Jack Mars - Assassin Zero

He knew this wasn’t real, but he wished it could be, that this moment could go on forever. He reached for her and gently touched her shoulder, running his fingertips along her smooth skin, down to the elbow…

He frowned.

Her skin was cold. Her chest was not rising and falling with breath.

Not sleeping. Dead.

Killed by a lethal dose of tetrodotoxin, administered by a man Zero had called a friend, a man that Zero had let live. A decision he regretted every day.

“Wake up,” he murmured. “Please. Wake up.”

She did not stir. She wouldn’t, ever again.

“Please wake up.” His voice cracked.

It was his fault that she died.

“Wake up.”

It was his fault she was murdered.

“WAKE UP!”

Zero sucked in a breath as he sat bolt upright in bed. It was a dream; he was in his bedroom in Bethesda, white walls and plain with only one bureau. He wasn’t sure if he had actually shouted or not, but his throat was hoarse and a powerful headache was coming on.

He groaned and checked his phone for the time as he came around to reality. The sun was up; it was Thanksgiving. He had to get out of bed. He had to get the turkey in the oven. He couldn’t dwell on a nightmare, because that would mean dwelling on the past, and dwelling about…

About…

“Oh my god,” he murmured under his breath. His hands trembled and his stomach turned.

Her name. He couldn’t remember her name.

For a long moment he sat like that, his gaze darting around the bedspread as if the answer was going to be written there on its surface. But it wasn’t there, and it didn’t seem to be in his head either. He could not remember her name.

Zero tore the blankets off of him and practically fell out of bed. He dropped to his hands and knees and reached underneath it, pulling out a fireproof security box the size of a briefcase.

“Key,” he said aloud. “Where’s the damn key?” He scrambled to his feet again and tore open his top dresser drawer, nearly pulling it out completely. He snatched up the small silver key that laid there, amongst balls of socks and curled belts, and flopped to the floor again as he unlocked the security box.

Inside was an assortment of important documents and items—among them his and the girls’ passports, his birth certificate and Social Security card, two pistols, a thousand dollars in cash, and his wedding ring. He pulled all of those out and made a small pile on the floor, because none of them were what he was looking for. He paused briefly on a picture, a photo of the four of them in San Francisco one summer, when Maya was five and Sara was three. The woman in the photo was completely familiar; he could hear her playful laugh in his head, feel her breath on his ear, the warm touch of her hand in his.

“What’s her goddamn name?!” His voice wavered as he tossed the photo aside and kept digging. It had to be in here. A lot of his things were still in Maria’s basement, but he was certain he would have put it in the security box…

“Thank god.” He recognized the manila envelope and tore the flap opening it. There was a single sheet inside, printed on thick stock and embossed with the stamp of a New York court. Their marriage license.

His throat ran dry as he stared at the name. “Katherine,” he said to himself. “Her name was Katherine.” But there was no relief in it; he felt only terror. The name did not register any memories in him or familiarity. It was like a foreign word on his tongue. “Katherine,” he said again. “Katherine Lawson.”

Still it didn’t sound right, even though it was printed right there in front of his eyes in black and white. Had she been Katherine? Had he called her Katherine? Or maybe it was…

“Kate.”

The air rushed out of him in an enormous sigh. Kate. He called her Kate. The memories rushed back, as sudden as a faucet turning on. Now there was relief, but still it was underscored by the very real fact that for those few harrowing minutes, he had absolutely forgotten his wife’s name—and that was not something he could write off as an arbitrary lapse.

Zero grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. International charges be damned; he needed answers. Switzerland was six hours ahead. It would be early afternoon there, assuming their office was open.

“Pick up,” Zero pleaded. “Pick up, pick up…”

“Dr. Guyer’s office.” The female voice that answered the call was soft, tinged with a Swiss-German accent. He would have thought it sultry had he not been panicking.

“Alina?” he asked quickly. “I need to speak with Dr. Guyer, it’s very important—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “may I ask who’s calling?”

Right. “It’s Reid. I mean, Kent. Kent Steele. Zero.”

“Ah, Agent Steele,” she said brightly. “How wonderful to hear from you.”

“Alina, it’s urgent.”

“Of course.” Her demeanor changed on a dime. “I’ll get him for you, hold a moment.”

Dr. Guyer was a brilliant Swiss neurologist, likely among the best in the world—and also the man who had installed the rice-grain-sized memory suppressor in Zero’s head four years earlier, which had wiped his memory clean of any affiliation with the CIA. But Guyer had been acting upon Zero’s own request, and later he was also the doctor who performed the procedure that restored his memory, albeit belatedly.

The two of them had been in contact on and off over the last year; the doctor had been delighted to learn that Zero’s memories had returned and eager to run further tests, but that required a trip to Switzerland, which Zero hadn’t had the time or energy to do—though he fully admitted he owed it to him. Nevertheless, if anyone could tell him what was happening in his head, it was Guyer.

“Agent Steele,” said a deep voice through the phone, accented and somber enough to suggest they were going to skip the pleasantries. “Alina said you sounded distressed. What seems to be the trouble?”

“Dr. Guyer,” Zero said. “I need help. I’m not sure what’s happening, but…” He paused as another horrid thought struck him. What if this wasn’t a private call? What if someone was listening in? The CIA had tapped his personal lines before. And if they heard all this…

You’re being paranoid. Don’t become that person again.

Even so, once the thought was in his head, he couldn’t shake it. It was best to err on the side of caution, after all. He’d just made his way back into the CIA, and it felt good. Like his life had purpose again. If they heard about this, things could change very quickly for him—and he didn’t want to fall back into the listless, fifteen-month depressive episode he’d found himself in before.

“Agent Steele? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Zero did his best to keep his voice even and casual as he said, “I’m, uh… having some trouble remembering things.”

“Hmm,” said Guyer thoughtfully. “Short-term or long-term?”

“I would say more of the long-term.”

“And you believe this to be of… concern?” Guyer was choosing his words carefully. Zero wondered if the doctor was thinking the same thing, that their call might be monitored. Someone like Guyer could face a world of trouble for what he’d done—certainly lose his medical license, if not actually face jail time.

“I would say that I think I should schedule that trip to see you sooner than later,” Zero told him.

“I see.” Guyer fell silent, and in that pregnant pause Zero became certain that the doctor was being as careful as he was. “Well, it so happens that you’re in luck. You won’t have to come to me; I’m attending a conference next week at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. I can see you then. I’m sure that one of my colleagues will allow me use of an examination room.”