by Ward Larsen
His name was Delta.
30
DeBolt woke shortly after sunrise the next morning, and the first thing he saw was Lund. She was sleeping peacefully on the other double bed, curled on her side under the cover. He couldn’t see her face, but he found himself imagining it. It was a good face, regular features and clear eyes. Not a woman who endured life, but one who reveled in it. DeBolt was glad for that, because he knew it might have been different.
He’d discovered it yesterday, in the course of researching Lund. He’d been looking for ammunition, details on her background to convince her of his new aptitudes—on the face of it, no different from Googling a prospective employer or a blind date. Unfortunately, his newfound methods were unavoidably invasive, and in the course of his search DeBolt had come across something unexpected. The kind of thing that, once learned, could never be unlearned. Old court records from an incident in California. Was that the reason she’d spent seven years in Kodiak? Had she been trying to run away from her troubles?
Isn’t that what I’m doing right now?
His chain of thoughts was broken when Lund rolled over. She stirred, but didn’t wake. Shafts of light leaned in through gaps in the curtains, and DeBolt wished he could flick some kind of switch and take back the darkness. He had again slept roughly, and felt fatigue setting in. Not wanting to disturb Lund, not wanting to alter her stillness in any way, he closed his eyes.
It was no use—rest was impossible as one inexorable thought presided. He tried for the hundredth time to upload the question: Information on META Project.
A minute passed.
Two.
Nothing came.
He remembered the delay when he’d run Joan Chandler’s phone record—that information had come after ten hours. Might some river of answers regarding META eventually cascade into his head? He thought not. He had tried every variation he could think of: META, DARPA. META, DOD. META Project, research. Every time he drew a blank. Information on the project, whoever and whatever it involved, seemed sequestered in some impenetrable place, a cyber lockbox of sorts. As he lay still the room’s heater kicked off, and in the heightened silence DeBolt again noticed a slight buzzing sensation in one ear.
Did it mean something? Or was it only the beginning of tinnitus or some other common malady? He imagined that would become a recurring question. Is this new pain the beginning of a simple headache, or has a capacitor detached in my cerebral cortex?
It was the kind of question endured by no other person on earth.
* * *
“Good morning.” Lund’s voice, relaxed and drowsy.
DeBolt blinked his eyes open. He looked at her and grinned.
“You didn’t sleep well,” she said.
“The fact that you know tells me you didn’t either. I guess we both have a lot on our minds.”
“I’m trying to figure out if that’s a pun,” she said, adding a smile of her own.
“Only in my case.”
They ordered room service, two full breakfast plates and a pot of coffee. They ate at the tiny coffee table, Lund in a cotton pullover, DeBolt in the clothes he’d arrived in. They talked about Kodiak and the Coast Guard until the pot went dry.
Lund picked up the phone and ordered a refill. She hung up, and said, “Tell me more about how you make this thing work. How do you interface with META?”
“It’s hard to describe. There was some awkwardness at first—still is, I suppose. Each day I learn new things, new functions. This visual display in my field of view, I guess it’s something like Google Glass, the optic device, only embedded in my right eye. The rest, the circuits and wiring—judging by my scars, I’d say it was all surgically implanted.”
She looked at him with concern. “That’s got to be unnerving, knowing you were put through such extensive surgery. But it raises some good questions. First of all, I see profound ethical and legal issues in what was done to you. That makes META an exceedingly risky proposition for whoever’s behind it. Then there are more practical matters—someone spent a lot of time and money to make this happen. There must have been research done beforehand, a surgical team with equipment and support. The flight that took you from Maine to Alaska. None of that comes cheap.”
DeBolt watched her face contort as she hashed through it.
“Yet if somebody went to all that trouble,” Lund continued, “it seems strange that you could end up alone in the cottage with that nurse.”
Two words rose in DeBolt’s mind. Option Bravo. He pushed it away, and said, “I’ve been giving that some thought. What if I was never expected to survive the surgery, but by some miracle I did? Maybe there was no contingency plan for that. It’s possible they told Joan Chandler to pull the plug on me, and she decided she couldn’t do it. Like you said—there are some serious moral dilemmas involved. I think maybe she took it upon herself to rescue me.”
“Did she ever imply anything like that?”
“Not directly. But I can tell you she had issues of her own. She had her demons.”
Lund seemed to consider it, then moved on by saying, “All right. So where do we go from here?”
“I have to ask again, Shannon—are you sure you want to get involved? Those men are still out there. I wouldn’t think less of you if you took the next flight back to Alaska.”
She met his gaze.
“Okay … maybe a little less. But I’d understand.”
“You know I’m not going anywhere.”
He nodded.
Lund said, “There has to be a record of META somewhere. We’re just not looking in the right places.”
He pulled back the curtain and, much as he’d done in Calais, studied the scene outside. Bigger parking lot, busier road, a bustling port in the distance. The hotel’s row of flags—United States, Massachusetts, and Hilton in rank order—all snapped sharply in an unyielding autumn breeze. The sky had gone to gray, the next storm approaching.
