by Jack Mars
A moment later his phone chimed with a text message. Again it was an unknown sender. The message simply said: Answer the phone, Zero.
Reid groaned. He knew exactly who it would be when the phone rang a second time. It seemed that someone had gotten tired of waiting for his answer.
“Hello, Cartwright,” he said flatly as he answered the call.
“Zero,” said the deputy director by way of greeting. His voice was low, lacking any sense of joviality. “You should know you’re on speakerphone. I’m here with Assistant Director Ashleigh Riker. She’ll be heading up Special Operations Group.”
“Congratulations, I suppose.” Reid was immediately suspicious. It would be one thing if Cartwright was calling for his answer. It was a different story with another director on the line. He waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Thank you,” said Riker. “Though I wish we were being introduced under better circumstances.”
Reid held back an audible groan. Something was definitely amiss. “What do you want?”
“Straight to the point,” said Cartwright. “Good old Zero.” He sighed. “There’s a crisis situation. Come to Langley. Let’s talk.”
“We can talk now,” said Reid. He knew that going to CIA headquarters would mean giving them leverage to convince him to do whatever it was they were going to ask of him.
“I’d rather not do this over the phone,” said Cartwright. “There are things you should see.”
“What sort of things?” Reid asked. “What kind of situation?”
“Agent, you know we wouldn’t have called if this wasn’t important,” said Riker. “We understand your position, and your predicament—”
“Do you?” Reid said bitterly. “I’m not sure you know much at all about my ‘predicament,’ Assistant Director.”
“…And that’s why we haven’t bothered you for your answer yet,” Riker finished. “But it’s been a month. So we need you to come in now, or tell us you’re not coming back at all.”
“Look, Kent, people are going to die,” Cartwright said somberly. “If you don’t believe me, get online and look at what’s happening in Barcelona. We have reason to believe it may be just the tip of this iceberg.”
Reid frowned. He hadn’t been in front of a computer all day; he had no idea what was happening in Spain. Had there been some sort of attack?
“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll come. I’ll listen. But I’m not making any promises.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” said Cartwright. “Be here as soon as you can. We’re briefing in forty-five minutes.” He hung up.
Reid sighed in defeat. Langley was only a thirty-minute drive; he had some time to look into whatever was happening in Barcelona, and…
He looked up and blinked in surprise to see his elder daughter standing in the doorway.
“Maya! When did you get home?”
She stared at the floor, avoiding his gaze. “Few minutes ago,” she said. “I finished early and took a bus.”
“Jeez, Maya, you should have let me come get you—”
“That was them, wasn’t it?” she interrupted.
He frowned. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.”
“That was nothing,” he said quickly. “It was just…” No more lies , he reminded himself. He wasn’t going to offer up information, but if she asked, he wasn’t going to lie to her anymore. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “That was them.”
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Just to Langley. It doesn’t mean I’m taking an assignment.”
“But you will. You’re not the kind of person who stands by if you could help.”
Reid didn’t know what to say to that. He rose and hugged her tightly, and she squeezed him, and though she didn’t look up at him he could have sworn he heard her sniff once. He knew that she was scared for him, even if she thought she had to be strong and not show it.
When he released her, Maya wiped at her eyes before he could see if there were tears in them or not. “Does this have anything to do with what’s going on in Spain?” she asked.
Reid was taken aback that she was more informed than he was—but then again, she was a child of the tech generation. “What’s going on over there?”
“They’re not entirely sure yet,” she told him. “Or they’re not saying. I heard some kids in the library talking about it. Here, take a look.” She pulled out her cell phone and brought up a video. “This was taken less than two hours ago.”
Maya held her phone up sideways as a news broadcast played. The sound was muted as a female reporter stood in front of what appeared to be a hospital. Behind her, a small crowd had gathered at the entrance. People in bright yellow hazmat suits scurried about, some of them on crowd control while others erected some kind of medical tent in the parking lot.
As Reid watched, a member of the crowd staggered and keeled over, collapsing right there outside the hospital. Two yellow-clad workers rushed over and loaded the man onto a wheeled gurney while other would-be patients shoved past them, trying to get into the ER.
Reid’s mouth fell open slightly. It looks like a war zone. The news broadcast played like something out of a movie, something too horrific to possibly be reality.
On the video, the reporter’s eyes suddenly widened in shock as she pointed at something out of frame. The cameraman panned just in time to see a sedan T-bone their news van, spraying broken glass in every direction.
“Oh my god,” Reid murmured. “What is it?”
“It’s some kind of viral outbreak,” Maya said. “But it doesn’t seem like anyone knows what yet.” She glanced up at him. “You didn’t answer me. Is this what they need you for?”
Reid barely heard her question. A biological weapon , he thought. Spreading fast in a civilian population. No natural disease would just blindside a major city like that, and it would be far too much of a coincidence that the call from Cartwright came mere hours after the infection began.
Moreover, he knew that his daughter was right. Before he even got to Langley—before he even got in his car—he already knew that if his help was needed, he wouldn’t be able to stand idly by, even if it meant putting himself directly in harm’s way.
