Agent Zero

by Jack Mars

  “Jesus, if that’s not an ignoble end—”

  “He was working with them,” Reid interrupted. “Morris was working with Amun.”

  “There’s no way,” said the man. “Morris was undercover for more than a year tracking them down. His job was to make them think he was working for them. He must have been convincing enough—”

  “The assassin they sent after me knew that he was an agent,” Reid cut in again. “He called him ‘Agent One.’”

  “And how do we know you’re clean?” asked the voice. “You pop up suddenly after a year and a half, and now your whole former team is either dead or MIA? How do we know you’re on the right side?”

  “You don’t.” He ended the call and silenced the phone.

  Maria was still with them, he decided. She was still with the agency, or they wouldn’t have had her number. They wouldn’t have used the code. She wouldn’t have acted so strangely and spared Morris’s life twice when she had the opportunity to take him out. She had never been disavowed. She had lied about her lack of leads. She had taken his gun. What else had she lied about? Had they ever really been together? Or worse, had their tryst been more than she implied?

  He did not want to care if Maria was alive or dead. But he couldn’t stop the other side of him, the familiarity of her and the strange longing to be near her. Much like the inexplicable wave of overwhelming sadness that had struck him upon seeing Reidigger’s body, he simply couldn’t help how he felt.

  He decided that he hoped she was alive—not just because of the unremembered history between them, but so that he could get answers.

  He rode the subway for three more stations before disembarking. Along the way he opened Maria’s phone, took out the battery and the SIM card. Once back on the street level, he tossed the two halves and the battery in separate corner trash bins, and then asked a passerby for directions to the nearest wireless store. He kept his eyes open and his senses alert to any potential threats. The blond assassin was still out there somewhere, and Morris might not have been the only one sent after Agent Zero.

  Reid’s first order of business, he decided, was to get the contact information off of Maria’s SIM card. Once he had the address, he would find a way to get to Slovenia. Find the next lead, this Amun member in hiding. Force him to talk. Get some real answers. No more false leads and deceit.

  By whatever means necessary.

  And if Maria is alive—if she finds us and she’s not who she claims to be—you might have to kill her, before she kills you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Deputy Director Cartwright pocketed his phone. The line had gone dead. Steele had hung up on him. At least there was no doubt now—Zero was alive. And he had taken out Morris. Probably Reidigger. The two men that Cartwright himself had sent after him. And maybe even Johansson too, seemingly for good measure.

  Cartwright rubbed his temples. The very last thing he wanted to do at the moment was the long walk to Director Mullen’s office to tell him that Morris was dead. He could already anticipate what Mullen would say, what he would order.

  Though… maybe he didn’t have to tell Mullen himself.

  He called out through the partially open door of his office to his assistant. “Lindsay, get Steve Bolton down here ASAP, would you?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  It took Bolton four minutes to get there. The chief of the Special Ops Group was a tall man, with sharp features and a sharp haircut. He had a way of standing that made most people uncomfortable, folding his arms and puffing out his chest as if he wanted to make himself larger or more imposing than he was. Cartwright always thought that Bolton looked more like a high school gym teacher than a CIA supervisor; like he should have a whistle hanging around his neck instead of a gun at his hip.

  “Sir?” Bolton said by way of greeting, folding his meaty arms as he stood in the doorway.

  “Bolton, come in. Need a favor. Close the door.” Cartwright didn’t bother mincing words. As soon as the door was closed he said, “Clint Morris is dead.”

  Bolton’s features went slack, as did the taut muscles in his forearms. “Christ,” he murmured. “Zero?”

  Cartwright nodded. “And I need you to report it to Director Mullen.”

  “Me? Morris was your man.”

  “True,” said Cartwright, “but I don’t have time for political bickering. I already know what he’ll say. I’m getting on the first available plane to Zurich. If this is going to be handled properly, I need to be there, not here.”

