Assassin Zero. Джек Марс
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the photo aside and kept digging. It had to be in here. A lot of his things were still in Maria’s basement, but he was certain he would have put it in the security box…
“Thank god.” He recognized the manila envelope and tore the flap opening it. There was a single sheet inside, printed on thick stock and embossed with the stamp of a New York court. Their marriage license.
His throat ran dry as he stared at the name. “Katherine,” he said to himself. “Her name was Katherine.” But there was no relief in it; he felt only terror. The name did not register any memories in him or familiarity. It was like a foreign word on his tongue. “Katherine,” he said again. “Katherine Lawson.”
Still it didn’t sound right, even though it was printed right there in front of his eyes in black and white. Had she been Katherine? Had he called her Katherine? Or maybe it was…
“Kate.”
The air rushed out of him in an enormous sigh. Kate. He called her Kate. The memories rushed back, as sudden as a faucet turning on. Now there was relief, but still it was underscored by the very real fact that for those few harrowing minutes, he had absolutely forgotten his wife’s name—and that was not something he could write off as an arbitrary lapse.
Zero grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. International charges be damned; he needed answers. Switzerland was six hours ahead. It would be early afternoon there, assuming their office was open.
“Pick up,” Zero pleaded. “Pick up, pick up…”
“Dr. Guyer’s office.” The female voice that answered the call was soft, tinged with a Swiss-German accent. He would have thought it sultry had he not been panicking.
“Alina?” he asked quickly. “I need to speak with Dr. Guyer, it’s very important—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “may I ask who’s calling?”
Right. “It’s Reid. I mean, Kent. Kent Steele. Zero.”
“Ah, Agent Steele,” she said brightly. “How wonderful to hear from you.”
“Alina, it’s urgent.”
“Of course.” Her demeanor changed on a dime. “I’ll get him for you, hold a moment.”
Dr. Guyer was a brilliant Swiss neurologist, likely among the best in the world—and also the man who had installed the rice-grain-sized memory suppressor in Zero’s head four years earlier, which had wiped his memory clean of any affiliation with the CIA. But Guyer had been acting upon Zero’s own request, and later he was also the doctor who performed the procedure that restored his memory, albeit belatedly.
The two of them had been in contact on and off over the last year; the doctor had been delighted to learn that Zero’s memories had returned and eager to run further tests, but that required a trip to Switzerland, which Zero hadn’t had the time or energy to do—though he fully admitted he owed it to him. Nevertheless, if anyone could tell him what was happening in his head, it was Guyer.
“Agent Steele,” said a deep voice through the phone, accented and somber enough to suggest they were going to skip the pleasantries. “Alina said you sounded distressed. What seems to be the trouble?”
“Dr. Guyer,” Zero said. “I need help. I’m not sure what’s happening, but…” He paused as another horrid thought struck him. What if this wasn’t a private call? What if someone was listening in? The CIA had tapped his personal lines before. And if they heard all this…
You’re being paranoid. Don’t become that person again.
Even so, once the thought was in his head, he couldn’t shake it. It was best to err on the side of caution, after all. He’d just made his way back into the CIA, and it felt good. Like his life had purpose again. If they heard about this, things could change very quickly for him—and he didn’t want to fall back into the listless, fifteen-month depressive episode he’d found himself in before.
“Agent Steele? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Sorry.” Zero did his best to keep his voice even and casual as he said, “I’m, uh… having some trouble remembering things.”
“Hmm,” said Guyer thoughtfully. “Short-term or long-term?”
“I would say more of the long-term.”
“And you believe this to be of… concern?” Guyer was choosing his words carefully. Zero wondered if the doctor was thinking the same thing, that their call might be monitored. Someone like Guyer could face a world of trouble for what he’d done—certainly lose his medical license, if not actually face jail time.
“I would say that I think I should schedule that trip to see you sooner than later,” Zero told him.
“I see.” Guyer fell silent, and in that pregnant pause Zero became certain that the doctor was being as careful as he was. “Well, it so happens that you’re in luck. You won’t have to come to me; I’m attending a conference next week at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. I can see you then. I’m sure that one of my colleagues will allow me use of an examination room.”
“Perfect.” Finally some semblance of relief came. He trusted that the doctor would know what to do—or at least be able to explain what was going on in his head. “Text me the details, and I’ll see you then.”
“I shall. Adieu, Agent Steele.” Guyer hung up, and Zero sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His hands were still shaking, and his bedroom floor was a mess of strewn nostalgia.
Maybe it was just a fluke, he told himself. Maybe the dream rattled me and it was just a brief bout of waking forgetfulness. Maybe I panicked for nothing.
Of course he didn’t truly believe any lie he might tell himself.
But despite whatever was happening in his head, life had to go on. He forced himself to stand, to pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt. He replaced the items back into the security box, locked it, and pushed it under the bed.
In the bathroom he brushed his teeth and splashed some cold water on his face before heading down the hall to the kitchen—just in time to see Maya closing the oven door and setting the digital timer.
Zero frowned. “What’s this?”
She shrugged and pushed the sweeping bangs from her forehead. “Just putting the bird in the oven.”
He blinked. “You’re cooking the turkey? Is that something they teach you at West Point?”
Maya smirked. “No.” She held up her phone. “But Google does.”
“Well… okay then. Guess I’ll just get myself some coffee.” He was again pleasantly surprised to find that she’d already made a pot. Maya had always been as independent as she was intelligent, but this almost seemed to him as if she was trying to pull some weight around. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was feeling as helpless about Sara’s situation as he was; maybe this was her way of showing support.
So he decided to stay out of her way and let her do what she would. He took a stool at the counter and stirred his coffee, trying to push the morning’s unpleasantness out of his mind. A few minutes later Sara trudged her way into the kitchen, still in pajamas, eyes partially open, her red-blonde hair tousled.
“Morning,” Maya said cheerfully.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Zero chimed in.
“Mmph,” Sara grunted as she dragged herself to the coffee machine.
“Still not a morning person, huh, Squeak?” Maya ribbed gently.
Sara grunted something else, but he saw the hint of a smile on her lips at the sound of her childhood nickname. He felt a warmth inside him that wasn’t just the coffee; this was a feeling he had lacked for some time, the feeling of truly being at home.
And then, naturally, his cell phone rang.
The screen showed him that it was Maria calling and he winced. He had forgotten to text her the time