Trapping Zero

CHAPTER FIVE

Maria Johansson walked the concourse at Istanbul Atatürk Airport in Turkey and pushed open the door to the women’s restroom. She had spent the last few days on the trail of three Israeli journalists who had gone missing while covering the story of Imam Khalil’s sect of zealots, the ones who had nearly unleashed a deadly smallpox virus on the developed world. It was suspected that the journalists’ disappearance might have had something to do with surviving followers of Khalil, but their trail had gone cold in Iraq, short of their destination of Baghdad.

She very much doubted that they would ever be found, not unless whoever was responsible for their disappearance claimed responsibility. Her orders currently were to follow up on an alleged source that the journalist had here in Istanbul, and then return to CIA regional headquarters in Zurich where she would be debriefed and possibly reassigned, if the op was deemed dead.

But in the meantime, she had another meeting to attend.

In a bathroom stall, Maria opened her purse and took out a waterproof bag of thick plastic. Before she sealed her CIA-issued phone inside it she called the voicemail of her private line.

There were no new messages. It seemed that Kent had given up trying to reach her. He had left her several voicemails in the past weeks, one every few days. In the short, one-sided snippets he told her about his girls, how Sara was still dealing with the trauma of the events she’d endured. He mentioned his work for the National Resources Division and how bland it was compared to field work. He told her he missed her.

It was a small relief that he’d given up. At least she wouldn’t have to listen to the sound of his voice and realize how much she missed him too.

Maria sealed the phone into the plastic bag and carefully lowered it into the toilet tank before replacing the lid. She did not want to risk any prying ears to listen in on her conversation.

Then she left the bathroom and headed down the terminal to a gate with a couple dozen people milling about. The flight board announced that the plane to Kiev would be leaving in an hour and a half.

She sat in a rigid plastic chair in a row of six. The man was already behind her, seated in the opposite row facing the other direction with an automobile magazine open in front of his face.

“Calendula,” he said, his voice husky but low. “Report.”

“There is nothing to report,” she replied in Ukrainian. “Agent Zero is back at home with his family. He has been avoiding me ever since.”

“Oh?” said the Ukrainian curiously. “Has he? Or have you been avoiding him?”

Maria scowled, but did not turn to face the man. He would only say such a thing if he knew it was true. “You’ve tapped my private cell?”

“Of course,” the Ukrainian said candidly. “It seems that Agent Zero very much wants to speak with you. Why have you not contacted him?”

Not that it was any of the Ukrainian’s business, but Maria had been ducking Kent for the simple reason that she had, again, lied to him—not once, but twice. She had told him that the Ukrainians she was working with were members of the Foreign Intelligence Service. While a few of their faction might have been, at one time, they were about as loyal to the FIS as she was to the CIA.

The second lie was that she would stop working with them. Kent had made clear his distrust of the Ukrainians while they were en route to rescuing his daughters, and Maria had agreed, halfheartedly, that she would put an end to the relationship.

She hadn’t. Not yet. But that was part of the reason for the meeting in Istanbul; it wasn’t too late to make good on her word.

“We’re done,” she said simply. “I’m through working with you. You know what I know, and I know what you know. We can swap intel for the sake of building a case, but I’m finished doing your errands. And I’m leaving Zero out of this.”

The Ukrainian was silent for a long moment. He casually flicked the page of his auto magazine as if he was actually reading it. “Are you certain?” he asked. “New information has recently come to light.”

Maria’s eyebrow rose instinctively, though she was sure this was just a ruse to keep her in their employ. “What kind of new information?”

“Information you want,” the man said cryptically. Maria could not see his face but she got the impression, based on his tone, he was smirking.

“You’re bluffing,” she said bluntly.

“I am not,” he assured her. “We know his position. And we know what might happen if he remains in his stance.”

Maria’s pulse quickened. She didn’t want to believe him, but she had little choice. Her involvement in uncovering the conspiracy, her decision to work with them and attempt to obtain information from the CIA, was more than just a matter of doing the right thing. Of course she wanted to avoid war, to keep the perpetrators from their would-be ill-gotten gains, to keep innocent people from being hurt. But more than that, she had a vested personal interest in the plot.

