The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  He placed the urn on the floor, against the skirting board, near Curtis’s uniform. There he was, Curtis Foxx—his father—all nine pounds of him. Having him in the house in any form felt way beyond strange.

  ‘Hey, Curtis,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to drop by after all these years. When you’ve got a minute, there are a few questions I’d like to ask you.’

  Ben shook his head and went back to what he’d been doing before the courier arrived, which was turning the place over searching for the safe deposit box key, still finding it hard to believe that Lana had woken early, stolen it and run off. That just didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. More than likely, the voice in his head assured him, the key had somehow fallen off the ring and become stuck behind a cushion when they were messing around. And even if she did steal it, the voice continued, what did it matter? There was nothing in the box anyway.

  ‘But that’s not the point,’ Ben said out loud, surveying the room, wondering where else it could be.

  Twenty minutes of searching later, the key hadn’t turned up and the whole business was disturbing him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. Something odd was happening, and it was somehow connected to Curtis Foxx. His cell rang. The ringtone told him it was a call from work.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, distracted by the morning’s events.

  ‘You know, Ben, you should really consider a job at the United Nations,’ Cecilia said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You met any Japanese women lately?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Really? ’Cause there’s one here in reception who wants to see you.’

  ‘Akiko Sato,’ she said with the slightest of bows.

  ‘Ben Harbor,’ he responded, giving her a warm, tourist-operator smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Akiko looked him up and down.

  ‘Is there something wrong, ma’am?’ he asked, smile faltering.

  Akiko hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it wasn’t someone who wore torn jeans with his underwear showing and a T-shirt with the voluptuous silhouette of a seated naked woman and the words ‘Trucker dude’ on it.

  ‘I have a pilot’s uniform if it would make you feel more comfortable. Some people prefer—’

  ‘I’m not here to fly.’

  ‘Oh, then how can I help you?’

  ‘Are you the son of Curtis Foxx?’ she asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your father wanted us to meet.’

  ‘What?’

  A group of people wandered into reception, laughing, taking up a lot of the room.

  Ben told them someone would be with them in a moment, and called out, ‘Cecil!’

  He then led Akiko to a smaller room full of airplane memorabilia—photos of old warplanes, propellers and a chromed dismantled airplane engine on a stand.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, motioning at a couch while he leaned against the engine bench with folded arms. ‘Now, do you want to run all that by me again . . . And I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Akiko.’

  ‘Okay, Akiko,’ he said, appearing to speak her name aloud in order to make it stick in his brain. ‘What’s all this about? You knew Curtis Foxx?’

  ‘No, I never met him. He was friends with a man called Yuudai Suzuki. Have you heard this name before?’

  ‘Suzuki? Of course. They make motorcycles and—’

  ‘No, not that Suzuki.’

  The man Akiko had crossed half the world to see obviously had no idea why she was here at all, which increased her frustration and concern. She held an envelope toward him.

  ‘Look, lady,’ he said, avoiding it and instead taking a step toward the door, ‘I’m not sure what you want or how I can help, but I’ve got a job to do so if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Read this.’

  Ben looked at her.

  ‘Please.’

  He reluctantly took the unsealed envelope from her, opened it and removed a sheet of fine, almost translucent paper. It appeared to be a letter, and it was written in Japanese. An English translation had been written below the signature. He read it, and as he read, he rested his forehead on his hand, looking stunned.

  ‘Your father, Curtis, and Yuudai were friends,’ Akiko said. ‘The tragedy of Korean Air Lines 007 bound them together.’

  ‘007,’ he said, his lips barely moving.

  The way he said it, the number meant something to him, that much was clear. The one and only positive sign, Akiko thought.

  ‘It says here that this Yuudai guy left you some money,’ Ben said, looking up. ‘How much?’

  ‘Over ¥10,600,000.’

  ‘What’s that in American dollars?’

  Akiko pulled out her cell phone and performed the calculation on it. ‘A little more than $96,000.’

  Ben almost seemed in a daze. ‘When Curtis died, he left me $96,000 plus change,’ he told her. He scanned the letter again and this time read the last line aloud. ‘“Spend it wisely and in pursuit of the truth.” Curtis wrote almost the same thing to me in his will. He said, “I am proud of you and will be prouder still if you embrace the truth.”’

  Akiko nodded. ‘Now Yuudai and Curtis have bound us together.’

  ‘Really? To do what?’

  ‘They both say, to find the truth.’

  ‘And where’s the truth to be found, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘In Russia.’

  ‘Look, I have no idea who Yuudai Suzuki is, or was. I’ve never even heard of him, let alone met the guy,’ Ben said, getting them both a drink of water from the cooler in the corner. ‘And it’s pretty much the same with Curtis. He was my father, but he left my mother and me when I was still in diapers. I hadn’t heard anything about him or from him till a lawyer read me his will a little more than a week ago.’

  Akiko seemed disappointed, almost angry. She’d obviously come expecting answers, not ignorance.

  ‘Until I read your letter, I hadn’t heard of KAL 007, either.’

