File Zero. Джек Марс

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      “I’m okay.”

      I’m not okay.

      “It’s, uh…” He cleared his throat and forced himself to stand again, albeit shakily. “It’s just the pain medication, for my hand. Made me a bit woozy. I’m okay.” His right hand was wrapped in layers of metal braces, gauze, and tape, after the terrorist Awad bin Saddam had crushed it with the anchor of a motorboat. Nine of the twenty-seven bones in his hand were broken.

      And even though there had been a throbbing pain only a minute ago, he now felt nothing.

      President Pierson smiled. “I understand. No one here will be offended if you sit.” The president was a charismatic man, young for the office at only forty-six and nearing the end of his first term. He was an excellent orator, praised by the middle class, and he had been a friend to Zero. Now he knew it to be true: his memories told him.

      “Really. I’m okay.”

      “Good.” The president nodded and lifted the dark cherry box in his hands. “Agent Zero, it is my great honor and genuine pleasure to give you this Distinguished Intelligence Cross.”

      Reid nodded, forcing himself to stand straight, to keep himself steady as Pierson presented the gold, three-inch-round medal nestled inside the box. He handed it to Reid gently and Reid took it.

      “Thank you. Um, Mr. President.”

      “No,” said Pierson. “Thank you, Agent Zero.”

      Agent Zero.

      The room broke out into light applause and Zero looked up quickly, bewildered; he had nearly forgotten there were other people in the Oval Office. Standing to the left of Pierson’s desk was Vice President Cole, and beside him were the Secretaries of Defense, Homeland Security, and State. Opposite them were Christopher Poe, head of the FBI, Governor Thompson of New York, and Director of National Intelligence John Hillis.

      Beside the DNI was Zero’s own boss, CIA Director Mullen, his hands making a show of clapping but hardly emitting any noise. His bald head, ringed with gray hair, gleamed under the lights. Deputy Director Ashleigh Riker was beside him in her usual uniform of a charcoal gray pencil skirt and matching blazer.

      He knew about them. These people who were applauding him, he had gathered intelligence on nearly every single one of them that suggested they were involved in the plot. The knowledge came to him as if it had always been there. The Secretary of Defense, retired general Quentin Rigby; Vice President Cole; even DNI Hillis, the only man other than President Pierson that Mullen answered to. Not one among them was innocent. They were not to be trusted. They were all involved.

      Two years ago, Zero had discovered the plot, or at least part of it, and he had been building a case. While interrogating a terrorist at the black site H-6 in Morocco, Zero had stumbled upon a conspiracy for the United States to manufacture a war in the Middle East.

      The strait—that was the trigger. The intention was for the US to gain control of the Strait of Hormuz, a narrow waterway between the Gulf of Oman and Iran, a global thoroughfare for oil shipping and one of the most strategic maritime chokepoints the world over. It was no secret that the United States had a substantial presence in the Persian Gulf, an entire fleet, and it was all for one reason: to protect their interests. And their interests boiled down to a single resource.

      Oil.

      That’s what this was about. That’s what it had always been about. Oil meant money, and money meant that the people in power got to stay in power.

      The Brotherhood’s attack on New York City was the catalyst. A large-scale terrorist attack was just the provocation the government needed not only to justify a war, but to rally the American people to the side of abject patriotism. They had seen it work before with the attack on September 11, and had been keeping the notion in their back pocket until they needed it again.

      Awad bin Saddam, the young leader of the Brotherhood who believed he had orchestrated the attack, had been a pawn. He had unwittingly been led to the conclusions he thought he had drawn himself. The Libyan arms dealer that had supplied the terrorists with submersible drones was undoubtedly a liaison between the US and the Brotherhood. But there was no way to prove that now; the Libyan was dead. Bin Saddam was dead. Anyone who might be able to substantiate Zero’s belief was dead.

      Now the catalyst had happened. Even though Zero and his small team had thwarted the large-scale loss of life that bin Saddam had hoped for, hundreds had been killed and the Midtown Tunnel was lost. The American people were outraged. Xenophobia and hostility toward Middle Easterners was already running rampant.

      Two years ago, he thought he had time to build a case, to gather evidence—but then came Amun, Rais, and the memory suppressor. Now, he was out of time. The men surrounding him, applauding him, these heads of state and government captains, were about to start a war.

      But this time around, Zero wasn’t alone.

      To his left, standing in a line beside him in front of the president’s desk, were the people that he counted among friends. Those he could trust; or rather, those he believed he could trust.

      John Watson. Todd Strickland. Maria Johansson.

      Watson’s real name is Oliver Brown. Born and raised in Detroit. Lost his six-year-old son to leukemia three years ago.

      Maria’s real name is Clara. She told you that after your first night together, during your tryst. After Kate died.

      No. After Kate was murdered.

      My god. Kate. The memory struck him like a hammer to the head. She had been poisoned with a powerful toxin that caused respiratory and cardiac failure as she walked to her car after work one day. Zero had always believed it was the work of Amun and their top assassin, but Rais’s dying words had been but three letters.

      C-I-A.

      I need to get out of here.

      “Agents,” said President Pierson, “I thank you once again on behalf of the American people for your service.” He flashed a winning smile at the four of them before addressing the entire room. “Now, we have an excellent luncheon prepared in the State Dining Room, if you’ll all indulge me. Right this way—”

      “Sir,” Zero spoke up. Pierson turned to him, the smile still on his lips. “I appreciate the offer, but if it’s all the same to you, I, uh, really think I should get some rest.” He held up his right hand, wrapped thick as a catcher’s mitt. “My head is swimming from the medication.”

      Pierson nodded deeply. “Of course, Zero. You deserve some rest, some time with your family. Although it feels a bit odd to hold a reception without a guest of honor, I doubt this will be the last time we see each other.” The president grinned. “This must be, what, the fourth time we’ve met like this?”

      Zero forced a smile of his own. “Fifth, if I’m not mistaken.” He shook the president’s hand once more, awkwardly, with his uninjured left. As he left the Oval Office, escorted by two Secret Service agents, he couldn’t help but notice in his periphery the expressions on Rigby’s and Mullen’s faces.

      They’re suspicious. Do they know I know?

      You’re being paranoid. You need to get out of here and focus.

      It СКАЧАТЬ