by Ward Larsen
He watched the man jab a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the TSA security area. His flight was scheduled to depart in fifty minutes. DeBolt’s interest peaked when the man pulled a passport and what looked like an airline boarding pass from a pocket of the roller bag he’d been dragging. He slid one inside the other, and tucked them into the breast pocket of his casual jacket—dark in color, but otherwise similar to the one DeBolt was wearing.
A plan began to take shape, and DeBolt sent two new commands: Mobile phone numbers for Ronald Anderson, Marta Kaminski.
As he waited for a response, it occurred to him that there were certainly dozens, if not hundreds, of people with the same names—just as any Google search would produce multiple Trey DeBolts. Yet moments ago he’d been gathering information on these specific individuals, and he suspected it would carry forward—the software or technician doing the heavy lifting, whoever and wherever they were, would make the association. Slowly, painstakingly, he was learning how META worked.
Two phone numbers arrived. He touched the burner phone inside his pocket, calculating how to create the geometry he wanted. More critically, how to do it without raising complications on the other side of the Atlantic. DeBolt needed Ronald Anderson’s passport. He needed him to miss his flight, and not realize his passport had been stolen. Or …
DeBolt left his phone in his pocket and checked the terminal clock. He input a third command tentatively, not sure if it was even possible: Capture 555-321-5728 at 5:02 Eastern Standard Time.
As he waited, DeBolt saw the provisional lovers lock in a long kiss. A parting kiss. Come on …
Then:
555-321-5728 FOUND
DATA AND MOBILE DISCONNECT SET 5:02 EST
PROXY ENABLED
Marta Kaminski turned away and walked toward the exit, her extraordinarily round behind the center of Ronald Anderson’s world. She did so unaware that in precisely two minutes her phone would be hijacked.
43
Lund had spent the entire day, and most of the previous night, at the St. Elizabeths campus, headquarters of the United States Coast Guard. Until now she’d known the place as no more than an address for emails and a hub for conference calls. Like most Coast Guardsmen, she’d never actually set foot inside. She was glad the complex was situated where it was, physically removed from the Pentagon and the greater D.C. establishment. Until she learned what she and DeBolt were up against, or more precisely who, she was determined to tread carefully.
Unfortunately, as was often the case, treading carefully produced nothing. Lund had one close friend in the building, Lieutenant Commander Sarah Wells, whom she’d worked with in San Diego. Wells had made the move to headquarters six months ago, and was happy to help Lund when she’d shown up this morning. That was nine hours ago, and Wells had been sidestepping meetings all day to help Lund mine information.
“I’m sorry, Shannon,” Wells said, looking over the latest search results on her desktop monitor, “but I’m just not seeing anything on this META Project. If it exists, it’s got to be black, something really deep. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Lund replied, “actually it might. What about my suspect, the guy who flew into Kodiak?”
“Douglas Wilson of Missoula, Montana. I tried to pull up the airline manifests for that day, like Petty Officer Kalata did. Problem is, the records seem to have fallen out of the system. I even double-checked with Homeland Security. Nobody can find them.”
“But they were there—Jim found them. And he tracked down that picture I gave you this morning.”
“I know. I’ve never seen data disappear like that—but for whatever reason, it’s gone. I uploaded the photo and searched for a match, but it came up blank. Either the resolution wasn’t good enough, or there simply wasn’t a match on file. Wish I could be more help. Did you get anything more on this case up in Boston?”
While Wells had attacked the issues of META and Douglas Wilson, an increasingly distressed Lund had followed up on the murders.
“I know five men were killed in a house in Watertown. The initial reports filed by the investigators don’t ask for help in identifying victims, which tells me they know who they are. Unfortunately, the names haven’t been released, not even through law enforcement channels.”
“Is there a particular name you’re looking for?”
