,” she ordered. “We need confirmation.”

  Carver scoffed. “I just sent him over the side of a cliff, in a car, and into the river—”

  “You sent Agent Zero over the side of a cliff,” she corrected. “If there’s no body, he’s not dead.”

  Carver groaned. He was glad to be back stateside; after failing to kill Zero in France, Riker had ordered him dark and sent him to slum it with the Division until her recent call. But he wasn’t exactly keen on going night-fishing for a dead agent.

  “Wait,” Riker said suddenly. She was pensively silent for a moment and then added, “This might present us with an opportunity. Stand down. Call off the troopers. I’ll put a call in at the FBI and tell them we got him.”

  Carver frowned. He was fairly certain that Zero was actually dead, but still it was a strange change of heart to have so suddenly. “Now you want to confirm him dead?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “Because no one but you is going to be looking for a dead man.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  To the general public, Camp David was a country retreat for the President of the United States, located in Maryland approximately sixty miles northwest of Washington, DC. Its location was the wooded hills of Catoctin National Park, a pleasant and tranquil place for the highest office in America to host foreign dignitaries or simply enjoy a modicum of solitude. The home on the property was large and elegant, though it lacked the pomp and pageantry of the White House.

  There was even a swimming pool.

  To those in the know, Camp David was a military installation. The retreat was staffed by the US Navy and Marine Corps. Despite its peaceful air, the camp was carefully monitored by radar and F-15 flyovers. No fewer than two dozen Marines scouted its perimeter, and half as many Secret Service agents stuck close to the house.

  In short, there was little about the mountain retreat that Eli Pierson found tranquil.

  He sat in an armchair in the home office of the main house, twirling the small device in his fingers like a fidget spinner. His jacket was draped over the chair’s back; his tie, still knotted, lay in a heap on the floor.

  In his fingers was the small black USB drive that Zero had given him.

  “Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. In less than twenty-four hours, he had gone from giving commendations to Agent Zero to hiding out at the retreat, fearing for his life, unsure of who he could trust on his staff. Zero had seemed so confident in his accusations. But then there was Sanders, the aide, and the attack on Hillis…

  He pushed himself out of the armchair, rounded the desk, and opened his laptop. As he was about to push the drive into the USB port, there was a knock on the office door.

  “Come in.”

  Agent Raulsen opened the door gently, his black suit perfectly pressed and hair combed neatly. He held a cell phone in his hand. “Sir. It’s Mr. Holmes.”

  “Good. Thank you, Raulsen.” Pierson hid the drive in his fist as he strode over to take the phone. “Have you contacted my wife?” Melissa Pierson was attending a charity event for veterans in California at the time the president was moved, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Yes sir. The First Lady is secured at Miramar. We’ll move her here as soon as possible—”

  “No.” Pierson waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t plan on being here long myself. Thank you, Raulsen.”

  The Secret Service agent nodded. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir.”

  Raulsen left, leaving the door ajar only slightly as Pierson put the phone to his ear. “Pete. Tell me good news.”

  Holmes sighed gently through the phone. “I’m afraid I don’t have much, sir. Satellite shows that IRGC ships are moving towards the strait. It appears their intention is to blockade it.”

  “Christ.” Pierson shook his head. “But they haven’t closed it?”

  “No sir. Not yet.”

  That was at least some measure of a good sign. He thought back to Zero’s bizarre prophecy, the one he had made in the Oval Office. Iran will close the strait. That will force your hand. They’re counting on it.

  “Let them blockade,” Pierson said. “And let’s make sure there’s nothing there for them to get agitated over.”

  “Well… that’s just it, sir,” Holmes said hesitantly through the phone. “The Fifth Fleet is en route to the strait.”

  Pierson’s throat ran dry. “I didn’t order that.”

  “You did, sir. Earlier today, in the Situation Room, General Rigby suggested mobilizing the Fifth Fleet as a show of force in an effort to dissuade Iran from escalating. You agreed. You gave verbal consent with all of us present as witness.” Holmes paused for a moment. “Do you not recall that? Are you all right, sir?”

  Pierson rubbed his forehead. No, he thought, I don’t recall. And I’m not all right. He remembered the general suggesting mobilization, as well as calling in additional assets from the Gulf of Oman. A blockade on the strait would hinder that. All they needed was a single IRGC ship to get fidgety over the sight of the convening Fifth Fleet, and all hell could break loose.

  “Call them off,” he ordered. “Have our ships fall back to Bahrain. I want to address this situation myself. I want to arrange a meeting with President Sarif.” If he could speak with the Iranian president, they could come to an amiable conclusion to all of this, he was certain. Reparations could be made for the incident in the Persian Gulf. Whatever it would take to avoid war.

  “Yes sir. I’ll try. Though Sarif’s administration has so far been refusing our attempts to communicate.”

  “Keep trying!” Pierson demanded. He spun the drive in his fingers anxiously. “And what about the other thing? Has Agent Zero been apprehended?”

  “In a manner of speaking, sir.” Holmes cleared his throat. “Mr. President, Agent Zero has been killed.”

