Code to Zero (4 page)

The launch pad is a simple steel table with four legs and a hole in the middle through which the rocket jet passes. A conical deflector beneath spreads the jet horizontally.

Anthony Carroll drove along Constitution Avenue in a five-year-old Cadillac Eldorado that belonged to his mother. He had borrowed it a year ago, to drive to Washington from his parents’ place in Virginia, and had never gotten around to returning it. His mother had probably bought another car by now.

He pulled into the parking lot of Q Building in Alphabet Row, a strip of barracks-like structures hastily erected, during the war, on parkland near the Lincoln Memorial. It was an eyesore, no question, but he liked the place, for he had spent much of the war here, working for the Office of Strategic Services, precursor of the CIA. Those were the good old days, when a clandestine agency could do more or less anything and did not have to check with anyone but the President.

The CIA was the fastest-growing bureaucracy in Washington, and a vast multimillion-dollar headquarters was under construction across the Potomac River in Langley, Virginia. When it was completed, Alphabet Row would be demolished.

Anthony had fought hard against the Langley development, and not merely because Q Building held fond memories. Right now the CIA had offices in thirty-one buildings in the government-dominated downtown neighborhood known as Foggy Bottom. That was the way it should be,
Anthony had argued vociferously. It was very difficult for foreign agents to figure out the size and power of the Agency when its premises were scattered and mixed up with other government offices. But when Langley opened, anyone would be able to estimate its resources, manpower, and even budget simply by driving past.

He had lost that argument. The people in charge were determined to manage the CIA more tightly. Anthony believed that secret work was for daredevils and buccaneers. That was how it had been in the war. But nowadays it was dominated by pen-pushers and accountants.

There was a parking slot reserved for him and marked Head of Technical Services, but he ignored it and pulled up in front of the main door. Looking up at the ugly building, he wondered if its imminent demolition signified the end of an era. He was losing more of these bureaucratic battles nowadays. He was still a hugely powerful figure within the Agency. “Technical Services” was the euphemistic name of the division responsible for burglary, phone tapping, drug testing, and other illegal activities. Its nickname was Dirty Tricks. Anthony’s position was founded on his record as a war hero and a series of Cold War coups. But some people wanted to turn the CIA into what the public imagined it to be: a simple information-gathering agency.

Over my dead body, he thought.

However, he had enemies: superiors he had offended with his brash manners, weak and incompetent agents whose promotions he had opposed, pen-pushers who disliked the whole notion of the government doing secret operations. They were ready to destroy him as soon as he made a slip.

And today his neck was stuck out further than ever before.

As he strode into the building, he deliberately put aside his general worries and focused on the problem of the day: Dr. Claude Lucas, known as Luke, the most dangerous man in America, the one who threatened everything Anthony had lived for.

He had been at the office most of the night, and had gone home only to shave and change his shirt. Now the guard in the lobby
looked surprised and said, “Good morning, Mr. Carroll—you back already?”

“An angel appeared unto me in a dream and said, ‘Get back to work, you lazy son of a bitch.’ Good morning.”

The guard laughed. “Mr. Maxell’s in your office, sir.”

Anthony frowned. Pete Maxell was supposed to be with Luke. Had something gone wrong?

He ran up the stairs.

Pete was sitting in the chair opposite Anthony’s desk, still dressed in ragged clothes, a smear of dirt partly covering the red birthmark on his face. As Anthony walked in he jumped up, looking scared.

“What happened?” Anthony said.

“Luke decided he wanted to be alone.”

Anthony had planned for this. “Who took over?”

“Steve Simons has him under surveillance, and Betts is there for backup.”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully. Luke had got rid of one agent, he could get rid of another. “What about Luke’s memory?”

“Completely gone.”

Anthony took off his coat and sat behind his desk. Luke was causing problems, but Anthony had expected as much, and he was ready.

He looked at the man opposite. Pete was a good agent, competent and careful, but inexperienced. However, he was fanatically loyal to Anthony. All the young agents knew that Anthony had personally organized an assassination: the killing of the Vichy French leader Admiral Darlan, in Algiers on Christmas Eve in 1942. CIA agents did kill people, but not often, and they regarded Anthony with awe. But Pete owed him a special debt. On his job application form, Pete had lied, saying he had never been in trouble with the law, and Anthony had later found out that he had been fined for soliciting a prostitute as a student in San Francisco. Pete should have been fired for that, but Anthony had kept the secret, and Pete was eternally grateful.

