Recall Zero

by Jack Mars

  “Yes, sir,” Sutton said, his voice quiet, and then he hung up the phone. He glanced down at the pearls in his palm once more. “The president,” he told them, “has just ordered me to turn you, and these earrings, over to the Russian government.” He glanced out the window again at the cavalcade of vehicles that had scattered themselves outside the base. Men were pouring out of them, but lingered, staring inward at the base and making no attempt to hide the weapons they carried. “He told me that you attacked the Russian president. Blinded him.”

  “Yes,” Zero said honestly, “we did. But only to avoid being killed by his people.”

  “To refuse that order and continuing to harbor you here could be considered an act of war,” the general stated plainly.

  “What the Russians plan to do will be an act of war,” Reidigger countered.

  “Sir,” Zero added, “we came to you because of your integrity as a leader.” He shook his head. “I’d hate to be proven wrong.”

  “Then you have to give me something more than just your word,” Sutton persisted. “Something tangible. Right now I’m holding a pair of earrings that you’re telling me are spy gadgets, with more than fifty armed and pissed-off Russians about to storm my gates. We don’t have artillery or air support here; all of that is down at Chièvres. Why should I risk my people and my career for you? There must be something else.”

  Alan shook his head. “The only person who could have told you more is dead. Everything else is there, in that recording.”

  “Wait,” Zero said suddenly. That wasn’t true; Karina had left him her posthumous voicemail, in which she had given him more. “I do have something. In the meeting, Kozlovsky told Harris to order the disarming of American missile systems in Eastern Europe. That wouldn’t be something that only American military would be aware of, right?”

  Sutton frowned, but nodded. “That’s right.”

  “There would be no way for me to know that unless I knew it from that meeting—the interpreter that was in it,” Zero said quickly. His gaze flitted to the window; the Russians outside were gathering at the gate, the single MP there holding up both his hands as fellow American soldiers approached behind him.

  There wasn’t much time.

  “Is there a way that you can confirm that, General?” Zero asked.

  Sutton nodded. “All right,” he agreed. He stuck a finger in the air to punctuate his point as he said, “But you had better be right.” He threw open his office door and barked at the soldier who had burst in before. “Get me Eastern Command on the line. I want to speak to General Fitzgerald.” To the two MPs flanking them, he ordered, “Keep an eye on those two.” And Sutton vanished through the doorway.

  All Zero could do was sit there, cuffed, and wonder if he had made the right decision or not. Either way, he was bound to face the music for what he had done to get that far; but if it meant that Karina and Veronika had not died in vain, and that no one else would have to, it could be worth it.

  “Hey,” Reidigger said gently, as if reading his thoughts. “We gave it our best try.”

  “Not out of the woods yet,” Zero murmured, glancing through the window at the veritable powder keg that was the Russian force. He imagined that Kozlovsky had been amassing people in Belgium the moment he learned that Zero and Karina were here, and they appeared to have arrived in force.

  And they had already proven they were willing to do just about anything to get what they wanted. It was strange that he had to hope that Harris had indeed already ordered the disarming of the missile systems, even though that would inevitably mean that Russia marched one step closer to potential war.

  “Leave us.” General Sutton’s commanding voice jarred Zero out of his thoughts as he appeared in the doorway again, his expression grim. The two MPs murmured a “yes, sir” and left the office as Sutton crossed the floor, standing in front of Zero and staring down at him.

  The general held out a fist. “Hold onto these for me.” And he deposited the earrings into Zero’s waiting hand.

  “Sir…?”

  But Sutton did not reply. Instead he rounded his desk, plucked up the red phone, and said, “Get me Chièvres Air Base. This is General Sutton at Garrison Benelux. We have a hostile force at our gates and require immediate air support.”

  Zero let out a sigh of relief. He had put his trust in the right person.

  “I can buy you some time,” Sutton told them, “but not long. We’ll need to get that recording off of those earrings and broadcast it out.”

  “The only person who can do that is in Kiev,” Zero told him. “And we don’t know who he is.”

  “That might not be true,” Alan said. “We know a certain engineer at Langley who might be able to help.”

  Zero nodded. If they could conference with Bixby from CIA headquarters, he just might be able to help them obtain the recording. But to do that they would first have to contact Maria.

  There was a sound then, barely more than a hum at first but quickly growing louder. Zero glanced out the window to see the shapes soaring closer, several of them, speeding rapidly from Chièvres and flying toward the base. A half-dozen Black Hawk helicopters converged on the small Army base, hovering over the amassed Russians beyond the gates. Their shouts were inaudible as they scrambled back to their vehicles, but they didn’t dare fire a shot. The combined might of the Black Hawks could obliterate them in seconds.

  “Thank you, sir.” Zero stood from the bench, his hands still cuffed but the earrings secured in his fist.

  “My pleasure, Zero.” Sutton nodded to him. “Now let’s go figure out how to tell the world what you already know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The audio of the meeting between US President Harris and Russian President Kozlovsky was broadcast on every news channel, every radio station, every website and blog on the entire planet with even the least bit interest in political stories.

