The Zarrabian Incident

by C. A. James

  Zarrabian pushed a photo across the table. Patterson didn’t even look down. “Yeah, so it’s your wife and little girl. What, I’m supposed to see them and cry like some baby? It’s the cost of war, asshole. You’re just one of thousands. Get over it.”

  “I am already over it, General. You see, they are not dead.”

  Patterson laughed again. He leaned back and draped one arm across the seat back.

  “Oh goody. So when you’re rotting in jail, you’ll be happy just knowing your little family is all safe and cozy? Like some stoic hero in a novel?”

  “You can stop your pretenses, General. You and I both know I will not walk out of here alive.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Consider it the last wish of a condemned man. Captain McCaig and Ms. Garrett figured out most of your conspiracy, but there are details—“

  Patterson laughed. “Not that it will do them any good. They don’t have shit on me.”

  “Just so, General. Your operation was very clever, and it is remarkable how you kept such a vast conspiracy hidden. There must have been dozens involved.”

  “Is there a question here somewhere?” demanded Patterson. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “This is what I don’t understand. I was never kidnapped by your men, yet I ended up in Arizona. I was badly injured in the Grand Bazaar in Tehran. I saw my wife and child killed with my own eyes. It was the worst day of my life, and yet they are alive. These things are impossible, but I remember them vividly.”

  “You dumb fuck,” said Patterson. “Your buddy McCaig could have told you. Eyewitness accounts are the least reliable evidence of all. People swear they saw things that never happened. They’ll even swear it in court with their hand on a Bible.”

  “This was not a case of mistaken identity or poor memory.”

  “Have you heard of memory-blocking drugs? I hear you were a son of a bitch when we kidnapped you. You don’t remember any of it, do you? Great stuff, those drugs. Give them to a guy and he absolutely can’t remember anything that happens while the drug is in his brain. It just shuts down the memory-making machinery.”

  “Ah, clever. So now I understand the kidnapping. But what about the Bazaar? I saw it. I am quite certain.”

  “Tell me what you want to happen, and I’ll get some Hollywood special-effects whiz to make a 3D video of it. They do that shit all the time with their computers. This photo here?” Patterson picked up the photo of Zarrabian’s wife and daughter and admired it. “Very pretty. You were a lucky man. And this picture made it real easy for our computer guys to put their faces into the video. Christ, I saw it myself. Incredible, those special effects.”

  “I would not have been fooled by a movie.”

  “Well, Colonel, you were. We banged your head a couple times, broke a rib or two, kept you juiced up with hypnotic memory-enhancing drugs for a couple weeks, and made you watch that video through 3D goggles a bunch of times while heavily drugged. Your brain has that burned into it better than if it had really happened.”

  Zarrabian stared for a moment, then shook his head. “Just like that, you throw my life away?”

  “World leaders spend lives like regular people spend money. That’s how it works.”

  “And you get the war you have wanted for so long.”

  “It’s not about war. All you dumb fucks, you think it’s about power and body counts. War is just business. Good business. Time’s up, Zarrabian. Unless you have anything interesting to say, I’m done here.”

  “Just one more question, General. Ms. Garrett and Captain McCaig were convinced that this was the work of your uncle, Senator Platte, and perhaps Erica Blackwell and other conspirators. Maybe even the president himself. Ms. Garrett has a very low opinion of you. She claims you are too stupid to carry this off yourself.”

  “Like I fucking care what she thinks. You can tell that bitch Garrett . . . oh wait, you’ll be dead, won’t you?”

  “That is so. But, soldier to soldier, I believe this was the work of a military mind. I do not believe this plan could have been conceived by mere politicians in Washington.”

  Patterson smiled. “You’re an OK guy, Zarrabian. I see why McCaig liked you. Yeah, you and me, we’re both soldiers, aren’t we? So you understand that it’s just war, and bad luck that you’re on the losing side. Nothing personal. You just got in our way. Assholes like Senator Platte and that bitch Blackwell, they never saw a battlefield, never had to order a man into battle to die. They thought they were running this show, but if they fucking knew what I had to go through. Christ. But you understand, don’t you?”