  ‘So none of this means anything to you at all?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Ben was reluctant to tell her what he did know. He had a feeling it came with strings and that he’d get dragged into something messy.

  ‘Please,’ said Akiko.

  Ben sighed. ‘Look, I have no idea what it means, but when Curtis died, he left me a key to a safe deposit box. The number of the box was 007.’

  ‘Oh!’ Akiko was startled. ‘Can I see it?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a problem. I lost the key.’

  ‘You . . . lo-lost it?’ she stammered with disbelief. ‘How?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ben said, picking at a seam in his jeans, trying to hide his embarrassment. ‘The box contained a reel of audio tape, which I have.’

  ‘What’s on it?’ she asked, the expectation returning.

  ‘Nothing—just static. The tape was old. The technician who played it for me said there might have been something recorded on it at one time, but the tape is ruined.’

  Ben felt Akiko’s disappointment. It had mass, like a breeze against his skin. She’d come a long way, and for what? She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick scrapbook. She opened it to the first page and took out a newspaper clipping, which she held toward him with two hands. Ben took it from her in the same manner. At first, it confused him. The article was in Japanese. The newsprint was old and yellowed, the color of tobacco. But he could see it was a picture of a happy Japanese couple, a child in the woman’s arms.

  ‘The man is my father, Hatsuto,’ Akiko said. ‘He died not so long ago. This was my mother, Nami. She was a passenger on KAL 007. It was taken on the night of departure.’

  ‘The little girl here is you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ben saw small quivering dents appear in Akiko’s chin, her top lip clamped between her teeth. Her slender body was absolutely
still, held rigid as she fought the emotions threatening to break through to the surface.

  He handed back the clipping.

  ‘Do you have a picture of your father?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. He found his satchel and the photo and passed it to her. ‘That’s Curtis on the end. The rest of the guys are, or were, his crew.’

  Ben sensed Akiko stiffen. ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked her.

  ‘The plane. It’s an RC-135.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I think it is.’

  ‘There was an RC-135 implicated in the crash.’

  Ben took the photo and re-examined it.

  ‘It was never proved,’ she said. ‘There were many questions.’

  ‘When was all this supposed to have happened?’

  ‘September 1, 1983.’

  Ben digested this news. ‘That’s the night I was born,’ he said in a state of mild shock. The mission, the one that had changed Curtis’s life, changed his mother’s life, his life; all their lives. KAL 007; the 007 key. The timing. Was it possible?

  ‘Your father was a pilot. You told me that he left when you were a small child. Why did he leave you and your mother?’ Akiko asked, as if she could read his thoughts.

  Because he was a violent drunk.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a little family mystery. He’s staying at my place at the moment—I’ll ask him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, black humor. His ashes arrived this morning. He was cremated.’

  There was a knock on the door. It was Cecilia.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Akiko as she popped her head in. ‘Ben, sorry, but your nine o’clock is here. They want to head out to the Dry Tortugas.’

  Ben gave Cecilia a nod and said that he’d be there in a minute.

  ‘Where are you staying, Akiko? Can we organize anything for you? Do you need a cab?’

  ‘I have a rental, and I’m staying at the Crowne Plaza.’

  ‘Okay, well, I have to go to work and then I have to go and see someone. I’ll be back later this evening. Could we maybe get together then?’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ she said, standing.

  Ben sensed her hesitation.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t know what to think about any of this, do you?’

  ‘Honestly? No, I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. There were many things about the KAL 007 disaster that have never been explained. A Soviet fighter launched two missiles at it. When it crashed off Sakhalin Island in the Sea of Japan, it triggered the biggest air and sea search in history. There were many Japanese, American and Soviet ships. And do you know what they found?’

  ‘No, what?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Nothing. They found nothing at all.’

  January 14, 2012

  NSA HQ, Fort Meade, Maryland. NSA investigator Lana Englese ran her fingers across the numbers etched on the key. She leaned back in her chair, aware of the headache tapping away at both her temples—nothing serious, just a couple woodpeckers making themselves at home on either side of her head. She had taken paracetamol tablets, downing them with a full glass of water. But one pill had become lodged in the pipe above her stomach and was giving her a burning sensation. Great, she thought, just what I need.

  The cause of the discomfort had been a late night followed by an early start, kicked off with a helicopter ride from Key West International to Miami International Airport in order to make a connecting flight to DC. And now she was facing a blank laser screen that covered the entire wall in a special room called a virtual investigation booth, sandwiched between her partner, Investigator Miller Sherwood, who thought this low-priority case was a complete waste of time, and the operator, who was taking his time getting his shit together. On top of all that, she was breathing manufactured air in a room with no natural light and walls that unnaturally sucked all sound from the atmosphere—typical in a VI booth. It was going to be one of those days.

  Suddenly, Lana caught his scent again. She must have washed her hands half a dozen times, but the guy was still on them. Or maybe his smell was on her clothes. Or maybe, she told herself, it’s just you feeling fucking guilty. Lana had broken her own number one rule: you don’t sleep with your work.

  ‘Okay, what have we got here?’ said the operator.