  Maya had heard it so many times by now that she could almost recite the meeting’s exchange herself. They aired it unabridged, with the interpreter speaking between the two presidents in both Russian and English.

  She followed the story intensely over the three days that it unfolded. First the news that the interpreter of the meeting had been killed, murdered by a Russian hitman in Belgium. Almost immediately after came the release of the audio file, through a joint effort between the CIA and American forces in Belgium. The audio was analyzed and picked apart every which way; professional translators were brought in from far corners of the world to ensure the accuracy of every statement while technology gurus were consulted on whether or not the recording might have been faked.

  The consensus was almost overwhelming that the two presidents had gotten caught in yet another cabal. On the eve of the second day after the recording was released publicly, the Senate called for an emergency vote on the subject of three matters: for the United States to reenter NATO, to renew the arming of missile defense systems in Eastern Europe that Harris had secretly had disarmed, and the third, in which they unanimously opted to impeach—the first time in American history and, if anyone had their say, hopefully the last as well. For good measure, the vice president was dismissed as well pending an investigation, but Harris would face the full brunt of the law.

  The United Nations was investigating Russia and the new administration, but Kozlovsky himself was nowhere to be found. His last known public whereabouts had been that his plane landed in Dusseldorf in Germany, but after that he seemed to have simply vanished. The CIA was on it, though, as were Interpol and a dozen other law enforcement agencies in Europe.

  Maya had followed all of it over the course of the three days since the story broke, but it wasn’t until the afternoon of the third day, between two classes and sitting at a bench outside of the academy, that she took out her phone and made the call. The weather was turning; even with a sweatshirt it was chilly, but she ignored it as the phone rang.

  “Hi,” Maria answered, sounding surprised to hear from her
. And rightly so, she imagined.

  “Hi,” Maya replied. But in that moment she seemed to have forgotten everything she wanted to say. Words suddenly failed her like never before.

  I’m nervous, she realized. I’m nervous to even talk about him, let alone to him.

  “He’s not here,” Maria told her, as if reading her mind. “We, uh… we’re not together anymore.”

  “Oh.” That came as a surprise to her, but she decided not to press further. “That’s… I’m sorry to hear that. But I wasn’t calling to talk to him. I was calling to talk to you.”

  “Really?” Maria asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been following what’s happening, and…”

  She heard Maria’s light, breathy chuckle through the phone. “Yes. It was him.”

  “And, uh…” She cleared her throat. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s okay,” Maria confirmed. “A little banged up, like usual. But he’s okay.”

  “Good. Good. Are you going to, maybe, see him sometime?” Maya asked.

  “I will. He’s actually coming back to work.” Maria added slowly, “Though he doesn’t know that yet.”

  “Good. I think that’ll be good for him. He needs it, you know.”

  “He needs you too,” Maria said plainly.

  Maya bit her lip. She had promised herself she’d be done, done with all of it, with him, with that old life and the lies.

  But I miss him so much.

  She felt tears sting her eyes as she said, “Can you tell him something for me? When you see him?”

  “Of course, Maya. Anything.”

  “Tell him… tell him I said I’m really proud of him.” A tear tried to fall down her cheek, but she swiped it away before it could. “And, uh, maybe I’ll visit again sometime. On my next break or something.”

  “You know you could tell him yourself. If you wanted.”

  Maya shook her head, even though no one could see it. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Just tell him that for me?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Good. Thanks, Maria. Bye.” She ended the call quickly, before her voice might crack and betray her. But she regretted it as soon as she did, because then she was alone, completely alone, sitting on a bench in October under a gray sky with no one, no one but herself.

  She wiped her eyes once more and dialed another number. She just needed to hear a friendly voice. But instead of Sara’s phone ringing, she heard a recorded message:

  “The phone number you are trying to reach is not currently in service. Please try your call again later. Thank you.” And then the call was automatically ended.

  Maya frowned at the phone. She knew that Sara had fallen behind on her bills now and again, but was she so late on her phone bill that her service had been shut off?

  She checked the time; she had to get to her next class. But she made a mental note to call Todd Strickland and have him check it out when he was able.

  Maya stood then, stretched, and turned to head back toward the dormitories when she spotted a very unwelcome sight. Heading across the quad toward her was a group of boys—all of whom she recognized, and at the front of which was Greg. The other boys walked side by side, so that her path would be blocked if she tried to walk back that way.

  Undeterred, Maya headed straight toward them. She tried to skirt around the bunch, but one of the boys sidestepped, blocking her.

  “Move,” she growled. The boy only laughed at her.

  “Let her pass,” Greg told him, and he stepped out of her way. Maya shoved past, resisting the urge to hurl an insult their way.

  “But hey, Lawson?” Greg called to her. She paused, but didn’t turn. “You might want to watch your back. I hear things are getting pretty tough around here for girls like you.”

  The boys laughed again as she strode away angrily. They could say whatever they wanted; she wouldn’t let them get to her. But even as she told herself that, she couldn’t help but glance up at the sky and think that there was a storm brewing over the academy—and that she might be at the eye of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  It was three days before Zero was allowed to go home from Belgium. General Sutton granted him and Alan amnesty—and much-needed medical attention—in the wake of the recording’s release, letting them sleep in the military barracks while the whirlwind of what had occurred whipped around the world.

