Dead Zero (37 page)

“That was then. This is now. This town corrupts. The perks, the flattering press coverage, the access to and friendship with powerful people, the sexual opportunities, the glittery parties in mansions and
condos overlooking the moonlit monuments: it’s sweet poison.”

“These two: no. That’s all I got to say.”

“So I have to take on trust what you take on trust.”

“Seems like it.”

“Okay, who plays me?”

“We’ll get a guy who has the same—”

“No, you won’t,” said Cruz. “That’s bullshit. These guys know me. They know how I move, what my body language is, what my size is. And this is for Whiskey Two-Two, so it’s still my job. I’ll go. If I get hit, well, it’s nothing that couldn’t have happened in the sandbox.”

“Cruz, be sure. Think it over. There’ll be a moment when Mick Bogier has you dead zero in his scope and his finger on the trigger and he’s taking up the slack. Maybe we get there in time, maybe we get there one second late. No body armor’s going to stop a .50.”

“Just get him. Then break him. Then get the guy who set this up. Then find out what it’s all about. That’s enough. If you give me that pledge, then I’ll go play the tethered goat.”

“You’d make your grandfather proud,” said Bob.

“My grandfather died in 1967. He was a Portuguese fisherman in Cape Cod, Massachusetts.”

“That was Solomon Nicola Cruz, the father of Lieutenant Commander Tomas F. Cruz, who raised you with his wife, Urlinda Marbella, at the Subic Bay Naval Station in the Philippines. Lieutenant Commander Cruz was by all accounts a fine man and you were so lucky to have him and your mother too. He wasn’t your real father and she wasn’t your real mother and you’re not half Filipino. They was stepparents. Your grandfather was a United States Marine who landed on five islands in the Pacific and was awarded the Medal of Honor on Iwo Jima. He was as brave and tough and good as they come and that’s the dead-zero truth. He had one son, who married a beautiful Vietnamese woman who was killed in the Tet invasion in 1968. She was a fine, fine woman. Her husband never knew she had you, because he was in Laos attached to SOG at the time. When he came back, she was gone. And so were you. I don’t know how you got to the Philippines. But sure as hell, and I see your grandfather’s look on your face all the time, you’re my son.”

PART FOUR

INTERSECTION OF 37TH AND P

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

1024 HOURS

THURSDAY

Here,” said Bogier.

“Here?” said Tony.

It wasn’t really an intersection. Basically, 37th bent to the right and became P, or, if you were facing in another direction, P bent to the left and became 37th.

“It has to be,” said Bogier.

“Mick, I see a hundred other places it could be.”

“Name them. Don’t point to them, but indicate them.”

“Any of those buildings on the campus,” he said.

They were standing at the end of the wall that blocked off the public front to Georgetown University along 37th Street, the wall itself too tall to see over. But they knew what was there: several acres of campus lawn latticed with walkways and interrupted by benches, much of it shaded by the giant umbrellas of hundred-year-old trees, the whole maybe 250 yards long. From where they were, they could see an L formation of august Gothic buildings snared in vine over old stone, dormer windows, archways, whatever signifiers one can imagine indicating the solemnity of higher education. These sealed the north and west perimeters of the lawn and all faced directly or at a slight angle to the entrance, at the lawn’s southern end, of Lauinger Library, itself an outlier in newfangled, cutting-edge, hip-to-the-max architecture that would be the site of Ibrahim Zarzi’s upcoming speech before the American Foreign Policy Association. There, before assorted invitees mostly from State and the Administration, and several dozen reporters, it had been widely reported that Zarzi would make his formal announcement that indeed, he was a candidate for the presidency of
Afghanistan in the fall election a few weeks off.

“Those buildings will be closed down,” said Bogier. “No way he penetrates. The lawn will be closed down; no way he gets out onto it for a shot. And, you’re not considering his skill set. He doesn’t have to penetrate because, unlike you and me, he doesn’t need a stable rest, a pedestal or bipod, a Kestrel weather station, a range finder, a computer, any of that bullshit. He’s a super-offhand guy. He’ll shoot from there,” he said, nodding to indicate where his team boy should look.

