The Zarrabian Incident

by C. A. James

  “And now he’s a terrorist. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “And Grant, has it occurred to you to wonder why Zarrabian even confronted McCaig?”

  Grant’s brow furrowed. “I . . . damn. Right! I’m jumping ahead here, but the body wasn’t Zarrabian, which means Zarrabian must have killed the guy they sent to kill him. Am I right?”

  “Bingo.”

  “And Zarrabian knew that. He knew they’d think the carcass in the ashes was him.”

  “Bingo again.”

  “So why show his face to McCaig?” he asked.

  “You’re batting a thousand. Or whatever you do in bingo.”

  “So what’s the answer? Why’d he do it?”

  “Show his face? That’s the question, Grant. And why did he turn terrorist in the first place?”

  “McCaig didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He doesn’t know. He’s as baffled as I am. Zarrabian seemed to want something—wanted to tell McCaig something smelled fishy. But that’s all.”

  “He said 'fishy?'”

  “No. According to McCaig, his words were ‘Something is wrong.’ He wouldn’t elaborate any more than that.”

  “And let me guess. The helicopter, that really was Zarrabian?”

  “McCaig says so,” she replied.

  “And what about that poor sap they arrested for stealing the chopper? Some old vet with PTSD or something, growing pot up there in the redwoods?”

  “He actually is a bit of a nut case—has a record of disturbances and such. But harmless. I think he was just incredibly unlucky.”

  “Did that poor guy even know the feds aren’t raiding pot farmers any more?”

  “Who knows?” she replied.

  “OK, so I’m guessing that the whole business in Iraq, where they shake hands and Zarrabian lets McCaig walk, becomes a tit-for-tat here.”

  “Right. Zarrabian had McCaig at gunpoint in the woods—didn’t want to kill him and didn’t want to drag his uncooperative ass along for his escape. So Zarrabian offered a deal, and McCaig gave his word, and Zarrabian hoofed it over the hill and stole the helicopter while McCaig twiddled his thumbs for a few minutes.”

  “Damn, Garrett!” Petri jumped up from his chair and started pacing. “This is a hell of a story. The most wanted terrorist in the world escapes in a government chopper, is probably still alive and doing God-knows-what, and the government is flat-out lying and claiming the guy is dead. Jesus. This is going to take the administration down!”

  “Wrong.”

  He stopped abruptly and faced her. “What part did I miss? It’s the biggest cover-up of the decade!”

  “McCaig never told them he’d met Zarrabian.”

  “What?”

  “What I just said. He never told them.”

  Petri flopped back into his chair and stared at her for a moment. “This gets crazier and crazier.” He waved for her to go on.

  “So go back to when they were in the woods. McCaig knew his career was already in the toilet after Cordo. He also knew that if he admitted giving Zarrabian a jump start, he’d not only be fired but maybe face jail time for aiding and abetting.”

  “So he keeps mum.”

  “Not exactly. Remember, this guy believes in honor. He let Zarrabian escape because he gave his word, but he still had to tell his superiors what he did, because he was sworn to uphold the law. What actually happened is he dashed back to the burned-down cabin where all the other G-men were hanging out, and just then Zarrabian flew over them in the stolen chopper. He sent his sidekick, that Palestinian kid, what’s his name—”

  “Bashir. Omar.”

  “Right. He sent Bashir and a couple other guys off to untie the pilot and then got on the radio to let everyone know that Zarrabian just stole a helicopter and escaped.”

  “McCaig never told them about how he got to inspect the inside of Zarrabian’s gun barrel?”

  “He figured it was more important to let everyone know the guy had escaped, and he’d give details later. The next day, before he could fill out his report and talk to his boss, he basically got called in and handed his walking papers.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Well, it was weird. First he gets reamed for generally screwing up the operation and letting Zarrabian fly away, then the boss kicks him out of his office. The next morning the boss is all nicey-nicey and gives him early medical retirement. It seems word came down that they got medical records from the amazingly cooperative Iranian army. From this, the ME is sure that the corpse in the cabin is Zarrabian. The boss is sorry for the ‘misunderstanding.’ They offer him early retirement for PTSD or some bullshit like that. And, last but not least, McCaig is told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t Zarrabian in the chopper, that they caught the crazy PTSD pot-growing vet who actually stole the chopper, and that McCaig had better keep his mouth shut about Zarrabian.”

