Chasing zero, p.10
Chasing Zero, page 10
part #9 of Agent Zero Spy Thriller Series
He felt a pang of remorse at the thought of his old friend, the former head of R&D. Every time he walked in here he thought, for just a moment, that Bixby might come around the corner in his horn-rimmed glasses and three-button vest. He still had a tendency to think of it as Bixby’s lab, though it wasn’t anymore. He had last seen Bixby in the Saskatchewan region after tracking him down at the beginning of February—and he knew it was more likely than not that he would never see him again. The brilliant engineer wouldn’t let himself be found a second time.
Classical music floated to him from beyond the huge shelves. Though this was the main chamber of the underground lab, there were offshoots, halls and smaller labs, clean rooms, server banks, and who knew what else.
He found Penny at a workstation near the rear of the lab. She hummed along with the music—Wagner, if Zero wasn’t mistaken—as she tinkered with a black object three feet in length, with four propellers on arms and a pair of curved wings.
“Is that the drone from the Gaza operation?” he asked.
“Indeed it is,” she said without looking up. She appeared to be affixing something to its undercarriage.
“Are you… putting a gun on it?”
“Indeed I am.” She looked up at last and flashed a grin. “Though that’s putting it a bit simply. This is a miniature low-recoil cannon. Designed it myself. It uses an electronic firing mechanism rather than a mechanical one, which feeds from the drone’s battery. No powder or incendiary necessary, which makes it a lot quieter as well. It fires these.”
She tossed something small in an arc, and he caught it deftly. It was a perfectly round steel ball, a little smaller than a marble.
“Nonlethal?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Depends on how close it is. And where it hits, I suppose. So.” She turned and gave him her full attention. Despite her immense intellect and upper-tier English education, she wore a studded belt and a purple Hard Rock Café T-shirt. “What can I do for you this evening?”
“We’re leaving in the morning,” he told her. “I could use a couple of things.”
Penny frowned. “I wasn’t informed of an operation.”
“I know. It’s last-minute and we’re going in empty-handed.”
She grinned. “You mean you’re being expected to go in empty-handed. Let me guess: Jerusalem?”
“That’s right.”
Penny clucked her tongue. “Careful, Zero. Sounds like you’re becoming a security blanket.”
No kidding. What would be next—the president expecting his team to accompany him on every foreign outing? How long would it be until EOT was simply folded into the Secret Service?
“Details,” Penny prodded.
“Right. High security. Metal detectors, I’m sure. Probably wands and frisking. So no guns, nothing overt. Nothing that would be picked up in a scan.”
She frowned. “You’re not making it easy on me.” Penny rubbed her chin for a moment. “Well, there’s the usual defensive gear—graphene-infused shirts and jackets. Won’t be picked up on metal detectors. It’ll stop a bullet as small as a nine millimeter and as powerful as an AR, as long as it’s not point-blank. For offense… ah! Come with me.”
Penny scurried across the lab floor with Zero trailing, to another workstation with a stainless steel table. “What size shoe are you?”
“Eleven and a half? Why?”
She pulled a black footlocker from underneath the workstation table and dug through it. “I’ve got a twelve. Try these on.” She pulled out a pair of brown boots and held them out for him.
He didn’t even bother asking what was so special about these seemingly ordinary brown boots. He slipped out of his sneakers and pulled them on. They were a little loose, but just enough for him to wiggle his toes freely. “Okay, they’re on. What are they, rocket boots or something?”
Penny grinned. “You wish, Zero.”
“Hang on.” He teetered from one foot to the other. Something was uneven about them. “Is the left boot a little heavier?”
“Maybe. Go ahead and punch the left heel.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Sorry? Punch it?”
“Like this.” She brought her own left heel up, her leg behind her and bent at the knee, and at the same time brought her fist down in the act of miming a punch to one hot-pink Chuck Taylor.
“Sure,” he muttered. “Punch it.” He did the same, bringing the boot up and his fist down, hammering once solidly on the heel.