  Bolton clearly wasn’t happy with the prospect, but Cartwright was his superior, so he didn’t argue. Instead he sighed unhappily and asked, “What do you want me to tell him? Besides Morris being dead.”

  “That’s it,” said Cartwright as he slipped into his black jacket.

  Bolton scoffed. “We must have something more to go on. What’s Zero’s angle? Who’s he working with?”

  “Working with?” Cartwright snorted. Bolton hadn’t gotten to spend much time around Kent; he was promoted to Spec Ops Group to replace Cartwright when he was sent up to deputy director. “I’d bet my whole salary he’s not working with anyone.”

  “But…” Bolton’s brain seemed to be working overtime. “No,” he said. “He’s just one guy.”

  “Yeah,” Cartwright muttered as he clasped his briefcase. “That’s the problem. He’s just one guy.” On his way out of the office, he patted Bolton twice on the shoulder. “If Mullen asks, I’ll be in Zurich, trying to find out who’s still alive and why the dead ones are dead.”

  *

  Premio Insurance was a small shop, located in an old, narrow building on Via da Vinci in Rome. It consisted of a cramped reception area and two equally tiny back offices. The walls were wood panel and the carpets used to be white.

  The woman at the front desk, her name was Anne. She was thirty-three and from Omaha. It was a great job—she got paid a respectable wage to live in Rome and spend eight hours of her day sitting at a desk, turning people away.

  She didn’t know a single thing about selling insurance.

  The bell over the door chimed and Anne put on her best smile. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m afraid we’re not taking on new clients at the… oh, my.”

  The woman who entered the shop was tall and blonde, quite pretty, with intense slate-gray eyes. At the moment, her mouth was little more than a thin line in her face. She wore a white V-neck shirt that was fairly saturated in blood, particularly down the right side. Black, dried blood had crusted over a wound on her arm, but she barely seemed to notice.

  She also made no attempt to hide the small silver pistol, a Walther PPK, tucked in the waistband of her jeans.

  “I want to talk to Cartwright,” the woman said flatly.

  Anne blinked several times rapidly. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know who—”

  “Listen, lady,” the woman snapped. “I’ve had a really bad morning. I’m extremely pissed off. I’ve got four more shots in this clip. And I want to talk to Cartwright. Now.”

  Anne licked her lips slowly, deliberating. When people came into the shop—not for insurance, of course—they were supposed to deliver a line: “Excuse me, miss, but my car broke down and I need to use the telephone.” She was supposed to politely nod and direct them to the back offices. That was the entirety of her job.

  She’d also never been threatened with a gun before.

  “…One moment,” Anne said slowly. She picked up the phone on her desk. It looked like an old rotary-style telephone, but she didn’t have to turn the dial; it connected automatically to an operator in Langley. Anne whispered quickly about the strange, bloody woman who had appeared in the office.

  Then she cradled the receiver against her shoulder and asked, “Who should I say is asking?”

  The blonde woman leaned over the desk. “Tell them it’s Maria Johansson. And that Cartwright wants to take this call.”

  *

  The receptionist directed Maria to one
of the two back offices and then returned to her desk. Maria closed the door behind her and wrinkled her nose distastefully at the tacky décor. It looked more like something one would find in the American Midwest than in Rome—wood-paneled walls, fake certificates for excellence in customer service, even a cheesy motivational poster featuring a cat clinging to a clothesline by its claws, with the caption, “Hang in there!”

  There was no one in the office. There would be no one in the other office, either; the receptionist was the only person who worked here, usually the only inhabitant of the place ever, save for the infrequent occurrence that a field agent required assistance and had no other recourse. “Coming in from the cold,” they called it. Sometimes an agent would have to go dark for a while, if an op went south or someone was tailing them. It could be a few days or even weeks, but eventually they would show up at one of the appointed stations—like the insurance office in Rome—and report in.

  There was a code, a metaphor, for everything. And it was not at all lost on Maria how most of those codes involved terms like cold, dark, shadows, and silence.