  “But he knows Zarrabian isn’t dead. You’re telling me a senior FBI agent would withhold this? I’m having trouble with this story.”

  “Right. And McCaig is known for being painfully ethical, even when it’s bad for his career.”

  “So did he ever tell them he’d seen Zarrabian alive?”

  “No.”

  “Do they know McCaig and Zarrabian were buddies?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Petri sat there for a minute digesting this information.

  “OK, what do we have right now? McCaig said it was Zarrabian who stole the chopper. That’s public. And that army vet, he’ll dispute the government’s story. He may be crazy, but it’s something. Zarrabian studied at Berkeley; that’s a good scoop, we can follow up on that. So we can drill in on the Zarrabian’s-alive story based on what’s already out there. But we can’t use McCaig’s eyewitness account?”

  “No.”

  “And we can’t tell the story of McCaig and Zarrabian trapped during a secret op?”

  “No.”

  “Shit, Christine! You’ve got to convince him. This is bullshit!”

  “Let me work on this, Grant. I’ll get it.”

  “OK, you win. Blank check, indefinite deadline. But you’d better bring me back a story.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, this is already a Pulitzer-level story.”

  “What’s holding McCaig back? Hell, this is a massive story. He could be the whistle-blower of the decade.”

  “He must think there’s more. If he decided to hold out, I can only think of one reason: he doesn’t trust them. I don’t either. If we go on the air with the full story now, there’s too much plausible deniability. McCaig could be buried in a pile of manure so deep he’d never get the stink off. Zarrabian, the only guy who may know what’s going on, will probably be killed. And, just between you and me, this story has more questions than answers. If this got out now, every reporter from here to Bangor would be digging. I want to be the one who finds it.”

  “Always the killer instinct, eh Christine?”

  “Takes one to know one, Grant. That’s why you hired me.”

  He smiled. “Go squeeze someone’s balls. Get me a story.”

  “Hey boss,” said Bashir.

  “Morning, Omar. Come on in. I’m just finishing packing up my desk.”

  Bashir nodded at the security guard in the corner who was watching the proceedings. He didn’t nod back.

  “Don’t mind him,” McCaig said. “He’s gotta make sure I don’t steal any paper clips or coffee-stirrer sticks before he escorts me out the door.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe this, boss.”

  “You’re going to have to stop calling me that.”

  “I . . . I just wanted to tell you . . .”

  Bashir looked almost teary eyed.

  “Hey, knock it off. No worries. I’m leaving here some kind of hero, and they’re even accelerating my pension. There’s a bungalow in Hawaii with my name on the front door.”

  “Gosh, that’s great. I just . . . I’ll miss you. You’ve been the best teacher I've
ever had!”

  McCaig was taken aback. He could almost feel himself choking up. That wouldn’t do.

  “Hey, just promise me that twenty or thirty years down the road, you’ll do the same for some other young agent, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Promise? It’s important to me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Did they give you a new partner yet?”

  “Yeah, sure, a guy named Johanssen. Got assigned here from Minnesota or something.”

  “Tell him I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t have your back.”

  “Thanks, boss, I will. You take care.”

  Bashir held out his hand tentatively. McCaig took it with a firm grip and then, to his own surprise, gave Bashir a brief hug and a rough slap on the back.

  “Now get out of here, before I get emotional or something.”

