Dead Zero

by Stephen Hunter

  “Good afternoon, sir, may I see a driver’s license, please?”

  “Yes, Officer.”

  He reached over and picked up the wallet, held it deliberately out front so the cop could watch both hands—this was a trick he’d learned as a child when the Israeli Security Forces detained boys en masse—and plucked out the license, a very good fake linked to an actual license holder in Tempe, Arizona.

  The officer took the license, took a brief look around the van, giving the two old men a once-over, then said, “I’ll be right back, sir.”

  He went back to his vehicle, now to run the license against watch lists, APBs, wanted circulars, other security checklists.

  “I have shit myself,” said Faisal.

  “Praise be to Allah,” said Khalid. “When you need Him, He comes to your service.”

  “Infidel. Apostate. Fiend. Demon.”

  “Stop it, you two. I will find a place for you to purify, if we get out of this.”

  “I am trying to be rational.”

  “The text is all the ‘rational’ you need—”

  “Please, I can take no more,” said Bilal. “Silence. He returns.”

  The officer came to the van window again.

  “All right, Mr. Muhammed,” he said, handing the license back. “The reason I stopped you, your right rear tire looked wobbly to me. I think you should pull in at the next highway rest area and have a mechanic look at it. Maybe the lug nuts are loose, or maybe you have a worse problem and it’ll need some looking after. You could also help whichever old fellow had an accident get cleaned up. Sorry to detain you and cause an unpleasantness, but your safety is our most important concern.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” said Bilal. “I will have it taken care of.”

  “Good luck on your trip now.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Bilal started the engine again, waited for a space to open up, and reentered the traffic.

  FBI HQ

  DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

  HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1000 HOURS

  THE NEXT DAY

  So let me get this straight,” said the director, “your job was to apprehend a man who’d made a threat against a high-profile diplomatic visitor to this country. You haven’t done that. You really haven’t even come close and he’s come closer to doing his job than you have to doing yours. But you say you have uncovered a secret CIA killer program that in at least one case has targeted American servicemen in Afghanistan. You’ve decided that case is more important than apprehending Ray Cruz. You now want latitude to widen the investigation, bring in the U.S. Attorneys’ Office, begin subpoenaing high-ranking Agency officers working in the most secret and sensitive of national security areas. Hmm, Mr. Swagger, it seems like every time we hire you as a consultant, we end up in a completely different pea patch than the one we thought we were going to end up in. Is that a fair assessment?”

  Bob said, “Yes, sir, that is fair.”

  The three sat alone in the director’s big office overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue with a nice view of the Capitol dome. The man himself, pink and glowing in his dark suit like so many of the DC big-footers, had his legs up on his table and his body language communicated the “friendly talk” mood as opposed to the “you are so fucked” mood. He liked Nick, and had more or less “supported” (best not to look too carefully at it) Nick during the twisted investigation that had led to the still controversial murder-one four times conviction of Tom Constable some years back. But he was also putting out a message that maybe this time, Nick was asking a little too much. He was a genius at sending messages with layers and layers of subtext.

  “Mr. Director,” said Nick, “the evidence is pretty incontrovertible. We have a former drone pilot willing to testify that she was ordered, via secret CIA protocols, to destroy what turned out to be a nonmilitary target. We can tie that by time frame to the destruction of the hotel in Qalat where a U.S. Marine sniper had told his headquarters he would be setting up his mission. It connects to almost the minute. No, we don’t know how the Agency got into the marine communications net. But we’ll find that out. The marine was set to go Afghan time 1700, the missile, smart-bomb hit actually, was set up fast in real time, enabling an on-ground spotter to relay the info to whomever that the sniper had indeed entered the hotel, and the shot was ordered at about 1658.30 Afghan time. That gave the pilot just enough time to vector her Reaper vehicle to the exact grid location her battle management officer had given her, acquire target, launch the Paveway, and guide it down so that it hit at 1559.38. The time is on record at Two-Two Recon, Cruz’s battalion, outside Qalat. That fact won’t go away.”

  “And you believe that operation continued in the United States?”

  “I have the entry into the U.S. of three extremely proficient ‘contractors,’ last known locality Miami, Florida. After they disappeared, things started happening: a building was shot up in Danielstown, South Carolina, and a man killed. Mr. Swagger here just survived the incident by chance and you can still see the scar on his face where he was hurt in the gunfire. Second, four days ago, nine Filipino temporary workers were killed in Baltimore by a highly proficient team utilizing silencers and extremely developed raid craft. They had, we believe, followed Swagger and me to that location and meant to wipe out its inhabitants as a way of nailing Ray Cruz, whom we thought might seek shelter there. They’re still around, they’re still trying to kill Ray Cruz, and they won’t be leaving any witnesses. Since we believe they have satellite assistance in all the tracking they do, there is a good chance they are working for elements within the Agency.”

  The director nodded. But then he said, “And the fact that Ray Cruz is still out there, that he tried to make his kill in Baltimore, the fact that he has not been apprehended, that seems not too important to you.”