Actually one I’m hoping isn’t on the list, thought Lund. She said, “Well … maybe this Douglas Wilson guy.” She shuffled through a report she’d printed out. “I’d like your opinion on something, Sarah. The primary point of contact here is an Army CID special agent with an address in Boston.”
“Army? I thought the FBI was running it.”
“So did I. Last night I saw FBI-jacketed investigators on the news. Could the Army have taken this over—booted the feds off the case?”
“Not an easy thing to do, but I guess it’s possible. Let see if Army CID has put anything out.” Wells banged away at her computer. The results didn’t take long. “Voilà! Not much else, but they did put out a list of the victims.”
Lund inhaled sharply as Wells rotated the monitor to give her a better look. One by one she read off five names and ranks. Two Army, two Navy, one Air Force. None named Trey DeBolt.
“You all right?” Wells asked. “You look, like, a little pale.”
“Yeah … I’m good. I had a long night.”
Wells got up. “Well, sorry, but I’ve got to get to a staff meeting. If you’re still around in the morning we can have another go at this. Maybe the Army will have put out a progress report by then.”
“Yeah, okay. And thanks for your help, Sarah, I really appreciate it.”
The two shook hands in the hall outside Wells’ office. Lund walked toward the exit wondering where to go from here. There was no doubt in her mind that the house in Boston was the one where she’d been held yesterday. Learning that Trey was not among the victims was an incredible relief, and the idea that he could have been responsible for the carnage didn’t warrant consideration. So what had happened then? Had a different group of commandos arrived? Was a competing service or another country involved? Could Trey have fallen into someone else’s hands? Whatever the case, she knew it had to do with META.
Lund had just reached the main entrance when her phone trilled. She looked at the screen hoping to see the number she’d seen last night—Trey’s burner phone. It was different. But maybe the next best thing.
“Hi, Jim. Did you find—”
“You bitch! You cheating, lying—”
Lund jerked the phone away from her ear, both the words and volume ringing in her head. She said to the distant microphone, “Who … who is this?”
She heard a rattle over the line, like the phone was getting jostled, followed by a hushed conversation. A new voice came on the line, one she recognized immediately. “Shannon … it’s Frank Detorie. Look, I’m sorry about that—”
“Who was that?” Lund cut in. “And why is she calling me on Jim’s phone?”
A hesitation. “It was his wife, Shannon. We’re at the morgue, and she got hold of Jim’s phone and—”
“Morgue? Why are you at the morgue?”
An even longer pause, then in a muted tone, “I brought her here to identify Jim’s body.”
Lund felt as though she’d taken a punch, the air expelling from her chest. “What happened?”
“I wish I didn’t have to tell you this way. His wife found his damned phone among his possessions, and she saw a string of texts that—”
“Texts? Frank, what the hell happened?”
“Hang on.” She heard more hushed conversation. Soon it turned heated, and at the end she caught, “… you need to wait outside!” Detorie came back on the line. “Jim was killed this morning, Shannon.”
Lund leaned into the portico’s concrete-block wall.
“I can only say enough to make you understand the situation I’m facing. Jim Kalata was found in your apartment.”
“My apartment?”
“Actually, he was in your bed, naked. His neck was broken, and there was a very clean gunshot wound to his forehead.”
Lund felt suddenly cold, as though the tendrils of something distant and unnatural were wrapping around her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
Detorie covered her silence with, “Your service firearm was found on the floor next to the bed. We’re still securing the scene, so there’s been no time for ballistics or anything like that, but one round appears to have been fired from your gun.”
“Frank,” she managed, “if you’re implying—”
“No, Shannon. I know you didn’t do this. You were in D.C. last night when this happened. Half the damned night shift at Coast Guard headquarters can put you there.”
“So you’ve already checked on that.”
“Just like you would have done. But I’ve got to tell you, your commander in Seattle, Special Agent in Charge Wheeley, is more than a little upset. He had no idea you were on leave or TDY, or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”
“Texts,” she said, starting to regain function.
“What?”