  The drive slipped from Pierson’s fingers and bounced across the carpet. “What?”

  “He’s dead, sir. The CIA confirmed it only minutes ago.”

  Anger swelled in Pierson’s chest. “I ordered him taken alive. I wanted to speak to him myself—”

  “I understand, sir,” Holmes said hastily, “but Zero was discovered heading north on I-95. We believe he was intent on returning to the White House. He initiated a chase with state troopers. He shot at federal agents. He drove a car off of the highway and… and right off a cliff, into the Potomac.”

  “My god.” Pierson absentmindedly stooped and picked up the USB drive. He set it on the edge of the desk. He drove off a cliff? Holmes was right. Zero had not been in the right state of mind.

  “I’m sorry, sir. At least he’s at peace now. We’re doing our best to keep it quiet. There’s no reason to publicly drag his name through more mud.”

  Pierson sighed. He couldn’t just forget what Zero had told him, but at the same time he couldn’t discount the fact that a conspiracy that involved nearly his entire administration sounded insane. Zero had asked him to dismiss his entire cabinet in the wake of a major terrorist attack and on the brink of a major conflict in the Middle East.

  That does not sound like a man who was in control of his mental faculties, Pierson admitted internally.

  The president pushed open a side door in the office and stepped out onto a small terrace. The night air was cool and smelled of pine trees. “What about Sanders? Was she with him?”

  “No, sir. She’s MIA. In fact, the troopers who initially spotted him claimed there were two women with him. One was confirmed to be Sanders. We don’t know where they went, but there is a full-sc
ale manhunt currently ongoing. We’ll find her.”

  The president looked out over the lawn, to the darkness of the trees beyond. A slight shiver ran up his spine. Someone could be out there right now, watching. Waiting. He was surrounded by Marines and Secret Service agents, yet still hardly felt safe at the country retreat. “I want to come back.”

  “Sir, that is highly inadvisable—”

  “The White House is the safest place for me to be,” Pierson argued.

  “We can’t say that for certain until we’ve cleared every staff member. Someone beyond Sanders could be compromised. Please, sir,” Holmes implored. “Just let us do our jobs. It won’t take long. We’ll have our analysts running all night. Get some sleep, and return tomorrow.”

  Pierson rubbed his chin. He needed to shave. He needed to address the American people. He needed to get this situation under control. He needed to be in a position that didn’t feel like hiding out.

  “All right, Pete. I’ll give you one night. But I want you to put everyone on alert—Rigby, Kemmerer, the joint chiefs. We’ll be convening as soon as I return, and we’re going to get this situation under full control. And get that meeting with Sarif.”

  “Yes sir. Good night, sir.” Holmes hung up.

  Pierson’s arm and the phone fell limply by his side as he stared out again at the darkness beyond the lawn. How quickly everything could fall apart. He’d certainly had his fair share of issues in the last three years, but nothing like this. Nothing close to this.

  He couldn’t help but think of how former President George Bush must have felt on September 11, 2001. One moment, reading a story to a classroom of children and the next, having it whispered in his ear that the largest terrorist attack in American history had occurred. He had handled it decisively and with poise. He had heeded the advice of his administration, while he, Pierson, hid out at Camp David and argued with those he had appointed to be his advisors.

  He briefly considered calling the former president. He could use a friendly voice, a mentor at the moment. But it was after nine o’clock. It could wait until tomorrow.

  Pierson headed back into the office and shut the door behind him. He set the cell phone on the desk and then frowned. He patted his pockets and looked around in confusion.

  The USB drive was gone.

  Where did I put it? He remembered having it in his hand. He remembered dropping it to the floor at the news of Zero’s death. He got down on his hands and knees and searched the carpet, looked under the desk. It wasn’t there. Did I have it when I went outside? He checked the small terrace, the desk drawers, the cushion of his armchair.

  The door to the office was shut tight. He hadn’t heard it open or seen anyone come in.

  But it was gone. The drive was gone.

  *

  Chief of Staff Peter Holmes ended the call with President Pierson before turning to the other three occupants of the conference room at Langley. “It’s done,” he said simply. “The president will return to DC tomorrow. We have until then.”

  “I’ll keep Sarif’s people under the radar,” said Secretary of State Roland Kemmerer. “NSA is working to block out any communications from Iran.”

  “Good. Have them do the same with any incoming transmissions from the Fifth Fleet. Everything goes through Rigby. We can’t rely on luck for this; we’ll have to sow some confusion out there.” Holmes turned to CIA Director Mullen and the woman at his side, Deputy Director Riker. “The president believes Zero is dead. You’re certain this will work?”

  Mullen looked to Riker, who nodded confidently. “Zero is crafty, but he’s also predictable. He’ll always do what he believes is the right thing, even if it’s not in his best interest. He will try to get to Pierson again and convince him of what he knows.”

  “You’d better hope you’re right,” Holmes warned. “Three years of planning and billions of dollars are riding on this.”