A five-inch blade sprang from the toe, glimmering steel sharpened to a deadly point.
He chuckled. “Boot knife. How very Bond of you.”
“It gets better. Now slam the heel down with your toes aimed upward.”
“Okay…” He kept his toes up at an angle and stomped down. The heel gave way slightly under the pressure—and the blade shot forward at a staggering velocity, embedding itself two inches deep into the wall.
“Ballistic knife,” he said appreciably. “Now we’re talking.”
“The blade won’t retract, so once it’s out, you have to fire it. But there are three blades in there,” she told him. “I’ll reload that one for you. If you have to go through a metal detector, take the boots off and tell them they’re steel-toed. Which they are.”
Zero brought up his right leg and smacked at the opposite heel. But no blade sprang out.
“What are you doing?” Penny frowned. “Blades are only in the left boot. That’s why it’s heavier.” She shook her head. “I thought you used to be a professor.”
He ignored the jab. “Why only the left?”
“Because they were designed for a right-handed person,” she said, as if it should be perfectly obvious.
“Um… okay.” He slipped the boots off. “Thank you, Penny. With any luck I won’t need any of this, but still.”
“But still,” she parroted. “If there’s any trait you share with our illustrious president, it’s just a dash of paranoia.” Penny winked. “Just wish I could help more. Oh! You can take the drone.”
“The one with the cannon?” Zero shook his head. “I don’t think I’m going to sneak that thing past security…”
“No, you dunce. Once you’re in Jerusalem, deploy it somewhere open and hidden. Ideally a rooftop somewhere. If things go sideways, I can connect via satellite and be your eyes in the sky.”
“Uh-huh,” he said flatly. “And also you want to test it…”
“And also I want to test it, yes.”
He couldn’t help but laugh a little. Penny’s mentor, Bixby, had been the same way. Here, take this highly experimental piece of tech that’s never been field-tested and see if it saves your life. And on more than one occasion, it had.
“One more thing,” he told her. “This needs to look like a social call…”
“Say no more. Departure time?”
“Eight a.m.”
“It’ll all be there waiting for you at the jet,” she promised. “Good luck, Zero.”
“Thanks, Penny. Good night.” He headed out of the lab. Now to go home and pack a bag. He didn’t think he was going to get much sleep that night. But come morning, they’d be setting off for Jerusalem, one way or another.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“If nothing else,” Maria murmured, “I never get tired of seeing that jet.”
Zero and Maria arrived at the government runway of Dulles International Airport at seven thirty the next morning to find the familiar Gulfstream G650 waiting for them, all white and shining in the early sunlight, its windows black and polished. It was a sixty-five-million-dollar private plane that the CIA had purchased and outfitted for international operations. And its seats were really comfortable.
Zero was right about not getting enough sleep. His night had been restless, brief catnaps interrupted by seemingly interminable periods of him fidgeting and tossing, unable to get out of his own head. He didn’t know why he felt so uneasy about this trip; it wasn’t like they were the first line of defense on this. Hell, they weren’t even the third line of defense. They were a worst-case scenario.
Maybe it was because someone had considered that scenario, the one in which they’d be necessary, that had him on edge.
Come sunup he’d finally given up and risen, only to find Sara and Mischa both already awake, the former making eggs. He was suspicious, of course, but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was likely just Sara trying to prove a point. She was headstrong, like Maya, and having her believe that she wasn’t capable of something only made her want to prove it more.
The ever-punctual Todd Strickland was already there, chatting with the young dark-haired pilot who stood dutifully near the entry ramp. He smiled as he saw them approach and rubbed his hands together excitedly.
“This is going to be great, I can tell,” he said by way of greeting. Todd was smart, capable, and as all-American as they came; he’d been an Eagle Scout, a high school quarterback, and an Army Ranger. Getting to watch the president sign a historic peace treaty was probably like Christmas come early for him.
Zero approached the pilot with a nod. “Morning. Was there a delivery?”
The pilot returned the nod. “Yes sir. Already loaded.”
