Cutting Edge

by Ward Larsen

  “Oh … good. I hope your travels went well.”

  Delta did not nod or shrug. Even if he could speak, he would have ignored Patel’s small talk. It was one of the few positives of his condition—the expectation of silence without appearing rude. The two had once tried to sustain a back-and-forth dialogue, Patel speaking and Delta responding with text messages to his phone. Varying delays in transmission had made the process unwieldy, even confusing, and so they’d agreed to keep things simple. Whenever possible, Patel framed questions for direct yes or no answers, and Delta would either nod or shake his head. If a more detailed response was necessary, or if he had a question, he simply wrote it on one of his cards.

  “Our second problem in Alaska has been dealt with?”

  Delta nodded.

  “Well done. We are gaining ground.”

  They began to walk the riverside promenade, meandering toward a well-lit strip where bars and restaurants predominated, and where an old warehouse was being upgraded into a chic new block of condos. The others strolling the riverside path fell into one of two broad categories: pairs of men and women moving slowly on their way to dinner, and younger packs, threes and fives, full of energy and anticipation for a night in the clubs. No one gave a second glance to the two incongruous men engrossed in a peculiarly one-sided conversation.

  “Only two remain then—Bravo, of course, and this Coast Guard investigator. You went through her emails and phone history?”

  Delta nodded.

  “Did you find any link between them prior to the call that brought her to Boston?”

  A shake of the head.

  “What about her apartment? Was there anything to suggest that she and Bravo had a relationship? Pictures, birthday cards, clothes in the closet that were his size?”

  Delta again shook his head.

  Patel went silent as he considered it. “Why?” he said rhetorically. “I don’t understand why she’s become involved. There must have been some personal association before Bravo’s accident. It’s the only answer.”

  Delta waited until Patel was looking at him, then put his palms forward obviously as if to say, So what?

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It hardly matters.” Patel pulled a small sheaf of paper from beneath his light jacket. Delta took it and saw the usual thirty-page printout bound with a standard office clip. It was yet another oddity—he was the most cyber-centric individual in the world, yet when it came to learning he was more comfortable with paper and ink.

  “Lesson nine,” said Patel. “It covers third-party access and availability. Certain servers are tied knowingly to your network—phone companies, social media, every state and federal agency in the United States with a law enforcement arm. That includes IRS, SEC, FBI—even the Library of Congress has an inspector general whose data is readily available. You’ll find a list of foreign governments and private corporations who are unaware of their cooperation—all have been penetrated, some for continuous use, while the others can be accessed on demand if the need arises. The final category consists of organizations, companies, and foreign entities that either have very secure architecture, or whose data has been deemed not worth the trouble of acquiring.”

  Delta paused, pulled out a card, and wrote: Can this last group be breached if necessary?

  “Any network can be breached given enough time and effort. Because you operate with Priority Alpha status, any request you make will bring an immediate attack on the holding servers. But keep in mind that the time to get results from this final class will vary. Minutes, hours, even weeks. I suggest exhausting every other option in your network before going that route.”

  Not for the first time, Delta was struck by the way Patel said it: your network. As though the entire system had been created for his benefit. He knew better, of course. He was here today, with all the world’s information available, only because he had run over an IED on a dirt bike and gotten his skull shattered in just the right way. One more broken blood vessel in his head and they would have pulled his plug. One less and he might be back in the Corps. As it was, he had fallen in precisely the right notch of helplessness to become a pioneer in a new era of warfare. A circumstance, he supposed, that held loosely with his creed: Semper fi.

  For twenty more minutes Patel gave what was essentially a lecture, points of learning that would be reinforced by the sheaf of papers. He then turned to more immediate business. “Have you been able to locate Bravo?”

  Delta shook his head. It was an essential feature of META that those enabled could not be tracked.

  “What about the woman?”

  Delta nodded. Not a lie, but also not the truth. To begin, he realized he’d made mistakes. He should never have deepened Lund’s involvement by leaving her associate’s body in her Kodiak apartment. It had been clumsy and theatrical. But his efforts to flush her out had worked, meaning a third trip to the Aleutian Islands wouldn’t be necessary—not only a time-consuming sideshow, but increasingly risky. He was certain Lund had arrived in Vienna. The problem—he didn’t know exactly where she was.

  “All right,” said Patel. “Do what you do best.”

  When Patel turned to go, Delta put a heavy hand on his shoulder. He pulled out a card and scrawled one last question: When will I be able to talk?

  He showed it to Patel, who said, “We’ve been over this. Your dysfunction can be repaired, but we first have to identify the source of the problem. It likely involves one of the implants, or there might be errors in the software code. I’ve been working on it in every spare moment, but you must understand—there are over four million lines of code embedded in the chips in your head. Alternately, the anomaly could be a result of scar tissue from the surgery. Any of these problems are correctable in time. Our priority must be to eliminate these last two loose ends to ensure META’s permanence.” They began walking again, and Patel added, “That is what you want, isn’t it? To retain your new abilities forever?”