  “I understand, General. Perhaps better than you think. Do you play chess?”

  “What?”

  “Do you play chess, General?”

  “Fuck no. Stupid game.”

  “You should try it some time. It is fascinating because each player can see everything. There is nothing hidden. Yet some players can see far more than others. Those players win.”

  “Whatever. Gotta run, Colonel. Your time is up.”

  “Just remember, General Patterson. All the pieces are on the chess board. You just have to know where to look.”

  “Yeah, well, if that’s some sort of bullshit warning, save your breath. Maybe you should bow and pray to Mecca or whatever you guys do.”

  “You forgot a detail, General. You need to kill me.”

  “Oh, no, Colonel. I don’t get my hands dirty. Besides, you’re the bad guy, remember?”

  Patterson stood up and leaned forward across the table as if to shake hands with Zarrabian. But instead of waiting for Zarrabian’s hand, he snatched the M-4 assault rifle from the table and jumped back several feet, then expertly flipped it from safe to full-automatic mode. He aimed it at Zarrabian’s chest.

  Zarrabian remained sitting, and looked calmly at Patterson.

  “You do not do dirty work?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Patterson swung the gunbarrel away from Zarrabian and pulled the trigger, sweeping it around the front of the RV. Glass, wood and metal exploded everywhere. He released the trigger, threw the gun at Zarrabian, and crashed out through the door.

  Christine watched the RV anxiously. The two minutes were up, but there was still no sign of Patterson or Zarrabian.

  Suddenly a barrage of automatic gunfire erupted from inside the RV. Glass exploded from the side windows, and the windshield turned into a shattered mess of cracks and holes.

  The door burst open and Patterson fell through. He hit the ground rolling, then sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the soldiers.

  “He’s got an assault rifle!” shouted Patterson as he dove for cover behind a truck.

  “Fire!” yelled Ali. Christine watched, horrified, as dozens of rifles and handguns began raking the RV. More windows shattered as hundreds, then thousands, of bullet holes pierced the vehicle. The barrage continued unabated for many long seconds. A fire bloomed under the RV. Moments later, a huge explosion engulfed the vehicle. The guns fell silent.

  Bashir’s face was grim. He looked out through the thick tree branches toward the gunfire and could just barely make out the burning RV in the distance. Suddenly it exploded into flames, sending a fireball into the air.

  He looked back at his phone’s screen. The video of the RV’s interior was now frozen at the moment just before the explosion. Zarrabian’s body was on the floor, riddled with dozens of bullets, almost obscured by black smoke, and vaguely illuminated by the dull orange-red flames billowing in through the shattered windows.

  Bashir shook off his momentary paralysis. He had work to do. Christine’s words echoed in his head: a war hung in balance, with hundreds of thousands of lives at stake. The next few minutes could make the difference.

  He had prepared his computer—everything was ready for this moment. With a few more clicks, he started the video streaming out from the phone, and simultaneously copied it to his computer, where he started a second upload. Then as a triple precaut
ion, he made a copy to a memory stick, sealed it in a plastic bag, and buried it under the fallen leaves.

  Two minutes later, the computer and the phone both beeped almost simultaneously. The uploads were complete. He snapped his computer shut, stood, pulled his FBI badge from his pocket, and pushed his way through the branches.

  Patterson took his seat in the Black Hawk as the pilot finished the preflight checklist. The blades outside were spinning up, and he could hear the turbines coming to full speed. Patterson let out a long, relaxed sigh and leaned back. It was done.

  Outside, he could see Christine Garrett talking into a camera held by some young babe from the local TV station. Behind her, the RV fire was burning itself out. He smiled to himself, thinking how he’d turned McCaig and Garrett from his worst nightmare into the ones forced to document his victory. It was a delicious moment.

