Jess Walter - The Zero

“Why’s it called Ninety-three?” Markham asked.

“We’re not sure. Maybe the group formed in 1993, although most of the relationships date from much earlier. Another theory, from our analysts, was that the name refers to the ninety-nine names for Allah, and that by subtracting the six members you get ninety-three. Of course, we are also monitoring FM radio stations with that frequency, listening to call letters, dedications, play lists, that sort of thing.” Dave pressed his thumb to the clicker. “Now let’s take a look at the cell members.”

Onto the screen came a black-and-white surveillance photo of a thin Arab man in shiny sweats, talking on a cell phone outside an apartment building. The man’s jaw stuck out in a severe underbite, making it seem as if he were working to keep his teeth from jutting out. “Subject Number One: Kamal al-Hassan, Saudi-born and educated, passionate and intelligent, speaks perfect English… Japanese sports car buff. May have become disillusioned with America as a twelve-year-old after his Taif team was eliminated in the first round of the Little League World Series.”

Markham didn’t look up from his notes. “Position?”

“Second base,” Dave said. “All glove, no bat. Decent range but had an arm that would embarrass a six-year-old girl. As an adult, he moved to Syria and worked as an agent, raising money for jihadist sports clubs under the umbrella of refugee services.” Dave clicked his thumb again and the next slide appeared, another photo of Kamal, this time in a business suit, stepping out of a limousine. “We have reason to believe he has recently made his way into the country, possibly through Canada.”

A photo came up showing a familiar-looking young Arab man in a business suit. Dave said, “Subject Number Two – Kamal’s brother Assan, lives in Miami-”

Remy gasped, but no one seemed to notice. It was the man they’d tortured on the ship outside Miami. Remy looked up at Markham, who shot a quick glance at Remy, scribbled something in a notebook on his lap, and then turned his eyes back to the screen.

“At least Assan lived in Miami,” Dave said. “Honestly, we don’t know where he is now. He’s been missing for months. We had believed he was opposed to his brother’s growing radicalism, but he may have gone underground in preparation for something.”

“You said you were going to let him go,” Remy hissed to Markham, who simply stared straight ahead.

“The next member,” Dave said, and Bishir’s picture appeared on the wall, “as… you well know, is the agency’s CI, Tarzan – Bishir. We’ve designated him Subject Number Three, even though obviously he’s providing us with intelligence. Of course, his cooperation gives us a huge advantage over our enemy – the bureau.” He glanced quickly at Markham and Remy. “I don’t mean to brag, but we believe this to be the deepest actual penetration of a terror cell by any U.S. agency.”

Markham gave a polite golf clap.

Dave clicked his thumb again and it took Remy a moment to recognize the next face. “We’ve identified Number Four as the weakest member of the group, Bishir’s brother-in-law-” It was Mahoud, the restaurant owner.

“Oh, come on,” Remy said, incredulous. “He’s not-”

But Markham reached over, grabbed his arm, and shook his head slightly.

“Mahoud Tasneem is a Pakistani restaurant owner here in the city,” Dave said. “We’re not entirely sure of his involvement or his motivation… all we know is that he recently contacted Bishir and volunteered to be involved, possibly in a support role, providing transportation, or a safe house.”

Dave hit the button again and on the wall was an image that Remy recognized: a man lying in a smear of blood on the sidewalk. It was the photo Buff had shown him in the gypsy cab.

“As you know, Subject Number Five, Bobby al-Zamil, is dead.” Dave cleared his throat. “Al-Zamil was a former associate of Bishir’s. The reason we initially approached you about March Selios was that Bishir brought her up under interrogation. He said he’d met her through al-Zamil, who had business dealings with her. We’re not sure why al-Zamil was eliminated; perhaps the group wanted him out of the way because he was under surveillance, or it could be that he was having second thoughts, or maybe it’s a kind of reality show thing and they just voted off a member. Whatever, it seems clear they killed him to avoid endangering the operation.”

Markham nodded earnestly.

“But rather than dissuade the group, al-Zamil’s death seems to have galvanized the others and, if anything, convinced them to step up the timetable. Which brings us to Subject Number Six,” Dave said, “the cell’s most mysterious member. Even Bishir isn’t sure of his real name. The others call him Ibn ’Arabi , which appears to be a reference to a pacifist Sufi teacher. We’ve given him the code name Jaguar.”

“Why not call him Iceman?” Markham offered.

“What?” Dave asked.

“Yeah,” Markham said. “You know… if it was me, I’d call him Iceman.”

Dave looked incredulous. “Iceman?”

“Yeah. Iceman.”

“You want us to call him Iceman? But his code name is Jaguar.”

“Isn’t that kind of… predictable?”

Dave put his hand across his chest, chagrined. “No, it’s not predictable… we chose Jaguar because of Tarzan. You know. It’s an animal.”

“Yeah. I guess. But isn’t it a bit melodramatic?”

Dave seemed stung by the criticism. “And Iceman isn’t?”

“It’s a literary reference. It’s more sophisticated.”

“ Top Gun is a literary reference?”

“No… Iceman from the Eugene O’Neill play.”

Dave scrunched up his face. “It isn’t that play with the obnoxious kids trying to make a chorus line?”

“No, that’s A Chorus Line .”

“Because that was awful.”

“I’m not suggesting you name someone from A Chorus Line . I’m saying that you consider naming the cell leader Iceman.”

Dave shrugged. “Well, we can’t. It’s too late. And we already have an Iceman in Riyadh. It would be too confusing.”

“But Jaguar ?”

“Yes,” Dave said. “Jaguar. Now, as I was saying, Bishir believes-”

“Jaguar?” Markham mumbled.

Dave cleared his throat. “Bishir believes the cell is being funded by… Jaguar . Unfortunately, we have no idea where Jaguar is getting his money. We’re following the usual charities, Swiss accounts, drug sales, energy markets, alt-country music royalties, et cetera… but so far we’ve come up blank. All we have is Bishir’s post office box. A week ago, a blank postcard arrived there – no prints – with a rendezvous point.”

The card appeared on the screen. It read WM PARK 0800. This time Remy wasn’t terribly surprised to recognize the handwriting as his own.

“At this meeting, we believe, targets will be assigned. Once this happens, we have two choices. We could take them down at the meeting, but we cannot move until we can account for all of the members, especially Jaguar. If we move… too quickly, we risk allowing some of them to escape. Move too slowly and-”

“It’s a race against time,” Markham said. Then he snorted into his hand like a high school kid trying to suppress a laugh in class.

“What?” asked Dave.

“Nothing,” Markham said, straightening up. But he closed his eyes and snorted again.

“What’s so funny?” Dave asked again.

Markham straightened his face. “Nothing. Just… nothing.”

Dave clicked his thumb and the next picture came up, Dave keeping his eyes on Markham disapprovingly. “This is the only photo we have of the man we believe to be Jaguar.” It was a grainy photo of two men leaning on the railing of a ferry. At first Remy tried to make out the man on the left, who may have been smoking a cigarette. “The man on the left is Assan,” Dave said, clicking the plunger again.