  Their gazes met. Delta nodded once, and was surprised by the strength he saw in the scientist’s eyes. He had spent most of his life around physically powerful men, thriving in a hierarchy governed by who could bench-press the most or run the fastest, who had the sharpest eye on the shooting range. Patel was one of the most feeble specimens of manhood he’d ever seen, yet he exuded self-assurance.

  Why does he not fear me? Delta wondered.

  The two parted, taking opposite courses along the river. Delta trundled the path with his usual directness, and he soon encountered a pair of young girls, both a bit overweight and tipsy on high heels. As they passed one seemed to throw a glance his way, then said something to her friend. He kept going without pause. He was used to it. People had long reacted to his physical appearance, an imposing presence that generally put people off—even before his total alopecia. His rough look had been further amplified by META, the back of his bald head stitched with scar tissue, and now blisters on his face and neck evidenced his meeting with Bravo—the bastard had thrown a pot of boiling water on him.

  For as long as Delta could remember, his appearance had intimidated people. Those not frightened were acutely aware of his presence. Yet there had been a few women—just a few—who seemed attracted to him, some peculiar synthesis of fear and sympathy. Like a three-legged pit bull getting adopted from a shelter. A year ago he might have responded to the glance, might have uttered some vague opener to see if the girl would stop. He’d never been good at talking to women, so it rarely worked. Today it was no longer even an option.

  He mulled what Patel had said: his speech problem was no more than a technical malfunction. That was good, he thought. Technical malfunctions could be repaired. Like a gun with jam or a Hummer with a flat tire. Fixable. He decided Patel would work faster without the distraction of the two Coasties. The sooner he eliminated them, the sooner his voice would be restored. In that moment, as he advanced along the south shoulder of the Donaukanal into a gathering night, Delta redoubled his commitment to make it so.
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  48

  When she’d decided to come to Vienna, Lund hadn’t known what to expect. She reckoned she might have a hard time finding either DeBolt or Dr. Atif Patel, whoever he was. A degree of frustration seemed a given, as was the prospect of fencing with authorities. The one thing she hadn’t foreseen was boredom.

  She’d been in the holding room for eight hours, the only visits being from a junior officer who asked occasionally if she needed a bottle of water or a sandwich. She’d taken him up on both three hours ago. Lund decided she’d underestimated the reach and efficiency of the Coast Guard, or TSA, or whoever had recognized her departure from the U.S. She’d wanted to slip into Europe quietly, before anyone realized she was a no-show in Kodiak. Special Agent in Charge Wheeley was the most likely culprit. He was under a microscope right now, his Kodiak CGIS outpost in tatters with one agent found dead in the other’s bed. Regardless of how it had reached this point, Lund hated where she was now. Locked in a holding room, she could do nothing to help Trey. So it was, when a new face came through the door, she was encouraged. At least something was happening.

  The man was average in height and build, with brown hair and—she had to say—a certain softness about him. Rounded edges, indoor complexion. He smiled mechanically, and said, “Hello, Miss Lund. I’m Blake Winston, with the U.S. State Department here in Vienna.”

  His words were clipped and pretentious, the Ivy League of four generations ago. Put him in a striped sweater and an ascot, and he’d show you the way to Newport. She stood and got a fleshy handshake. “State Department?” she asked.

  “Yes. Were you expecting someone else?” He had a briefcase in hand, and set it next to the empty water bottle on the room’s only table.

  “I guess I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

  Winston put on a pair of glasses as he opened his briefcase. Lund thought he looked a bit young for readers. “Yes … about your situation.” He referred to a document. “You are a civilian employee of the United States Coast Guard.”

  “That’s right, Coast Guard Investigative Service.”

  “And you were given instructions by your unit commander to return to Kodiak for questioning regarding a homicide investigation.”

  Lund sighed. “Yes.”

  Winston looked at her as if expecting more. When she didn’t offer it, he said, “So then … why did you come to Austria?”

  It was the question Lund knew she would face, and she’d had all day to think of a good answer. What she’d settled on was weak and evasive, but really the only option. “I will address that with my superior once I’m back in Alaska.”

  Winston frowned, but didn’t press the matter. “Very well. My instructions are to arrange your transport to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. We have a small jet departing later tonight—you and your escort will be on it.”

  “Escort?”

  “An officer from our embassy security detail.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Apparently, yes.” Winston grinned at his cleverness.

  “That seems like a lot of trouble to go to for—”

  “Actually, it’s no trouble at all. It’s a U.S. Air Force jet, and the flight was already on the books. Your escort to Ramstein will be a Marine captain from the embassy detachment—he was traveling home on leave anyway.”

  “And when I get to Ramstein?”

  “We’re to hand you over to the Air Force Security Police. They will coordinate the rest of your trip home. According to this message”—he fluttered the paper in his hand—“you can expect three more military transports, with changes of aircraft in Dover and Anchorage.”

  “That’ll take about a week. And more escorts?”

  Winston shrugged. “You don’t appear to be dangerous, but it’s not my bailiwick.”

  Bailiwick? Lund sank back in her chair. “Okay, when do we leave?”

  “There’s some paperwork being run right now—the Austrians are funny that way. I think it’s already gone through a magistrate—let’s hope, because this late in the day we’d have a hard time finding one. Once that’s all done, and when your escort arrives, we can head straight to the airport.”