Her father was a member of the National Security Council, a high-ranking official in international matters. And though it shamed her to even think it, her biggest priority, bigger than saving lives or keeping the United States from initiating war, was finding out if he was in on this, if he was a coconspirator—and if he wasn’t, to keep him safe from those that would have their way by any means necessary.

It wasn’t as if Maria could simply call him up and ask him. Their relationship was somewhat strained, limited mostly to professional banter, talk of legislation, and the occasional short-lived catching-up of personal lives. Besides, if he was aware of the plot, he would have no reason to openly admit it to her. If he wasn’t, he would want to take action; he was a decisive man who believed in justice and the legal system. Maria tended to lean towards the cynical, and as a result, cautious.

“What do you mean, ‘what might happen’?” she demanded. The Ukrainian’s cryptic statement seemed to suggest that her father was none the wiser, while also carrying a certain weight of threat with it.

“We don’t know,” he replied simply.

“How did you find this out?”

“Emails,” said the Ukrainian, “obtained from a private server. His name was mentioned, along with others who… may not comply.”

“Like a hit list?” she asked plainly.

“Unclear.”

Frustration roiled in her chest. “I want to read these emails. I want to see them for myself.”

“And you can,” the Ukrainian assured her. “But not if you’re insistent on breaking ties with us. We need you, Calendula. You need us. And we all need Agent Zero.”

She sighed. “No. Leave him out of this. He’s home with his family. That’s where his focus needs to be right now. He’s not even an agent anymore—”

“Yet he still works for the CIA.”

“He has no allegiance to them—”

“But he has an allegiance to you.”

Maria scoffed. “He doesn’t even remember enough to make sense of the little that he does know.”

“The memories are still there, in his head. Eventually he will remember, and when he does, you need to be there. Don’t you see? When that information returns to him he won’t have a choice but to act. He will need you there to guide him, and he will need our resources if he wants to do anything meaningful about it.” The Ukrainian man paused before adding, “The intel in Agent Zero’s mind could provide the pieces that we are missing, or at least lead to proof. A way to stop this. That is the whole point, is it not?”

“Of course it is,” Maria murmured. While not the only reason she had agreed to work with the Ukrainians, stopping the war and unnecessary slaughter before it began, and to keep the wrong people from gaining the type of power that historically led to much bigger conflicts was paramount. Still, she shook her head. “Regardless of what I want, you only want to use him.”

“Having the CIA’s top agent turn against his government would indeed be useful,” the man admitted. “But that is not our goal.” He dared to turn slightly in her direction, just enough to murmur, “We are not your enemy here.”

She wanted to believe that. But continuing to work with them when she had promised Kent she would cut ties made it feel like she was, as he had once accused, a double-agent—but against him, not the CIA.

“I’ll deal with Zero,” she said, “but I want those emails, and any other information you have on my father.”

“And you’ll get it, as soon as you bring something new and useful to the table.” The man made a show of looking down at his watch. “Speaking of which, I believe you’re soon due back at CIA regional headquarters? That is in Zurich, right? You may want to inquire as to the whereabouts of Agent Zero. If I’m not mistaken, he won’t be far.”

“He’s in Europe?” Maria was so taken aback that she twisted halfway in her seat. “Are you spying on him?”

He shrugged. “His recent credit card activity showed three plane tickets to Switzerland.”

Three? Maria thought. It wasn’t fieldwork; it was a trip. Kent and his two girls, most likely. But why Switzerland? she wondered. A notion came to her… Would he try to do that? Is he ready?

The Ukrainian man stood, buttoned his overcoat, and stuck his magazine under one arm. “Go to him. Get us something useful. Time is running out; if you don’t do it, we will.”

“Don’t you dare send anyone near him or his girls,” Maria threatened.

He smirked. “Then don’t force our hand. Goodbye, Calendula.” He nodded once and strode away across the terminal.