  On the third day, Sutton called him out to the field behind the administrative building, and the two of them watched as a black chopper came into view—a Bell AH-1 Cobra if he wasn’t mistaken.

  The wind whipped around him, tearing at his clothes as the helicopter descended and landed right on the grass. Zero watched as a shape hopped down from the cabin.

  She spotted him, and he saw her, and for a long moment neither side moved.

  Then Zero put both hands up slowly, showing they were empty, and placed them on his head as Maria Johansson strode toward him.

  Maria scoffed at him. “Put your hands down, Kent.”

  “…You’re not here to arrest me?” he asked, fully expecting it.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” He let his arms fall by his sides.

  She stared at him for a long time, almost imperceptibly shaking her head. “You’re a mess.”

  “I know.”

  “But you were right,” she sighed. “About everything. I should have believed in you.”

  “I know,” he said again, this time with a small grin.

  Maria reached into her blazer and pulled something out, something black and rectangular and barely more than palm-sized. She slapped it against his chest.

  He caught it before it fell to the ground. It was a document holder, and when he opened it he was astonished to see that it was his own identification staring back at him—in a way.

  It was the CIA credentials for Agent Kent Steele.

  “I convinced the right people that uncovering another international conspiracy was a much better story than a rogue former agent going on a spree,” she told him. “So this whole time you’ve been working as an undercover operative under me and Spec Ops Group. It’s either that or a hole at H-6. I’ll let you pick.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much of a choice,” he muttered.

  “Good. Then it’s settled.” She forced a smile. “Welcome back to the CIA.”

  *

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Zero asked her two days later. He had a cardboard box in his hands, a heavy one filled with books, as he stood in the open doorway to the basement steps of the Craftsman-style bungalow that he and Maria had once shared.

  “For the last time, I don’t mind at all,” she insisted. Maria had been more than gracious in the process of him moving out, even going so far as to let him store whatever he needed in the basement until he got a bigger place. “After all,” she added with a shrug, “it’s not like I’m using a half-finished basement…”

  “Funny,” he said flatly.

  He started to head down the stairs, but Maria stepped forward from the kitchen. “Hey.”

  He paused, sensing that she was about to say something serious. He set down the box and faced her.

  “You don’t have to do this. You know… we could still coexist without being… you know.”

  He smiled at her. Maria was one of the most direct people he knew; for her to be roundabout and vague only meant she was feeling vulnerable. “You have plans,” he told her. “And you need to see those through. I want to see them happen. I’m not going to hang around here and get in the way of that.”

  She nodded appreciably. “Thanks.” Then she stepped forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. “We’re going to be okay, you and me.”

  “Of course we are.” He had taken the first decent apartment he’d found, a fairly pleasant two-bedroom in DC, and signed a one-year lease before he could change his mind. She was right; they were going to be okay. But only if they gave each other some space.

  “I’ll never not be your frie
nd,” she said in his ear. “We’ve been through too much for anything to change that.”

  “I know.” They separated before he casually added, “Except now you’re my boss, so I guess we’ll have to see.”

  “Hey,” Maria shot back, “out of your last two bosses in the CIA, one was shot in a basement and the other was actively trying to start a war, so I think I’ll be an improvement.”

  He smiled at that. He was coming back; there was no other way about that. And he wasn’t alone either. Alan Reidigger had very reluctantly agreed to sign on as a CIA asset to avoid serious prison time. He refused outright to return as a full-fledged agent, but he would do what Maria needed when she needed it.

  Zero could think of far worse options than returning to work with his best friend. That much was certain.

  On the return flight from Belgium, he and Maria had plenty of time to talk. He’d admitted that he’d slept with the interpreter; no, that was unfair to suggest. He’d admitted that in the barely two days that they knew each other, he’d had intense feelings for Karina. He’d cared for her, and her death was still a huge weight on his shoulders that he couldn’t shrug off.

  It would be for a long while.

  He and Maria both knew and acknowledged that they wanted different things, but not being in each other’s lives wasn’t an option. So he took the apartment, and she kept the house, and they would see each other at work and—who knew? Maybe beyond that, eventually.

  He reached for his box of books again as Maria checked her phone. “Is that the time? I have to go!” She scurried to gather her purse and belongings.

  For the first time in American history, the Speaker of the House was moving up into the Oval Office. It was a bewildering turn of events, one that had never happened in the history of the office, and there was a lot of trepidation surrounding it and the Speaker’s ability to run the country—but laws were laws, and he was being sworn in that afternoon. Maria had scored a seat at the inauguration, on account of publicly being the woman who ran the “op” that uncovered the collusion between Harris and Kozlovsky. The latter of those two, the Russian president, had not yet regained his eyesight, though the doctors at H-6 believed it would be return over time. And when Kozlovsky’s sight returned, he would find his new surroundings to be a five-by-five cell of packed earth for all he had done.