  This was the time to put it on record, Bob realized, that he had been in contact with Ray, that Ray had agreed to back off while the scandal was sorted out, and that he had not attempted any operations on Sunday last against his supposed target.

  But knowing that was the only card he still had to play, Bob kept it to himself. Instead, he said lamely, “He did not make an attempt this past Sunday. Maybe he’s backing off. Maybe he’s letting us dig into Pentameter and that’s the point of his game, not killing this Zarzi fellow. He actually never pulled the trigger in Baltimore. His supposed ‘attempt to kill’ Zarzi certainly did lead us to Pentameter. Maybe that was the original idea.”

  “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you’re giving him too much credit. Maybe you like him too much.”

  “That is a possibility,” said Swagger. “I hope it ain’t the case, but maybe it’s working that way in my mind.”

  The director sighed.

  “I will take your findings to the U.S. attorney general and we will see what will exists in the Justice Department to continue and widen the investigation. I suspect very little, and I warn you of that. If this Ray Cruz has evidence to give, he’d better turn himself in. That would make everybody’s job a lot easier.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to emphasize that time—”

  “Yes, time is of the essence. I’ve got a crew of attorneys on their way over and their Administration overlords too. This will be political, you understand. Politics will have its way, maybe more than truth and justice. You have to get, especially you, Swagger, that we can’t have any Marshal Dillon stuff this time or the hammer will come down in very hard ways on all of it.”

  “I won’t do no Marshal Dillon, sir,” said Bob. “Way too old for it.”

  FBI HQ

  OUTSIDE THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, CONTINUING INTO ELEVATOR, AND CONTINUING TO NICK’S

  OFFICE IN TASK FORCE ZARZI WORKING ROOM

  FLOORS 7 TO 5

  HOOVER BUILDING

  PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1028 HOURS

  Okay, we will see what we will see,” said Nick as they wa
ited for the elevator. “I told you, I’d give it my best shot and he will too. You have to prepare yourself for the fact that some things won’t happen.”

  “Such as?”

  “They are not going to give Ray Cruz a Silver Star and his old job back and erase the several crimes he has committed. He will do time, no matter what.”

  “Don’t seem right,” said Bob.

  “Can’t have one law for heroes and another for us normal folks. Although, yes, you can have one law for corporate presidents, elected officials, congressmen and lobbyists and Wall Street bankers, and one for the rest of us. I’m sorry about that and if I ever get any juice in this town, I will try to change it. But it doesn’t change reality: Ray will do time and his marine career is finished. Assuming he doesn’t kill Zarzi.”

  “He won’t.”

  “And I don’t think we’ll get a case out of it. I think what we’ll get is nothing but the satisfaction that the Agency had to explain itself and back way down and a lot of heads will roll and maybe Susan Okada will get a big promo and maybe when she gets it she will run off to Idaho and iron your Jockeys for you for the rest of your life.”

  “Unlikely,” Bob said.

  “Well, you’re probably right about that. Okay, I’m going to bump up my inquiries about these guys Bogier, Zemke, and Crane to ‘Detain for interrogation. Approach with caution.’ If we get them off the field, then maybe Cruz will be more cooperative.”

  “Them bastards may not go easy. You could get some cops killed.”

  “I will also add a ‘Caution, presumed armed and dangerous.’”

  “Real good.”

  “And I want you to go to Georgetown today and make a site analysis, just like the last time. Then it’ll be the same, a round of meetings with our good friends from Secret Service and metro police and we’ll lay out our plans for Friday.”

  “There ain’t going to be no hit on Friday.”

  “Let’s hope. Meanwhile, we’ll wait for our callback to the director’s office.”

  “Sure,” said Bob, “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Starling says you did really well.”

  “The gal pilot and I had a lot in common. I don’t want to see her getting in any trouble over this either.”

  “I don’t see how she can. There isn’t going to be any case, you have to be ready for that. The Administration is too in love with drones to let anything happen to the program. Okay? Comprende?”

  “I get it.”

  “Now go, do your job. Or someone else’s, anybody’s job.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bob, knowing that first he had to get his car washed.

  FOUR SEASONS HOTEL

  SUITE 500

  M STREET NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1207 HOURS

  You are so beautiful,” Zarzi said. “Your eyes, black diamonds. Your skin, the touch of satin. Your limbs, smooth and graceful as poems. Your throat a golden vase of supple nuances. But it is your mind that is remarkable, more remarkable than your beauty. It sees, it penetrates, it isolates the actual, it understands the play of history and tradition. It is the most extraordinary of your many, many gifts.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Susan Okada, “but just out of curiosity, does that stuff ever really work?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “I could make you a queen.”

  “Queen of Afghanistan!” she snorted. “Please, are you trying to be funny?”

  “I will make you queen of Washington. I will make you queen of Bloomingdale’s.”

  “Hmm. What about Saks?”

  “Well, I—”

  “No, not even for Saks. And anyway, you’re lying. You lie most sincerely. You’re at your best when you lie. But we both know you wouldn’t make me queen of anything. And we both know I don’t want to be a queen. I’m already a princess, why would I want all the responsibility?”