Maria sank into the chair and sighed defeatedly. She knew all too well that a single renewed memory could trigger Kent’s obsessive nature, and he’d plunge back down the rabbit hole of conspiracy and deception in search of answers. She had seen firsthand how Kent had gone through hell to get his family back… but she also knew that the knowledge he once had would tear them apart again.

There in the terminal of Istanbul Atatürk Airport, she made a resolution to herself: she was personally responsible for bringing him into this, so she would make sure to be there if, or when, he remembered. And to stop him if she needed to.

CHAPTER SIX

“Maya, look.” Sara poked her older sister in the arm and gestured out the window as the airplane drifted through a cloud on its descent into Zurich Airport. The sky opened up and the white-capped crests of the Swiss Alps were visible in the distance.

“It’s cool, right?” Maya said with a smile. Reid, in the aisle seat, could hardly believe his eyes—a thin smile lit on Sara’s face too.

In the three days since he had first announced the trip, Sara had agreed but hardly seemed excited to go. She had slept for most of the eight-hour flight and barely spoke in the brief interims she was awake. But as they descended to land and Sara could see the jagged peaks of the Alps and the sprawling city of Zurich below them, some life seemed to seep into her. There was a smile on her face and color in her cheeks for the first time in a while, and Reid couldn’t have been more pleased.

After they disembarked and got through customs, they waited beside the baggage carousel for their luggage. Reid felt Sara’s hand slip into his. He was astonished, but tried not to show it.

“Can we ski today?” she asked.

“Yeah. Of course,” he told her. “We can do whatever you want to do, sweetheart.”

She nodded somberly, as if the thought had been weighing heavily on her mind. Her fingers squeezed his as their bags made a lazy rotation towards them.

From Zurich they took a train south, less than two hours’ ride to the alpine town of Engelberg. There were no fewer than twenty-six hotels and ski lodges on the nearby mountain of Titlis, the largest peak of the Uri Alps at more than three thousand feet above sea level.

Naturally, Reid shared all of this with the girls.

“…And home to the world’s first cable car, too,” he told them as they trekked from the train station to their lodge. “Oh, and in town there’s a twelfth-century monastery called Kloster Engelberg, one of the oldest Swiss monasteries still standing…”

“Wow,” Maya interrupted. “Is this the place?”

Reid had chosen one of the more rustic lodges for their accommodations; a bit dated, to be sure, but charming and cozy, unlike some of the larger American-style hotels that had cropped up in recent years. They checked in and settled into their room, which had two beds, a fireplace with two armchairs facing it, and a breathtaking view of Titlis’ southern face.

“Hey, uh, there’s one thing I want to say before we go out there,” Reid said as they unpacked and prepared for the slopes. “I don’t want you two wandering off on your own.”

“Dad…” Maya rolled her eyes.

“It’s not about that,” he said quickly. “This trip is supposed to be about us spending some quality time and enjoying ourselves, and that means staying together. Okay?”

Sara nodded.

“Yeah, alright,” Maya agreed.

“Good. Then let’s get changed.” It wasn’t a lie, not really; he did want them to have a good time together, and he didn’t want them wandering around by themselves for safety reasons that had nothing to do with the incident. At least that’s what he told himself.

He still had no idea how he was going to accomplish his other task, the ulterior reason for coming to Switzerland and staying at a place so close to Zurich. But he had time to figure that part out.

Thirty minutes later the three of them were on a ski lift, heading up one of the dozens of crisscrossing trails of Titlis. Reid had chosen a green beginners’ slope for them to get started on; none of them had been skiing in years, ever since the family trip to Vermont.

Guilt stabbed at Reid’s chest at the thought of that vacation. Kate had been alive then. That trip had felt perfect, like nothing bad could ever happen between them. He wished he could go back to that time, enjoy it all over again, maybe even warn his past self about what was coming—or change the outcome so that it never happened at all.

He shook the thought from his head. There was no point in dwelling on it. It had happened, and now he needed to be there for his daughters to make sure that the past didn’t repeat itself.

At the top of the gentle slope, a bearded ski instructor gave them some refresher tips about how to slow down, how to stop, and how to turn. The girls took their time, unsteady on the ski boots locked in at the heels.

