Trapping Zero. Джек Марс

himself to Hassan bin Abdallah. The duty of burial usually fell to the closest male kin, but Awad could hardly imagine Hassan’s thin, lanky arms managing to dig a hole deep enough. Besides, helping Hassan would give them an opportunity to bond—and to discuss Awad’s plans.

      “Brother Hassan,” said Awad. “I hope that you will honor me by allowing me to help you bury Abdallah.”

      The anemic Hassan gazed back at him and nodded once. Awad could see in the young man’s eyes that he was petrified at the thought of leading the Brotherhood. The two of them broke rank from the three prayer lines to retrieve shovels.

      Once they were out of earshot of the others, bathed in the moonlight of the open courtyard, Hassan cleared his throat and asked, “What is this plan of yours, Awad?”

      Awad bin Saddam held back a grin. “It begins,” he said, “with the kidnapping of three men, tomorrow, not far from here. It ends with a direct attack on the city of New York.” He paused and put a heavy hand on Hassan’s shoulder. “But I cannot orchestrate this alone. I need your help, Hassan.”

      Hassan’s throat flexed, and he nodded.

      “I promise you,” said Awad, “that sin-ravaged nation of greedy apostates will suffer incalculable loss. The Brotherhood will at last be recognized as a force of Islam.”

      And, he kept to himself, the name Awad bin Saddam will find its place in history.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” said Professor Lawson as he paced before a classroom of forty-seven students in Healy Hall of Georgetown University. “What does that mean?”

      “That you don’t realize it’s only April?” joked a brown-haired kid in the first row.

      A few students chuckled. Reid grinned; this was his element, the classroom, and it felt very good to be back. Almost like things were back to normal. “Not quite. That’s actually the first line of a poem that commemorates an important event—or a near-event, if you will—in English history. November fifth, anybody?”

      A young brunette woman a few rows back politely raised her hand and offered, “Guy Fawkes Day?”

      “Yes, thank you.” Reid glanced quickly at his watch. It had become a habit recently, almost an idiosyncratic tic to check the digital display for updates. “Uh, though it’s not celebrated quite as widely as it once was, November fifth marks the day of a failed assassination plot. You’ve all heard the name Guy Fawkes, I’m sure.”

      Heads nodded and murmurs of assent rose from the classroom.

      “Good. So in 1605, Fawkes and twelve other co-conspirators devised a plan to blow up the House of Lords, the upper house of Parliament, during an assembly. But the members of the House of Lords were not their real target; their goal was to assassinate King James I, who was Protestant. Fawkes and his pals wanted to restore a Catholic monarch to the throne.”

      He glanced at his watch again. He didn’t even mean to; it was reflexive.

      “Um…” Reid cleared his throat. “Their plan was quite simple. Over the course of some months, they stowed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in an undercroft—that’s basically a wine cellar—directly under Parliament. Fawkes was the trigger man; he was to light a long fuse and then run like hell to the Thames.”

      “Like a Wile E. Coyote cartoon,” said the comedian in the front.

      “Pretty much,” Reid agreed. “Which is also why their assassination attempt is known as the Gunpowder Plot today. But they never did get to light the fuse. Someone tipped off a member of the House of Lords anonymously, and the undercrofts were searched. The gunpowder and Fawkes were discovered…”

      He glanced at his watch. It showed nothing but the time.

      “And, uh…” Reid chuckled softly at himself. “Sorry, folks, I’m just a little distracted today. Fawkes was discovered, but he refused to give up his co-conspirators—at first. He was sent to the Tower of London, and for three days he was tortured…”

      A vision flashed suddenly through his mind; not a vision so much as a memory, intrusively elbowing and shoving its way into his head at the mention of torture.

      A CIA black site in Morocco. Code name H-6. Known to most by its alias—Hell-Six.

      A captive Iranian is bound to a table on a slight incline. He has a hood over his head. You press a towel over his face.

      Reid shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. The memory was one he’d had before. In his other life as CIA Agent Kent Steele, he had performed “interrogation techniques” on captured terrorists for information. That’s what the agency called them—techniques. Things like waterboarding and thumbscrews and tugging off fingernails.

      But they weren’t techniques. It was torture, plain and simple. Not unlike Guy Fawkes in the Tower of London.

      You don’t do that anymore, he reminded himself. That’s not who you are.

      He cleared his throat again. “For three days he was, uh, interrogated. Eventually he gave up the names of six others and all of them were sentenced to death. The plot to blow up Parliament and King James I from underground was thwarted, and the fifth of November became a day to celebrate the failed assassination attempt…”

      A hood over his head. A towel over his face.

      Water, pouring. Not stopping. The captive thrashes so hard he breaks his own arm.

      “Tell me the truth!”

      “Professor Lawson?” It was the brown-haired kid in the front row. He was staring at Reid—they all were. Did I just say that out loud? He didn’t think he had, but the memory had forced its way into his brain and possibly all the way to his mouth. All eyes were on him, some students murmuring to each other as he stood there awkwardly and his face reddened.

      He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in less than as many minutes.

      “Uh, sorry,” he chuckled nervously. “Looks like that’s about all the time we have today. I want you all to read up on Fawkes and the motivations behind the Gunpowder Plot, and on Monday we’ll pick up with the rest of the Protestant Reformation and start in on the Thirty Years’ War.”

      The lecture hall filled with the sounds of shuffling and rustling as students gathered their books and bags and began filing out of the classroom. Reid rubbed his forehead; he felt a headache coming on, which was growing more and more frequent these days.

      The memory of the tortured dissident lingered like a heavy fog. That too had been happening more often lately; few new memories had returned to him, but those that had been restored previously came back stronger, more visceral. Like déjà vu, except he knew that he had been there. It wasn’t just a feeling; he had done all of those things and then some.

      “Professor Lawson.” Reid looked up sharply, jarred from his thoughts as a young blonde woman approached him, slinging a bag over her shoulder. “You got a date tonight or something?”

      “Sorry?” Reid frowned, thrown by the question.

      The young woman smiled. “I noticed you were looking at your watch like every thirty seconds. Figured you must have a hot date tonight.”

      Reid forced a smile. “No, nothing like that. Just, uh, looking forward to the weekend.”

      She nodded appreciably. “Me too. Have a good one, Professor.” She turned to head out of the classroom but paused, threw a glance over her shoulder and asked, “Would you like to sometime?”

      “Sorry?” he asked dimly.

      “Have a date. With me.”

      Reid blinked, stunned into silence. “I, uh…”

      “Think about it.” She smiled again and walked off.

      He stood there for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened. Any memories of torture or black sites that might