Tony took the cue and saw the end of the wall where there was just a little space between it and a perpendicular wrought-iron fence complete with a line of black shafts and spearheads. Z realized that the sniper could wedge himself into that space and on the other side of the wall get a direct line of sight to the library entrance through which Zarzi, after the speech, would waltz in triumph, wave to his fans, pose for the cameras, and begin a walk to the limousine parked out on 37th. The range would be about 250 yards.

“Ray slides in there, out comes the rifle,
poof
goes the suppressor, and time in flight later, Zarzi, standing at the entrance, waving to reporters, supporters, and the world, has a crater for a face.”

“Maybe he’ll crash one of those houses on the left side of Thirty-seventh. Shoot from upstairs. Has a nice angle into the library entrance.”

“Secret Service has it covered. Guys have or will have knocked on all the doors, spoken to all the people, asked them to stay away from windows during and after the speech. There’ll be countersnipers on the roofs of the Georgetown buildings. Ray knows that and he knows his best bet is to kind of scuffle into the margins of the place, real late. Like I say, to just this spot.”

“You don’t think they’ll have cops out here too?”

“Yep. They’ll have P Street sealed off and Thirty-seventh as well. No car traffic. But it doesn’t matter. You know why? Because he’s already there.”

“Already there?”

“Maybe even now,” said Bogier. “That’s how bad he wants this shot. Look over the wall on P. See what’s behind it. Looks like some
woods or forest, undeveloped, just waiting for Georgetown to build its new chem lab or something. He’ll hit it tonight, slide in there in ghillie, probably up close to the wall. Then he waits. He waits through tonight, he waits through tomorrow. He waits through rain, snow, sleet, earthquakes, animal bites, bouts of depression, winning the lottery, cats and dogs living together. Thirty-six hours without a move or a sound or a shit. That’s the zen of this bastard. They’ll close this place down tomorrow, but he’s already here. They’ll run dog teams, but he’s probably perfumed up with skunk piss, so the dogs’ll steer clear. No human eye will pick him out. Tomorrow night, game time, he comes out of his hole. His move to his shooting site is probably no more than fifty feet. He has to get over a wall, no biggie to an athlete like him. He may run into a cop but he’ll be on him and kung fu him down in two seconds, he’ll slide along into that gap between the fence and the wall, the Great Man comes out, the red dot comes up, and that’s the ball game. Ray doesn’t care about getting away. Getting away isn’t a part of the plan. And it doesn’t matter if I put a hollow point into his brain a second after or if he spends the rest of his life in federal prison or rides the needle. Sergeant Ray Cruz, USMC, did his job, and by his Semper Fi code, by all that bullshit that he believes separates him from us and makes us shit to his noble goodness, that’s what’s important. It’s moral vanity, his only flaw. He’s got a code; we don’t.”

“And that’s why you hate him, Mick?”

“I don’t hate the fuck at all. I love him. I wish I was half as hung as he is. No way I’d be where he is now, not with all the shit we’ve put on his ass. I wish I could let him have his shot. I wish we could just go away. But we showed the greed, we showed the need, we have to do the deed. We took the dough, so we have to go. That’s
our
code. It ain’t much of one, but goddamnit, I will play it out, same as him, right to the end.”

“Where are we, Mick?”

“Do you mean philosophically? Somewhere between Housman and Xenophon.”

“No, Mick, I mean where are we space-time-location-wise. That
kind of ‘Where are we?’”

Mick pivoted, but did not point.

“Down P Street, almost to Wisconsin. Remember, the cops will have it cordoned off, so there won’t be any traffic. It’ll be a straight shot to his position. We park early to get a location. We go see a movie, then we come back, slip into our war gear, and set up. We’ve pre-lased the ranges, we’ve figured the angles, there’s not supposed to be any wind tomorrow night. I’ve dialed in the scope setting, so there’s no holdover. I’ll go with the .338 instead of the .50, much easier to manipulate and shoot. I’m prone in the back, shooting through the rolled-down window. You’re next to me, on the spotting scope. You pick him out, index me into him, and when I have him on the cross, I take the slack out on him whether he’s made his move or not. Suppressor mutes our signature; the only thing anybody hears is a sonic boom six hundred yards downrange indicating nothing. I pull the rifle into the car, you scramble to the driver’s. Then we just drive away, turn left on Wisconsin, drive to Baltimore-Washington airport and catch a flight to Florida. If we have time, we dump the guns and burn the car, but it ain’t no big deal. MacGyver says all the firepower was obtained overseas for black ops and can’t be traced, and the car is registered through a maze of shipping companies, holding companies, Cayman Islands banks, Mexican rental agencies, and what have you.”