  Riker’s eyes narrowed at him. “You don’t have to remind me. There’s only one man in the field looking for him currently. If my guy finds him first, we’ll go with the original contingency. But if he doesn’t, Zero will go to the president.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.” Holmes nodded briefly to them and left the conference room, striding swiftly down the corridor.

  He hadn’t lied to the president about everything. There were actually background checks currently ongoing to confirm the identity of every White House staffer, but only for them to ensure that there were no further moles like Sanders.

  Zero had forced their hand by going to the president and attacking Hillis. The plan had to change—but they had anticipated a possible event like this.

  There would be no calling off the Fifth Fleet. American battleships would soon be facing off against an Iranian blockade, with miscommunications abounding and both sides anxious, fingers on proverbial triggers.

  By the time Pierson discovered that his orders had been ignored, it would be too late. Agent Zero would rise from the dead and assassinate the President of the United States.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Zero grabbed onto a half-submerged rock with his good hand and clung there, gasping for breath and trying to stand against the rushing river. The water near the shore was shallow, only a couple of feet deep, but the pull of the current was strong and, at the moment, he was not.

  He had survived the plummet over the cliff only by virtue of the shot-out window. The car had struck the river’s surface angled toward the driver’s side and the force of it shoved him out through the opening. His limbs had smacked painfully against the door frame, but fortunately he hadn’t hit his head or lost consciousness.

  I should be dead.

  Even under the darkness of the water he could see the powerful blue spotlight of the helicopter, so he held his breath and swam, straining against the pain in his hand and limbs and neck and spine, clawing at the water with all his might while his lungs burned and begged for air.

  When he dared break the surface, it was only to take a liberal gulp of oxygen, and then he plunged back down and swam some more. When his arms grew too tired to continue, he let the current carry him along. His three-minute swim felt like an hour. He came up for air four times before his feet touched the riverbed and he reached out, clinging to a mossy rock and struggling to stand.

  He dragged himself out of the river. His clothes were heavy and dripping; his injured hand burned with pain. Every limb throbbed. His neck and spine ached with the whiplash of the impact. He would definitely need to see a good chiropractor when all this was over.

  As soon as he regained control of his ragged breathing, Zero scanned the skies. He heard no rotors and saw no spotlights sweeping the river. I couldn’t have gone that far in just a few minutes. The helicopter seemed to have simply vanished.

  Do they think I’m dead? He doubted he was that lucky.

  One thing was certain: Riker had sent Carver after him, and Zero was guessing that the other guys in the black Jeep were the Division. He wasn’t afraid of Carver, but he wasn’t happy that the seemingly renegade agent would have access to all of the resources of the CIA and the Division while he, Zero, had none.

  He didn’t even have a working phone, thanks to his plunge in the Potomac. He tossed the useless device into the river.

  He staggered up onto the shore and collapsed to his knees, feeling nauseous from swallowed river water and hurting all over. Think. You’re Agent Zero, and you need help. He ran through a mental Rolodex of the people he could reach out to. He couldn’t risk getting in touch with any of his CIA contacts from two years prior; he wasn’t even sure who was still active, let alone alive, and if they were they might not be on the same side anymore.

  Maria was out there somewhere with Sanders, hopefully hiding out and eluding authorities. Alan was on a plane to Nebraska with Zero’s daughters. He didn’t have a secure number to reach Watson, who was undoubtedly being monitored by the agency for helping Zero in the past.

  That left only one person,
and as much as he didn’t like to further implicate a friend, he needed to. After resting for a few minutes in the silence of the shore, certain that no one had followed him down from the cliff, Zero hauled himself to his feet and started walking as quickly as he could inland.

  He was only vaguely aware of where he was. He couldn’t recall the exact point where he’d left the highway, let alone how far he’d driven through the woods or drifted down the Potomac. It seemed to be mostly wilderness on this side of the river, but after a short stretch of about a half mile the woods broke and he happened upon a narrow road and a few homes, spaced far apart with wide front yards and trees dotting the landscape.

  He didn’t like it, but he didn’t see much choice. You’re already a wanted criminal. Might as well add breaking and entering to the list.

  The Sig Sauer was still tucked in the back of his pants. The clip was empty and the gun was so waterlogged that it wouldn’t have worked anyway. But whoever he pointed it at wouldn’t know that.

  He strode up the driveway of the nearest house. There was a single light on in one window, and the flickering blue of a television screen in another. He drew the Sig, took a deep breath, and knocked twice briskly on the door.

  A deadbolt clicked and the door opened about five inches. An older man, possibly mid-sixties, frowned out at him. He wore a white tank top and shorts, a belly spilling over the waistline, and looked pretty disgruntled about being disturbed at this hour.

  “Yeah?”

  Zero said nothing. Instead he shouldered the door in. The man grunted and stumbled back, nearly falling over. His eyes widened in shock as Zero leveled the Sig Sauer at his face.

  “Don’t move. Don’t shout. Don’t make a sound, or I will shoot you,” he said quickly and quietly. “Nod if you understand.”

  The man nodded emphatically, his mouth hanging open slightly.

  “Is there anyone else in the house?”