File Zero. Джек Марс
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quickly headed upstairs to his home office. He already knew what he needed and exactly where to find it. The first item was a burner phone that he had picked up, paid in cash with a few hundred prepaid minutes on it. Maya had the number. The second was the safe deposit box key. He knew where it was as if he always had, though earlier that morning he never would have remembered what it was for or why he had it. The key was in an old tackle box in his closet, what he had dubbed his “junk box,” filled with all sorts of old things that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of though they hardly seemed worthwhile.
When he returned to the kitchen, he was not all that surprised to find both of his daughters standing there expectantly.
“Dad?” Maya said uncertainly. “What’s going on?”
Zero took his cell phone from his pocket and left it on the kitchen counter. “There’s something that I have to do,” he said vaguely. “And it’s…”
Incredibly dangerous. Monumentally stupid to do alone. Puts you directly in harm’s way. Again.
“It’s something that means people are likely going to be watching us. Carefully. And we need to be prepared for that.”
“Are we going to a safe house again?” Sara asked.
It broke Zero’s heart that she had to even ask that question. “No,” he told her. Then he scolded himself, remembering that he had promised them honesty. “Not yet. That might come later.”
“Does this have to do with what happened in New York?” Maya asked candidly.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But for now, just listen. There’s a man, an agency asset named Mitch. He’s a big guy, burly, with a bushy beard and wears a trucker’s cap. He runs the Third Street Garage. If I give him the go-ahead, he’s going to come here and bring you somewhere safe. Somewhere that not even the CIA knows about.”
“Why don’t we just go there now?” Sara asked.
“Because,” Zero replied honestly, “there’s a chance that people might already be watching us. Or at the very least, keeping an eye out for anything strange. If you don’t show up for school, or if I do something out of the ordinary, it might ring some alarms. You guys know the drill. You don’t let anyone in, you don’t go with anyone, and you don’t trust anyone except for Mitch, Agent Strickland, or Agent Watson.”
“And Maria,” Sara added. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Zero murmured. “And Maria. Of course.” He reached for the doorknob. “I won’t be long. Lock up behind me. I have the burner; call if you need me.” He headed out the door and strode quickly to his car, dismayed to find that the memory of him and Maria together was rattling around his head again.
Kate. You betrayed her.
“No,” he muttered to himself as he reached the car. He wouldn’t have. He loved Kate more than anything, anyone. As he slid behind the wheel and started the car, he searched his memory for any indication that he was wrong, that he and Maria had not had an affair while Kate was still alive. But there was none. His relationship at home had been a happy one; Kate was none the wiser about his work as a CIA agent. She believed his frequent travels were guest lectures at other colleges, research for a history book, summits, and conventions. She supported him fully while taking care of the two girls. He hid his injuries from her, and when he couldn’t, he made excuses. He was clumsy. He fell. At least once he had been jumped. The agency helped with his cover stories and, on more than one occasion, went so far as to create fake police reports to substantiate his claims.
She didn’t know.
But Maria did. Maria knew this entire time that they had been together while Kate was still alive, and she had said nothing. As long as Zero’s memory was fractured, she could tell him whatever he wanted to hear and withhold anything he didn’t know.
He suddenly realized how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white and his ears burning in anger. Deal with that later. There are more important things to do right now, he told himself as he headed to the bank to retrieve the evidence that he could only hope was enough to put a stop to this.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was little traffic in the early afternoon as Zero drove quickly to the Arlington bank. Twice he blew stop signs and even slammed the accelerator through a yellow light, each time reminding himself that avoiding scrutiny would be a good idea, and that a traffic violation would no doubt get flagged in the CIA system, alerting the agency-oriented conspirators to his whereabouts.
But his mind was hardly on the rules of the road. He had taken the precautionary measures to keep the girls safe, at least for now; next he would retrieve his files from the deposit box. That much was easy. But then would come the difficult part. Who do I take it to? The press? No, he realized, that would be too messy. Despite any muck and mire he might drag names through, the process of dismissing any of the figureheads from their posts would be lengthy and involve trials.
The United Nations? NATO? Once again the political and judicial process would hinder real progress. He needed something rapid; to bring what he knew to someone with the power to do something immediate and irreversible.
He already had the answer. Pierson. If the president was truly unaware of the plot, Zero could appeal to him. He would have to get the president alone somehow, bring him everything he had and knew. The president could stop all of this and could dismiss those responsible for it. Pierson seemed to hold Agent Zero in high regard; he trusted him and treated him like a friend. Although those traits had caused Zero to cast doubt and aspersions on Pierson in the past, he was now armed with his memory, his real memory, and he saw the president for what he was: a pawn in this game. Those in power wanted four more years so that they could manipulate things to their liking, in a manner that meant longevity regardless of who was in office.
He parallel-parked two blocks from the bank, no simple task with only one good hand. Before getting out of the car he reached over, popped the glove box, and rooted around until he found the small black tactical folding knife that he had stowed there.
Then he hurried down the street to the bank.
Zero tried to look patient as he waited for the three customers in front of him to finish their business, and then presented his photo ID to the teller, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile and too much lipstick.
“Let me get the branch manager,” she told him politely.
Two minutes later a man in a suit led him through a vault door to the deposit boxes. He unlocked the narrow rectangular door to 726, slid the box out, and set it on an otherwise empty steel table, bolted to the floor in the center of the room.
“Take your time, sir.” The manager nodded to him and gave him some privacy.
As soon as the man was gone, Zero lifted the lid to the box.
“No,” he murmured. He took one step backward and looked over his shoulder instinctively, as if someone might be there.
The box was empty.
“No, no.” He pounded a fist on the table with a dull thud. “No!” All of his documents, everything he had dug up on those that he knew were involved in the plot, were gone. Every piece of illegally obtained evidence that could potentially force the dismissal of heads of state was gone. Photos, transcriptions, emails… all of it, vanished.
Zero put his hands on his head and paced the room back and forth rapidly. His first thought was the most likely solution: someone else knew about the documents and took them. Who else knew about this box? No one. He was sure of it. You definitely didn’t give the information to someone and forgot about it? No. He wouldn’t have done that. He almost laughed at himself, at how insane the notion was that he might forget something that he didn’t know he knew only hours ago.
But then Zero remembered something else, not an unlocked memory, but one that he had experienced only days earlier, in the office of a Swiss neurosurgeon.
I should forewarn you, Dr. Guyer had told him before performing the