by Ward Larsen
He pulled the Caddy a block down the street and parked in front of a vacant lot. DeBolt got out and looked all around. Once again, he left the engine running.
15
It was midmorning when Lund put in a call to Fred McDermott, the Coast Guard’s FAA liaison for Alaska. McDermott worked out of Anchorage, and when he didn’t pick up, she left a message explaining what she needed. He called back at two that afternoon.
“Well, I found that jet you were looking for,” he said in his gravel-edged voice. The same voice Lund would have someday if she didn’t stop smoking.
“Did it land in Anchorage?”
“Actually, no. They changed their destination once they got airborne—said they were diverting.”
“Diverting? Is that common?”
“Not common,” he said, “but it happens. Sometimes you have to land at a different airport because the weather at your original destination goes bad, or maybe due to a mechanical problem. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t any of that. No record of an emergency, and the weather that night was fine.”
“So why would they have gone elsewhere?”
“Business jets do it now and again, generally for corporate reasons—maybe a meeting schedule changes. Private owners might change their minds about which vacation home they want to visit. There aren’t any rules against altering a destination.”
“So where did they go?”
“They refiled their flight plan for Minneapolis.”
“Minneapolis?”
“That was the first change. You piqued my curiosity, so I tracked the jet as far as I could. Bear in mind, this requires transiting a foreign country. Canada is more inviting than most—they charge for air traffic services, so every time an airplane goes through their airspace it’s money in the bank. This jet flew southeast through British Columbia all the way to Manitoba. Reentered U.S. airspace in northern Minnesota, and at that point they canceled and went VFR.”
“VFR? What’s that?”
“Visual flight rules. Basically, they said bye-bye to air traffic control. Below eighteen thousand feet you can do that, go anywhere you want without being tracked.”
“So there’s no way to tell where this jet ended up?”
“Not really. But there is one way you could get an idea of their intentions.”
“How?” asked Lund.
“I do a little flying myself, and I happen to know that aviation fuel is outrageously expensive in Kodiak. The government wouldn’t care, mind you, but no private jet operator is going to buy an ounce of fuel more than necessary.”
Seeing where he was going, Lund scrounged through the pile of papers on her desk for the servicing records she’d printed out earlier. “How much gas would a jet like that need to get to Anchorage?”
“Well, it’s not the sort of airplane I fly,” said McDermott, “but Anchorage is about three hundred miles. A Lear might need two, maybe three hundred gallons.”
“And to Minnesota?”
“That’s gotta be a couple thousand miles more. The jet could do it, no problem, but you’d need full tanks.”
Lund found the paper she wanted. “They paid for eight hundred gallons.”
“I’d say that’s full. Which implies to me that they never intended to go to Anchorage in the first place. More to the point…” His coarse voice drifted off, allowing Lund to finish the thought.
“They were trying to hide where they were going.”
* * *
DeBolt was casing a neighborhood for a home to burgle. There was simply no other way to think about it.
He approached on foot, looking up and down the street. He watched the homes adjacent to 98 Mill Street closely, but saw no activity, although the house diagonally across the street had an open garage door and a minivan parked inside. The tasteful stone path that led up to 98 meandered through tight landscaping, and near the front steps he encountered a plastic sign shaped like a shield. It warned that trespassing was inadvisable, courtesy of AHM, a home security company so commonplace that even a lifelong renter like DeBolt had heard of it.
He went straight to the front door like any visitor would, and paused in a portico twenty feet tall. There DeBolt turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in everything around him. He wondered if there might be a key under the doormat, or behind the terra-cotta planter that held the remains of last spring’s annuals. He was dismissing that hopeful thought when he looked again at the sign. AHM. Having never been a home owner, he was unfamiliar with how such systems worked. All the same, two questions arose. Did the Thompsons really have an active security contract with AHM, or was it only a sign meant to frighten away shady people like him? And if there was a system—what could AHM do for him?
He looked up and saw a security camera. A tiny red light glowed steady, the lens pointing directly at him.
DeBolt composed his thoughts in the way that was becoming second nature: 98 Mill Street, AHM, front door camera.
He waited, thinking, Surely not. For almost a minute there was nothing.
Then, all at once, DeBolt was looking at himself. It streamed in near real time on the tiny screen in his visual field. He shook his head in disbelief, which actually registered in the feed, although not right away. Curious about the delay involved, he put it to a test—he waved and began counting Mississippis. Four and a half seconds later, he saw the wave in his right eye. He supposed the interval might be different for another camera, or another system. All technologies had variables and electronic quirks, the likes of which he had no hope of comprehending. In this case it was a four-and-a-half-second relay gap. He was learning.
DeBolt suddenly felt vulnerable, wondering who else might be watching the feed—it was a monitoring system after all, and not intended for his private use. He suspected the Thompsons in New York could, if they wished, see his image on their phones or tablet computers with the same four-and-a-half-second delay. Fortunately, both were probably too busy to bother, he in meetings with well-starched attorneys, she engaged with smiling sales associates in front of changing-room mirrors.