Now Pete was miserable and ashamed, feeling he had let Anthony
down. “Relax,” Anthony said, adopting a fatherly tone. “Just tell me exactly what happened.”

Pete looked grateful and sat down again. “He woke up crazy,” he began. “Yelling ‘Who am I?’ and stuff like that. I got him calmed down . . . but I made a mistake. I called him Luke.”

Anthony had told Pete to observe Luke but not to give him any information. “No matter—it’s not his real name.”

“Then he asked who I was, and I said, ‘I’m Pete.’ It just came out, I was so concerned to stop him yelling.” Pete was mortified to confess these blunders, but in fact they were not grave, and Anthony waved aside his apologies. “What happened next?”

“I took him to the gospel shop, just the way we planned it. But he asked shrewd questions. He wanted to know if the pastor had seen him before.”

Anthony nodded. “We shouldn’t be surprised. In the war, he was the best agent we ever had. He’s lost his memory but not his instincts.” He rubbed his face with his right hand, tiredness catching up with him.

“I kept trying to steer him away from inquiring into his past. But I think he figured out what I was doing. Then he told me he wanted to be alone.”

“Did he get any clues? Did anything happen that might lead him to the truth?”

“No. He read an article in the paper about the space program, but it didn’t seem to mean anything special to him.”

“Did anyone notice anything strange about him?”

“The pastor was surprised Luke could do the crossword. Most of those bums can’t even read.”

This was going to be difficult, but manageable, as Anthony had expected. “Where is Luke now?”

“I don’t know, sir. Steve will call in as soon as he gets a chance.”

“When he does, get back there and join up with him. Whatever happens, Luke mustn’t get away from us.”

“Okay.”

The white phone on Anthony’s desk rang, his direct line. He stared at it for a moment. Not many people had the number.

He picked it up.

“It’s me,” said Elspeth’s voice. “What’s happened?”

“Relax,” he said. “Everything is under control.”

The missile is 68 feet 7 inches high, and it weighs 64,000 pounds on the launch pad—but most of that is fuel. The satellite itself is only 2 feet 10 inches long, and weighs just 18 pounds.

The shadow followed Luke for a quarter of a mile as he walked south on Eighth Street.

It was now full light and, although the street was busy, Luke easily kept track of the gray homburg hat bobbing among the heads crowded together at street corners and bus stops. But after he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, it disappeared from view. Once again, he wondered if he might be imagining things. He had woken up in a bewildering world where anything might be true. Perhaps the notion that he was being tailed was only a fantasy. But he did not really believe that, and a minute later he spotted the olive raincoat coming out of a bakery.

“Toi, encore,” he said under his breath. “You again.” He wondered briefly why he had spoken in French, then he put the thought out of his mind. He had more pressing concerns. There was no further room for doubt: two people were following him in a smoothly executed relay operation. They had to be professionals.

He tried to figure out what that meant. Homburg and Raincoat might be cops—he could have committed a crime, murdered someone while drunk. They could be spies, KGB or CIA, although it seemed unlikely that a deadbeat such as he could be involved in espionage. Most probably he had a wife he had left many years ago, who now wanted to divorce
him and had hired private detectives to get proof of how he was living. (Maybe she was French.)

None of the options was attractive. Yet he felt exhilarated. They probably knew who he was. Whatever the reason for their tailing him, they must know something about him. At the very least, they knew more than he.

He decided he would split the team, then confront the younger man.

He stepped into a smoke shop and bought a pack of Pall Malls, paying with some of the change he had stolen. When he went outside, Raincoat had disappeared and Homburg had taken over again. He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner.

A Coca-Cola truck was parked at the curb, and the driver was unloading crates and carrying them into a diner. Luke stepped into the road and walked to the far side of the truck, positioning himself where he could watch the street without being seen by anyone coming around the corner.

After a minute, Homburg appeared, walking quickly, checking in the doorways and windows, looking for Luke.

