The Zarrabian Incident Read online

  “Someone’s got to have some balls around here and make choices,” said Patterson. “I didn’t hear anything from you.”

  “Don’t be a prick, Jack,” said Platte. “You can order your minions around, but I’m Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Never forget that.”

  “Yes, Senator, I just meant—”

  Platte cut him off. “And that ‘someone’s got to have balls’ is bullshit. We were working out contingencies, considering alternatives. You had no business acting on your own.”

  “Contingencies and alternatives? Senator, you told me to take care of the problem. Now we need a committee or something? This isn’t the Senate. We don’t have committees and meetings. This is a military situation. We needed action.”

  “You watch yourself, Jack,” said Platte.

  “Gentlemen, this isn’t useful,” said Blackwell. “The White House already announced a positive ID for Zarrabian’s body, thanks to you, Jack. It’s done. What the hell happens if Zarrabian turns up alive? You can feed Dana Poindexter and her investigator side-kick, what’s her name?”

  “Garrett. Christine Garrett,” said Platte.

  “Yeah, her,” she continued. “You can go on Poindexter’s show and feed your bullshit to her and it makes you look smart. What happens if Zarrabian turns up alive?”

  “You’ll look like fools and liars, that’s what,” said Platte. “It will be the end of the administration. You and you,” he said, stabbing a finger at each, “and the president, I guess he counts too.”

  “Not gonna happen,” replied Patterson. “The man’s dead. It had to be Zarrabian. Think about it. He used Garrett’s cell phone to send a text message. Before we could close in on him, someone else knew exactly where he was and torched him in his cabin. His prints were all over that RV. They matched the prints on Garrett’s boat. It was him. How else could it have gone down?”

  “That’s the problem,” said Blackwell. “We don’t know. Too many suppositions. You’re just guessing.”

  “Bull. What, you think after the biggest act of terror in a decade, Zarrabian gets a hankering to kill some other Iranian asshole, so he lures him to a cabin, conks him on the head and torches him, then runs off? Don’t be stupid. The dead body has to be Zarrabian. And I’ll bet the Iranians did it. We needed him alive, and they wanted him dead.”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense,” said Blackwell. “The Iranians wanted him alive as badly as we did. There are rumblings from Boston to San Diego that we ought to bomb Iran. Our conservative-radio attack-dog hosts are practically foaming at the mouth with their war cries. The Iranians know Zarrabian wasn’t working for them. Why would they kill him?”

  “We can figure that out later,” answered Patterson. “Who the fuck knows? We had to close this out so we can move on. We had a body, and it’s like ninety-nine percent that it’s him. OK?”

  “I don’t like loose ends,” said Platte. “This is a big one. What if someone stumbles over a live Zarrabian?”

  “We’ll just make sure he comes in dead. And that the autopsy is done by our people.”

  “Yeah, like everything else you made sure of,” said Platte. “This whole operation has been a steaming pile of shit. We didn’t get to interrogate a single terrorist. We got nothing. What was the point?”

  “The point is, you always have a backup plan,” said Patterson.

  Platte grunted. “Backup plan or fuck-up plan? You should have gotten it right the first time. Why should I think you’ll get the backup plan right?”

  “We have a more immediate problem,” said Patterson.

  “What?” asked Blackwell.

  “That FBI agent you used as cannon fodder.”

  “TJ McCaig?”

  “That one. Didn’t you get his ass fired?”

  “No, his ass is just badly blistered,” she replied. “He’s basically out of circulation for good. He was the same asshole who was dumb enough to take the heat for Cordo. Guys like that are a valuable asset, but expendable. We just got lucky that we got to use him twice.”