But as soon as Reid pushed off with the poles and began sliding over the powder, his body reacted as if he had done it a thousand times. The only time in memory that he had ever been skiing was the family trip five years earlier, but the way he simply knew how to move without thinking, his legs and torso subtly adjusting to weave left and right, told him that he had done this many more times than once. After the first run he had little doubt that he could handle a black diamond trail without much difficulty.

Even so, he did his best to hide it and kept pace with the girls. They seemed to be having a great time, Maya laughing at every wobble and near-fall, and Sara with an omnipresent smile on her face.

On their third run down the beginner’s slope, Reid started in between the two of them. Then he bent his legs slightly, leaning into the descent, and tucked the poles under his armpits. “Race you to the bottom!” he called out as he picked up speed.

“You’re on, old man!” Maya laughed behind him.

“Old man? We’ll see who’s laughing when I kick your butt…” Reid glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Sara’s left ski hit a small berm of packed snow. It slipped out from under her and both arms flailed out as she flopped face-first into the slope.

“Sara!” Reid skidded to a halt. He unclasped his boots in seconds and ran over the powder to her. “Sara, are you okay?” She had just gotten her cast off; the last thing she needed was another injury to ruin her vacation.

He knelt and turned her over. Her face was red and there were tears in her eyes—but she was laughing.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” she said between giggling fits. “I’m fine.”

He helped her to her feet and she wiped tears from her eyes. He was more than just relieved that she was okay—the sound of her laughter was like music to his soul.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked a third time.

“Yes, Dad.” She sighed happily and steadied herself on her skis. “I promise I’m okay. Nothing broken. By the way…” She pushed off with both poles and sent herself careening quickly down the slope. “We’re still racing, right?”

From nearby, Maya laughed too and set off after her sister.

“Not fair!” Reid called after them as he scrambled back to his skis.

After three hours of riding the slopes, they returned to the lodge and found seats in the large common area, in front of a roaring fireplace large enough to park a motorcycle in. Reid ordered three mugs of Swiss hot chocolate, and they sipped contentedly before the fire.

“I want to try a blue trail tomorrow,” Sara announced.

“Are you sure, Squeak? You just got that cast off your arm,” Maya taunted.

“Maybe in the afternoon we can check out the town,” Reid offered. “Find a place to have dinner?”

“That sounds fun,” Sara agreed.

“Sure, you say that now,” Maya said, “but you know he’s going to make us check out that monastery.”

“Hey, it’s important to get to know the history of a place,” said Reid. “That monastery was what started this town. Well, up until the 1850s, when it became a vacation spot for tourists seeking what they called ‘fresh air cures.’ You see, back then…”

Maya leaned back in her chair and pretended to snore loudly.

“Ha-ha,” Reid mocked. “Fine, I’ll stop lecturing. Who needs a refill? Be right back.” He scooped up the three mugs and headed towards the counter for more.

As he waited, he couldn’t help but mentally pat himself on the back. For the first time in a while, maybe even since the memory suppressor was removed, he felt that he’d done right by his girls. They were all having a great time; the events of the month prior already seemed to be becoming distant memory. He hoped it was more than just temporary, and that the creation of new, happy memories would shove out the anxiety and anguish of what had happened.

Of course, he wasn’t so naïve to believe that the girls would simply forget about the incident. It was important not to forget; just like history, he didn’t want the opportunity for it to repeat itself. But if it got Sara out of her melancholy funk and Maya back on track with school and her future, then he would feel he did his job as a parent.

He returned to their sofa to find Maya jabbing away at her cell phone and Sara’s seat empty.

“Went to the bathroom,” Maya said before he could even ask.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” he said as nonchalantly as he could, setting down the three mugs.

“Yeah, right,” Maya teased.

Reid straightened and looked around anyway. Of course he was going to ask; if it was up to him, neither of the girls would leave his sight. He glanced about, past the other tourists and skiers, the locals enjoying a hot drink, the staff serving patrons…

A knot of panic tightened in his stomach as he spotted the back of Sara’s blonde head across the lodge floor. Behind her was a man in a black parka, following her—or perhaps guiding her away.