“Texts. You said his phone had a string of texts, something that upset his wife.”
“I can’t go into that,” said Detorie.
“You don’t have to. She called me a cheating bitch. Clear enough. But I’m telling you right now that there was nothing between Jim Kalata and me.”
“If that’s what you say, I believe it. But I need you to tell me these things officially and on the record. I need you to get back here right away and clear this up. Your commander sent out the word—I’m surprised CGIS hasn’t already shown up to escort you to the airport. Wheeley is on his way up from Seattle as we speak to oversee things—Kodiak CGIS is pretty much staffed at zero right now. Come back and we’ll straighten everything out. This happened off station, so it’s my turf. You know I’ll do right by you.”
“Yeah … I know, Frank. Thanks. I’ll head to the airport right now.”
Lund ended the call, but she didn’t put her phone away. She gripped it gingerly, as if it held some kind of plague, and navigated to her text messages. Sure enough, they were there. Interspersed among the last three months of work-related texts she’d exchanged with Kalata, a handful of flirtatious messages. Wholly fabricated messages she had never sent. Never seen before.
Lund felt a shiver, and she flicked down to find her last true contact with Kalata—the photograph he’d sent her yesterday, a grainy picture of a hulking man. She had uploaded the picture for Wells only hours ago. She moved her finger left and right on the screen, back and forth. For the third time in a matter of minutes, Lund felt the web of META wrapping around her.
The photograph was no longer on her phone.
It had somehow been deleted.
* * *
Ronald Anderson watched Summer walk all the way out to the curb, and when she got into a cab he smiled inwardly. Perhaps on his way home he could reschedule his flight, include another layover in New York. He was on the company dime, after all. She’d been fun, enthusiastic. Then again, after four days in Amsterdam he might need a breather. He was reaching for his roller bag when his phone chimed a text.
He looked down and saw a message from Summer: I miss you already.
Anderson looked out at the cab she’d gotten into. It was stuck in traffic. He pecked out a response: Miss you too.
Summer: Want one last look?
He smiled and typed: Sure.
Anderson watched the cab.
Summer: I have to be a little discreet. Come closer.
He walked up to the big plate-glass window.
Summer: Take off your jacket. I want to see more of you.
Anderson smiled broadly. She really was playful. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the handle of his roller bag.
Summer: Come closer, outside. This is only for you.
His eyes were padlocked on the cab’s darkened rear window, his breath quickening. He liked the idea of public places. Which view would it be? As he passed through the glass doors, he saw perhaps a flash of movement in the backseat. Anderson was five steps away when the cab pulled into the river of traffic and merged away at speed.
“Hey!” he shouted, his hands palm-up in a what gives gesture.
He watched for a few seconds longer, but soon the cab was lost in a sea of yellow. He snorted once, headed back inside, and retrieved his roller bag. Anderson was halfway to the security checkpoint when he realized his jacket was missing.
He looked back where his bag had been, but didn’t see it on the floor. He’d only left it unattended for thirty seconds, and it had never been out of his sight—although his attention had been diverted. He looked around for anyone suspicious, anybody moving faster than they should have been, but it was an airport and everyone was in a hurry. In his pocket he felt a vibration: another text. He pulled out his phone and saw a message in the same thread.
Summer: This passport photo doesn’t do you justice.
Anderson stiffened. He thumbed out a reply, misspelling nearly every word once: I need that back NOW!!!
Her maddening reply: Sorry. Let’s make it tomorrow. It’ll cost you $10,000. Details in the morning.
Anderson spun a circle on a square of polished tile, his face going crimson. He’d watched her get into the cab. She must have had help, he thought. He looked around and saw people moving in every direction, a lotto tumbler of humanity. He cursed aloud. How did I get into this freakin’ mess?
Anderson was contemplating his options when Summer preempted them with: Considering calling the cops? Not a good idea for a john in NYC. BTW, your wife’s phone number is 555-255-6242. And I took one pic you never saw.