  “Such wit. But you think yourself too good for me.”

  “I think no such thing, sir. Thinking doesn’t enter into it. I know I am too good for you. It’s simple fact.”

  The watch faces on the winders undulated all about her. Was this his seduction technique? Maybe it worked with idiots, but it just made Susan slightly nauseous and she’d arrived knowing the bastard would probably throw some moves on her. It was his nature. Ugh, he was handsome and charismatic in an extraordinarily uninteresting way. Yes, the technical aspects were all in place, but he seemed to lack a coherent center to bring it all together.

  “So, I assume we’re finished with the Cary Grant–Doris Day aspects of the interview and now, if I may continue?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Around five P.M. that day, a hotel across from your compound explodes.”

  “Most ferociously.”

  “I have been tasked by the Agency to look into it. We are concerned that it represented an attempt on your life by Taliban members or even Al-Qaeda.”

  “No, no,” said Zarzi. “The brotherhood would not have missed. If they decide I must die, then I will die. I happily sacrifice myself for the good of my country. I yearn for martyrdom not to get to paradise but to inspire our young to stand against the forces of evil arrayed against us. Why would I want to go to paradise? I am already in paradise.”

  “Well, if being surrounded by watches is your idea of paradise.”

  “And the flesh of beauties. You turn me down, that is the right of a Western woman, but I must say, not many do. I have, what do you call it, oh yes, according to Page Six, that ‘Omar Sharif–Dr. Zhivago vibe’ going. And I think a young man from the New York Times fell in love with me some days ago. Such a puppy. Why, he even fainted. We had to call a doctor.”

  “Journalists,” she said. “Attention sluts, all of them.”

  “You know, young lady, to return to the subject of the explosion, there is much narcotics trafficking in that area. I believe that the explosion was related to narcotics trafficking. The money in that business is capable of corrupting even the holiest of imams.”

  She knew of course that he had banked about $90 million in a Swiss bank from his control of certain vast poppy field holdings, but she ignored the subject and veered off in another direction.

  “It has been reported that the explosion was instrumental in your decision to envision an American future for your country, ‘our two nations entwined and facing a bright future ahead.’”

  “I believe I did say that, yes. Another lie, of course. I cannot help myself, the West is so eager for another thousand or so Arabian Nights. And, as you say, I am at my best when I lie. See, that is another remarkable thing about you, your perception. So precise, so in depth.”

  “Possibly we should not focus on the ethical, the psychological, the political, but merely the practical. What sort of blast was it?”

  “A blast like any other blast. Ka-boom!—that is all. Rather big, I suppose. Bigger than normal, if explosions can be called normal. Rubbish and body parts rained into my courtyard for days afterward. A head dropped in on the Tuesday following. Most astonishing.”

  “Heads falling from the sky are only amusing when they belong to other people.”

  “My head will stay where it is until Allah calls it to be placed at his right hand,” he said, too merrily.

  “If I thought you actually believed that, I’d be horrified.”

  “I do sometimes exaggerate. It is my way. I’m of the impression your legs may be the most extraordinary thing about your body. They appear to be quite long for an Asian woman. Yet you hide them in pants. You should enjoy the Western freedom and wear short, tight skirts and very high heels, black leather, I think, and I am undecided as to stockings, black of course but still rather sheer, or bare, with the shine of the skin so . . .”

  It went on, until finally she acknowledged that Ibrahim Zarzi was immune to blandishment, refusal, shame, threat, or pressure. He was a self-sealed system, utterly impenetrable by the West, hiding efficiently b
ehind an armor of superciliousness and clichés copped from bad thirties movies. She ended the interview, endured a rather long, warm handshake, almost a sexual act in itself, gathered her stuff, and exited as graciously as possible with the vague promise of having a drink with him sometime, and knew what had to happen next. This is what she’d been playing for. She looked around, saw some Afghan Desk handlers, a few cops, and had started to think Oh, shit when a presence rushed through the door, slightly frazzled, slightly flushed, no less than Jared Dixson, assistant to the Afghan Desk. It was the only time in her life she’d ever been happy to see Jared Dixson.

  “Hello, hello, hello,” he said.

  “Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,” she said.

  “Susan, please, it has to be fate that I ran into you.”

  “Does it? I bet when you found out I was here, you blasted off from Langley and made it in twenty minutes.”

  “Susan, you overrate my love for you. I didn’t have a police escort, I drove myself. It was a full thirty-two-minute ordeal, and I only ran six reds. Look, nothing is going to happen here. He’ll sit in there among his watches and think of new lies to tell and which reporters to tell them to. That’s his job, after all, and he’s damn good at it. Let’s have lunch. I want to hear the latest manhunt news and I have some very funny stories about Jack Collins’s real war, which isn’t against international terrorism but against international Jared Dixsonism.”

  “No let’s-have-an-affair bullshit. The answer on that front now and forever will be no. I don’t feel like going over it again.”

  “Got it. I’ll prove to you I can play by your petty, bourgeois rules.”

  “And no martinis either. Two and you’re sticking your tongue in my ear. That’s so attractive.”