  “Yeah,” said Patterson. “So now you need to bandage his sorry ass, maybe even kiss it. I got up in front of God and Dana Poindexter and told the world that the Iranian colonel was dead. The case is closed, and McCaig is an official fucking hero for chasing Zarrabian into a hidey-hole where he got trapped and torched. It’s gonna look great when McCaig gets on Poindexter’s show and tells her how he got bent over and reamed. And then repeats his stupid claim that Zarrabian got away in that chopper. You need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  McCaig raised his hand to knock on the frosted-glass window of Smith’s office door. His own face, dimly reflected by the glass, made him pause, hand frozen in mid air. Bags underscored his eyes, and the slight smirk he usually wore had been replaced by a clenched jaw. His brow was furrowed. His hair showed the signs of a missed appointment with his barber.

  But his suit looked sharp. The creases were crisp, the light-blue shirt was well pressed, and the blue-and-charcoal striped tie was perfectly knotted. The G-man uniform, done right.

  McCaig closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and looked at his reflection again. He calmed his mind and relaxed his face, letting the furrows smooth out. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket, then pushed the door open.

  “Sir, you asked for me?” said McCaig.

  “Ah, yes,” said Smith. He stood up and gestured at a large, comfortable-looking chair. “Special Agent McCaig. Please come in. Have a seat.”

  McCaig stiffened at Smith’s deferential tone. He sat down, but didn’t lean back in the chair.

  “Agent McCaig, I’m afraid our last encounter was rather, um, unpleasant,” said Smith. “You were under a lot of pressure to solve this case, you know, with the national media’s spotlight on you and all. And a terrorist on the loose, me breathing down your neck. It must have been stressful.”

  He waited a moment for McCaig’s response, but McCaig kept silent. Smith continued.

  “And I hope you know it wasn’t just you. We were all under the gun on this one. Me included. I was taking it from everyone right up to the director—even the White House. It was pretty intense. Everyone wanted Zarrabian’s capture, and I mean like right now. Pretty intense. I’m not used to the spotlight like that. You either, I’ll bet. We do the footwork, catch the bad guys, and fill out reports. We’re just not used to that kind of publicity and scrutiny. And the pressure. So if I seemed a bit stressed at our last meeting, I apologize.”

  McCaig gave a barely perceptible nod. Smith waited, eyebrows raised. After a pregnant pause, Smith went on.

  “Now, we, I mean I, have been looking at your record. You’ve had an excellent career here at the FBI. Exemplary. Twenty-seven years of service, hundreds of cases. Your conviction rate is way above average. No disciplinary actions, regular promotions, solid work. All in all, a stellar career.”

  “Why do I sense you’re about to say, ‘but?’”

  “On the contrary, Agent. I’m going to say, ‘and.’ You’ve had a solid career, and we’d like to recognize that achievement. Ever since Cordo, and by the way, we know Cordo wasn’t your fault, you did a great job; nobody could have done better. But ever since Cordo, you’ve been doing time, just waiting for the day you could retire.”

  McCaig opened his mouth to object, but Smith kept going. “I know, I know, really, I’m not criticizing you. You’ve been doing a fine job. It must have been pretty hard on you, thinking about those women and kids. Maybe even a bit of trauma?”

  “I . . .” said McCaig.

  “No,” said Smith, interrupting McCaig. “It was a no-win situation. No apologies needed.”

  “I wasn’t apologizing.”

  “Of course not! And now this Zarrabian guy, the whole country watching as the worst terrorist in a decade slipped through our fingers. Then instead of us catching him, he’s dumb enough to burn down the tinderbox cabin he’s hiding in.”

  “Or maybe not.”
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  Smiths eyes narrowed. “Don’t, McCaig. The coroner’s ID was conclusive. You’re now a hero.”

  “What if I told you I know he’s not dead?”

  “Special Agent McCaig, he’s dead. You know he’s dead, I know he’s dead, and the director knows he’s dead. The president knows he’s dead. Are you paying attention to what I’m saying?”

  “I am now.”

  “Good!” Smith leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “OK, so this can go both ways. We know Zarrabian’s dead, and we don’t need you out there sowing doubts, stirring up the conspiracy theorists and loonies. Lord knows they’re crazy enough on their own. They don’t need your help.