CHAPTER TEN
Reid entered the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the headquarters of the CIA in the unincorporated community of Langley, Virginia, and stood for a moment on the marble floor. Beneath his feet was a large circular emblem, a shield and eagle in gray and white, surrounded by the words “Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America.”
No specific memory manifested, but he had an acute feeling of familiarity. He had been here many times before. His feet seemed to know precisely where to go of their own volition, even if his brain hadn’t the foggiest idea.
He didn’t even need the comfortable, well-acquainted sensation to know he’d been here. When he pulled up to the gate, the security officer took one look at him, nodded, and granted him access. No badge, no identification needed.
“Thanks, Mel,” Reid had said instinctively as the guard tipped his hat. Reid surprised himself; he knew the guard’s name despite not recalling ever having met him before.
At the arcing semicircle of a front desk, a young man in a blue suit sat answering phones and checking badges. Brent , Reid’s brain told him. Twenty-five years old. Wants to be a field agent but suffers from minor dyslexia and colorblindness.
“Good morning, Brent,” Reid said, testing his recovering memory. Aside from the bizarre recollection of the argument with Kate, he hadn’t recouped much as of late.
“Agent Steele!” The young man smiled broadly, seeming genuinely pleased to see him. “Go right on through. You’re expected.”
“Thank you.” Reid nodded to him and continued past the desk. The further he went the more memories flooded back—meetings, debriefings, pleasant days and dark times. He realized suddenly that he had no idea just how long he had been a CIA agent. Years,
it seemed, but he had no definitive notion. He wondered again if Kate knew about his past. It was gnawing at him, not knowing his own reality.
Reid turned a corner and abruptly paused. So did the other man, who had been approaching from the opposite direction at the same time.
Shawn Cartwright smirked with one side of his mouth. “Gotta be honest,” he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.” He held out his hand and Reid shook it.
Cartwright was young for his position, only forty-four, though his hair was turning gray at the temples. Even so he had a smile and demeanor that would have been just as well suited for politics as espionage—though Reid suspected that diplomacy was certainly part of the deputy director’s job description.
“I’d ask about the kids, but we’re going to have to skip the usual pleasantries,” Cartwright told him. “They’re waiting, and we don’t have much time.” He led the way hastily down the corridor toward a conference room. Reid didn’t bother asking who was waiting. He would find out in a moment.
“I looked into Barcelona,” Reid said instead as they walked. “We know what it is, don’t we?”
“We,” Cartwright repeated thoughtfully. “Almost sounds like you’re putting your hand in already, Zero.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Cartwright shrugged. “I know.”
The two men entered a small conference room with an eight-seat oblong table. The first thing Reid noticed, with some dismay, was that Maria was not among them. He assumed she was on the trail of Rais—hopefully closing in, if she hadn’t caught up with him already.
Of those present, only one was a familiar face. Agent Watson was a tall African-American field agent with whom Reid had shared very few words, but for whom he had a great deal of respect. Back in February, it was Watson who had rescued his girls from a pair of pursuing terrorists on a New Jersey boardwalk.
There were two people he did not know, but Cartwright quickly made introductions.
“Kent, this is Ashleigh Riker, interim head of Spec Ops.” The woman rose from her seat and shook his hand. Reid glanced over her, noting details—mid-forties, natural brunette, five-eight (five-six without the heels). Married; there’s slight discoloration on her ring finger, though she doesn’t wear it to work. She’s a woman in power and wants people to know it. Doesn’t wear perfume.
Reid almost smiled. Not five minutes back in CIA headquarters and he was already settling back into Kent Steele mode. Then he noticed that she was doing the same—sizing him up, noting details. He wondered if she had been a field agent previously.
Cartwright gestured toward the other unknown in the room. “And this is Doctor—”
The man stood quickly, interrupting Cartwright. “Dr. Edwin Barnard, virologist and bioterrorism expert with the CDC,” the man rattled off. He shook Reid’s hand limply and did not smile. The doctor looked like he didn’t get out of the lab often. His black hair was pulled tight off his forehead and collected into a thin ponytail at the back of his head. He wore round, silver glasses and his chin was stubbled in dark hair. But the most important detail Reid noted was that the doctor clearly seemed as if he was in a rush.
Virologist and bioterrorism expert , Reid thought. Barnard’s position confirmed what he had already conceived earlier; the events transpiring in Barcelona were an attack.
“All right,” said Cartwright, “you’ve all seen what’s going on in Spain, so you know why we’re here. Doctor, you want to give us a quick rundown?”
“By all means.” Barnard stood and cleared his throat as Reid took a seat beside Watson, nodding to the other agent. “The two agents are the only ones who are not fully aware of the current predicament, so I will try to make this as brief as possible.” He took a breath and said, “An unknown perpetrator has infiltrated a research expedition in Siberia, murdered four scientists, and made off with a sample of a very old strain of smallpox unearthed in the tundra. This person, potentially with the aid of cohorts, then mutated the virus to reach a startlingly high virulence, and has now released it upon the city of Barcelona.”