“Good. Thank you.” Penny had come through. Now all he could do was hope that she had been right, and suffer through some jabs later about his paranoia.
Chip Foxworth arrived five minutes later, in his usual uniform of a black bomber jacket and a five o’clock shadow. “Morning y’all,” he announced. Foxworth had been a good addition to the team so far; he was a former Tomcat pilot that had applied for, and been summarily rejected from, Special Operations Group a few years earlier. Zero and Maria had fast-tracked him into EOT and hadn’t had any reason to doubt the decision. He had good aim, better instincts, and a Texan drawl that added some charm to their little coterie.
“Hi again, baby,” Chip cooed as he ran a hand over the Gulfstream’s fuselage. “Did you miss me? I know you did.”
Maria made a face. “When he’s like this, he’s your hire,” she murmured to Zero.
Alan was, in true fashion, the last to arrive at five minutes before wheels-up. His rusting pickup rumbled right onto the runway, black smoke chugging out of the exhaust pipe and sounding as if the truck was giving a death rattle. To look at it would be to assume it was about to fall apart any moment, but in reality the pickup could outrun and outmaneuver a police Interceptor.
Alan Reidigger parked and climbed out of the cab, scratching idly at his beard. A few crumbs fell out. “Stopped for a danish,” he admitted.
“Are you really just going to leave that there?” Maria asked.
He glanced back at the truck. “Mm,” he said. “They want it moved, they can move it.” Reidigger’s disdain for the agency was well documented. Even in the face of a long jail sentence for helping Zero on an unsanctioned op, he had still resisted Maria’s offer, and had only agreed to return to the CIA in the capacity of an “asset”—a vague term that basically meant he’d be called in as-needed. But when EOT was formed, Alan’s choices were full-fledged field agent or bust. He’d chosen agent for Zero’s sake, choosing to stick by his friend’s side but using every opportunity to show how much he didn’t like it.
Zero suspected that it wasn’t just for him, but also for Maria, and even Todd. And maybe even because Alan missed it, at least a little. Though he’d never admit that.
He boarded the jet and sank into a cream-colored seat. There were eight in total, with wide armrests and pillow-top headrests. Another four seats could fold out from bench seats at the front and rear of the cabin to seat up to twelve if necessary. A stout black footlocker sat at the rear of the cabin, blocking those seats; no doubt Penny’s delivery. Maria sat in the seat facing his, a fold-out tabletop between them and a brown leather portfolio atop it.
A minute later the entry ramp was up, the door secured. And ten minutes after that they were airborne, the Virginia coast falling away below them and giving way to the endless blue of the Atlantic.
It wasn’t until they’d reached cruising altitude and a steady air speed of six hundred and fifty miles an hour that Maria addressed the team. Her seat swiveled with a release switch at its base so she could see everyone.
“This is straightforward,” she told them as she opened the brown portfolio. “We’re there in the capacity of extra eyes and ears. Security in the crowd. We’ll be there under the guise of an American press crew. The passes are all here, along with IDs…”
“Christ,” Alan muttered. Zero knew exactly what he was thinking; if they’d known they were going in as press, they could have prepared better. Possibly even hidden weapons in fake video cameras. They could have justified surveillance equipment, headphones, the whole nine.
“We had less than twenty-four hours to prepare,” Maria countered. She knew what he was thinking as well. “Look, guys, this is as simple as it gets, okay? We go in. We watch, we listen, we leave.” She powered up the tablet and opened a CAD program, placing two fingers on the screen and spreading them to enlarge the 3D schematic of a building. “This is the Generali Building in Jerusalem. An administrative building that holds government offices—”
“Not to be confused with the Generali Tower in Milan,” Zero interjected.
Maria shot him a look and turned the tablet screen for all to see. “Here’s the main atrium, where metal detectors and the first wave of security will be. Guards at the doors to the conference room they’re using as an auditorium will be doing random stop-and-frisks. So don’t try to smuggle anything in, all right? Israeli police will be posted at all points of egress.” She pointed as she explained. “And Palestinian Presidential Guard, along with Secret Service, will be posted all along the stage they’re erecting here. Press line is here, so we’ll have front-row seats.” She pointed to Todd. “But we’re not there to watch the president. We’re there to watch everyone else.”