  His name was Saul Kradich. Lana had never teamed up with him before, but he had a reputation for being thorough. He was wearing a ratty, faded Indians ball cap. He was a young guy for such an old cap, Lana thought. It had to be much loved. Maybe he slept in it, though he looked the type who never slept at all—or did anything other than sit on a chair in front of screens; the extra folds of pale skin under his chin reminding her of unbaked pastry.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Kradich turned to ask her. ‘Your surveillance target was outbound from Key West International yesterday and you want his destination, right?’

  ‘Among other things,’ Lana said, distracted.

  ‘You okay, Englese?’ asked Sherwood. Sherwood could lift his own body weight in steel plates on the machines in the gym, and his biceps stuffed his shirtsleeves the way meat filled sausage skins. He was either calm and rational, or a red-faced hand grenade with a missing pin, nothing in between. ‘You look a little off color.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, discreetly belching a little paracetamol gas behind her fingertips.

  ‘That asshole didn’t slip anything into your drink, did he?’

  ‘No. Self-inflicted. Margaritas.’

  ‘Then I’ll be taking back that sympathy.’

  ‘You got photos of this guy for me?’ Kradich asked, now impatient to get on with it.

  ‘Check your mailbox,’ Sherwood told him. ‘I sent them through half an hour ago. I’ve also given you his name and address.’

  ‘You’re making this too easy.’

  A window opened on the screen set on the wall, followed by another window and then an email and a photo file attachment. A dozen pictures of Ben Harbor on his own appeared, along with several of him together with Lana. In all the photos, Ben and Lana were both either laughing or smiling.

  ‘Someone loves their work,’ Kradich commented.

  Heat washed into Lana’s face.

  ‘I’ve been to that bar,’ Kradich went on. ‘It’s in Key West. Captain Tony’s, right? Bra heaven.’ Mistaking the look of discomfort on Lana’s face for offense caused him to add, ‘If you like that kind of thing.’

  He closed down all the windows. ‘Okay, now I add his name and address to the function,’ he said, muttering to himself, ‘and then we . . .’ He held his index finger over the control screen symbolically, then let it drop. ‘ . . . wait.’ A little cartoon eye winked in a corner of the giant screen, indicating that the command was being processed. ‘But we don’t wait too long.’

  The laser screen filled with window after window, each overlaying the last—Ben Harbor’s entire life from the day he was born, every school report and parking ticket, right up to the last time he used his credit card, made a phone call, and passed a surveillance camera.

  ‘Wow, this guy has a real big filling in his left upper M2,’ observed Kradich, tapping his screen.

  The system harvested identification photos from various official documents and deposited them in a window that also contained the pictures taken by Investigator Sherwood.

  ‘So now we’ve got Harbor’s mug shots from his passport, aviation license, Florida driver’s license and credit card. The aviation license photo is a month old—that’s good, gives the software a control image to work against. You want this guy’s bank and phone records?’

  Lana nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

  Kradich’s fingers rolled across the glass control screen in front of him. ‘What else can I get you?’

  ‘His father died recently. He left a will. I want to check whether it’s been through probate.’

  Kradich picked up a pencil and clamped it between his teeth.

 
Lana consciously ran her thumb over the key again, feeling the ridges of the numbers.

  ‘Yep, the will has been probated. The IRS also has a copy,’ said Kradich. ‘You want a copy, too?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Lana replied. ‘While you’re at it, you might as well give us some background on Ben Harbor’s father. His service record, discharge and so forth.’

  ‘Let’s see here,’ Kradich said, chewing the pencil, his fingers a blur over the control screen. More information frames tiled across the screen. ‘Curtis Eugene Foxx . . . birth certificate . . . service records . . . medically retired. According to this, it seems he came down with a bout of acute paranoia. He believed people were following his every move.’

  ‘Were we?’ Lana asked.

  ‘What? Following his every move?’ Kradich asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The laser screen on the wall filled with new windows, some of which stayed while others disappeared.

  ‘Only around the clock, apparently,’ he said.

  ‘Can you tell us why?’

  Kradich put his head down and began digging. A ‘classified’ graphic came up along with fields that required access codes.

  ‘Nope,’ he said after a handful of attempts. ‘Not unless you can fill in these boxes. Sorry.’

  During their briefing, their section head, Sam Whittle, had told them that Ben Harbor, the son of Curtis Foxx, a recently deceased former RC-135 pilot and a ‘person of interest’ to the NSA, might be hoarding information pertaining to the shootdown of Korean Air Lines Flight 007 on September 1, 1983, which could affect national security. The purpose of the investigation was to determine whether this was, in fact, the case. Until that could be ascertained one way or the other, this was a low-priority enquiry. Nevertheless, Lana was intrigued. The KAL 007 incident had happened almost twenty-nine years ago, before she was born. How could any information that Ben Harbor might have on the incident affect national security in the year 2012? And then there was the guy himself. He was a harmless hedonist, nothing more.

  ‘Curtis Foxx flew RC-135s out of Shemya Island,’ she said. ‘What was he doing on the night of September 1, 1983?’

  Kradich entered various commands and kept getting denied access.