He strode over quickly, fists balling at his side. His first thought was immediately of the Slovakian traffickers. They found us. His tense muscles were ready for a fight, ready to take this man apart in front of everyone. Somehow they found us here, in the mountains.

“Sara,” he said sharply.

She stopped and turned, her eyes wide at his commanding tone.

“You okay?” He looked from her to the man following her. He had dark eyes, a five o’clock shadow, ski goggles perched on his forehead. He didn’t look Slovakian, but Reid was not taking any chances.

“Fine, Dad. This man asked me where the bathrooms were,” Sara told him.

The man put up both hands defensively, palms out. “I’m very sorry,” he said, his accent sounding German. “I did not mean any harm—”

“You couldn’t have asked an adult?” Reid said forcefully, staring the man down.

“I asked the first person I saw,” the man protested.

“And that was a fourteen-year-old girl?” Reid shook his head. “Who are you with?”

“With?” the man asked in bewilderment. “I’m… with my family here.”

“Yeah? Where are they? Point them out,” Reid demanded.

“I-I don’t want any trouble.”

“Dad.” Reid felt an arm tug at his. “That’s enough, Dad.” Maya tugged at him again. “He’s just a tourist.”

Reid narrowed his eyes. “I’d better not see you around my girls again,” he warned, “or there will be trouble.” He turned away from the frightened man as Sara, bewildered, headed back towards the sofa.

But Maya stood in his path with her hands on her hips. “Just what the hell was that?”

He frowned. “Maya, you watch your language—”

“No, you watch yours,” she shot back. “Dad, you were speaking German just now.”

Reid blinked in surprise. “I was?” He hadn’t even realized it, but the man in the black parka had apologized in German—and Reid had simply picked it up without thinking.

“You’re going to freak Sara out again, doing things like that,” Maya accused.

His shoulders slackened. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just thought…” You thought the Slovakian traffickers had followed you and your girls to Switzerland. Suddenly he recognized how ridiculous that sounded.

It was clear that Maya and Sara were not the only ones that needed to recover from their shared experience. Maybe I need to schedule a few sessions with Dr. Branson, he thought as he rejoined his daughters.

“I’m sorry about that,” he told Sara. “I guess I’m just a little overprotective right now.”

She said nothing in response, but stared at the floor with a faraway look in her eye, both hands wrapped around a mug as it grew cold.

Seeing his reaction and hearing him bark angrily at the man in German had reminded her of the incident and, if he had to guess, just how little she knew about her own father.

Great, he thought bitterly. Not even one day in and I’ve already ruined it. How am I going to fix this? He took a seat between the girls and desperately tried to think of something he could say or do to return to the cheerful atmosphere of only moments ago.

But before he had the chance, Sara spoke up. Her gaze lifted to meet his as she murmured, and despite the conversations around them Reid heard her words clearly.

“I want to know,” his youngest daughter said. “I want to know the truth.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Yosef Bachar had spent the last eight years of his career in perilous situations. As an investigative journalist, he had accompanied armed troops into the Gaza Strip. He had trekked across deserts in search of hidden compounds and caves during the long hunt for Osama bin Laden. He had reported from the midst of firefights and air raids. Not two years earlier, he had broken the story of Hamas smuggling drone parts across borders and forcing a kidnapped Saudi engineer to reconstruct them so they could be used for bombings. His exposé had inspired higher security at borders and increased awareness of insurgents seeking better technology.

Despite all he had done to risk life and limb, he had never found himself in more danger than he was in now. He and two Israeli colleagues had been covering the story of Imam Khalil and his small sect of followers, who had unleashed a mutated smallpox virus on Barcelona and attempted to do the same on the United States. A source in Istanbul told them that the last few of Khalil’s zealots had fled to Iraq, hiding somewhere near Albaghdadi.

But Yosef Bachar and his two compatriots did not find Khalil’s people; they had not even reached the city before their car was run off the road by another group, and the three journalists were taken hostage.