Anderson’s anger went to panic. How had she found out Charlotte’s number? She must have accessed his phone in the room. He didn’t even want to think about the picture. Another text from Summer. Christ … Summer. He didn’t even know her real name.
He read: Her father’s number is even easier to get—it’s on half the bus benches in Chicago. Goldstein and Mahr, divorce and family practice. Ten grand is a bargain against what that phone call would cost you.
He found a bench and sat down, tried to think logically. Maybe he could bargain with her, get the passport back now, and write a check for five grand. If that didn’t work, he’d try his damnedest for intimidation. No way was he going to get scammed. He knew where she worked. He could threaten to stalk her and make her life miserable. He called Summer’s number and waited, steel ready in his voice. After two rings an automated voice picked up. “The number you have reached is no longer in service.”
Anderson slapped his palm on the back of the bench. An elderly woman on the next bench over looked at him suspiciously. He checked the time: 5:17. He wasn’t going to make his flight. He decided he could punch out an email to his office later, say the airline had screwed up, and tell them to rebook him on tomorrow’s flight. His meeting was still two days out. It would be a short night tomorrow, but he could make it work. He began to think more positively. He had a day to get his passport back, one way or another. Everything would be fine. He just had to get it back.
Anderson went to his phone’s web browser and looked up the number for Elegant Escorts. I can handle this …
44
While Ronald Anderson was having trouble contacting Elegant Escorts, a man similar in appearance took his assigned seat on KLM Flight 23. Everything so far had worked according to plan. Security had been a breeze. A weary TSA agent, no doubt at the end of his shift, had taken one look at the passport followed by a vacant glance at DeBolt’s face. The KLM boarding agent showed even less interest. And here he was.
The big jet began backing away from the gate, and a flight attendant made an announcement about placing electronic devices in airplane mode. This caused DeBolt to wonder. His burner phone was not an issue—he’d already discarded it in a restroom trash bin. But what about the link in his head
? Was there a way to suspend it? None that he knew of. He supposed he could ignore the ever-present screen and make no new requests. In truth, he liked the idea of it—eight hours off the grid after the madness of recent days.
Anderson had booked a seat in business class, a luxury DeBolt had never before experienced. The wide leather berth seemed to hold him with a custom fit, and he’d already been offered a drink, but politely declined, smiling inwardly at the thought. Drinking and driving was dangerous enough—but to combine drunkenness with META? On the lighter side, he supposed it would open up a whole new world of bar tricks. Hopefully he’d survive long enough to come up with a few.
The smell of brewing coffee filled the air, and he hoped that would be the next thing put on offer. The flight would be a long one, sleep a necessity, but before he drifted off, DeBolt wanted to set a plan for his arrival in Amsterdam. He’d so far sensed no complications from his theft of Ronald Anderson’s identity. Nine hours—that’s all I need. Since the last flurry of text exchanges through Marta Kaminski’s hijacked phone number—voice was of course out of the question—the adulterous investment banker had gone silent. He was likely feeling used and powerless. A nice turn of justice, in DeBolt’s view.
The jet began its takeoff roll, and soon the city fell away, a tapestry of glass and concrete designed by ten thousand architects, built by a million hands. Vast as it was, DeBolt thought the city seemed inconsequential against the cyber realm in which he now lived—a boundless universe that had barely existed when he was born. Quite accidentally, he found himself at the pinnacle of a shadowed new world: Trey DeBolt, end user of all that was. He considered Dr. Atif Patel. Was he truly one of META’s creators? Could he explain to DeBolt what had been done to him? Did the man realize he was the last survivor of a government project gone mad?
“Coffee, Mr. Anderson?”
DeBolt looked up and saw a flight attendant: tall, blond, and certainly Dutch, eye-catching in a sharply pressed uniform. “Yes, please.” As she set a cup on his table—china, not Styrofoam—he said, “Will Wi-Fi be available on the flight?”