  Lund thought, but didn’t say, It’s probably good that you’ll have some help, Mr. Winston. Otherwise I’d kick your ass right now and make for the hills.

  * * *

  The senior constable in the Bundespolizei evidence room made a terrible mistake, although at the time he couldn’t have known it.

  “Two items to check,” said Oberkommissar Strauss as he came through the door. He was carrying a small roller suitcase and a woman’s purse.

  The evidence man, who was lesser in rank, said, “Whose are they?”

  Strauss handed over a form with the owner’s name and an inventory. “A young American woman. We detained her this morning at the airport for the Americans, but the dummkopf from their embassy who was supposed to act as her escort still hasn’t shown up. We’re working it out, but in the meantime I’m going off duty.”

  The evidence man understood. Since the inspector of record was going off premises, the possessions could not be left unattended upstairs. In strict adherence to Bundespolizei procedure, Strauss would deposit everything in the evidence room for safekeeping.

  Strauss filled out two adhesive tags and applied them, one to each the purse and the suitcase. The evidence room manager, who was more of a file clerk really, took possession as the inspector lifted the items over the counter.

  “Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two,” said Strauss. “As long as it takes to push through the paperwork.”

  Once the inspector was gone, the evidence man input a locator number on his computer, and then turned toward the rows of shelves with both articles in hand. In spite of having no more than twenty steps to cover, he walked slowly, and eventually paused near the junction of two sets of shelves. There he regarded each bag in turn. He was alone in the big room—always was except during shift change—yet he knew cameras watched the place continuously. The front desk, where each bit of evidence was signed in and out, was doubly monitored. Yet there was one dead zone, the very corner where he was standing, where no lens, human or otherwise, penetrated.

  He parted the folds of the purse and saw a wallet and a phone inside, along with the usual sundries: hairbrush, lip gloss, a small mirror. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He pulled out the phone. It was an inspection he’d performed many times, and there was really no policy for or against it. He justified it by telling himself that he might one day break a big case, uncover some vital message or image that could be forwarded to the detectives upstairs. He never worried about whether such a search would hold up in court, nor did he dwell on what was closer to the truth: he was a nosy person, and rather liked looking at other people’s pictures.

  The phone was not powered, so he turned it on.

  The device took thirty seconds to spring to life, and he immediately saw badges on the main screen that signified new text messages. He began there and saw a series of photos, but nothing very scintillating. They were actually rather strange, five photographs of what looked like footprints in mud. He didn’t know what to make of it at first, not until the last image, which was embellished with text: Here are the pics for the Simmons case. Hope it helps your investigation.

  The evidence technician fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it. Shannon Lund, in spite of whatever trouble she might have found, was also a detective of some kind. Unnerved, he quickly hit the button to turn the phone off, stuffed it in the woman’s purse, and set that on the correct shelf.

  The technician scurried back to the front counter wholly unaware of his mistake. In his haste to shut the phone down, he had hit the wrong button. Glowing ever so silently on a high shelf, the phone remained powered up.

  49

  Through halls where emperors had dined, and in the ballrooms where the Congress of Vienna had once gathered and danced, a lone Coast Guard
rescue swimmer wandered, lamenting his past and in search of a future.

  So close, yet so far.

  That was the thought resounding in DeBolt’s reengineered brain as he wandered through the Hofburg Vienna. He had crossed an ocean, spanned a continent, zeroed in as best he could. But here, amid an endless expanse of gilded halls and crystalline fixtures, he had hit a cold and hard stop.

  All around him was his only lead on how to find Dr. Atif Patel: the World Conference on Cyber Security. DeBolt had come here straight from the train station, and in a trash bin near the conference entrance he’d found a discarded lanyard like the one real conference attendees wore. He had put it around his neck with only a glance at the printed name and corporate affiliation. No one gave him a second look.

  He’d checked the events calendar for the conference before arriving—it was available online, and fortunately had not yet been taken down by a hacker with a sense of humor. Patel’s only remaining appearance was scheduled for tomorrow morning. DeBolt didn’t want to wait that long. The problem was, he had not been able to uncover where Patel was staying, where his credit cards had been used, or what his mobile number was. Those things DeBolt could ascertain on virtually anyone in the world drew a blank when it came to META’s lone surviving creator—if that was truly what he was.

  So he roamed the palatial complex and scanned nametags, particularly those worn by men who appeared to be of Indian ethnicity—an assumption on DeBolt’s part, but he had no description of Patel to work from. He came across an evening session in one of the large conference rooms, and through the open doorway he saw a florid, professorial man at a podium prattling about network solutions. It occurred to him that if for some reason he couldn’t locate Patel, he’d probably landed in the best place on earth to find someone who could help him understand META. Even if the others here had no direct knowledge of the project, he was literally surrounded by experts on wireless networks and information systems. A demonstration of his abilities, as he’d done for Lund and Colonel Freeman, would unquestionably turn him into an overnight sensation. Instant celebrity. The downside to that, of course, was that he would effectively be highlighting his position to the other man like him. And Delta, DeBolt was sure, was not seeking celebrity.