“Fresh air?” he suggested.
“Fresh air.”
* * *
Lund dressed quickly, warmly, and they passed through the lobby entrance to take up the same path they’d walked last night. The morning air was cool and clean. A small crowd was gathered at a nearby municipal bus stop, and a pair of groundskeepers were trimming back the hotel’s sculpted hedges for the winter. In the distance DeBolt saw the same air and road traffic they’d seen yesterday, as hurried and raucous as ever. He ignored it all and set his eyes on Lund.
She caught him looking. “What?”
“I was thinking you’re attractive.”
“No I’m not. I’m plain.”
He burst out in an easy laugh. “Not for you to say.”
“Honestly—I’ve let myself go a little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. People do sometimes.”
“Have you given up on men?”
“Is it that ob—” She stopped in midsentence. Lund grabbed DeBolt’s arm and twisted him to a stop. She pinned him with an accusing stare. “You know, don’t you?”
He frowned, knowing exactly what she meant. After a long and uncomfortable silence, he said, “I didn’t go looking for it, Shannon … but yes. I know you filed a restraining order against the guy you were living with in San Diego. Domestic battery charges were filed against him at about the same time, but they were eventually dropped because the anonymous victim left town and refused to pursue it.”
Her gaze dropped to the gravel path.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I made a lousy choice—he was a loser.”
“Definitely. But … I mean, I’m sorry I found out. It was none of my business. I search for information on people without knowing what I’m going to get. I don’t understand how this thing in my head works. I’ve never had any kind of class or tutorial—everything is trial and error.”
They began walking again, and both were quiet. A cool gust brought a clatter of cords clapping against the nearby flagpoles. She finall
y asked, “Are you doing it now?”
“What?”
“Getting information on me?”
He saw a slight grin, so he knew she’d gotten past his transgression. “No.” Then he laughed, and said, “Damn—it’s gonna be impossible to date again with this thing.”
“Is this your idea of a date?”
He cocked his head to one side. “I see your point. Running from a squad of assassins isn’t exactly dinner and a movie. But for the time being … let’s just say I’m practicing. How am I doing so far?”
“Terrible.”
“Would it help if I mentioned that I liked you the first time we met in Kodiak?”
“You never asked for my number,” she said.
“I gave you mine,” he countered.
“I was interviewing you as a witness. I had to be able to get back in touch for follow-ups.”
“See? You had an easy excuse to call me, but you never did.” He studied her more closely. The breeze caught strands of her short brown hair and swept them across her face. DeBolt thought she seemed a contradiction, delicate features that were somehow serious and resolute. Fragile yet unbreakable. He wondered if her defenses were still in place, a drawn-out response to what had happened in San Diego.
Lund said, “I think I mentioned it, but a couple of days ago I went to your apartment in Kodiak.”
“Why?”
“I was investigating.”
“Did I leave anything embarrassing laying around?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her, more curious than worried. She was grinning again.
“You have a wicked sense of humor.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll bet you’re a good detective.”
“Usually.”
“I’m glad you didn’t see my first apartment in Kodiak—it was a room above a crabber’s garage.”
“Sound lovely. Sorry I missed it.” She pulled out her Marlboros, offered him one.
He shook his head. “Ask me again in a year.”
“Over a few beers?”
“Maybe so.”
She seemed to reconsider, then put the cigarettes back in her pocket without taking one herself.
“Am I a good influence?” he asked.
“Hardly.”
So engaged were DeBolt and Lund in one another, they never noticed the two groundskeepers. Both had edged considerably closer in the last sixty seconds. Nor did they realize that their work van, with its rakes and ladders on the roof, had moved nearer on the service road.
The two men closed the final few yards with lightning speed.
Lund shrieked in surprise when one of them seized her from behind.
DeBolt had barely raised his arms to resist when two electrodes penetrated his shirt, followed milliseconds later by two thousand volts.
31
DeBolt woke with a start. His body convulsed once, then settled to an aching stillness. He opened his eyes but saw nothing. His senses came back, seemingly one at a time, like a bank of light switches flipped on one after another. Sight … sound … smell … touch. It was the touch that explained why the others were impaired—a hood over his head. It was made from a material that was coarse and scratchy, probably tailored with the very intent of being an irritant.
Lying on a cold floor, he writhed up to a sitting position. It was no simple feat—his hands and ankles were bound, probably tighter than necessary. A virtual silence told DeBolt he was inside, no traffic noise or seagulls crying. The smell was correspondingly indoors, stale and musty, the air unmoving. He soon discerned voices—not far away, but muted as if coming through a wall. A discussion in the next room. No, an argument, but absent any bladed tones of anger. A measured disagreement. DeBolt strained to extract words, but only a few registered.
General.
Headquarters.
Abort.
Then long minutes of silence intervened until a nearby door opened, never-lubricated hinges squealing in protest. Heavy footsteps came close, then paused in front of him.
“Get up.”
DeBolt twisted, found a wall behind him for balance. He wrenched himself up through aches and stiffened joints until he was standing tall. “Who are you?” he asked.
No reply.
