Trapping Zero. Джек Марс

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      “Did he tell you his name?” Reid asked.

      Maya nodded, and then she looked up at him unflinchingly. “There was another name he wanted me to know. Kent Steele.”

      Reid closed his eyes and sighed. Somehow Rais continued to plague him, even from beyond the grave. “I’m done with that now.”

      “You promise?” She raised both eyebrows, hoping he was sincere.

      “Yes. I promise.”

      Maya nodded. Reid knew all too well that it wouldn’t the end of it; she was far too smart and inquisitive to let things lie. But for the moment, his answers seemed to satisfy her and she headed up the stairs.

      He hated lying to his daughters. He hated even more lying to himself. He wasn’t done with field work—maybe paid field work, but he still had a lot to do if he was going to get to the bottom of the conspiracy he had only begun to unearth. He had no choice; as long as he knew anything, he was still in danger. His girls could still in danger.

      He wished for a moment that he didn’t know anything, that he could forget what he knew about the agency, about conspiracies, and just be a college professor and a father to his daughters.

      But you can’t. So you need to do the opposite.

      He didn’t need fewer memories; he had tried that before and it hadn’t worked out so well. He needed more memories. The more he could recall about what he knew two years ago, the less work he would have to do to uncover the truth. And maybe he wouldn’t have to worry for long.

      Standing there in the kitchen mere feet from where Thompson was killed, Reid made his decision. He would find the old letter from Alan Reidigger—and the name of the Swiss neurologist that had implanted the memory suppressor in his head.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Abdallah bin Mohammed was dead.

      The old man’s body lay upon a slab of granite in the courtyard of the compound, a walled cluster of boxy beige structures located roughly fifty miles to the west of Albaghdadi in the desert of Iraq. It was there that the Brotherhood had survived the expulsion from Hamas, as well as the scrutiny of American forces during the occupation and subsequent democratizing of the country. To anyone outside the Brotherhood, the compound was merely a commune of orthodox Shiites; raids and forced inspections of the property had yielded nothing. Their caches were well hidden.

      The old man had seen personally to their survival, spending his own fortune in service of the perpetuation of their ideology. But now, bin Mohammed was dead.

      Awad stood stoically beside the slab that held the old man’s ashen corpse. Bin Mohammed’s four wives had already given ghusl, washing his body three times before shrouding him in white. His eyes were closed peacefully, his hands crossed on his chest, right over left. There was not a mark or scratch on him; for the last six years he had lived and died in the compound, not outside its walls. He had not been killed by mortar fire or drone strikes as so many other mujahideen had.

      “How?” Awad asked in Arabic. “How did he die?”

      “He had a seizure in the night,” said Tarek. The shorter man stood on the opposite side of the stone slab, facing Awad. Many in the Brotherhood considered Tarek to be the second in command to bin Mohammed, but Awad knew his capacity had been little more than messenger and caretaker as the old man’s health declined. “The seizure brought on a heart attack. It was instant; he did not suffer.”

      Awad laid a hand on the old man’s unmoving chest. Bin Mohammed had taught him much, not only of belief but also of the world, its many plights, and what it meant to lead.

      And he, Awad, saw before him not just a corpse but an opportunity. Three nights earlier Allah had gifted him with a dream, though now it was difficult to call it just that. It was prognostic. In it he saw bin Mohammed’s death, and a voice told him that he would rise up and lead the Brotherhood. The voice, he was certain, had belonged to the Prophet, speaking on behalf of the One True God.

      “Hassan is on a munitions raid,” Tarek said quietly. “He does not yet know that his father has passed. He returns today; soon he will know the mantle of leading the Brotherhood falls to him—”

      “Hassan is weak,” Awad said suddenly, more harshly than he intended. “As bin Mohammed’s health declined, Hassan did nothing to keep us from weakening commensurately.”

      “But…” Tarek hesitated; he was well aware of Awad’s flaring temper. “The duties of leadership fall to the eldest son—”

      “This is not a dynasty,” Awad contended.

      “Then who…?” Tarek trailed off as he realized what Awad was suggesting.

      The younger man narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He did not need to; a glare was more than enough of a threat. Awad was young, not yet even thirty, but he was tall and strong, his jaw as rigid and unyielding as his belief. Few would speak against him.

      “Bin Mohammed wanted me to lead,” Awad told Tarek. “He said so himself.” That was not entirely true; the old man had said on several occasions that he saw the potential for greatness in Awad, and that he was a natural leader of men. Awad interpreted the statements as a declaration of the old man’s intentions.

      “He said nothing of the sort to me,” Tarek dared to say, however quietly he uttered it. His gaze was cast downward, not meeting Awad’s dark eyes.

      “Because he knew you are weak as well,” Awad challenged. “Tell me, Tarek, how long has it been since you ventured outside these walls? How long have you lived off the charity and safety of bin Mohammed, unconcerned with bullets and bombs?” Awad leaned forward, over the old man’s body, as he quietly added, “How long do you think you would last with only the clothes on your back when I take power and cast you out?”

      Tarek’s lower lip moved, but no sound escaped his throat. Awad smirked; the short, jowled Tarek was afraid.

      “Go on,” Awad prodded. “Speak your mind.”

      “How long…” Tarek gulped. “How long do you think you will last within these walls without the funding of Hassan bin Abdallah? We will be in the same position. Just different places.”

      Awad grinned. “Yes. You are astute, Tarek. But I have a solution.” He leaned over the slab and lowered his voice. “Corroborate my claim.”

      Tarek looked up sharply, surprised by Awad’s words.

      “Tell them you heard what I heard,” he continued. “Tell them that Abdallah bin Mohammed named me leader in the wake of his passing, and I swear that you will always have a place in the Brotherhood. We will reclaim our strength. We will make our name known. And the will of Allah, peace be upon Him, will be done.”

      Before Tarek could reply, a sentry shouted across the courtyard. Two men heaved open the heavy iron gates just in time for two trucks to rumble through, the treads of their tires thick with wet sand and mud from recent rain.

      Eight men emerged—all that had left had returned—but even from his vantage point Awad could tell that the raid had gone poorly. There were no munitions gained.

      Of the eight, one stepped forward, his eyes wide in shock as he СКАЧАТЬ