  Major Ali had called in the fire department, but they wouldn’t be here for at least ten more minutes. In the meantime, the RV had reduced itself to a steel skeleton decorated with lumps of melted plastic and burned fiberglass. A huge plume of black smoke trailed off for a mile downwind. Patterson savored the scene.

  And this time, Zarrabian really was dead.

  “Ready sir?” asked his pilot.

  Patterson took one last look around. Garrett and McCaig had turned so that Patterson’s helicopter was in the camera’s view with her reporting on it—the world would get to see him leave the scene with due dignity. He could see the Guardsmen packing up their weapons, and a small group of lieutenants were gathered around Major Ali for an impromptu meeting.

  All was good. “Ready. Let’s get out of here.”

  The whine of turbines increased as the blades bit the air. Patterson watched the ground start to recede. Suddenly Major Ali broke from the group and ran toward the chopper, waving his arms.

  “Sir?” said the pilot. “Should we land?”

  Patterson was annoyed. “No! I’ve got a plane to catch!”

  The pilot listened to his headset for a moment, then triggered his microphone. “Acknowledged.” He turned to Patterson. “Sorry, sir, I’ve been ordered to land.”

  “Fuck that!” said Patterson. “I’m ordering you to fly! Get us the hell out of here.”

  “Sorry sir, orders.” He brought the chopper back to the ground.

  “This is an outrage! I’m the fucking White House chief of staff! If you don’t get this thing back in the air like right now, your career is over! Are you listening?”

  The pilot reached over and flipped off switches as the turbines began to slow. “I think Major Ali needs to see you, sir.”

  Outside, Ali turned and barked orders to his Guardsmen. A dozen soldiers picked up their weapons and rushed forward, surrounding the helicopter. Ali stepped forward and pulled the door open.

  “Major, you’d better have a damned good excuse for this outrage!” said Patterson.

  “Get him!” said Ali.

  Two soldiers rushed forward, dragged Patterson from the helicopter, and threw him face-first onto the ground. One put a knee on Patterson’s back while the other produced a pair of handcuffs and twisted Patterson’s arms behind him. A moment later, he was handcuffed.

  Patterson raised his head from the dirt. “Jesus fucking Christ! This is a three-thousand-dollar custom Italian suit! You’re going to pay for this, Major!”

  “Where’s that sheriff?” said Ali. “Get him over here!”

  “Fuck you, Major. Get your goddamned goons off of me!”

  The soldiers jerked him roughly to his feet. Patterson spotted McCaig and Christine recording the whole thing with a video camera. “Turn that fucking thing off, bitch! Jesus Christ!”

  “You are live on national TV, Patterson,” said Christine.

  “Major, get rid of this woman. That’s an order,” said Patterson.

  “Sir, you are the one who ordered me to let Ms. Garrett broadcast,” said Ali. “You were quite explicit, as I recall, that it was imperative that the nation witness these events.”

  “I’m revoking that order! Turn that camera off or your careers are over!”

  “Sorry sir. I think Americans have a right to see this.”

  A Guardsman jogged up with Sheriff Bill Edmunds in tow.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Sheriff,” said Ali.

  “What’s going on, Major?” asked Edmunds.

  “We have evidence that John Patterson was one of the conspirators in today’s events,” said Ali.

  “Ali, you are so screwed. Sheriff, do you know who I am?” said Patterson.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” said Edmunds.

  “You realize you’re the law around here? These National Guardsmen don’t have the authority to arrest a United States citizen!”

  “No, sir, they don’t. And neither do I. Sorry, Major, I’m from Montana, and we’re in North Dakota now,” said Edmunds. “I suppose I could make a citizen’s arrest, but I didn’t witness Mr. Patterson do anything illegal. I think we’ve gotta wait for the local police or the FBI.”

  “Ms. Garrett, can you please show your evidence to the sheriff?” said Ali.

  Patterson looked wildly from Christine to Edmunds to Ali. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Christine held up a cell phone for Edmunds to see. Patterson strained against the soldiers’ grip. “Let him watch,” said Ali.

