Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“Oh, Mr. Banjax,” said Ibrahim Zarzi, a fraught look on his handsome face, his dark eyes pooling with melancholy regret, “I am afraid you have been misled by early press reports which ascribe to me activities in which never ever did I participate. One has enemies. Enemies fight with more than bombs, they fight with unpleasantly inaccurate information. This is exactly such a case.”

They were in a room on Zarzi’s floor in the Four Seasons immediately after the news conference and all around Banjax, watch faces undulated gently. Square, round, black, gold, white, vivid, subtle, encrusted with jewels, screaming of Special Operations by dark of moon, or seductions in the dining room of the Ritz, it seemed like some kind of slow-motion museum on the theme of time passing. It was hypnotic. He thought of a common scene in a certain kind of movie that always seemed to take place in a field of reeds or wheat things (wheat fronds ? wheat leaves ? wheat staves ? wheat puffs ?) weaving rhythmically in the wind. Wasn’t it the one where the girl first gave her heart and her body to her lover? And wasn’t that sort of what was happening now, as it was his job to be seduced by the charisma of this man, whom the Times already supported editorially, and to give him his say about his colorful past? And on top of that, it was making him a little bit sick. In the pit of his stomach, he felt uncertainty.

“Well, sir,” said Banjax, “it is true you were once known as ‘the Beheader’ for the unfortunate death of Richard Millstein, which was videotaped and shown around the world.”

“I am so glad that at last I have a chance to address that tragedy. In fact, no, I was not to blame, nor in any way responsible for Mr. Millstein’s death. That I swear. That I attest, with one hand on the holy Koran. Sir, I am rewarded in my patience that I will make my virtue and my innocence clear once and for all in this matter, peace be upon you.”

He smiled, teeth glittering. He had changed for the interview and now wore gray flannels, Gucci loafers (no socks), a white shirt open to the midchest and displaying bronzed, toned muscularity and a frost of hair, some kind of massive black military watch on one wrist that set off the many gold rings his fingers sported. He was lean, muscular for his age, and bold with macho vitality. Polo later, perhaps? A brace of grouse? Perhaps a ride aboard Jumbo in the forests of the night after a tiger, burning bright, and if the Jeffrey.500 didn’t put the big cat down and he made it up the elephant’s back, then there was always the double-barreled howdah pistol to drive two.600 nitros into the animal’s open jaws and jackhammer him to earth.

“Mr. Millstein fell in among thieves and brigands, alas. In their apostasy, they used my name in order to give a cover of political animus to what was basically a kidnapping and ransom operation. They represented not the Muslim street or even the groups that are called ‘terrorist’ but the simple universal greed of human corruption, as prevalent in our culture, alas, as in your own. It is tragic but it is inescapable. Wars bring out rogues and rascals, opportunists, the like. It was Mr. Millstein’s bad luck to encounter such. You believe me, of course?”

It was hard not to believe everything Zarzi said, for he said it with such earnest conviction. But Banjax tried mightily to offer some resistance, even if the unease in his stomach was mounting.

“Well, sir, it’s easy to say, of course, and you are very convincing. However, some sort of objective proof would-”

“Proof? Proof? What proof would I have? A note from a teacher? Possibly the statement of a wife? My best friend’s testimony? Sir, you require that which does not exist. Had I it, you now would have it. I have only the humble power of my-oh, and one other thing.”

Banjax leaned forward.

Ticktock ticktock went the thousand watches, each in a hulu gyre, reflecting this way and that against their orbit as they rotated slickly through the light patterns. Banjax felt sweat pop on his brow, a wave of wooziness pass, pass again, and pass a third time.

“Of course I ask your forbearance in linking it to me.”

“Of course,” said Banjax, if barely.

The elegant man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of documents.

“This is the original report, not by Afghan officials, but by the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-service Intelligence, into the incident. It is, of course, in Urdu. You will have it translated, I’m sure.”

“Yes.”

“Certain elements of ISI are sympathetic to revolutionary movements in Afghanistan, as you know. Thus, it is important for them to know exactly who did what to whom when. They may even be paying certain funding. It is my hope, with the presidency in my control, to engage them and dissuade them from such activities. But the more immediate point is that their agents found no evidence of either my own or revolutionary groups’-terrorist groups’, you would say-involvement in the tragedy. It cost a great deal of money to deliver this from their hands to yours through mine. It is my gift to the West. It is something not even your Central Intelligence Agency has laid eyes upon yet.”

He handed the papers over to Banjax, who took them greedily.

Ah, he was thinking, a scoop .

He remembered his great run of them during his last shot at Washington and the big leagues. The pleasure was intense. He looked up to make his next brilliant point.

And then suddenly it hit him: all those undulating watches, the thickness of the man’s cologne, his closeness, his earnestness, his warmth, so cloying. Banjax felt woozy, then blurry, then defenseless.

He fainted.

WOODLAWN

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

1145 HOURS

Oh, Christ,” said Nick.

“Bob,” said Susan, “this is not good. You can’t be consorting with the object of a federal manhunt.”

“If he approached you,” Nick continued, “you should have grappled him to the ground, screamed bloody murder, and we’d all be home free now, and I’d break my long-standing rule never to have a martini before noon. Jesus Christ, this is a mess. You may even have broken the law.”

“Nobody knows better than the man who wasn’t there. Are you done?” Bob said. “Okada-san, got any more shit to pour on me? Nick, I’ll bend over and you can whack me a few times or kick me. Oh that’s right, you’ve got a bum hip. Bring in some young guy.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Nick. “So tell the story.”

Swagger did, point by point, tracking Cruz’s revelations: white contractors, planted satellite transmitter in SVD, pursuit by satellite surveillance after first ambush, pursuit after evading second trap, radio contact with 2-2 Recon, missile strike on hotel.

“It’s nothing if he doesn’t give himself up now,” Nick said.

“And I’m telling you,” said Bob, “he doesn’t buy into your ability to protect him. After all, there’ve been two attempts on his life so far by a real hard-core professional team.”

Swagger faced his own absurdity: when he was with Cruz, he argued for Nick and Susan. When he was with Nick and Susan, he argued for Cruz. He realized he had no future in Washington culture, because he couldn’t even keep his own sides straight, much less anyone else’s.

“As for me,” said Susan, her face mandarin and remote and official, “I see where this is leading and I don’t like it. I told you this and I don’t get why you’re not listening. The Agency will not stand still for an outside investigation of its operations in Afghanistan, which are undertaken in good faith and under great danger. I’m here to help you stop Cruz, not lead a witch hunt.”