File Zero. Джек Марс

from your past life. All of those non-memory aspects were removed with your actual memories.

      Zero had frowned at that. So you’re saying that if I remember things, some of the things I remember may not actually be real?

      The doctor’s reply had been simple, yet harrowing. They’ll be real to you.

      If that was the case, he reasoned, couldn’t it be possible that he had done something with the documents himself? Could he have imagined that they were here, in this safe deposit box, when really they were elsewhere?

      I’m losing my mind.

      Focus, Zero.

      He pulled the lockback knife out of his pocket, unfolded it, and carefully wedged the razor-sharp tip into the edge of the bottom of the box. He worked it back and forth gently, careful not to scratch it, until the bottom panel came loose.

      He breathed a small sigh of relief. Whoever had taken his documents didn’t know about the false bottom he had installed in the box, less than an inch above the real bottom. Nestled beneath it was a single object—a USB stick.

      At least they didn’t find the recordings. But is it enough? He wasn’t sure, but it was all he had. He snatched it up, pocketed the knife and the USB drive, and then carefully replaced the false bottom. Then he slid the box back into its narrow vault and closed the door.

      When he finished, Zero headed back to the lipsticked teller.

      “Excuse me,” he said, “can you tell me if anyone else accessed my safe deposit box in the past two years?”

      The woman blinked at him. “Two years?”

      “Yes. Please. You keep a log, right?”

      “Um… certainly. One moment.” Fingernails clacked against the keyboard for a long minute. “Here we are. There has only been one access to your deposit box in the past two years, and it was only a couple of months ago, in February.”

      “It wasn’t me,” Zero said impatiently. “So who was it?”

      She blinked at him again, this time in confusion. “Well, sir, it was the only other person authorized to access the box. It was your wife. Katherine Lawson.”

      Zero stared at the teller for longer than the woman found comfortable.

      “No,” he said slowly. “That’s impossible. My wife passed away two years ago.”

      She frowned deeply, the lipsticked corners of her mouth drooping as if they’d been tugged. “I am very sorry to hear that, sir. And that is certainly strange. But… we require photo ID, and the person that accessed the box obviously had it. Your wife’s name wasn’t taken from the box’s lease when she passed.”

      Zero remembered putting her name on the lease. Kate hadn’t known about it at the time; he had forged her signature as a joint lease so that someone would know about it in the event of his death.

      And only two months prior, someone had pretended to be her, had even gone so far as to create identification that could pass as valid to a bank, and taken the contents of his box.

      “I assure you,” the teller told him, “we will look further into this matter. The branch manager just left for the day, but I can have him reach out to you tomorrow. Would you like to report a theft?”

      “No, no.” Zero waved a hand dismissively. He didn’t want to get any legal authorities involved and have the safe deposit box flagged in any system that the CIA might see. “Nothing was taken,” he lied. “Let’s just forget it. Thanks.”

      “Sir?” she called after him, but he was already at the door.

      Someone came here posing as Kate. He knew there was little he could do about it now; the bank might still have the security footage from that day, but they wouldn’t allow him access unless there was an investigation and a warrant.

      But who? The agency was the most obvious culprit. With the vast CIA resources, they could have created a passable ID and sent a female agent in under the guise of Kate. But Zero hadn’t accessed the box in years. If they knew about it back then, why would they wait until only two months ago to get into it?

      Because I came back. They thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, they needed to know what I knew.

      Another thought flashed through his mind: Maria. Are you sure you never told her about it? Not even in case of an emergency? She was one of the best covert agents he had ever known; she could have found a way. But still he came back to the question of why she would do that now, why wait if she knew about the safe deposit box.

      He suddenly felt tired and overwhelmed. He had lost so much of what he had uncovered before, the smallest shred of potential evidence sitting on a USB stick in his pocket. He had no idea how much time he had to get Pierson alone, try to convince him of what was happening, and somehow persuade him to look further into those responsible with almost nothing to go on.

      It felt insurmountable. He realized grimly that if he had still been Reid Lawson, trapped in the hell of his partial memories as Agent Zero, he might have given up. He might have scooped up his daughters and whatever they could carry and fled somewhere. The Midwest, maybe. He might have stuck his head in the sand and let things happen as they would. Reid Lawson’s highest priority was his girls.

      But Agent Zero had a responsibility. This was not just his job. It was his life. This was who he truly was, and there was no way in hell he was going to sit idly by and watch a war unfold, watch innocent people die, watch American servicemen and Middle Eastern civilians be forced into a conflict that was manufactured for the benefit of a handful of megalomaniacal men to maintain their power.

      He heard the footsteps like an echo of his own and resisted the urge to turn around. As he neared his car, parked two blocks from the bank, the heavy footfalls of boots kept pace with his almost stride for stride.

      About ten feet behind you. Keeping their distance. They’re walking heavy; definitely a man, probably close to six foot, two-ten to two-twenty.

      Zero didn’t stop at his car. He walked right past it to the next corner and turned right onto a side street. As he walked past a flower shop, the same one that he had once bought bouquets for his girls before picking them up from a safe house six blocks to the west, he checked his periphery. It was something that he had instinctually done as Reid Lawson, but with his memories also came back his skills. It was as easy as glancing in a mirror; without averting his gaze from the sidewalk ahead, he focused on the outermost borders of his field of vision.

      A man in a black T-shirt was crossing the street toward him. He was large, easily two-fifty, with a neck as thick as his head and heavily muscled arms testing the limits of his shirtsleeves.

      So this is how it’s going to be. The hairs on Zero’s arms stood on end, but his heartbeat remained steady. His breathing normal. No sweat prickled on his brow.

      He wasn’t being paranoid. They were after him. They knew. And he was more than ready to meet the challenge.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Without breaking his stride, Zero turned right again, slipping down a narrow thoroughfare between two buildings. It was barely six feet across, not even wide enough to be called an alley. About halfway down its length he stopped and turned.

      At the mouth of the throughway stood one of his two pursuers. The man was around his age, a few inches taller, with a wiry frame and a few days’ worth of coarse dark hair on his chin. He wore black boots and jeans and a black leather jacket.

      “Baker,” Zero said instinctively. This man was a member of the Division, a private security group that the CIA occasionally contracted to assist with international affairs. They were veritable mercenaries, the same group that had made a bid for his life not a week ago at the Brotherhood’s compound outside of Al-Baghdadi. The same group that had attempted to jump Agent Watson and kidnap his daughters in Switzerland.

      But this man in particular was familiar to him. As soon as Zero saw his face, he remembered: back in 2013, the Division had