Agent Zero. Джек Марс

He peered out the window. In the darkness, he could just barely make out their surroundings. There were no trees behind the gate, but rather rows upon rows of stout vines, climbing and weaving through waist-high latticework… It was a vineyard. Whether it was actually a vineyard or merely a front, he wasn’t sure, but it was at least something recognizable, something that could be seen by helicopter or a drone flyover.

      Good. That’ll come in handy later.

      If there is a later.

      The SUV drove slowly over the gravel road for another mile or so before the vineyard ended. Before them was a palatial estate, practically a castle, built in gray stone with arching windows and ivy climbing up the southern façade. For the briefest of moments, Reid appreciated the beautiful architecture; it was likely two hundred years old, maybe more. But they did not stop there; instead, the car circled around the grand home and behind it. After another half mile, they pulled into a small lot and the driver cut the engine.

      They had arrived. But where they had arrived to, he had no idea.

      The goons exited first, and then Reid climbed out, followed by Yuri. The bitter cold took his breath away. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Their two large escorts seemed to not be bothered by it at all.

      About forty yards from them was a large, squat structure, two stories tall and several times as wide; windowless and made of corrugated steel painted beige. Some sort of facility, Reid reasoned—perhaps for winemaking. But he doubted it.

      Yuri groaned as he stretched his limbs. Then he grinned at Reid. “Ben, I understand we are now very good friends, but still…” He pulled from his jacket pocket a narrow length of black fabric. “I must insist.”

      Reid nodded once, tightly. What choice did he have? He turned so that Yuri could tie the blindfold over his eyes. A strong, meaty hand gripped his upper arm—one of the goons, no doubt.

      “Now then,” Yuri said. “Onwards to Otets.” The strong hand pulled him forward and guided him as they walked in the direction of the steel structure. He felt another shoulder brush against his own on the opposite side; the two large goons had him flanked.

      Reid breathed evenly through his nose, trying his best to remain calm. Listen, his mind told him.

      I am listening.

      No, listen. Listen, and give in.

      Someone banged three times on a door. The sound of it was dull and hollow as a bass drum. Though he couldn’t see, Reid imagined in his mind’s eye Yuri banging with the flat of his fist against the heavy steel door.

      Ca-chunk. A deadbolt sliding aside. A whoosh, a rush of warm air as the door opened. Suddenly, a mélange of noises—glass clinking, liquid sloshing, belts whirring. Vintner’s equipment, by the sound of it. Strange; he hadn’t heard anything from outside. The building’s exterior walls are soundproofed.

      The heavy hand guided him inside. The door closed again and the deadbolt was slid back into place. The floor beneath him felt like smooth concrete. His shoes slapped against a small puddle. The acetous odor of fermentation was strongest, and just under that, the sweeter familiar scent of grape juice. They really are making wine here.

      Reid counted his paces across the floor of the facility. They passed through another set of doors, and with it came an assortment of new sounds. Machinery—hydraulic press. Pneumatic drill. The clinking chain of a conveyor. The fermentation scent gave way to grease, motor oil, and… Powder. They’re manufacturing something here; most likely munitions. There was something else, something familiar, past the oil and powder. It was somewhat sweet, like almonds… Dinitrotoluene. They’re making explosives.

      “Stairs,” said Yuri’s voice, close to his ear, as Reid’s shin bumped against the bottommost step. The heavy hand continued to guide him as four sets of footfalls climbed the steel stairs. Thirteen steps. Whoever built this place must not be superstitious.

      At the top was yet another steel door. Once it was closed behind them, the sounds of machinery were drowned out—another soundproofed room. Classical piano music played from nearby. Brahms. Variations on a Theme of Paganini. The melody was not rich enough to be coming from an actual piano; a stereo of some kind.

      “Yuri.” The new voice was a stern baritone, slightly rasped from either shouting often or too many cigars. Judging by the scent of the room, it was the latter. Possibly both.

      “Otets,” said Yuri obsequiously. He spoke rapidly in Russian. Reid did his best to follow along with Yuri’s accent. “I bring you good news from France…”

      “Who is this man?” the baritone demanded. With the way he spoke, Russian seemed to be his native tongue. Reid couldn’t help but wonder what the connection might be between the Iranians and this Russian man—or the goons in the SUV, for that matter, and even the Serbian Yuri. An arms deal, maybe, said the voice in his head. Or something worse.

      “This is the Iranians’ messenger,” Yuri replied. “He has the information we seek for—”

      “You brought him here?” the man interjected. His deep voice rose to a roar. “You were supposed to go to France and meet with the Iranians, not drag men back to me! You would compromise everything with your stupidity!” There was a sharp crack—a solid backhand across a face—and a gasp from Yuri. “Must I write your job description on a bullet to get it through your thick skull?!”

      “Otets, please…” Yuri stammered.

      “Do not call me that!” the man shouted fiercely. A gun cocked—a heavy pistol, by the sound of it. “Do not call me by any name in the presence of this stranger!”

      “He is no stranger!” Yuri yelped. “He is Agent Zero! I have brought you Kent Steele!”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      Kent Steele.

      Silence reigned for several seconds that felt like minutes. A hundred visions flashed quickly through Reid’s mind as if they were being machine-fed. The CIA. National Clandestine Service, Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group. Psych ops.

      Agent Zero.

      If you’re exposed, you’re dead.

      We don’t talk. Ever.

      Impossible.

      His fingers were trembling again.

      It was simply impossible. Things like memory wipes or implants or suppressors were the stuff of conspiracy theories and Hollywood films.

      It didn’t matter now anyway. They knew who he was the whole time—from the bar to the car ride and all the way to Belgium, Yuri had known that Reid was not who he said he was. Now he was blindfolded and trapped behind a steel door with at least four armed men. No one else knew where he was or who he was. A heavy knot of dread formed deep in his stomach and threatened to make him nauseous.

      “No,” said the baritone voice slowly. “No, you are mistaken. Stupid Yuri. This is not the CIA man. If it was, you would not be standing here!”

      “Unless he came here to find you!” Yuri countered.

      Fingers grabbed at the blindfold and yanked it off. Reid squinted in the sudden harshness of the overhead fluorescent lights. He blinked in the face of a man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a full beard shorn close to the cheek, and sharp, discerning eyes. The man, presumably Otets, wore a charcoal gray suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and curling gray chest hairs peeking out from beneath it. They stood in an office, the walls painted dark red and adorned with gaudy paintings.

      “You,” the man said in accented English. “Who are you?”

      Reid took a jagged breath and fought the urge to tell the man that he simply didn’t know anymore. Instead, in a tremulous voice, he said, “My name is Ben. I’m a messenger. I work with the Iranians.”

      Yuri, who was on his knees behind Otets, leapt to his feet. “He lies!” the