Reid blinked in shock. Any single part of Dr. Barnard’s statement was jarring enough, but put together into such a rapid, rambling speech was downright bewildering. If Agent Watson was thinking the same, he didn’t show it. He merely sat, staring straight ahead at the tabletop, with his hands in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” said Reid. “But did you say smallpox? That’s what’s infecting people in Barcelona?”
Barnard nodded. “Indeed—well, in a manner of speaking. Initial symptoms are similar, but manifest much more quickly.”
Reid balked. He was well aware of how horrifying of a disease smallpox was back in the days when it ran rampant among native populations. During the Franco-Prussian War in 1870, French soldiers triggered a five-year epidemic that claimed nearly half a million lives in Germany and other parts of Europe. He didn’t want to imagine what a faster-moving, mutated strain could do.
“We have reason to believe that someone out there has more of this virus,” Cartwright announced, “and until we know who it is, we have to assume that the next target could be anywhere—even American soil. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. Interpol is already on the case in Europe. The FBI is working domestically. International travel to and from affected nations is closing as we speak, and every federal law enforcement agency in the developed world is getting the information that we already have. But we have a duty to protect not only ourselves but whoever else we can, and time is a factor. We’re keeping this op small, we keep it tight, and we make it fast.”
“What have we got to go on?” Reid asked. “Leads, intel…?”
“You’ll be briefed on the plane.” Cartwright avoided Reid’s gaze. “We’d like to be wheels-up in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” Reid blurted out. He felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. This was exactly what he had feared coming in here, that once they had him in a room they would corner him. But at the same time, he already knew that he wasn’t going to be able to say no, and he would soon have to explain to the girls that he was leaving again.
“Give us the room a moment,” said Cartwright to the other three present.
“Time is a factor here,” Riker countered. “We can’t afford indecisiveness right now—”
“Our fastest plane will still take five hours to get them to Europe,” Cartwright interrupted. “I think you can give us one minute.”
Riker’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t argue. Instead she stood forcefully and marched out of the conference room, her heels clacking against the floor. Watson and Dr. Barnard followed.
“Jesus, Cartwright,” Reid groaned as soon as they were alone. “It’s been a month, and now you give me thirty minutes?”
“No, Zero.” Cartwright folded his arms, standing across the table from him. “I’m not giving you thirty minutes. I need an answer now , because a plane is leaving in thirty minutes, whether you’re on it or not. You saw what’s going on in Barcelona. People are dying. What if New York is next? Or DC? It could be if we do nothing. You want to walk away, go ahead. You have no obligation here.”
Reid scoffed. Cartwright was calling his bluff. The deputy director knew damn well that Agent Zero couldn’t walk away from this.
“I need you, Kent. This is a by-whatever-means-necessary situation, and you’re my by-whatever-means-necessary guy. No one has a more creative interpretation of the phrase than you. This won’t be like last time. You’re not going to be running all over Europe alone. You’ll have the full backing of the CIA and its resources. You’ll have a direct line to me and Riker. You need something, you call it in. And you’ll have Agent Watson.”
“Where’s Johansson?” Reid demanded. He didn’t want to let on that he was aware of Maria’s op or Rais’s escape.
“We got a bead on an Amun assassin in Slovenia. She’s on the trail. But we’ll pull her in an instant if you need backup on this. And Thompson
will take care of your girls. I’ll put in the call and let him know. He can tell them that—”
“You talk to Thompson. I’ll talk to my girls,” Reid said quickly. He didn’t want to disappear and have some third party being the ones to tell them he’d suddenly left again.
“Fine. But we need you. If this CDC doctor is right, a lot of people could die, and we have no idea where it could happen next.”
Reid ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “We both know I can’t say no to something like this. But I don’t want this to mean I’m back. We still need to talk about that.”
“Of course,” Cartwright agreed. He started to turn toward the door but then thought of something. “Oh, and the doctor, Barnard, he’s going with you.”
Reid blinked. It was one thing to have a trained CIA agent at his side, but to tow around a scientist seemed downright perilous. “Do you really think that’s wise?”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” said Cartwright simply. “He calls himself an expert, so use his expertise. Now grab Watson and go see Bixby.”
“Who’s Bixby?”
“Right, I guess you haven’t seen him since the memory thing.” Cartwright smirked. “Seems you’ll be meeting all sorts of new people today.” The deputy director pulled the door open and left him in the conference room alone.
Reid heaved a sigh into his hands. Just that morning he had been giving a lecture on biological warfare, and now he was back in the service of the CIA, racing against time to find a completely unknown person or persons who possessed a biological weapon of potential mass destruction.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Immediately following the small conference, Reid quickly followed Agent Watson to a bank of elevators. Dr. Barnard had agreed to meet them at the plane; he had research equipment to gather. Once they were in the elevator car, Watson swiped his ID badge and pressed the down arrow.
Odd , thought Reid. We’re on the first floor .
Watson was extremely quiet on the downward ride. The tall, stoic agent had barely said two words to him since he arrived.
