by Ward Larsen
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” said the incredulous chief inspector.
“I … I don’t know,” replied the woman behind the monitor. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Her fingers rattled over her keyboard, stepping from one channel to the next. “We have forty cameras in the building, and the footage from every single one has been wiped clean. It must be some kind of system-wide failure … but we never got a warning that it was down. We’re supposed to get a warning.”
A despondent chief inspector took the only course available. He ordered the widest possible dissemination of the passport photo of an American Coast Guard investigator named Shannon Lund, adding that extreme caution was to be taken if she were discovered in the company of a large bald man. The chief dispatched every available detective into the surrounding neighborhood to search and ask questions, and sent an urgent request to city authorities to acquire CCTV footage from the immediate area. Vienna, like most European capitals, was wired for video, although not as extensively as the likes of London or Paris. Municipal surveillance here was largely targeted on areas prone to vandalism and graffiti. The chief knew there was also a vast constellation of corporate and residential video systems, yet these could not be accessed without the approval of a magistrate—an option, to be sure, but something that would take time.
So the Bundespolizei did what they could within the given constraints. The man put in charge of the investigation, a senior chief inspector, went through the motions of his inquiry with increasing frustration, stunned that their newly upgraded technology had failed in the most important hour. What are the chances of that? he thought idly.
51
DeBolt sipped a large caffè Americano as he fine-tuned yet another newfound skill. On the screen in his right eye was the face of a college-aged girl who seemed to stare right through him. He watched in amazement as she bit her lower lip in concentration. Completely innocent, completely unaware.
It was nearly ten o’clock, the conference at the Hofburg Vienna having ended over an hour ago. DeBolt had seen nothing of Dr. Patel at the conference, and had drawn a blank among his peers—no one knew where the professor from Cal was staying. He kept trying up to the last possible moment, until he was finally ushered outside by conference staff amid a group of IBM researchers, a well-lubricated bunch who were heading out on the town. They’d invited DeBolt to join them, but he had politely declined.
Disappointed and frustrated by what seemed a wasted evening, he’d crossed the cobblestone square, and on the far side DeBolt had taken up the inviting paths of the Volksgarten where the night tried unsuccessfully to conceal rows of finely sculpted hedges and a disparate array of fountains. Within ten minutes he’d come across Café Wien, a classic Viennese coffeehouse, and taken a seat outside at a shadowed corner table, feeling somehow safer in the open.
He’d been waiting for his coffee when the idea came to him, and now, twenty minutes on, yet another new world had been unlocked. The concept was born from a selfie stick—an Asian couple taking a self-portrait at a nearby table. Realizing he might be captured in the background, DeBolt was able to identity the man, and subsequently capture his phone number. He tried to search the phone for the picture they’d just taken, and to his surprise was soon flicking through images as easily as if his finger was on the device’s screen. It was, after all, only data, the merest of hurdles being where it was stored and who had access. To his surprise, he found he could also activate the phone’s camera—actually either one, front or back—and if he were so inclined, turn the device into a remote surveillance tool.
Applications for this newfound utility had rushed through his head. He’d watched the Asian couple smile through four more snapshots. At that point, DeBolt was subjected to a stagnant view of the awning overhead after the man set his phone on the table and the two began talking. Bored with that, he ran with the concept, and inside ten minutes had pirated an IP address for a nearby laptop computer. The young girl behind it was taking advantage of the café’s Wi-Fi network. DeBolt could easily have looked over his shoulder to discover that she was working on a document of some kind. A school project perhaps, or a letter—he hardly cared. DeBolt was more intrigued by the laptop’s camera.
This took longer, but the end product was essentially the same. In a near real-time stream, he watched a shamelessly voyeuristic video of the girl’s face as she typed, her brow furrowed in concentration no more than two feet from the lens. He considered going further, exploring the files on the machine to see what was available to him, but decency intervened.
A week ago he would have been astounded, but curiously DeBolt felt only numbness at the prospect of being able to hijack the camera on virtually anyone’s phone or computer. He knew there would be more, other electronic muggings he’d not even dreamt of. It’s only data after all.
He considered what else was on the horizon, and hoped that many of his questions might be answered tomorrow. He was eager to meet Patel. The man had to show up for his presentation, and when he did, DeBolt would be in the front row. Was he aware that the META Project had imploded? Did he realize he was the lone survivor among those who’d built it? DeBolt wondered what the scientist knew about him. Had he been informed that Bravo was a success? If so, did he also know about Delta?
DeBolt’s musings were suddenly sideswiped by a more unsettling question: Why was Delta pursuing him?
He knew Colonel Freeman and his team had been acting through a chain of command, executing a kill order against what they’d been told was a terrorist cell. Then Delta had arrived on the scene. DeBolt remembered the message he’d received through some private channel they shared: I am Delta. The very concept of such communication was profound—a kind of web-enabled telepathy.
He had heard nothing from Delta since Boston, yet assumed the killer was still pursuing him. But to what end? Then a new worry intervened. Besides Bravo and Delta, there appeared to be but one remaining survivor of the META Project—Dr. Atif Patel. Might Delta try to hunt him down as well? If so, Delta was probably hitting the same information roadblocks DeBolt had—the only thing available on Patel was that he would present at tomorrow’s conference.
