Trapping Zero

“My name is Yosef Bachar,” he called back in English. “I am one of three Israeli journalists that were kidnapped by Islamic insurgents near Albaghdadi.”

“Call this in,” the commanding soldier told another. With two guns still trained on Yosef, the soldier approached him warily, his rifle cradled in both arms and a finger on the trigger. “Put your hands on your head.”

Yosef was frisked thoroughly for weapons, but the only thing the soldier found was his wallet—and inside it, his identification. Calls were made, and fifteen minutes later Yosef Bachar was admitted entrance to the US embassy.

The ropes were cut away from his wrists and he was ushered into a small and windowless office, though not uncomfortable. A young man brought him a bottle of water, which he chugged gratefully.

A few minutes later, a man in a black suit and matching combed hair entered. “Mr. Bachar,” he said, “my name is Agent Cayhill. We’ve been aware of your situation, and we’re very glad to see you alive and well.”

“Thank you,” said Yosef. “My friend Avi was not so fortunate.”

“I’m sorry,” said the American agent. “Your government has been notified of your presence here, as has your family. We’re going to arrange transportation for you to get home as soon as possible, but first we’d like to talk about what happened to you.” He pointed upwards where the wall met the ceiling. A black camera was directed downwards, towards Yosef. “Our exchange is being recorded, and the audio of our conversation is being fed live to Washington, D.C. It is your right to refuse being recorded. You may have an ambassador or other representative from your country present if you wish—”

Yosef waved a tired hand. “That’s not necessary. I want to speak.”

“Whenever you’re ready then, Mr. Bachar.”

So he did. Yosef detailed the three-day ordeal, starting with the trek towards Albaghdadi and their car being stopped on a desert road. The three of them, he and Avi and Idan, had been forced into the back of a truck with bags over their heads. The bags were not removed until they were in the basement of the compound, where they spent three days in darkness. He told them what had happened to Avi, his voice quavering slightly. He told them of Idan, still there in the compound and at the mercy of those reprobates.

“They claimed to have released me to deliver a message,” Yosef concluded. “They wanted you to know who was responsible for this. They wanted you to know the name of their organization, the Brotherhood, and that of their leader, Awad bin Saddam.” Yosef sighed. “That is all I know.”

Agent Cayhill nodded deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Bachar. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Before we see about getting you home, I have one follow-up question. Why would they send you to us? Why not your own government, your people?”

Yosef shook his head. He had been asking himself that ever since he had entered the embassy. “I do not know. All they said was that they wanted you, the Americans, to know who was responsible.”

Cayhill’s brow furrowed deeply. There was a knock at the door to the small office, and then a young woman peered in. “Sorry sir,” she said quietly, “but the delegation is here. They’re waiting in conference room C.”

“Just one minute, thank you,” said Cayhill.

In the same instant that the door closed again, the floor beneath them exploded. Yosef Bachar and Agent Cayhill, along with sixty-three other souls, were incinerated instantly.

*

Just short of two blocks due south, a truck with a dome of canvas stretched over the bed was parked at the curb, a direct line of sight to the American embassy through its windshield.

Awad watched, not blinking, as the windows of the embassy exploded, sending fireballs into the sky. The truck beneath him shuddered with the blast, even from this distance. Black smoke roiled into the air as the walls buckled and caved, and the American embassy collapsed in on itself.

Procuring nearly his own weight in plastic explosives had been the easy part, now that he had unquestioned access to Hassan’s fortune. Even kidnapping the journalists had been simple enough. No, the difficulty had been obtaining falsified credentials that were realistic enough for he and three others to pose as maintenance workers. It had required hiring a Tunisian skilled enough to create fake background checks and to hack into the database to enter them as approved contractors allowed access to the embassy.

Only then could Awad and the Brotherhood stow the explosives in a maintenance corridor underneath the Americans’ feet, as they had done two days prior, posing as plumbers repairing a burst pipe.

That part had not been simple or inexpensive, but all well worth it to meet Awad’s ends. No, the easy part had been slipping the high-tech detonation chip into the journalist’s wallet and sending him on his way towards what the foolish man thought was freedom. The bomb would not have detonated without the chip in range.

The Israeli had, essentially, blown up the embassy for them.

“Let’s go,” he told Usama, who directed the truck back onto the road. They skirted around parked vehicles, the drivers stopping right in the middle of the street in awe of the explosion. Pedestrians ran screaming from the blast site as parts of the building’s outer walls continued to collapse.

“I don’t understand,” Usama grumbled as he attempted to navigate the choked streets full of panicking people. “Hassan told me how much was spent on this endeavor. All for what? To kill a journalist and a handful of Americans?”

“Yes,” Awad said pensively. “A select handful of Americans. It came to my attention recently that a congressional delegation from the United States was visiting Baghdad as part of a goodwill mission.”

“What sort of delegation?” Usama asked.

Awad smirked; his simpleminded brother did not, or simply could not, understand—which was why Awad had not yet shared the full extent of his plan with the rest of the Brotherhood. “A congressional delegation,” he repeated. “A group of American political leaders; more specifically, leaders from New York.”

Usama nodded as if he understood, but his furrowed brow said that he still was far from comprehension. “And that was your plan? To kill them?”

“Yes,” said Awad. “And to make the Americans aware of us.” As well as aware of me. “Now we must get back to the compound and prepare for the next part of the plan. We have to hurry. They will be coming for us.”

“Who will?” Usama asked.

Awad smirked as he glanced through the windshield at the burning wreckage of the embassy. “Everyone.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Alright,” said Reid. “Ask me whatever you’d like, and I’ll be honest. Take as long as you need.”

He sat across from his daughters in a corner booth of a fondue restaurant in one of Engelberg-Titlis’ higher-end hotels. After Sara had told him in the lodge that she wanted to know the truth, Reid had suggested they go elsewhere, away from the common room of the ski lodge. Their own room felt like too quiet a place for such intense subject matter, so he took them to dinner in the hopes of providing something of a casual atmosphere while they talked. He had chosen this place specifically because each booth was separated by glass partitions, giving them some modicum of privacy.

Even so, he kept his voice low.

Sara stared at the table for a long while, thinking. “I don’t want to talk about what happened,” she said at last.

“We don’t have to,” Reid agreed. “We’ll only talk about what you want, and I promise the truth, just like with your sister.”

Sara glanced over at Maya. “You… know things?”

“Some,” she admitted. “Sorry, Squeak. I didn’t think you were ready to hear it.”

If Sara was angry or upset at all by this news, she didn’t show it. Instead she chewed her bottom lip for a moment, forming a question in her head, and then asked. “You’re not just a teacher, are you?”

“No.” Reid had assumed that clarifying what he was and what he did would be among her top concerns. “I’m not. I am—rather, I was—an agent with the CIA. Do you know what that means?”

“Like… a spy?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. There was some spying involved. But it’s more about stopping bad people from doing worse things.”

“What do you mean, ‘was’?” she asked.

“Well, I’m not doing that anymore. I did for a while, and then when…” He cleared his throat. “When Mom died, I stopped. For two years I wasn’t with them. Then, back in February, I was asked to come back.” That’s a mild way of putting it, he chided himself. “That thing on the news, with the Winter Olympics and the bombing at the economic forum? I was there. I helped stop it.”

“So you’re a good guy?”

Reid blinked in surprise at the question. “Of course I am. Did you think I wasn’t?”

This time Sara shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “Don’t know,” she said quietly. “Hearing all this, it’s like… like…”

“Like getting to know a stranger,” Maya murmured. “A stranger that looks like you.” Sara nodded her agreement.