by Ward Larsen
All the same, he would have to give Benefield something tonight. He found a pad of hotel stationery on the desk, and on it he scrawled an impressive-looking series of commands, followed by a ridiculous thirty-character alphanumeric sequence—special characters included—that might someday be decoded for what it was: a simple anagram of “3decimal141GOCALTECHBEAVERS!!!.” Scrambled randomly, it looked convoluted and imposing, but of course was completely useless. Yet it would buy Patel just a little more time.
Enough time to finalize the true core of the META Project.
26
Lund was exhausted after the red-eye flight, and realizing she could do nothing but wait for DeBolt’s call—if he called at all—she decided to find a hotel room and get some sleep. Her only baggage was a small roller bag she’d carried on, so from the gate area she followed signs to the only on-property hotel, the airport Hilton. She wandered into the expansive lobby, went to the front desk, and secured a room for one night at an exorbitant price. Lund hoped DeBolt called soon, because this wasn’t the vacation she’d been saving for.
After she received a key, her attention was drawn to an exercise room at the far end of the lobby. Behind a set of glass doors she saw rows of treadmills and elliptical machines, and she walked closer to get a better look. Lund thought, Maybe later, and turned around to find the elevators. She nearly ran into Trey DeBolt.
“Hi, Shannon.”
Lund took an involuntary step back and tried to right her capsized thoughts. “Trey … it’s good to see you.” She looked him up and down, and thought he seemed in decent shape. Far better, at least, than when he’d left Kodiak.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Tired. How are you?”
“Given my circumstances … could be a lot worse.”
“I’m glad you decided to come—but I never called. How did you find me so fast?”
“That,” he said, casting his eyes around the lobby, “is something we should talk about. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
* * *
They went for a walk, ending at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Terminal E. DeBolt ordered two large coffees, and Lund noticed that he paid with a fresh hundred-dollar bill. At the cream and sugar stand she took a splash of half-and-half and shunned her usual two packets of sugar. They found a table and settled in while travelers rushed through the corridors behind them.
Sitting across from the not-so-late Trey DeBolt, Lund amended her standing assessment. He seemed in good shape physically, but there was something different about him now. This wasn’t the DeBolt she knew from the Golden Anchor, a carefree young man with an easy manner and an engaging smile. She sensed some great weight on his shoulders now, a burden that subdued his affable nature and made him seem older.
“I need to convince you of something, Shannon, but I can’t just come out and say it. You’d never believe me—nobody in their right mind would. I think a demonstration would be better.”
Lund’s eyes narrowed as if she was expecting some kind of magic trick.
“You came in on Alaska Airlines Flight 435, sat in row fourteen, seat C.”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“The middle seat was empty, but the guy on the window was named Garland Travis, sixty-one years old. He’s from Texas, recruits people to work on oil rigs up in Alaska.”
She took a deliberate sip of her coffee, enjoying the rich scent as much as the taste, and tried to guess where he was going with this little game. Lund was good at what she did, a professional when it came to managing interviews so that witnesses and suspects ended up in the arenas where she wanted them. She knew how to mete out facts, while retaining enough information to verify responses. It was the game all law enforcement officers played. Yet DeBolt had no such background, and the tenor of his voice, the urgency in his gaze, convinced her that whatever he was up to, it was no attempt to manipulate. She felt more like a priest holding confessional.
She said, “We didn’t talk much. But yes, his name was Garland, and anybody with a name like that has got to be from Texas. He never told me what he did because he slept most of the flight. What are you getting at, Trey?”
“Bear with me. You were born in … no, that’s too easy. You were born at 7:47 in the morning. Your mom’s name was Beth, your dad’s Charles. The name on your birth certificate is Ruth Shannon Lund, but Ruth never stuck, and in 2001 you had the order of the first and middle names legally reversed.”
“Look,” she said, “you’re right, but anybody could find out—”
“Your adjusted gross income last year was $82,612, twelve thousand of that from an annuity. You canceled your Netflix account last week, and your most recent phone bill was $109.63.” Lund went very still. Her phone was on the table, and he picked it up and selected the calculator app, then gave it to her. “Give me a random number, something over a thousand.”
“Trey, this is—”
“Please.”
She sighed with forced patience, or perhaps to hide the trace of unease that was building. “Five thousand six hundred and seven.”
In an instant, he said, “The square root is 74.879903. Check it.”
He repeated his answer and Lund multiplied it out. He was dead-on—six places to the right of the decimal. “So … what are you telling me? That you’re a savant of some kind?”
He chuckled humorlessly, then gave her an appraising look. “When I called you yesterday you were at the Safeway in Kodiak. You didn’t buy anything when you left.”
That did it. Lund felt a chill go down her spine. “What the hell? How could you know that?”
“Look at the street behind me. Pick out a car or a van, any vehicle. Give me a license plate number and the state.”
She almost protested, but the resolute look on DeBolt’s face didn’t allow it. She supposed it was the same expression he wore when he jumped into the Bering Sea to rescue foundering shipwreck victims. Sheer determination. She looked outside and saw a road packed with options. There was no way he could see the cars given how he was positioned.
