Recall Zero (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #6)

PROLOGUE Karina Pavlo watched as the two men on either side of her at the conference table rose from their seats. She rose as well, because she knew she was supposed to, though her legs felt weak and tremulous. She watched as they smiled amiably at one another, these two men in expensive suits, these starkly contrasting heads of state. She said nothing as they concluded their business by shaking hands across the table. Karina was still in shock over what she had just heard; over the words that had spilled from her own lips. She had never been to the White House before, but the part of the structure that she was visiting was one rarely in the public eye. The basement (if it could even be called that, since it hardly resembled anyone’s idea of a basement) beneath the North Portico contained all manner of impedimenta, including but not at all limited to a bowling alley, laundry facilities, carpenter’s shop, dental office, the Situation Room, the president’s workspace, three conference rooms, and a comfortable waiting area into which Karina had been ushered upon her arrival. It was there in that waiting room that a Secret Service agent had taken her personal items, her cell phone and a small black clutch, and then asked that she remove her dark blazer. The agent had checked it thoroughly, every pocket and seam, and then performed a thorough yet mechanical pat-down with her arms held out at ninety degrees. He asked her to open her mouth, to lift her tongue, to remove her shoes, and to remain still while he ran a metal-detecting wand over her. The only things Karina had been allowed to bring into the meeting were the clothes on her back and the pearl stud earrings she wore. Yet the rigor of the security was not out of the ordinary; Karina had been an interpreter for some years now, had served in chambers of the United Nations and translated for multiple heads of state. Born in Ukraine, Russian-educated in Volgograd, and having spent enough time in the US to qualify for a permanent visa, Karina considered herself a citizen of the world. She was fluent in four languages and conversational in three more. Her security clearance was as high as any civilian’s could be. Yet this was the big time. The opportunity to visit the White House to interpret a meeting between the new presidents of both Russia and the United States had seemed, not twenty minutes earlier, as if it would become the new pinnacle of her career. How very wrong she was. To her left, Russian President Aleksandr Kozlovsky buttoned the topmost button of his suit jacket, a fluid and practiced gesture that appeared irrationally casual to Karina, considering what she had just heard uttered only moments prior. At six-foot-three, Kozlovsky towered over the both of them, his thin build and long-limbed gait giving him the appearance of a cellar spider. His features were bland, his face smooth and wrinkle-free, as if it were still a work in progress. Eighteen months ago, the former Russian president, Dmitri Ivanov, had retired. At least that’s what they were calling it. In the wake of the enormity of the American scandal, it was simultaneously discovered that the Russian government had been colluding, not only lending their support to the US in the Middle East, but biding their time and waiting for the world’s focus to be on the Strait of Hormuz so they could seize Ukrainian oil-producing assets in the Baltic Sea. No arrests had been made in Russia. No sentence handed down, no prison time served. Under pressure from the UN and the world at large, Ivanov simply resigned from his position and was summarily replaced by Kozlovsky, who Karina knew was far more of an understudy than he was any sort of political rival, as the media made him out to be. Kozlovsky smiled smugly. “A pleasure, President Harris.” To Pavlo, he simply gave a curt nod before turning sharply and striding out of the room. Twenty minutes earlier, the Secret Service man had escorted Karina to the smallest of three conference rooms in the White House basement, inside which was a long dark table of some exotic wood, eight leather chairs, a television screen, and nothing else. Not a soul. When Karina had been tasked as interpreter, she had assumed the meeting would involve cameras, news reporters, members of both governments’ cabinets, the press and media. But it had been only her, and then Kozlovsky, and then Samuel Harris. President of the United States Samuel Harris, standing to her right, was seventy years old, half bald, his face creased with age and stress and his shoulders perpetually slumped from a back injury he had sustained while serving in Vietnam. Yet he moved with great purpose, and his husky voice was far more commanding than anyone would have assumed he could muster. Harris had easily defeated the former president, Eli Pierson, in the election the previous November. Despite some sympathy from the public due to the assassination attempt on Pierson’s life eighteen months earlier, as well as the former president’s fairly noble efforts to rebuild his cabinet in the wake of the Iranian scandal that had come to light, America had lost their faith in him. To Karina, Harris was reminiscent of a vulture, made all the more apt by the way he had swooped in and stolen the votes from Pierson like a carrion bird tearing entrails from the carcass of far too many mistakes and trust in the wrong people. Harris, as the Democratic candidate, had barely had to make any promises other than to unearth and promptly end any further corruption in the White House. But as Karina Pavlo had only just discovered, the further corruption in the White House was entrenched firmly—and perhaps solely—in the office of the presidency. The visit from Russian President Kozlovsky was well publicized, covered by nearly every media outlet in the US. It was the first time since the deceitful cabal