File Zero

He parallel-parked two blocks from the bank, no simple task with only one good hand. Before getting out of the car he reached over, popped the glove box, and rooted around until he found the small black tactical folding knife that he had stowed there.

Then he hurried down the street to the bank.

Zero tried to look patient as he waited for the three customers in front of him to finish their business, and then presented his photo ID to the teller, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile and too much lipstick.

“Let me get the branch manager,” she told him politely.

Two minutes later a man in a suit led him through a vault door to the deposit boxes. He unlocked the narrow rectangular door to 726, slid the box out, and set it on an otherwise empty steel table, bolted to the floor in the center of the room.

“Take your time, sir.” The manager nodded to him and gave him some privacy.

As soon as the man was gone, Zero lifted the lid to the box.

“No,” he murmured. He took one step backward and looked over his shoulder instinctively, as if someone might be there.

The box was empty.

“No, no.” He pounded a fist on the table with a dull thud. “No!” All of his documents, everything he had dug up on those that he knew were involved in the plot, were gone. Every piece of illegally obtained evidence that could potentially force the dismissal of heads of state was gone. Photos, transcriptions, emails… all of it, vanished.

Zero put his hands on his head and paced the room back and forth rapidly. His first thought was the most likely solution: someone else knew about the documents and took them. Who else knew about this box? No one. He was sure of it. You definitely didn’t give the information to someone and forgot about it? No. He wouldn’t have done that. He almost laughed at himself, at how insane the notion was that he might forget something that he didn’t know he knew only hours ago.

But then Zero remembered something else, not an unlocked memory, but one that he had experienced only days earlier, in the office of a Swiss neurosurgeon.

I should forewarn you, Dr. Guyer had told him before performing the procedure to bring Zero’s memories back. If this works, some of the things that you recall may be subconscious: fantasies, wishes, suspicions from your past life. All of those non-memory aspects were removed with your actual memories.

Zero had frowned at that. So you’re saying that if I remember things, some of the things I remember may not actually be real?

The doctor’s reply had been simple, yet harrowing. They’ll be real to you.

If that was the case, he reasoned, couldn’t it be possible that he had done something with the documents himself? Could he have imagined that they were here, in this safe deposit box, when really they were elsewhere?

I’m losing my mind.

Focus, Zero.

He pulled the lockback knife out of his pocket, unfolded it, and carefully wedged the razor-sharp tip into the edge of the bottom of the box. He worked it back and forth gently, careful not to scratch it, until the bottom panel came loose.

He breathed a small sigh of relief. Whoever had taken his documents didn’t know about the false bottom he had installed in the box, less than an inch above the real bottom. Nestled beneath it was a single object—a USB stick.

At least they didn’t find the recordings. But is it enough? He wasn’t sure, but it was all he had. He snatched it up, pocketed the knife and the USB drive, and then carefully replaced the false bottom. Then he slid the box back into its narrow vault and closed the door.

When he finished, Zero headed back to the lipsticked teller.

“Excuse me,” he said, “can you tell me if anyone else accessed my safe deposit box in the past two years?”

The woman blinked at him. “Two years?”

“Yes. Please. You keep a log, right?”

“Um… certainly. One moment.” Fingernails clacked against the keyboard for a long minute. “Here we are. There has only been one access to your deposit box in the past two years, and it was only a couple of months ago, in February.”

“It wasn’t me,” Zero said impatiently. “So who was it?”

She blinked at him again, this time in confusion. “Well, sir, it was the only other person authorized to access the box. It was your wife. Katherine Lawson.”

Zero stared at the teller for longer than the woman found comfortable.

“No,” he said slowly. “That’s impossible. My wife passed away two years ago.”

She frowned deeply, the lipsticked corners of her mouth drooping as if they’d been tugged. “I am very sorry to hear that, sir. And that is certainly strange. But… we require photo ID, and the person that accessed the box obviously had it. Your wife’s name wasn’t taken from the box’s lease when she passed.”

Zero remembered putting her name on the lease. Kate hadn’t known about it at the time; he had forged her signature as a joint lease so that someone would know about it in the event of his death.

And only two months prior, someone had pretended to be her, had even gone so far as to create identification that could pass as valid to a bank, and taken the contents of his box.

“I assure you,” the teller told him, “we will look further into this matter. The branch manager just left for the day, but I can have him reach out to you tomorrow. Would you like to report a theft?”

“No, no.” Zero waved a hand dismissively. He didn’t want to get any legal authorities involved and have the safe deposit box flagged in any system that the CIA might see. “Nothing was taken,” he lied. “Let’s just forget it. Thanks.”

“Sir?” she called after him, but he was already at the door.

Someone came here posing as Kate. He knew there was little he could do about it now; the bank might still have the security footage from that day, but they wouldn’t allow him access unless there was an investigation and a warrant.

But who? The agency was the most obvious culprit. With the vast CIA resources, they could have created a passable ID and sent a female agent in under the guise of Kate. But Zero hadn’t accessed the box in years. If they knew about it back then, why would they wait until only two months ago to get into it?

Because I came back. They thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, they needed to know what I knew.

Another thought flashed through his mind: Maria. Are you sure you never told her about it? Not even in case of an emergency? She was one of the best covert agents he had ever known; she could have found a way. But still he came back to the question of why she would do that now, why wait if she knew about the safe deposit box.

He suddenly felt tired and overwhelmed. He had lost so much of what he had uncovered before, the smallest shred of potential evidence sitting on a USB stick in his pocket. He had no idea how much time he had to get Pierson alone, try to convince him of what was happening, and somehow persuade him to look further into those responsible with almost nothing to go on.

It felt insurmountable. He realized grimly that if he had still been Reid Lawson, trapped in the hell of his partial memories as Agent Zero, he might have given up. He might have scooped up his daughters and whatever they could carry and fled somewhere. The Midwest, maybe. He might have stuck his head in the sand and let things happen as they would. Reid Lawson’s highest priority was his girls.

But Agent Zero had a responsibility. This was not just his job. It was his life. This was who he truly was, and there was no way in hell he was going to sit idly by and watch a war unfold, watch innocent people die, watch American servicemen and Middle Eastern civilians be forced into a conflict that was manufactured for the benefit of a handful of megalomaniacal men to maintain their power.

He heard the footsteps like an echo of his own and resisted the urge to turn around. As he neared his car, parked two blocks from the bank, the heavy footfalls of boots kept pace with his almost stride for stride.

About ten feet behind you. Keeping their distance. They’re walking heavy; definitely a man, probably close to six foot, two-ten to two-twenty.

Zero didn’t stop at his car. He walked right past it to the next corner and turned right onto a side street. As he walked past a flower shop, the same one that he had once bought bouquets for his girls before picking them up from a safe house six blocks to the west, he checked his periphery. It was something that he had instinctually done as Reid Lawson, but with his memories also came back his skills. It was as easy as glancing in a mirror; without averting his gaze from the sidewalk ahead, he focused on the outermost borders of his field of vision.

A man in a black T-shirt was crossing the street toward him. He was large, easily two-fifty, with a neck as thick as his head and heavily muscled arms testing the limits of his shirtsleeves.

So this is how it’s going to be. The hairs on Zero’s arms stood on end, but his heartbeat remained steady. His breathing normal. No sweat prickled on his brow.

He wasn’t being paranoid. They were after him. They knew. And he was more than ready to meet the challenge.

CHAPTER FIVE