“Maine plate 4TC788.”
A distinct hesitation, then, “Yellow cab, Dodge minivan.”
“Guess that was too easy.”
“Cab number is AY3R.”
An increasingly unnerved Lund checked the numbers on the roof. AY3R. She didn’t tell him he was right, but the expression on her face must have done it. Her hands were beginning to fidget, and she fought back by stirring her coffee with a plastic stick.
“Here’s an even better one,” he said, “I figured out I could do this while I was waiting for you this morning.” He pointed toward the crowds. “Pick out a person, anybody except a kid.”
“Why?” she said tautly.
“Oh, you’re gonna like this. But you will have to check my work.”
There were more than a hundred people in sight. She pointed out a man standing in a nearby line with a briefcase in his hand. DeBolt seemed to study him for a time, then thirty seconds later, he said, “His name is Roger Pendergast. He works for an accounting firm in Chicago—Smyth, Carling, and Waters. Forty-one years old, wife and two kids. His address is 1789 Townsend Hill Road in Elmhurst.”
Lund stared at him as if he were crazy.
“Go and ask him. Smyth, Carling, and Waters.” There was not a trace of humor in DeBolt’s voice. Only conviction.
She got up tentatively and walked toward the man. Lund was a few steps away when she saw a tag on his roller bag. Roger Pendergast. 1789 Townsend Hill Road. Elmhurst, IL. Her mind began to reel. She turned toward DeBolt, looked at him, and wondered what he saw in her expression. Confusion? Fear? He made a shooing motion for her to carry on.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The man turned.
“I think we might have met. Do you work for an accounting firm?”
A rather plain-looking man, Roger Pendergast beamed. He was clearly not used to being recognized in a crowd. “That’s right—Smyth, Carling in Chicago. And you?�
�
“Oh … no, I … I’m from up in Alaska.”
He gave her an odd look, and Lund retreated to the table. Not knowing what to say, she sat in silence.
DeBolt said, “Facial recognition, I guess. I’m not sure how it works—but so far it’s been dead-on. I can—”
“Stop it!” she insisted. Lund groped for an argument of some kind. “I don’t know what kind of parlor tricks you’re playing, but I don’t like them.”
DeBolt was quiet for a moment, introspective. “I wish it were a trick, Shannon. Really I do.” He pulled his chair around the table, closer to hers, and said, “Let me show you one last thing—I think it will convince you.” He turned his head, and with a hand he raked his hair upward. She saw terrible scars on the base of his skull.
“My God! Trey … is that from the accident?”
“No. I had a severe concussion, some internal bleeding. My shoulder was messed up, and there were a few lacerations. But I had only minor cuts on my scalp from the accident. The scars you’re looking at are from the surgery that came later. The surgery that enabled me to do all these crazy things.”
He pulled away and sipped his coffee, his eyes going distant. He was giving her time to think it through. Hurried travelers swept past, purposeful and quick, oblivious to the distracted young couple drinking coffee. A recorded announcement looped on the public-address system, something about security and having a nice day.
She finally said, “I don’t understand. What exactly have they done to you?”
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know. But I need to find out … and it would be really nice to have some help.”
27
They began their quest from Lund’s room, which was more comfortable, and certainly more secure, than an airport donut shop. It was standard-issue: two beds, one television, and a desk near a tiny sitting area. Everything was clean and gray and soulless—a road warrior’s bunker. It was exactly what they both needed.
He spent nearly an hour explaining what he’d been through since leaving Cape Split. Lund allowed him to talk with minimal interruption, holding her questions until the end.
She said, “Tell me how this thing works. How do you manage it?”
“There’s a screen in my right eye, embedded in my field of vision. I concentrate on words, phrases, and they appear on the screen. It’s hard to explain, but I’m getting better at it.”
“The facial recognition—how did you do that?”
“I can capture images, almost like snapshots, and upload them. I don’t always get an answer, and it doesn’t work on kids, probably because their faces aren’t in whatever database I’m drawing from.”
“Where do you think this is all sourced?”
“I have no idea—that’s one of the things I’ve been trying to figure out. I have noticed that I lose my connection every now and again—in rural areas mostly, just like a cell phone. Even when I have a good connection, certain responses come more quickly than others. Sometimes I get no information at all. I managed to get a plot on where Joan Chandler’s phone had been in recent weeks, but it took half a day to arrive. It all makes sense, I guess. Every information source has its limitations, and plowing through data takes time.”
“But you can get information on license plates and income taxes—that could only come from our government.”
“Probably.”
“FBI, DOD, CIA,” she said, thinking out loud. “It has to be some three-letter agency.”
“Maybe all of them. Right now, the most frustrating thing is that I don’t even know what I’m capable of. I’m constantly stumbling onto new ways to use it, angles I’d never thought of.”
“This is mind-numbing, Trey.” She strolled to the fifth-floor window and looked outside blankly, trying to grasp the scope of what he was telling her. “Imagine the things you could do. Access to any electronic file. Do you realize how powerful that could be?”
