Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright took a deep breath before knocking twice on the oak office door. The message he had received only moments earlier had been explicit: Come straight to the director’s office. ASAFP.
He hadn’t even finished his coffee yet.
He pushed the door open a few inches. “Director Mullen? You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Cartwright, yes! Come in. Have a seat.” Mullen sat behind his desk and smiled, but his nostrils flared. That was never a good sign—the pleasantry was likely a ruse.
Cartwright entered the office and closed the door behind him. At forty-four, he was considered relatively young in the hierarchy of the Central Intelligence Agency—at least he still had all his hair, though he did take to dyeing it black last year to hide the oncoming gray. He had spent five years heading up the Special Operations Group, which (as he liked to joke) was a fancy way of saying that he wasn’t allowed to tell his wife how his day was. Eighteen months ago, he had been promoted to Deputy Director, overseeing the Special Activities Division in all international affairs. He was a man who built his reputation on efficiency, though his predecessor had mucked up so poorly with leaked documents and exposed field agents that it made it easy for him to look good.
Despite his advancement and general success, Cartwright had some trepidation in dealing with CIA Director Mullen. His superior was an expert at subterfuge and pretense, concealing his emotions while reading others’. Mullen’s days in the field were long past him, but he still kept himself sharp with his daily interactions. Cartwright had to resort to the tiniest idiosyncrasies and mannerisms to detect the director’s current mood—hence the flared nostrils, and the sinking feeling in his gut as he took a seat opposite Mullen.
“Good morning,” said Mullen. He somehow managed to make the greeting sound spirited and joyless at the same time. He tented his fingers. He was a discerning man, fifty-six, his bald pate shining and waxed and ringed by a ridge of gray hair from ear to ear. “Did you happen to hear any whispers this morning, Cartwright?”
“Whispers, sir?” He had indeed heard whispers, in the elevator, and there was no use in trying to hide it from Mullen. “I might have heard some… rumblings. Something about an explosion in Belgium—a possible munitions factory?”
“Incendiaries,” Mullen corrected. “At least that’s what Interpol is saying at the moment. Hell of a blast; people saw it from miles away, on the highway. The facility was fronting as a vintner—”
“Vintner, sir?”
“Winemaker.”
“Ah.”
“And that’s all you’ve heard?” Mullen asked casually.
“Yes, sir, that’s all I’ve heard.”
Mullen pursed his lips and nodded. “Then I suppose I get to be the one to tell you about the dead Russian found at a farmhouse about twelve miles away. Stabbed in the throat with a steak knife.”
“Jesus,” said Cartwright. “Connected?”
“Undoubtedly,” Mullen replied. Cartwright was struggling to see why this meeting was between just the two of them, rather than a team briefing, when Mullen added, “There’s more. Alan Reidigger is dead.”
Cartwright stared in stunned shock. “Reidigger? Christ.” When Cartwright was head of Special Ops Group, Reidigger had been one of his field agents. Alan hadn’t been the most physically fit guy, or even the most cunning, but he was likeable, able-bodied, and very good at blending in. “How?”
“I’m glad you asked,” said Director Mullen. He touched the screen on a tablet in front of him and opened an audio application. “This came from Steve Bolton, current head of Spec Ops, about eight minutes ago. Reidigger hadn’t checked in for more than twenty-four hours, so he took a chance and called him. Here, give it a listen.”
Mullen pressed the play button. “Alan’s dead,” said a male voice, tinny and distant. “Can’t stay here. And I can’t trust you.”
Cartwright shook his head in confusion. “Sir, I’m not sure I follow.”
“No?” said Mullen. “Try again.” He pressed play on the audio clip.
“Alan’s dead.”
“Can’t stay here. And I can’t trust you.”
The voice sounded familiar, but Cartwright was struggling to place it. Mullen played the clip again, watching the deputy director carefully. He played it again.