  After Bashir had left, McCaig scanned his office. The walls were bare. Boxes had swallowed the pictures of his Hawaiian condo, his kids, his mom and dad, and the snapshots of fellow agents at ceremonies and celebrations. Dusty outlines on the wall were all that remained of his diplomas, academy certificates, and commendations. His desk was empty, the computer screen dark. A tech had erased and reformatted his system. Billions of bytes of information—his life, his cases, his reports, his emails—all inaccessible, backed up in some cavernous basement computer archive. Empty office, empty computer. Nothing left to show he’d ever been here.

  “Ready, sir?” the guard asked.

  “I’m outta here,” he replied.

  A minute later, the elevator doors opened into the lobby. McCaig tucked his box of personal items under one arm and stepped out. The security guard escorted him across the lobby to the front door. Through the tinted glass of the doors, McCaig could see a crowd of at least a dozen reporters and several camera crews milling on the plaza outside.

  “Huh. Wonder who they’re after,” he said.

  “No idea,” said the security guard. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  The guard held the door open and McCaig stepped out. He was immediately assaulted by flashing cameras, bright video lights, and shouted questions.

  “Agent McCaig! Can you tell us—”

  “Agent McCaig! Is it true that you're being—”

  “Was Cordo the reason you were—”

  McCaig looked bewildered, squinting and blinking in the bright lights and flashes. He held up his hand and spoke loudly. “Please, please! There must be some mistake! I’m just retiring, OK?”

  A dozen voices shouted again. One woman’s voice rose over the rest.

  “Special Agent McCaig, are you retiring voluntarily?”

  “Yes. But really, I’m not—”

  A man with a rumpled suit shouted out, “There are rumors that you were railroaded out. Why would the FBI do that?”

  “That would be a confidential personnel matter.”

  “Is it true?” he pressed.

  “Confidential means I won’t confirm or deny it. My reasons for retiring are my own,” he replied.

  He glanced across the plaza to Golden Gate Avenue and spotted Christine Garrett emerging from a cab. A woman in the back shouted a question.

  “Was your performance on this mission compromised by the disaster at Cordo, Texas?” she asked.

  “No. Really, can you please excuse me? I’ve got to—”

  “But surely Cordo haunts you.”

  “I did my job at Cordo. It had nothing to do with this investigation.”

  “How many years have you been with the FBI, Agent McCaig?” someone shouted.

  “Twenty-seven years and two months.”

  “Why are you retiring early and losing some of your retirement benefits?”

  “My reasons for retiring are my own.”

  “Are you glad Zarrabian is dead?” asked another woman.

  “I never rejoice at any man’s death. Not even an enemy.”

  “But you must be glad he’s no longer a threat.”

  McCaig paused. He wouldn’t lie, but most people, including reporters, hear what they want to hear. He glanced in Christine’s direction again. She had climbed the stairs and was walking across the plaza behind the other reporters.

  He returned his attention to the reporter. “Our job at the FBI is to prevent crime and enforce the law. I’m sure my fellow FBI agents will carry on the good work while I enjoy my retirement. Now, I really have to—”

  “Special Agent McCaig!” said Christine loudly.

  “Ms. Garrett, I’m glad to see you back on the job.”

  “Is it true, Agent McCaig—”

  “I’m not an agent any more, Ms. Garrett,” he interrupted.

  “Is it true that you met Zarrabian personally during your service in the Persian Gulf War during the eighties?”

  There was sudden silence among the reporters. They turned from Christine back to McCaig. McCaig saw a TV cameraman twisting his lens, zooming in on his face. He wondered fleetingly if he’d missed any spots while shaving. The reporters waited.

  He looked down for a moment as if contemplating, then back again at Christine. “Yes.”

  A wave of murmurs ran through the crowd. Several reporters dialed cell phones.

  Christine’s voice rose over the noise again. “Is it also true that he saved your life?”

  “The details of my missions while serving my country as a United States Marine are classified, Ms. Garrett.”

  “Do you believe that Zarrabian is dead?”

  “The State Department tells me he is. Why should I doubt that?”

  “Do you believe he’s dead, Mr. McCaig?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to contradict the medical examiner’s findings.”