He thought: 98 Mill Street, AHM, front door camera, disable.
This took ten seconds. Then the image disappeared from the screen in his eye.
16
He was on a roll and, on the same principle as the OnStar system he’d used to steal a Cadillac, DeBolt wondered if AHM might unlock someone’s front door for him. It seemed a logical feature, useful for an owner who’d lost their key, or to let in a neighbor to feed the dog. His question was answered by the clunk of an electronic dead bolt sliding free.
This is utterly insane.
He cast one glance toward the street, then stepped inside. DeBolt closed the door behind him and immediately encountered a keypad. Should he have sought a code to disarm the system before entering? There was a backlit number pad, along with a tiny TV screen, currently blank—the dead camera on the front steps? A system status field assured him the system was armed, and next to it were two comforting green lights. Both remained steady. Satisfied, DeBolt turned into the home.
What he saw was not unexpected. Over-the-top furnishings, a living room with an old-world theme, fusty and manufactured, all of it incongruous against an open kitchen that was a veritable sea of stainless steel. Wood inlays did little to soften marble floors, and the walls were crammed with knockoff copies of Renaissance masters. At least, he thought they were knockoffs.
The air was stale and musty, and diffuse light came from transom windows over the closed curtains. Constellations of dust floated in the air. The place had clearly not been occupied for some time, instilling a funeral home pallor that compelled DeBolt to move quickly. In the back of his mind he imagined a judge reviewing a search warrant in New York—how quickly could such an order be acted upon?
A hardwood staircase beckoned, and DeBolt climbed to the second floor. On the upper landing he steered toward a room whose entrance was sided by two massive faux Roman columns. Predictably, he encountered the mas
ter suite. Far less expected was what he saw on the bed.
* * *
“I’m so sorry,” said General Karl Benefield, “I wish I had better news.”
He was addressing the complete staff of the Metadata Transfer and Analysis Project, thirteen somber faces, many of whom had been here for the entire first two years of what was to have been a five-year campaign. Each of them Benefield had cherry-picked from government and private industry—some of the best minds in computing and cyberspace. The general struck an imposing figure. He’d worn his Army combat uniform, with its digital camouflage pattern, thinking it would give him the most gravitas amid a herd of civilian techies. He spoke smoothly, and his swept silver hair—just within regulations—suggested a post-retirement corporate scion in the making.
“DARPA is facing devastating budget cuts, and META, in spite of its far-reaching potential, simply didn’t make the cut. All of you, of course, will be given priority in finding jobs within the agency, or assistance in returning to private industry. A few offers have already come across my desk, so rest assured, the talent in this room will find a home—I will see to it personally.
“In the coming days I’ll be meeting with each of you, one on one, to discuss specific opportunities and your desired career paths. That said, I must also impress upon you the continued need for secrecy, and remind you of the strict confidentiality agreements we all signed.”
This point, Benefield knew, was less important than he made it out to be. He had gone to extreme lengths to compartmentalize the project. The technicians here were only partially aware of META’s greater aims, having seen the same vague and sanitized PowerPoint briefing he’d given to their DOD and congressional overseers. Besides himself, only two people were aware of META’s more ambitious goal. And there, he knew, lay his greater problem.
One was the neurosurgeon, Dr. Abel Badenhorst, who led the clinical team in Maine. The other was the chief programmer, Atif Patel, PhD, who was currently attending a conference in Austria. Benefield knew he could never end those relationships so easily—both men were fully vested in the more complex mission. Each was also a brilliant scientist in his own right. But perhaps too brilliant.
There were a few questions from the crowd, which the general fielded ably and with as much compassion as he could manufacture. He then instructed everyone to remain in the building, explaining that a team would soon arrive to begin the out-processing paperwork. Benefield departed the building virtually unnoticed.
In his wake, the gossip began in earnest. Programmers and analysts milled about the place, and there were traces of grumbling, but more optimism—the general had been convincing, and most took the favorable view that their follow-on work would be every bit as groundbreaking and lucrative as what they’d found in the META Project. Someone discovered that a table with sandwiches and drinks had been set up in the break room, and the gathering that ensued was something between a going-away party and a wake.
It was a female programmer, part of the original cadre, who noticed it first.
“I smell smoke.”
A Caltech grad, one of the world’s leading experts on signal compression, said, “Look at the vent.”
All eyes went to a ceiling ventilation panel where wisps of white drifted through like amorphous hands.
The most clear-thinking person in the room was a female encryption specialist who pulled the fire alarm handle near the refrigerator. Nothing happened. No bells, no red lights. The smoke thickened and turned black, belching from ventilation grates and rolling through the hallway in a surging ebony wave.
“Everybody out!” someone yelled.
All thirteen ran to the nearest door, the front entrance at the portico. The double doors were made of high-tensile steel and fitted with sturdy electronic dead bolts, standard issue for a highly classified facility. The doors were firmly locked, and the emergency release handle seemed disconnected. In the ensuing panic the group split, half going to the rear loading dock, and the rest coughing and wheezing their way up to the stairwell roof access. Neither door could be budged.