in both governments had been revealed that the two new world leaders had met face to face. There had been press conferences, constant media coverage, meetings with a hundred cameras in the room to discuss how the two nations might move forward from near catastrophe in an amiable and aligned manner. But Karina now knew it was all a sham. The last several minutes that she had spent with the two world leaders, the spider and the vulture, had proven that. Kozlovsky’s English was rudimentary at best and Harris spoke not a lick of Russian, so her presence had been warranted and their speech became hers. It had started off innocently enough, pleasantries exchanged, English passing from Harris to her and then from her to Kozlovsky in Russian as if Karina were a translating automaton. The two men held each other’s gaze, not once asking her questions or even acknowledging her presence once the meeting began. She mechanically regurgitated their words like a processor, entering her ears in one language and exiting her throat as another. It was not until the sinister motivation for the private meeting unveiled itself that Karina realized that this—this handful of minutes in a locked room in the subterranean level of the White House with only the two of them and an interpreter present—was the real reason for the Russian president’s visit to the United States. It was all she could do to translate as dispassionately as possible and desperately hope that her own expression hadn’t betrayed her. Suddenly Karina Pavlo became quite aware that she was unlikely to leave the White House basement alive. With Kozlovsky having exited the room, President Harris turned to her, flashing his leering smile as if the conversation she’d been privy to hadn’t just happened, as if this was nothing more than a formality. “Thank you, Ms. Pavlo,” he said paternally. “Your experience and expertise have been appreciated and invaluable.” Perhaps it was the shock of what she had just learned that prompted her to force a smile of her own. Or perhaps it was the ease with which Harris seemed to summon such a polite demeanor while full well knowing that the interpreter had just heard every single word, and in fact had repeated each and every one of them to the other party. In any case, Karina found her lips curling upward against her will and her voice saying, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. President.” He smiled again. She did not like it, his smile; there was no mirth in it. It was more leering than cheerful. She had seen it a hundred times on television, on his campaign trail, but in person it was even more awkward to witness. It made it seem as if he knew something that she did not—which was certainly true. An alarm blared in her head. She wondered how far she might get if she shoved him and made a run for it. Not far, she imagined; she had seen at least six Secret Service agents in the corridors of the basement, and she was equally certain that the route she’d taken down there would be guarded. The president cleared his throat. “You know,” Harris told her, “there was no one else in this room for good reason. As I’m sure you can imagine.” He chuckled slightly, as if the threat to global security of which Karina had just been apprised was a joke. “You are the only one in the entire world that is aware of the content of this conversation. If it were to leak, I would know who leaked it. And things would not go well for that person.” The smile remained on Harris’s face, but it was in no way reassuring. She forced her lips to smile graciously. “Of course, sir. Discretion is one of my best qualities.” He reached over and patted her hand. “I believe you.” I know too much. “And I trust you’ll remain silent.” He’s placating me. There’s no way they’re going to let me live. “In fact, I’m certain I’ll have a need for your skills again in the near future.” There was nothing Harris could say to dissuade her instincts. The president could have asked for her hand in marriage right there on the spot and still the prickling sensation at the nape of her neck that told her she was in imminent danger would linger. Harris stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “Come along. I’ll walk you out.” He led the way out of the room and Karina followed. Her knees felt weak. She was in one of the most secure places on the planet, surrounded by trained agents of the Secret Service. As they reached the corridor she saw that the half dozen agents were posted there, standing with their backs to the walls with their hands clasped in front of them, waiting for the president. Or possibly for her. Stay calm. “Joe.” Harris motioned for the agent who had first retrieved her from the waiting room. “See to it that Ms. Pavlo here gets back to her hotel safely, yes? Best car we’ve got.” “Yes sir,” said the agent with a slight nod. A strange nod, to her. A nod of understanding. “Thank you,” she said as graciously as she could muster, “but I can take a cab. My hotel is not far.” “Nonsense,” Harris said pleasantly. “What’s the point of working for the president if you can’t enjoy some of the perks?” He chuckled. “Thank you again. It was a pleasure meeting you. We’ll be in touch.” He shook her hand. She shook his. His smile lingered, but his eyes betrayed him. Karina had little choice. She followed the Secret Service agent, the man called Joe (if that was his real name), through the White House sublevel. Every muscle in her body was taut, anxious, ready at a moment’s notice for fight or flight to kick in. But to her surprise, the agent actually escorted her up a set of stairs and down a hall and to another door that led outside. He guided her wordlessly to a small parking garage with a private fleet of vehicles, and then he opened the passenger door of a black SUV for her. Don’t get in. She got in. If she fought now or tried to run she’d never even make it to the gate. Two minutes later they were off