DeBolt saw nothing to lose in trying again. “Where is my friend?”
“You have no friends. Not anymore.”
All at once DeBolt recognized the voice. The Calais Lodge, the man whose arm he’d clubbed as he reached for a gun.
DeBolt stumbled over this thought, sensing an odd disconnect. What was it? He had recognized the man’s voice. But why did that seem so important? There was no accent to speak of. The tone was rough edged. Educated, but not in a private school way. Then he understood—the voice itself. It was something he could use and leverage. Something to concentrate on. He framed his next thought carefully, in the way that was becoming second nature: Voice recognition.
No response. He racked his altered brain, then: Voiceprint capability.
STANDBY
VOICEPRINT ENABLED
CUE ON COMMAND “START”
“What do you want from me?” DeBolt asked.
“You can begin with your name.”
DeBolt nearly did, but instead said, “If you tell me why you’ve been chasing me it might help us both make sense of things.” He gave the command: Start!
VOICEPRINT INITIATED
“You made some good moves, I’ll give you that. First on the beach, then later in Calais. We weren’t going to lose you a third time.”
“I don’t understand. Who do you work for?” DeBolt asked.
“Not germane—not for you anyway.”
“My friend?”
“We have her as well. She’s safe. But how did Miss Lund get involved in this? I really need to know that. Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Then what is she doing here?”
DeBolt was working up a reply, something to keep the man talking, when the door squeaked open a second time. A new voice said, “Important call, sir.”
DeBolt said, “Let’s talk about how she—” A slap on his cheek surprised him, cutting off his words. “Hold that thought,” the man said. “I’ll be right back.”
The man with the sore arm walked away. The door closed.
DeBolt stood in silence, wondering if he had enough. Wondering if it would even work. If not, he would simply have to find another way. He closed his eyes inside the black hood and saw:
VOICEPRINT VALIDATED AND QUEUED. AWAITING CONNECTION.
No connection? No … not now.
DeBolt tried the most basic command he could think of: Own location.
No response.
His frustration mounted. He had actually captured a sample of the man’s voice. But he couldn’t do anything with it.
* * *
The call had come two hours ago to the late General Benefield’s cell phone. Patel only saw it when he returned to his room from the conference—he had decided not to take the phone with him. The message was succinct, in the way military men preferred their communications.
BRAVO IN CUSTODY. WOMAN OBSERVED WITH HIM IS LEO—COAST GUARD INVESTIGATOR SHANNON LUND FROM KODIAK. NO INFORMATION ON ANY CURRENT COAST GUARD INVESTIGATION. POSSIBLE PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP. BOTH BEING HELD U.S. CUSTOMS DETENTION FACILITY BOSTON. ADVISE HOW TO PROCEED.
Patel sat on the bed, stunned. Bravo? Bravo was reported to have succumbed to his surgery. Patel knew Benefield had organized a tactical team—they had been tasked to eliminate every trace of META. He’d feigned surprise when the general had brought it all up at dinner: the facilities in Maine and Virginia, whisperings of a nurse who’d disappeared. Patel knew full well the general was cleaning house—it was why he himself had been on guard.
But Bravo still alive?
He tried to make sense of the rest of the message. LEO. Law enforcement officer? Yes, that had to be it. The team had her in custody, and suspected tha
t Bravo might be involved with her. A Coast Guard investigator from Kodiak. Why couldn’t he have hit on a nice preschool teacher? Patel thought sourly.
The officer in charge of the tactical team was still sending messages, so obviously he had not yet been informed of his commander’s demise. That would change soon. Probably very soon. Patel weighed sending a response in Benefield’s stead, but saw a host of problems with the idea. Indeed, he admonished himself for even bringing the phone to his room—he of all people knew how dangerous that could be. That settled, he knew what had to be done.
Patel removed the SIM card from the phone, then the battery. Taking the elevator downstairs, he walked to the river on a casual stroll, and at intervals sent each of the three pieces spinning into a Donaukanal whose surface was speckled with rain. Is it ever pleasant here?
He kept walking, and eventually found shelter beneath a concert pavilion that looked like it hadn’t been used since the distant summer. Patel took out his own phone and saw two new emails, one from China and another from Russia. He ignored them for the moment, and dialed a number from memory.
Delta answered. Which was no answer at all. Patel could hear his breathing on the microphone, and in the background a boarding announcement for a departing flight. But of course it was him. That was an equation of logic Patel had long ago derived—when Delta answered there was never a greeting. And if the man’s phone was ever lost or stolen? Any other person would say “hello,” or its equivalent in another language. By his very silence, Delta’s greeting was unique.
His exhalations were steady, controlled as ever. Awaiting instructions.
“I have an amendment to your mission.” Patel explained what he wanted done. Of course there was no argument. “If you have questions, text me, either now or after you land.”
Patel rang off, then watched his screen.
A text: Who are these extras?
Patel: Involved in META Project. They will be the last—then we are in the clear.
Delta: And when I am done?
Patel: Return to Austria. I will contact you.
Patel waited. There was nothing else.