It was then that the screaming began.
Flames licked in from the ductwork, and began climbing the eastern wall. By some unseen consensus, or perhaps through survival instinct, everyone ended back at the front door, the last few arriving on hands and knees as the smoke began to prevail. Soon thirteen panicked sets of fists were banging on the vaultlike steel doors.
Five minutes later the banging went to silence.
By that time Benefield was over a mile away, driving slowly through the front gate. He could see the smoke from where he was, yet there was no sign of first responders. The place was remote by design, and with all lines of communication either cut or jammed, the fire department wouldn’t arrive any time soon.
He disliked what he’d had to do, but there was the crux—he’d had to do it. Like successful commanders throughout history, he had no misgivings about sacrificing good men and women. Not when the military objective was so vital. Early in his career, during the First Gulf War, senior officers had put his life at risk. Against serious odds, and through some combination of training, tenacity, and good soldiering, Lieutenant Benefield had survived to become General Benefield. He doubted any of those behind him would be so obstinate.
So lost in thought was Benefield that the phone call didn’t register until the third ring.
He saw who it was, and answered by saying, “Any luck?”
“We have a location on the car.”
“Where?”
“Northern Maine, right on the Canadian border.”
“Do you think he’s trying to get out of the country?”
“I have no idea,” said the commander of the tactical team.
He was a good man, Benefield knew. The small Special Forces unit included operators from three different services, and was unique in its anonymity, as well as its charter—it was the only unit authorized to work domestically. That legal footing had never been tested, but as long as they did their job cleanly, without mistake, it wouldn’t have to be.
“How soon can you get there?” Benefield asked.
“Twenty-eight minutes.”
The general smiled. He liked that kind of precision.
“And the other mission?”
A hesitation—the first from the colonel. Then, “Yeah, we took care of it.”
“Trust me, Colonel. What you are doing is imperative for the security of our nation. It will change the future of warfare itself.”
“How can one guy be so important?”
Benefield let silence be his answer.
“Right,” said the team leader. “We’ll let you know when it’s all wrapped up.”
17
The man they were looking for was, at that moment, staring at two suitcases. They were lying on the bed in the master suite, their flaps unzipped and contents exposed. DeBolt’s first impression was that the bags had been packed in a hurry: clothing folded haphazardly, toiletries thrown on top. One suitcase overflowed with women’s blouses and bathing suits, everything light and airy, meant for the sun. The other held men’s shorts and shirts, a pair of sandals, and—the eye-opener—three bricks of cash that would fill a large shoe box.
Between the suitcases were two passports and a printout of the confirmation number for an airline reservation—Cayman Brac, tomorrow night. He thought again of a courtroom in New York where an arraignment was playing out. A defense attorney pleading for bail, explaining to the judge that his client was not a flight risk. DeBolt wished the judge could see this picture. He idly wondered if there was some way to provide it. Can I send information out as well as I can acquire it? He discarded the idea. This wasn’t his battle.
He looked around the bedroom and wondered if there was a camera somewhere. Perhaps counterintuitively, he hoped there was. Aside from a team of killers, no one on earth knew that Petty Officer Second Class Trey DeBolt was still alive. A few pictures would at least validate his survival to this
point. He picked up one of the stacks of cash and fanned through it. The bills were all hundreds, crisp and neatly bundled in fresh bank wrappers that belied their undoubtedly soiled provenance. In the closet he found an old backpack high on a shelf, and he requisitioned it and stuffed the money inside.
All of it.
He spent a few minutes rifling through drawers, no real idea what he was looking for. At some point, DeBolt knew he would need identification, yet Paul Thompson, as evidenced by his passport, was six inches shorter than DeBolt, dark haired, and balding severely. He looked at the other passport on the bed and was surprised to see not Lori Thompson’s document, but that of a young blond woman named Eva Markova.
Christ.
He was back in the Cadillac minutes later, the backpack on the seat beside him. He had considered locking the front door after leaving the house, but it occurred to him that his requests for information, so diligently answered, were likely getting logged somewhere. He knew enough about cyberspace to understand that flows of information could be tracked, and he wondered if he was leaving some kind of digital footprint. Did someone know where he was right now, what he was doing? Even what he was thinking? This last concept was particularly disturbing—the simple nakedness of having the window of one’s thoughts open to strangers.
Perhaps even recorded by them.
And kept forever.
* * *
He drove away from the scene of his most recent crime, and at the main road DeBolt turned toward the Calais Lodge. There was nothing left of the sun, only a lingering burn on the western horizon. He went through town once on the main drag, which didn’t take long, before settling on a destination and backtracking. He parked in the side lot of a chain pharmacy, hit the button near the steering column, and for the first time in seven hours the engine went silent. If it became necessary, DeBolt reckoned he could start the car as he had before. He was, however, increasingly worried that it might be used to track him—he wasn’t the only one in the world with access to information.