  “If Zarrabian saved your life—”

  “I didn’t say he did.”

  “—you must have mixed feelings. Is there something you’d say to him if you could?”

  He paused for a moment, then looked directly into the TV cameras. “Zarrabian and his team attacked the United States of America. Now it’s payback time. Our president has promised that everyone involved in this operation will be tracked down and held accountable. I’m retiring today, but I know that my former colleagues in the FBI, along with every other law-enforcement and intelligence agency, will bring the perpetrators to justice. Payback may take time, but it will happen.”

  A dozen voices shouted simultaneously, but McCaig ignored them. He pushed through the group, clutching his box of photos, diplomas, and certificates, and jogged across the plaza and down the stairs to a waiting cab on Golden Gate Avenue.

  Patterson’s TV showed the receding back of FBI Special Agent McCaig as he dashed across the plaza and down the stairs to a waiting cab.

  “Fuck!” Patterson clicked the remote control and froze the image, spinning his chair around to face Erica Blackwell and Senator Platte.

  “That asshole is buddies with Zarrabian! Why the hell didn’t we know this? Why wasn’t it in his military records? How the fuck did we miss a piece of intel this important?”

  “We could throw him in jail for this!” said Blackwell. “That pissant agent withheld information critical to an investigation.”

  “And how did that Garrett bitch figure this out?” asked Patterson. “Where’d she get something this big? Christ, that fucking terrorist falls out of the sky right into her boat and gives her the best story of her life. Now she has this story, too! I’m gonna ream some asses over at Langley.”

  “Smith burned a lot of favors to get McCaig out of our hair,” said Blackwell. “This cost a lot. McCaig played us.”

  “Maybe you should stop whining and use your heads for a minute” said Platte. “You’re being stupid. Don’t you see it?”

  “See fucking what?” asked Patterson.

  “That was a bullshit press conference.” said Platte.

  “Yeah, it’s bullshit that McCaig is still walking the street a free man!” said Patterson.

  “You’re not gettin
g it,” said Platte. “This was a total setup. Garrett knew Zarrabian and McCaig were friends because McCaig told her. The rest of those reporters were her stooges.”

  “What the . . .?” Blackwell’s brow furrowed. “Christ, you’re right. It makes sense.”

  “Fill me in here,” said Patterson. “What makes sense?”

  “That Garrett and McCaig staged that so-called press conference,” said Platte. “Think about it. She’s got intel that’s not in our file—intel that only McCaig could know, namely that McCaig and Zarrabian knew each other. Ask yourself, why were those reporters there in the first place? Because Garrett knew you’d axed McCaig. She knew to the minute when he was going to walk out of that building. And she knew about McCaig and Zarrabian. How? Because McCaig told her. All of it.”

  “Jesus,” said Patterson.

  “She set this up,” said Platte. “She wanted a crowd, so she threw out a rumor about McCaig being railroaded out. She got the dogs all slobbering over a story, and then pretended she was just one of the pack. He comes out, they mob him thinking maybe there’s some conspiracy cover-up about Cordo Mormons somehow linked to Zarrabian the terrorist. Then Garrett comes along, and she’s got the real story, and it’s not just the bone they were promised, it’s the whole fucking cow. Bigger than their wildest dreams.”

  Blackwell’s brow furrowed. “So McCaig withholds a critical piece of intel about the biggest terrorist attack of the decade, that he actually knows the asshole who pulled it off. Then he goes to a reporter and tells her about it. And then gets on the front page with publicity that would make Donald Trump green with envy. Do I have this right?”

  “Exactly,” said Platte.

  “Damn,” said Patterson. “It makes sense.”

  “No,” said Platte. “We’re still missing something. Something big. Christine Garrett just threw away one of the biggest news scoops of her career. In about five minutes, every newspaper and network is going to be shouting this story. She lost her exclusive with McCaig. She just threw it to the dogs like it was nothing.”

  “Why the hell would she do that?” asked Patterson.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Platte.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” said Patterson. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.