  “And, like I said, this is a two-way street. With Cordo, and now the Golden Gate, we think it’s entirely appropriate that we offer you early retirement due to on-the-job stress and trauma.”

  “Stress and trauma? Like, you’re putting me out to pasture? For PTSD?”

  “Well, we don’t want to label you or anything. We can work this out so that nothing specific goes into your personnel files.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The details don’t matter. We’ll figure that out.”

  McCaig’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you will. You’re buying me off.”

  “No, no. You’re looking at this the wrong way. We want to do right by you, give you the break you deserve. You were a great agent, you hit a rough patch, and your country owes you.”

  “What if I don’t want to retire?”

  “No problem. You’ll still have a place here at the FBI. I was thinking of making you my personal assistant. I have way too many meetings. You’d be a big help.”

  “Got it.”

  An explosion tore the world apart. Zarrabian was flat on his back. Something heavy was crushing his chest. Dust and smoke swirled while cries and screams filled the air. He tried to lift a weight from his chest.

  A breath of wind cleared the smoke momentarily. He turned his head, searching. His wife’s face was turned toward him, but her eyes were closed. It took a few seconds for his mind to register. Only half of his wife was there.

  But where was his daughter? The breeze swirled again, revealing Mina lying a few meters from her mother. A pool of bright red blood spread from under her head.

  Zarrabian sat up abruptly. The cries and screams of his dream still rang in his ears. He shook his head, then put his hands to his face and scrubbed his skin vigorously, trying to chase away the ghosts. The sharp sensation of rough, unshaved stubble grating against his palms brought him back to reality.

  He looked around at his tiny world: the bed, the chipped Formica table, and the old vinyl-cushioned chairs and lamp with its torn shade. A ruddy light from the afternoon sun filtered through the drawn shades. Steinbeck rested on the stool-cum-table beside the lamp. The stillness of the room was driving him crazy; he needed something to remind him he was alive.

  There was one addition to his furnishings: an old analog television. Its glow lit the room with a ghostly blue-white light. The sound was turned down, but the screen showed some sort of game show, apparently a word game where letters appeared one by one, orchestrated by a sexy blonde-haired woman in a long, sequined evening gown. Each time a new letter was revealed, the contestants tried to guess the phrase.

  The television had been a surprising find. Out of sheer boredom, he’d peeked under the drawn window shades on all four sides of the house to make sure no farmworkers were in the area before venturing out to investigate the tower-like building adjacent to the old ranch house. It turned out to be a tank house—a narrow, three-story square structure with a huge, round redwood water tank on the third floor that had once provided gravity-fed water to the house.

  The tall, narrow building’s first floor had been used as a garden shed. Its walls were cluttered with old rakes, shovels, hoes, and other garden tools. Some showed signs of having been crafted by a blacksmith. A wooden workbench on one side was stacked with crumbling bags of fertilizer, dusty seed packets, old cans of paint, and bottles of plant food and bug poison. A pair of leather gloves still looked useful, but they were so old that they cracked when he put them on.

  In the back corner of the room, a wooden ladder ascended through a square hole in the ceiling. He’d climbed it, step by step, tugging hard on each slat to make sure the old nails were still solid before trusting it with his weight.

  The second floor looked like some teenage boy’s hideaway clubhouse. The walls were covered with dusty posters of bikini-clad women, shiny sports cars, and speeding motorcycles. An old bed was against a wall. A quick search under the mattress yielded a well-read Playboy magazine from February, 1990, featuring the large-breasted Pamela Anderson. A dresser, a small refrigerator whose contents were unidentifiable, and the old television completed the room’s furnishings.