“Suppose you read him wrong, Mick. Suppose he doesn’t show or he doesn’t show at this spot.”

“He will. He doesn’t know why, but I do. He
has
to do the deed the sniper way. He has to complete Two-Two’s mission, make Two-Two’s shot. That’s his thing. That’s what’s driving him, subconsciously. He’ll be exactly where I say he’ll be. It’s his only shot.”

“But I’m saying a lot can go wrong. He doesn’t show. What then?”

“Well,” said Mick, “I guess we commit hari-kari on the spot.”

“Not me, Mick. Tony Z’s not that much into the samurai thing. I’ll just feel really bad for three full days, is that okay?”

“
Four
days,” said Mick. “Minimum.”

FBI INCIDENT COMMAND HQ

O’BRIAN CHILDHOOD DEVELOPMENT CENTER

BASEMENT

3614 P STREET NW

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

1530 HOURS

FRIDAY

I know you’re a professional, Sergeant. But let’s pretend I’m an infirm old man with short-term memory loss and I’ve forgotten we just went over this seven minutes ago. One more time, please.”

Ray looked at the FBI executive hard, at the man Swagger who was supposedly—he was still trying to wrap his mind around this one—his father, at the beautiful Asian woman who repped the Agency, who were the stars here. Meanwhile, clerks, techies, SWAT cowboys, street agents, commo people bustled about, though all vehicles were parked a mile away.

“You’re going to dump me off at Reservoir. My job is to infiltrate the mile or so down the hill, through the woods, and get to the other side of the wall that fronts P Street right at the point where P bends left to become Thirty-seventh.”

“Do you think that’s a good choice?” asked the woman. “It all turns on that choice.”

“It’s the only choice, ma’am. It’s my only shot.”

“Swagger made the choice,” said Memphis. “He said it would be his choice.”

“It was an easy read,” said Swagger.

“I get in, I wait,” continued Ray. “I’m next to the P Street wall. I’m hearing police activity outside, I know there are cops all over the place. We’re hoping we have some bad guys down P Street, closer to Wisconsin.”

“Another interpretation,” she said.

“It’s right. If I’m here, they have to be there. It’s their only shot. We’re both locked in by the geography of the site.”

“Go on.”

“I wait, I wait, I smoke a couple of cigarettes, I listen to Iron Maiden on my iPod, I watch the movie
Mesa of Lost Women
on my portable disc player, yadda yadda.”

“He has a sense of humor,” said Memphis. “I like that.”

“Humor deflects bullets, though it didn’t do Billy Skelton any good. Anyhow, the witching hour is 1915. At that point, I leave my hide, creep to the roadway that separates me from my shooting position at the end of the Thirty-seventh Street wall, check out the cop situation. I have to hop a wall. Maybe I can get across that roadway easy does it, on stealth, ’cause I’m a Ninja Turtle bastard from way back. Maybe I have to conk a cop. At any rate, I uncover, I move, and as I move into position, whammo, I’m hit, that is, by cops across the road. In ten seconds there are twenty cops there. I’m moving so fast Mick Bogier can’t risk a shot, he’s got no sight pic, or that’s the theory, at any rate. But he’s real into it, and he’s got Zemke spotting the action for him, he’s on me all the way. Anyhow, the cops wrestle me to the ground, a couple of cop cars pull up. I’m cuffed, surrounded by cops, and I’m dragged to the police car. I’m put in the back. And then I wait for the shot, head in profile through the back window. When he fires, I’m so fast, I can duck before it arrives.”