“Gets you thinking, doesn’t it? But honestly, at the moment … it doesn’t feel powerful at all. It seems like a burden. And I’m sure it’s the reason I’ve been targeted.”
“The clinic you told me about, the one that burned down—do you think that’s where the surgery was performed?”
“It’s a only a guess, but Joan Chandler was a surgical nurse. And like I said, I got a track on her phone. She went to that clinic almost every day in the weeks before and after my accident.”
“But then she took you to her cabin after the surgery. Why would she do that?”
“She never said, but I don’t think anyone else knew I was there. I think I was given up for dead at the clinic. Joan might even have made it look that way. One of the few things I recall from the hospital was her administering a shot. I’ve never felt so cold…” His voice drifted away for a time. Lund said nothing, and he eventually finished the thought. “She somehow transferred me to her place to recover. I think she did it all secretly, without anyone else at the clinic realizing I was still alive.”
“So she rescued you.”
“I think so.”
Lund pondered it all. “When this clinic burned down, were there any casualties?”
“Five fatalities according to the fire chief I talked to.”
“Then there must be an ongoing investigation. That’s something I can work with.”
“How? I mean, no offense, but why would CGIS Kodiak be interested in an arson in Maine?”
“I’ve already talked to a detective in Washington County about you. I have contacts in the other Washington as well.”
He sat on the bed, and she eyed the wound on his leg. “I should have a look at that. It’s a gunshot wound?”
“I can’t say for sure, but yeah, probably. It happened that night on the beach … there were a lot of bullets flying.”
She kneeled for a closer look. “It seems to be healing, but it’s pretty deep. I could take you to a clinic or a hospital.”
“Out of the question. If it is a gunshot wound it would have to be reported to the police, right?”
Lund nodded.
“Until I know who’s after me, I can’t take that risk. And besides, just to sign in at a hospital you need insurance information and an ID. I don’t have any of that … not anymore.”
DeBolt retrieved bandages and antibiotic ointment from the pocket of a light jacket, all bought at Walmart yesterday. She cleaned and dressed the wound, and as she did, he said, “Now that you know my situation, I have to ask—are you sure you’re up for this? There are people hunting me. They’ve found me twice, and there’s a good chance they’ll find me again.”
“I’m up for it,” she said without hesitation. “You really have no idea who they are?”
“All I can say for sure is that they were driving a Chevy Tahoe with DOD plates.”
“I don’t get that,” she said. “The Department of Defense doesn’t send out kill squads, and certainly not on home field. Maybe if you were a terrorist, and they thought an attack was imminent … but you don’t fit that bill.”
“Neither did Joan Chandler, but they gunned her down in cold blood. I saw it with my own eyes. And if our government is involved, then going to the police or the FBI isn’t an option. All I could tell them is what I’m telling you. Chances are, they’d put me in a straitjacket and hand me over to the very people I’m worried about.”
She finished the dressing and stood. “All right … if there’s DOD involvement, then that’s where we start looking.”
“How?”
“You do whatever it is you do, and I’ll search the old-fashioned way—my laptop, maybe a few phone calls.”
Lund saw him smile for the first time since the Golden Anchor. “Old-fashioned?” he said. “Cell phones and laptops?”
“In light of what you can do,” she said, smiling in return, “I think maybe so. Think about it, Trey. Where was the world with connectivity when you and I were kids? Dial-up modems have gone to smartphones and beyond. What you can do now—i
t’s the next logical step. Miniaturize, create a direct interface to the brain. I never thought I’d see anything like it in my lifetime … but here you are.”
“I suppose you’re right. Technically, it’s not that far beyond what already exists.”
“Not far at all.”
“I feel like some kind of science experiment—only I wasn’t exactly a volunteer.” His humor dissipated as quickly as it had come.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I remembered something else. When I saw my medical records there were annotations next to my name in two places. It said ‘META Project,’ and below that, ‘Option Bravo.’”
“Next to your name?”
“Yeah. Like … like I was Option Bravo in some kind of experimental project.”
She blew out a humorless laugh. “Right. Trey DeBolt … Plan B.”
* * *
Dinner the second night was earlier, Benefield choosing on the very un-Continental hour of half past six. The general insisted on driving, and he arrived at the Hilton behind the wheel of a rented Land Rover. The two exchanged a perfunctory greeting, and Patel was happy when Benefield did not ask immediately for the codes. He had far more weighty issues on his mind.
With a distinct tremor in his voice, he said, “I saw a news article today about our facility in Virginia burning to the ground. It was difficult to see the names of the victims. So many of them were my friends.”
Benefield looked somberly at Patel and nodded. “A terrible tragedy. One of the FBI investigators called me this morning. He asked for information about the project.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What we tell everyone—that it is a highly classified effort to achieve breakthroughs in information technology. He’ll spin his wheels for a time, but given the level of secrecy we enjoy, not to mention the ambiguous nature of our stated goals—he’ll only hit a brick wall. I should have given him your number, let you inflict your briefing on META’s system architecture—the man would have fallen sound asleep, just like that senator from the Select Committee on Intelligence.”
A humorless Patel looked out the window. “What about the surgical unit in Maine?”
