Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

If Swagger hoped for a Hamlet moment, the actors didn’t provide one. Before he even got it out, Collins, the Afghan Desk, was overriding him with another argument.

“Are you aware that we had a very good officer, Ms. Okada, look into those allegations and interview all the participants, and she came to the conclusion that such an event was preposterous, given the security built into the system?”

“I have seen her report, sir. I merely wanted to double-check and see if memories had clarified over the passage of time.”

“And you found nothing?” asked someone new.

“No, sir, not a thing at Creech,” Swagger said, keeping his statement technically truthful.

His interlocutor was of course the colorless Plans, a sharp and focused prosecutor whose abruptness left no doubt as to his opinion of the investigation.

“We had to cover all the possibilities, sir,” said Swagger. “So if any of you have any knowledge of any Agency connection to this mystery blast, I’d-”

“It sounds to me like this Cruz is suffering from battle fatigue,” said Collins. “He’s snapped and entered a delusional state. Unfortunately, his sniper craft has remained intact and he functions at a very high level. May I ask, will you shoot to kill if that opportunity presents itself?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bob.

“This isn’t just about my career,” Collins said. “Even if everyone thinks it is. I will resign the day after Zarzi’s election if anybody wants that, and never write a book or appear on a TV show. This man Zarzi, with all his flaws and his shady past, can help us achieve an important goal, so that all the marines, not just the snipers, can come home. I can’t emphasize that enough.”

“We are sympathetic, sir,” said Nick.

But Collins could not leave the issue alone, even if his pretty-boy assistant was squirming with embarrassment. He was a burly, brusque man, 105 percent military, with his brush cut, his face red from what had once been long days at sea but were probably now long days on the golf course, a busted nose, and a boar’s natural snarl. All squid lifer, and wasn’t he a SEAL too, so maybe he’d actually had some mud time like a marine.

“You people, I know how you operate. You consort with scum, you grant immunity, you turn people and get them to testify against family and friends, you swear to hide and protect them. Well, this is exactly the same. We have to work with scum, we have to work with the people we detest. Zarzi was a drug lord, a beheader, a Taliban sympathizer, but because of all that, he is more, rather than less, valuable to us. He’s the ‘Sammy the Bull’ Gravano of Afghanistan. It’s a crime that he survives and flourishes and it affronts the moral order. But through him, we protect the moral order and we prevent even bigger monsters from surviving and flourishing. I just want that understood, so that you don’t think we’re nuts or that I’m riding him on some quest to get a bigger chair.”

“I understand,” said Nick.

Memphis then outlined the security arrangements for the Georgetown University appearance of Zarzi, the various liaisons with the Secret Service, the usage of air cover, and so forth.

“But, Mr. Memphis, it’s also true, is it not, that Cruz is an extremely resourceful man. He is a testament to Marine Corps training proficiency. He almost succeeded in Baltimore. How can you be sure that despite your best efforts, he’s not simply better than you?” This came from the assistant director, who had not spoken till this time.

“Well,” said Nick, “he is a great sniper, but he’s only the second best in the world. Mr. Swagger here is the best. I’d bet on us.”

That was it, pretty much.

Nick sat back as his allotted hour was over. He watched the men and their assistants file out. Swagger had gone to talk to the National Intelligence director, the professorial Ted Hollister, and the two seemed to be enjoying an animated laugh about Saigon in the old days. They were the only ones who dated back to that ancient, lost war, and it looked like Hector and Agamemnon sharing a laugh in Olympus over a Hellene beer. Two old warriors, with their fading memories of the war of fetid jungles and ’villes and peasants in pajamas dying, dying, dying. Swagger leaned across the table and got old Hollister’s briefcase for him, and the two walked to the doorway of the room. It looked like they’d be at it for hours, so finally Nick walked up and said, “Bob, we’ve got to go.”

He thanked Hollister for the opening remarks, which he thought did much to mollify the mood in the room, and then there was a round of handshaking and Hollister set off, jaunty and alone, for the elevator and his car back to the Executive Office Building.

They let him go, and then their Agency escort came up and escorted them along the same path, from elevator to first floor, past the monument to the agents who’d lost their lives and out the door to the driveway where the car to take them back to the Hoover Building awaited.

“That place always gives me the creeps,” said Nick.

“Me too,” said Bob.

“You two old ’Nam guys have a nice chat?”

“Very interesting fellow. So smart. He remembers Vietnam much better than I do, but then I have to say, he probably didn’t drink no six thousand gallons of drugstore bourbon to forget it, like I did.”

“Anyway: conclusions, Dr. Hamlet? Was the king’s conscience captured? Suspicions? Progress? Get anything?”

Bob shook his head.

“I came up bust, and that goddamn Collins wouldn’t stop his spouting off. I do not like that guy. He is on the bull’s-eye on this one and he don’t like it one bit and most of what he said was for the other boys in the room, not us. Anyhow, all of them, they sure have their acts together. You’d need one of those ‘behavior specialists’ in the movies or on TV to get much out of that bunch. I thought Collins was a little too tough guy, the guy who scared me was ‘Plans,’ he didn’t say much but he had that killer temperament without no give, always hard to work for, with, or be around, so he must be real good or he wouldn’t have made it that high; the other two just seemed bureaucrat and policy monkeys of a higher order, and the old man was so goddamned charming and flirty it was hard to suspect him of anything except being your grandpop.”

“Maybe that was his technique. To boost you, to flatter you, and in that way fog you on his real motivations.”

“I thought of that, but I don’t think so. Too obvious. It’s an invitation to snoop. He wants us to snoop. No, I read it as utter confidence in himself, knowledge that he was, as a bigfoot, completely untouchable, so he could afford to be the life of the damn party. Them others all seemed to play their cards tight because they had something to lose.”

“So as insight into your ‘theory’ of this situation, it produced nothing.”

“Not a goddamn thing,” said Bob.

“Good,” said Nick, “because it gave me an idea.”

“God help us all,” said Bob.

WHARTONSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA

1900 HOURS

Dr. Faisal had disappeared.

“Maybe Allah showed him a new path,” said Professor Khalid.

Bilal was too anxious to laugh.

Around them, the lights of the midway blazed. Odd machines that served no purpose but to sweep people around at exhilarating speeds and make them squeal and shout trailed neon streaks as they whirled about madly, going nowhere except around and around. The smell of cigarettes, sticky corn syrup, cotton candy, perfume, salted buttered popcorn, corn dogs, everything forbidden, filled the air.

“What should we do?” asked Khalid. “Drop to our knees and pray to Mecca?”