of White House property, driving down Pennsylvania Avenue. He’s taking me somewhere to do it. They’ll get rid of me elsewhere. Somewhere no one will ever find me. “You can just drop me off at the downtown Hilton,” she said casually. The Secret Service agent smiled coyly. “We’re the US government, Ms. Pavlo. We know where you’re staying.” She chuckled lightly, trying to keep the nervous edge out of her voice. “I’m sure. But I’m meeting a friend for dinner at the Hilton.” “Even so,” the agent replied, “the president’s orders were to take you back to your hotel, so that’s what I have to do. For security reasons.” He sighed then, as if he commiserated with her plight even though she was fairly certain he was going to kill her. “I’m sure you understand.” “Oh,” she said suddenly. “My things? My phone and my clutch?” “I have them.” Joe patted the breast pocket of his suit. After a long moment of silence Karina followed up with, “May I have them…?” “Of course,” he said brightly. “Just as soon as we arrive.” “I’d really like them back now,” she pressed. The agent smiled again, though he kept his eyes forward on the road. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes,” he said placidly, as if she were a petulant toddler. Karina very much doubted that he had her things in his jacket. She settled into her seat, or at least gave the appearance of doing so, trying to seem relaxed as the SUV eased to a stop at a red light. The Secret Service agent dug around in the center console for a pair of black sunglasses and put them on. The light turned green. The car in front of them started forward. The agent took his foot off the brake, pressed the gas. In one swift movement, Karina Pavlo pressed the release of her seat belt with one hand while shoving open her door with the other. She leapt out of the moving SUV, her heels hitting the asphalt. One of them broke. She lurched forward, hitting pavement with her elbows, rolling, and then staggered to her feet. She kicked both shoes off and sprinted down the street in her stockings. “What the hell?!” The Secret Service agent slammed the brake, threw the vehicle into park right there in the middle of the street. He didn’t bother shouting for her to come back, and he certainly didn’t just let her go—both indicators that she was absolutely right about her notion. Drivers honked and shouted as the agent leapt out of the car, but by that time she was more than half a block away, practically barefoot as her stockings tore, ignoring the occasional stone that stung the soles of her feet. She turned the corner sharply and darted down the first opening she saw, not even an alley but rather just a walkway between two storefronts. Then she made a left, running as fast as she could, glancing over her shoulder every now and then for the agent but not seeing him. As she came out on the next street, she spotted a yellow cab. The driver nearly spat his coffee, a Styrofoam cup to his lips, when she all but hurtled into his backseat and shouted, “Drive! Please drive!” “Jesus Christ, lady!” he scolded. “Scared the hell outta me…” “Someone is chasing me, please drive,” she pleaded. He frowned. “Who’s chasing you?” The irritating driver actually glanced around. “I don’t see anybody—” “Please just f*****g drive!” she screeched at him. “Okay, okay!” The cabbie shifted and the taxi veered into traffic, eliciting a new fusillade of honks that would no doubt tip the agent off to her relative location. Sure enough, as she twisted in the seat to look out the rear windshield she saw the agent rounding the corner at a full sprint. He slowed to a trot, his eyes meeting hers. One of his hands briefly snaked into his jacket, but he seemed to think twice about pulling a gun in broad daylight and instead put a hand to his ear to radio someone. “Turn left here.” Karina directed the cabbie to make the turn, drive a few more blocks, take a right, and then she jumped out again as he shouted after her for p*****t. She ran down the block and did that three more times, jumping into cabs and out of them until she was halfway across DC in such a serpentine manner she was certain there was no way that Joe the Secret Service agent would find her. She caught her breath and smoothed her hair as she slowed to a brisk walk, keeping her head down and trying not to look frazzled. The most likely scenario was that the agent had gotten the cab’s license plate number and the unfortunate (though somewhat slow-witted) cabbie would be stopped, frisked, and background-checked to make sure he wasn’t part of some preconceived getaway plot. Karina ducked into a bookstore, hoping no one would notice she was shoeless. The store was quiet and the shelves were tall. She quickly navigated her way to the back, headed into a restroom, splashed water on her face, and struggled to keep herself from breaking down into heaving sobs. Her face was still sheet-white from the shock of it all. How quickly everything had gone wrong. “Bozhe moy,” she sighed heavily. My god. As the adrenaline wore off, the full gravity of her situation struck her. She had heard things that were never supposed to leave the White House basement. She had no identification. No phone. No money. Hell, she didn’t have shoes. She couldn’t go back to her hotel. Even showing her face in any public space where there might be a camera was risky. They were not going to stop pursuing her for what she knew. But she had the pearls in her ears. Karina absently touched her left earlobe, caressing the smooth stone there. She had the words that were spoken in the meeting—and in more than just her memory. She had proof of the dangerous knowledge that the American president, an alleged Democratic liberal who had earned the country’s admiration, was being puppeteered by the Russians. There in the ladies’ room of a downtown bookstore, Karina looked at herself in the mirror as she murmured desperately, “I’m going to need some help.”