  In the center of the office was a simple oak desk, papers and pens and random office supplies arranged atop it as if someone had simply stepped away for lunch mid-task. On one side was an armless swivel chair, and on the other were two green-cushioned guest seats. But Maria did not sit. Instead, she paced the twelve-foot room, waiting anxiously.

  Ordinarily, she never would have come here. Before today, she would have thought it dangerous, foolhardy even. If there were moles in the agency, as she suspected, they could have eyes on this place. But she needed to know what had happened and why. And if Kent was still alive.

  The corded phone on the desk rang. She snatched it up quickly, halfway through the first ring.

  The person on the other end breathed evenly for a long moment. Then he said, “The shadows are getting long.”

  Maria winced, squeezing her eyes shut. She had grown to hate the codes, the metaphors, the deceit. But she knew them all and remembered them well. “It’ll be dark soon,” she said softly.

  “Hello, Agent Johansson.” Deputy Director Cartwright did not sound pleased.

  “Just Johansson, remember?” she corrected flatly. “Cartwright, what the hell was that about?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t play that game. Not with me.” Deny. Disclaim. Disavow. It was their way, the superiors—they knew everything until the shit hit the fan, and then suddenly they knew nothing. “Kent is alive. Or he was. You sent Morris after us.”

  Cartwright was silent for a long moment. “We have reason to believe that Agent Morris may have been working with the Fraternity…”

  “Bullshit,” she hissed. “I don’t believe that for a second. You sent him to kill… wait. What did you just say? He ‘may have been’? Is Morris dead?”

  “Yes,” Cartwright sighed.

  “And Kent?”

  “Alive and well. In fact, I just spoke to him not too long ago, on the phone. Your phone.”

  Johansson shook her head. Morris was dead, and Kent was alive—which could only mean one thing. Kent had killed an active CIA agent. That could spell a lot of trouble for him.

  “And what about before?” she asked. “When Kent was claimed KIA? Was that really the Fraternity, or did you lie to me about that too?”

  “Maria,” Cartwright said gently. “We both know why you’re standing where you are, why you’re talking to me. Personally, I don’t give a damn about your feelings. I care about facts. And the fact is that Kent Steele is a danger to himself and others. He’s a danger to us—”

  “He’s going after the Fraternity,” Maria argued. “He’s doing his job, or what his job was supposed to be—”

  “And falling right back into old habits,” Cartwright interrupted. “Did he tell you about the bomb-making facility that he blew up? The four Iranians left dead in a Paris basement? No questioning, no debriefing… just carnage. He’s not on a mission. He’s on a warpath. He doesn’t care who gets in his way. Now I’ve got two dead agents on my hands…”

  “Two?”

  Cartwright scoffed. “He didn’t tell you? No, of course not. Why would he?” He sighed. “Maria, Alan Reidigger is dead.”

  “No.” She shook her head, as if denying it would simply make it not so.

  “He is. He was killed in Zurich, multiple stab wounds—and by multiple, I mean dozens…”

  “Stop,” she breathed. She didn’t want to think of that, not about Alan. “Even if that’s true, it wasn’t at Kent’s hands. They were friends…” She trailed off. Her throat tightened.

  He didn’t know her. He had lost his memory. Maybe he hadn’t remembered Reidigger either. Maybe he thought Alan had information. Maybe. She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted desperately to trust him.

  But you don’t, she thought. Not completely. Or else you wouldn’t have taken his gun while he was sleeping.

  “He’s dangerous, Maria. You know he is. Help us to help him. We can bring him in.”

  “No. You sent Morris. You’ll kill him if you get the chance.”

  “I won’t,” Cartwright insisted. “I told Morris to use non-lethal force. He must have gone rogue. Listen, I’m on a plane right now. I’ll be at HQ in Zurich in a few hours. Meet me there, debrief, on the record, and I’ll give you a team. You can get him yourself. Bring him in safely.” He paused before adding, “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I don’t know where he’s going,” Maria lied. She knew the address in Slovenia by heart. “When Morris came at us, we got separated. He could be anywhere.”