“Yes ma’am.” He nodded.
“This is as old-school as it gets,” she continued. “We’ll have phones, but not radios. No guns. No weapons of any kind.”
Zero felt a pang of something—shame, or something close to it—at the thought of the boots hidden in the footlocker.
“This is a classic ‘if you see something, say something’ situation. We’ll daisy-chain each other in our peripheries. Todd, you’ll keep an eye on Chip. Chip, on Alan. Alan on me, and me on Zero…”
“And me on Todd, got it,” Zero said. If someone else on the team noticed something amiss, they wouldn’t exactly be able to shout it out in the middle of a treaty-signing without causing chaos. Keeping an eye on each other would be paramount.
“Exactly,” Maria agreed. “Alan—keep sharp. Todd, stay attentive. Chip, don’t pull any rookie moves.”
The three men exchanged a glance and a shrug as if such notions were entirely beyond them. Zero almost laughed; if anyone who put their trust in the Executive Operations Team could be privy to this meeting, they’d probably be rapidly losing faith. But when the hammer fell, they were a unit, and an effective one at that.
Then why are the butterflies starting already?
“One last thing,” Maria told them. “If you’re absolutely certain of a threat and you have need of a firearm, use the codeword on the nearest Secret Service agent.”
“Right,” Alan muttered. “Walk up to one of the president’s meatheads and tell them ‘rhubarb.’ They definitely won’t think you’re batshit crazy.”
“They’ve been briefed,” Maria said dismissively. “Look, if we can’t trust inter-agency cooperation then there’s no point in us ever being involved in something like this…”
“I agree,” Alan said with fake enthusiasm.
Maria ignored him. “So that’s it. With that, I’ll turn it over to Agent Zero to tell us what’s in the box.” She gestured with her chin toward the rear of the plane and the footlocker.
Of course they’d all spotted it. Of course Maria knew he’d visited Penny the night before and come home empty-handed.
He shrugged. “Contingencies.”
“Contingencies,” Maria repeated, with just the hint of a smile on her lips. “Sure. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to the box then, huh?”
He nodded, and even tried to return the smile, but it wouldn’t come. Instead he looked away—and caught Alan’s gaze. There was worry there, even beneath the beard and the shadow of his trucker’s cap. He was sure that Alan was seeing it too in his own face, mirrored, and he wondered if Reidigger also wondered why he felt like that. No one had better instincts than Alan in a situation like this—except maybe Zero.
And that thought did not help the anxious feeling he felt in his gut as they hurtled eastward toward the Mediterranean.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Elbows are to remain off the table.
Proper posture: sit up straight, don’t slouch.
Chew an appropriate sized portion with mouth closed.
These were rules straight out of the cadet’s handbook. Maya knew them by heart, and the myriad others—correct placement of utensils, bringing food to your mouth and not your face to the plate, et cetera, et cetera, on and on. Rules. Endless rules.
She leaned over her plate, one arm around it as if someone might take it from her and the other propped, with an elbow, as she tore a hunk of bread with her teeth.
For anyone outside of West Point to hear the rules of the Mess Hall would think it a sacred place—and for all intents and purposes, it was. Mealtime was important in the military academy. But more than that, this was also where assemblies, awards ceremonies, and other gatherings were held.
“Lawson!” The Table Commandant, seated at the head of the table, barked in her direction. “Elbow off the table. Sit up straight.”
She slid her elbow from the table’s edge but didn’t improve her posture. The Commandant was a second lieutenant, name of Collins, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He was a recent Point graduate who should have been an officer in the Army now, ordering around grunts at Fort Drum had he not torn his meniscus while demonstrating a routine training exercise. Now he was here, babysitting teenage cadets in the Mess Hall, and his surliness illustrated the ignominy of such a relegation.