  The TV’s primary use had apparently been for an elaborate video-game system that was stacked underneath it. Zarrabian’s first thought was that the old TV was useless since the United States had stopped broadcasting analog TV. But further investigation revealed a digital-to-analog signal-converter box under the stack of video games. After exploring the third floor and finding nothing of interest, he had gathered the TV, converter box, and various cables and connectors and taken them to his room where he re-stacked and reconnected them.

  The old house’s power had long since been turned off. Zarrabian guessed that the utility company might not have bothered to disconnect the power from the telephone pole on the road. It hadn’t taken long to find the power box in the basement, break the utility company’s “do not remove” seal, and flip the main switch back on. He’d been rewarded by bright yellow light from an old incandescent light bulb hanging on a wire from the basement ceiling. He turned it off—a sliver of light emanating from the tiny windows of the old basement could attract the attention of a passing farmhand.

  Remarkably, the old television and converter box worked perfectly, bringing in the signals from Modesto, Stockton, Oakland, and as far south as Fresno.

  Daytime American TV proved frustrating. Game shows, soap operas, and reality shows abounded. The only twenty-four hour news he could find seemed to be an ultra-conservative network that alternated between gun-control conspiracy theories, the “persecution” of America’s Christians by atheists and Muslims, and reports praising the current president and his conservative allies in Congress. Their reports about the bombing of the Golden Gate Bridge caught his interest briefly, until he realized that their “investigations” had more to do with conspiracy theories involving liberals who purportedly funded the bombing in order to further their socialist agenda.

  Oddly, there was still nothing about the conflict with Iran. He’d eventually become disgusted with the conservative “news” and changed channels. He’d have to wait until evening to get an unbiased news report from one of the mainstream TV networks.

  A seagull’s cry pulled McCaig out of the book he was reading. He shifted his seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard dock box. The seagull tried to land on the rigging of Christine Garrett’s boat in front of him, but some sort of twirly anti-bird device set spinning by the breeze foiled the bird’s plans.

  He looked over the lines of the boat. It was a beautiful sailboat: elegant curves, taut rigging, neatly coiled lines, and a perfectly straight sail cover. Small waves from a passing boat’s wake made the other boats along the dock sway, but this one bobbed lightly, hinting of its ultra-light construction.

  McCaig had studied engineering in college, and although he’d long since switched to a law-enforcement career, he still admired a great design. This one had a single purpose: to go fast and win races.

  He’d researched the craft’s design after his first voyage with Christine. In spite of its decades-long history, the Santa Cruz 27 was still considered one of the most influential designs of all time. There were no compromises: not an ounce of extra weight, and every winch, cleat, and block was perfectly placed.

  He’d
enjoyed sailing and racing with Christine Garrett. Maybe some day he’d take up the sport. McCaig closed his eyes, enjoying the sun’s warmth.

  “You’re so goddamn naive, you make me sick!” his wife screamed.

  “Naive?”

  “I could have screwed the whole navy and you wouldn’t have guessed!”

  “And trusting you, that’s a bad thing?”

  “What, you need it spelled out for you? That’s your problem right there! You’re supposed to notice when your wife is unhappy! Bring her flowers! Be romantic!”

  “And there’s nothing in there about getting up and going to work, putting a roof over the kids’ heads, making sure they have shoes—”

  “It takes more than money!”

  “—making sure they have shoes on their feet and clothes on their backs? And I put clothes on your back too! Oh, I forgot, you spent a lot of time on your back. Didn’t need clothes for that, eh?”

  “Asshole! If you knew how to make a woman feel special, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I was making a living, unlike you.”

  “I had two kids to raise! You think that’s easy? You, gone day and night, chasing bad guys. And you’re all, ‘My country needs me!’”

  “You said that’s what you wanted!”

  “Well your family needed you! I needed you! I practically raised the kids alone. You think that’s easy? Now you have the nerve to wonder why I didn’t have time for romance.”

  “You found plenty of time. Just not for me!”

  “I was just your goddamn maid and fuck buddy. At least Raul made me feel beautiful!”