  “You know him better than anyone,” Cartwright countered. “I need you. You’re the best I’ve got in the field.”

  “I’m not in the field,” she said quickly.

  Cartwright chuckled. “Right. Of course not. This is a secure line, Maria. We can talk freely. You and I are the only ones that know. Not even Morris knew about you.”

  Of course Morris hadn’t known. Neither did Reidigger. The entire agency, beyond Cartwright, thought she had been disavowed. It was true that the ordeal with Kent and the Fraternity had shaken her, but she had never been a quitter.

  “Well?” Cartwright said. “Are you in or not?”

  Johansson chewed her lower lip. Her options weren’t ideal. Either she could go on her own, try to find Kent, and let the agency send others to track him. Or she could take Cartwright’s offer, head the team, and personally make sure things didn’t get messy.

  She knew that if she chose the former, they would take the first shot they got at Kent. And if she was with him, it would spell trouble for her, just like it had with Morris.

  “I’m not coming to Zurich,” she told him. “There’s no time for all that. Send two agents to Ljubljana.”

  “What’s in Ljubljana?” Cartwright asked.

  “An airport. I’ll meet them in terminal four. I want guys I know… give me Watson and Carver.”

  “Carver’s on an op—”

  “Then pull him,” Maria snapped.

  “Should I remind you who you’re speaking to—”

  “Otherwise there’s no deal,” she said firmly. “Watson and Carver. Plainclothes and dark.”

  Cartwright scoffed. “Be reasonable. There’s no way I’m sending two agents in dark—”

  “No phones, no tracking, or there’s no deal,” she said. “I can get him, and you can’t afford another mess on your hands like last time.”

  Cartwright grunted. “Fine. They’ll be in Ljubljana by thirteen hundred hours. Be there.” He hung up.

  Johansson replaced the receiver on the cradle. She didn’t trust him, not for a second—but it came with the territory. She didn’t trust anyone in the agency at this point. And she knew that the feeling was mutual. Cartwright wouldn’t trust her; he would send his guys with different orders, she was certain. But at least she would be there. She’d know where they were. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Car
twright was right about one thing—Kent was dangerous, but especially to himself. She didn’t want the deputy director knowing about his memory loss; they would only use it to their advantage.

  She knew where Kent was going. The address was a warehouse in Maribor, Slovenia. She would have to get there quickly; Kent was undoubtedly already on his way, and if she didn’t act fast, she’d be following a trail of bodies to find him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  “Hey, buddy.” A lanky kid in his early twenties with a flat-brimmed cap leaned over the aisle conspiratorially. “You American?”

  “Yeah,” Reid murmured. “Why?”

  “We just took gold in snowboarding. Saw it online.” The kid grinned.

  “What?” Reid had been scanning through papers at the time and had no idea what the kid was talking about.

  “The Olympics?” the kid said. “We just took gold.”

  “Oh. Uh, great.” Reid forced a smile. He’d forgotten that the games were even going on. He wished he could get excited about something like a sporting event at the moment. In fact, in his normal life, he might be following it with his girls, watching and chanting “USA!” He wasn’t big on sports—he followed basketball, though he rarely watched games—but there was something about the Olympics that inspired ubiquitous patriotism, however brief it might be.

  After getting off the subway in Rome, Reid had found a nearby wireless shop and had them pull the information off of Maria’s SIM card for him. They emailed a copy to the address he had established and he printed out a hard copy, several sheets’ worth of names and addresses. While he was there he used one of their display phones to log into his Skype account. There was a single message from Maya, checking in as he had asked.

  Safe, it said. Away from NY. Told no one.

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw that the message was time-stamped nearly fourteen hours earlier. He quickly did the math in his head, accounting for the time difference; that would have been around four in the afternoon the day before. He had asked her to check in every twelve hours.