On the fourth time, Cartwright’s eyes widened with both realization and sheer dread.
“No…” he said quietly. “No, there’s no way.” He avoided Mullen’s discerning gaze. “He’s dead. Zero is dead.”
“He is certainly supposed to be,” Mullen agreed. “It was your job to oversee that.”
“And I did,” Cartwright insisted. “This must be someone else, someone that knew him, or maybe wants us to think he’s alive…”
“We’re running a full voice analysis on this,” said Mullen. “But I don’t think we need to.” The director folded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “Cartwright, do you know how many bodies they’ve pulled out of that fire so far in Belgium? Six. And forensics is saying that every single one of them was already dead. Then we have tracks that led to an SUV at the bottom of a river—a goddamn sixty-foot drop! And last but not least, a dead Russian with his throat cut. That sound like anyone in particular to you, Deputy Director?”
Cartwright could do little more than shake his head and stare blankly at a coffee ring on Mullen’s desk. It certainly sounded like someone they knew—someone they had known. Near the end, Zero had gotten reckless, unpredictable, wild even. One of the higher-ups had referred to him as “feral.”
“But he’s dead,” was all Cartwright could say.
“Well, this whole thing is just tits-up.” Mullen sighed. “So why don’t you run through it with me quick? Because this need-to-know just became very need-to-know.” At the time, Mullen hadn’t wanted any details. He just wanted it done. And the thought of recounting the ordeal turned Cartwright’s stomach.
“All right. I put Morris and, uh…” He sighed. “I put Morris and Reidigger on it…”
Mullen scoffed in disbelief. “His own guys? Christ, Cartwright.”
“They volunteered!” he said defensively. “They knew how he was getting. They both came to me, separately, with their concerns. He was going to get himself shot or killed or both, and his recklessness could have compromised them, too. And then, after… well, you know what happened… and Zero got worse, they came back to me. They knew we were going to do it anyway, so the two of them offered to be the ones to carry it out. They were his friends. They wanted it done quick and clean.”
“And they did it,” Mullen said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And now one of them is dead.”
“…Yes, sir.”
“And we have pretty good reason to believe that Zero was there.”
Cartwright gulped. “It would appear so, sir.”
“Your agents, did they have proof that they eliminated him?” Mullen asked prudently.
The deputy director looked up sharply. “Proof, sir?” Good lord, what was the director suggesting—that he should have asked his agents to bring him an ear? “Since when does Special Ops get proof? No, they buried it, and they sent him to the bottom of the river.”
“At least that’s what they told you,” Mullen said.
“I trusted my guys.” Director or not, Cartwright was starting to get irritated.
“The other one, Morris. He still works under you, yes? Where is he now?”
Cartwright thought for a moment. “Um… Morris is UC somewhere near Barcelona. He should be checking in sometime in the next six hours. What do you want me to do? Call him in?”
“No.” Mullen stroked his chin. “But pull him off his op. I want him ready to fly on a moment’s notice. Someone has murdered an agent, and as soon as this guy crops up again—whether it’s Zero or not—you get Morris there. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Take care of it this time. I’m not putting Bolton on this, or anyone else. This is up to you. We can’t have this getting out. We can’t have Internal Affairs sniffing around here. And we certainly can’t risk a story leaking to the general public.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good. Go.”
Cartwright stood and buttoned his suit jacket. His legs felt weak. If Steele was still alive… well, he didn’t want to think about what could happen.
With his hand on the doorknob, Mullen called out once more. “And Cartwright? It’s shoot to kill. You understand? I won’t have him rampaging across Europe again. That would be very bad for me… and for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cartwright hurried back to his office, nodding to colleagues as he passed and forcing a smile. As soon as he was inside with the door closed and locked, he heaved a sigh and made a call to Morris on the secure line.
He didn’t bother with greetings or small talk. “We have reason to believe that Agent Zero might still be alive,” he said sternly. “I need you to make it not so.”