  On the phone’s screen, a video was playing, showing Patterson sitting across the dining table from Zarrabian. Their conversation was clearly audible. Patterson glared at Ali.

  “I ordered jammers on all communications, Major! Nothing was to go in our out! Are you telling me you disobeyed an order from the commander in chief?”

  “No, sir, the jammers were active.”

  McCaig stepped forward, still pointing the camera. “Ever hear of a WokFi, Patterson?”

  “Who the fuck asked you?” replied Patterson.

  McCaig ignored the barb and continued. “Special Agent Omar Bashir built it. You take an ordinary Chinese Wok, you know, for cooking? Turns out Sven here, the TV producer, likes Chinese food and had a wok handy. Agent Bashir turned that wok into a high-gain super-directional parabolic antenna for a wireless network. They call it ‘WokFi.’ The damned thing is amazingly simple, and harder than hell to jam. Agent Bashir was across the peninsula in that stand of trees, recording your whole meeting with Zarrabian. Don’t blame Major Ali here. You just got outfoxed by a technical wizard. It’s the new face of the FBI.”

  “Quiet!” said Edmunds. His eyes were intent on the video. Edmunds expression darkened and his brow furrowed even more as the video showed Patterson grabbing the M-4 and spraying the inside of the RV with bullets. After Patterson bolted out the door, Zarrabian sat there for a few moments, then reached across the table and retrieved the photo of his wife and daughter. He looked at it for a moment, then stood and spoke directly into the camera in Persian. Moments later, the scene exploded with violence. Zarrabian fell to the floor, his body riddled with bullets.

  “Do you speak Farsi, Major Ali?” asked Christine.

  “Mostly Arabic, but I learned a little Farsi,” said Ali.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Be strong.’”

  “That’s enough,” said Edmunds. “John Patterson, I am placing you under citizens arrest—”

  “Wait! FBI!” Heads turned at the sound. Bashir jogged up with a computer under one arm, and his badge held high with the other. Amber, guided by Sven, side-stepped quickly to get Bashir in her picture.

  Bashir halted in front of Patterson, panting. He took a deep breath. “John Patterson, you are under arrest for treason, murder, and conspiracy. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  Vice President Helena Marshall Burns slowly replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. The chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America was on his way over for an emergency swearing in. She was going to be president.

  Around the Situation Room, all eyes were on her. Mo
nitors around the room showed the live broadcast from Garrison dam, news shows, foreign news feeds, a live satellite view, maps, and data displays.

  This was her moment. She stood abruptly, and everyone else immediately rose. They knew—she wasn’t sworn in yet, but they knew: Helena Marshall Burns was their new commander in chief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got work to do. As you know, Oliver Whitman is the president of the United States of America until he officially resigns and I am sworn in. The chief justice will be here in twenty minutes. Until that time, I trust that any command from President Whitman regarding military engagements will be ignored. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, happens without my orders. Understood?”

  She looked around the room. They were with her.

  “And furthermore, in the unlikely event that Oliver Whitman refuses to resign and forces Congress into an impeachment and trial, I hope that you, his most trusted advisors, will convince him that any military action would be ill advised. That is all.”

  “Madam Vice President!”

  She looked around. It was Erica Blackwell, who’d been sitting as still as a stone statue since Patterson named her and Senator Platte during his conversation with Zarrabian.

  “Ms. Blackwell?”

  “May I have a brief word with you in private?”

  “Very brief, Ms. Blackwell.”

  They retreated to the conference room and closed the door.

  “Well?” said Burns.

  “I can give you Platte,” said Blackwell.

  “It sounds like we already have him,” said Burns.

  “No, Madam Vice President. Trust me, he may not get re-elected, but Patterson won’t throw his uncle to the wolves. I will.”

  “Why?” asked Burns.

  “Madam Vice President, I . . . I made a serious mistake. Very serious.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, Erica, you committed treason. That’s a capital offense.”

  “Yes, I . . . I know that. Do you recall the time when I was a rising star, on the track to be president?”