Luke dropped to the ground and rolled under the truck. Looking along the sidewalk at ground level, he picked out the blue suit pants and tan oxfords of his shadow.

The man quickened his pace, presumably concerned that Luke had disappeared off the street. Then he turned and came back. He went into the diner and came out a minute later. He walked around the truck, then returned to the sidewalk and continued on. After a moment, he broke into a run.

Luke was pleased. He did not know how he had learned this game, but he seemed to be good at it. He crawled to the front of the truck and scrambled to his feet. He looked around the nearside fender. Homburg was still hurrying away.

Luke crossed the sidewalk and turned the corner. He stood in the doorway of an electrical store. Looking at a record player for eighty bucks, he opened the pack of cigarettes, took one out, and waited, keeping an eye on the street.

Raincoat appeared.

He was tall—about Luke’s height—and his build was athletic, but he was about ten years younger, and his face wore an anxious look. Luke’s instinct told him the man was not very experienced.

He spotted Luke and gave a nervous start. Luke looked straight at him. The man looked away and continued walking, edging to the outside of the sidewalk to pass Luke, as anyone might to avoid contact with a bum.

Luke stepped into his path. He put the cigarette into his mouth and said, “Got a light, buddy?”

Raincoat did not know what to do. He hesitated, looking worried. For a moment, Luke thought he would walk by without speaking; but then he made a quick decision, and stopped. “Sure,” he said, trying to act casual. He reached into the pocket of his raincoat, took out a book of matches, and struck one.

Luke took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, “You know who I am, don’t you?”

The young man looked scared. His training course had not prepared him for a surveillance subject who started to question the shadow. He stared at Luke, dumbstruck, until the match burned down. Then he dropped it and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, pal.”

“You’re following me,” Luke said. “You must know who I am.”

Raincoat continued to act innocent. “Are you selling something?”

“Am I dressed like a salesman? Come on, level with me.”

“I’m not following anyone.”

“You’ve been behind me for an hour, and I’m lost!”

The man made a decision. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. He tried to walk past Luke.

Luke moved sideways, blocking his path.

“Excuse me, please,” Raincoat said.

Luke was not willing to let the man go. He grabbed him by the lapels of the raincoat and slammed him against the shop window, rattling the glass. Frustration and rage boiled over. “Putain de merde!” he yelled.

Raincoat was younger and fitter than Luke, but he offered no
resistance. “Get your damn hands off me,” he said in a level voice. “I’m not following you.”

“Who am I?” Luke screamed at him. “Tell me, who am I?”

“How should I know?” He grasped Luke by the wrists, trying to shake his hold on the lapels of the raincoat.

Luke shifted his grip and took the man by the throat. “I’m not taking your bullshit,” he rasped. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

Raincoat lost his cool, eyes widening in fear. He struggled to loosen Luke’s grip on his throat. When that failed, he began to punch Luke’s ribs. The first blow hurt, and Luke winced, but he retained his hold and moved in close, so that subsequent punches had little force. He pressed his thumbs into his opponent’s throat, choking him. Terror showed in the man’s eyes as his breath was cut off.

Behind Luke, the frightened voice of a passer-by said, “Hey, what’s going on here?”

Suddenly Luke was shocked at himself. He was killing the guy! He relaxed his grip. What was the matter with him? Was he a murderer?

Raincoat broke Luke’s hold. Luke was dismayed by his own violence. He let his hands fall to his side.

The guy backed away. “You crazy bastard,” he said. The fear had not left his eyes. “You tried to kill me!”

“I just want the truth, and I know you can tell me it.”

Raincoat rubbed his throat. “Asshole,” he said. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Luke’s anger rose again. “You’re lying!” he yelled. He reached out to grab the man again.

Raincoat turned and ran away.

Luke could have chased him, but he hesitated. What was the point? What would he do if he caught the guy—torture him?

Then it was too late. Three passers-by had stopped to watch the fracas and were now standing at a safe distance, staring at Luke. After a moment, he walked away, heading in the direction opposite to that taken by his two shadows.

He felt worse than ever, shaky after his violent outburst and sick with disappointment at the result. He had met two people who probably knew who he was, and he had got no information.

“Great job, Luke,” he said to himself. “You achieved precisely nothing.”

And he was alone again.