Taken together: DeBolt realized he might not be the only one in the front row.
Feeling a sudden urge to start moving again, he left five euros on the table and was soon on the sidewalk outside Café Wien. There he paused and, after a mental coin flip, turned right. He began to study the streets around him. If he were a spy he would look for surveillance teams or unmarked vans or whatever spies looked for. As it was, DeBolt scanned for his only known threat—the distinctively large frame of Delta.
He typically liked being outdoors—hiking mountain passes, swimming in the ocean, bicycling through canyons. Here, however, swathed in the crisp autumn air of Vienna, he was suddenly uncomfortable. He felt exposed and vulnerable, like a deer that had ventured too far from the forest. It wasn’t just a matter of being seen—given what he’d learned in recent days, the idea of being identified by line of sight seemed utterly nostalgic. Might META broadcast his position? Could Delta intercept his communications, then use them to acquire his location? If so, then I can theoretically do the same in return. Unfortunately, DeBolt knew the two of them were not on level ground: Delta understood how the system operated.
It gave harsh new meaning to the phrase, “Getting in your head.”
He walked cautiously up Burggasse, not sure whether to steer toward shadows or light. He was confident he would get his answers tomorrow morning—assuming he could survive that long.
Twelve hours.
It was a long time to be alone with such despondent thoughts.
* * *
Lund’s heart leapt.
It was after ten o’clock, and even thought most shops were closed, the crowds were thick on the wide boulevard of Graben, a well-heeled shopping area in Vienna’s first district. What had Lund’s attention, however, was not Chanel or Hermès, but something far more us
eful. On the far sidewalk, a hundred yards ahead—a familiar profile. Tall and athletic, moving confidently under faux gaslights on the busy sidewalk. Walking away with an easy long stride.
“Trey!” she said under her breath. Lund began to trot.
He disappeared around a corner, moving quickly, and she ran as fast as she could. Closing ground, she rounded the corner and spotted him again, light jacket and dark pants. “Trey!” she shouted.
He didn’t respond. She was twenty steps behind him, and about to shout again, when he turned ninety degrees and drew to a stop. Under a wash of light from a busy gelato shop Lund saw his face for the first time as he bent down to kiss a pretty woman on both cheeks. Her spirits foundered.
She ground to a halt, her feet suddenly leaden. Lund sank a shoulder against a stone wall and tried to catch her breath, watching as the couple sat together at a table and began an animated discussion. They might have been deciding which nightclub to visit later, or reminiscing about the rain shower they’d been caught in the last time they were here. Subjects of amusement, of no consequence whatsoever. The kinds of things most people talked about. And if it had been Trey, what would the two of them be discussing? Why is this man trying to kill us? How can we stay out of jail? What’s Austria’s policy on extraditing Americans?
She looked all around and saw happy people in a tidy city. “Foreign” was not a strong enough word. She didn’t speak the language here. Didn’t have identity documents or money. Had Trey even reached Vienna? If so, was he still alive, or had the assassin finished that half of his job?
She saw but one hope. Lund had earlier found a public library and accessed a computer. Having arrived minutes before closing time, she’d typed as fast as she could. With great restraint, she avoided the online version of the Kodiak Daily Mirror. Whatever was happening in the murder cases there—William Simmons and Jim Kalata—it was a distraction she couldn’t permit. Vienna was the here and now, and she flew from web page to web page searching of direction. It was the name Trey had sent—Dr. Atif Patel, whom he’d somehow linked to the META Project—that hit sevens. Patel would present a lecture at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the World Conference on Cyber Security, which was taking place at the Hofburg Vienna. The same article explained that Patel was an expert on computer systems and software, which she took as further proof of his ties to META.
By the time she was ushered out of the library, three minutes after closing, Lund had settled on two possible scenarios. First, Trey might already have made contact with Patel, in which case the scientist would know where he was. If not? Then Trey would also be at the auditorium tomorrow. Either way, it gave her a destination—a time and a place from which to start reclaiming her life.
She began walking again, mixing into the crowds amid Graben’s charmless palette of designer neon. The sky above was a milky white, low clouds absorbing the lights like a great blanket. As if insulating and protecting the city. Lund remembered having the same impression when she had first arrived in Kodiak. She’d seen a small town holding fast against the sea and the winter, a safe harbor where the rest of the world was kept at a distance. She began to feel more confident, thinking perhaps there was a future after all.
Then she saw a picture behind a broad window that froze her to the sidewalk.
It was on the wall of a bar, on the middle of three televisions. Framed by mirrors with scripted writing and liquor bottles in neat formation. Left and right were a pair of soccer games, but the central screen was tuned to a news channel, presumably Austrian because the captions on the footer were in German. She saw her passport photo in full-bloom color, her name right below. Shannon Ruth Lund. She knew why it was there, of course, confirmed by the follow-on shots: blue lights rolling in front of the decimated Bundespolizei station, a body beneath a blanket rolling past on a gurney. Being a cop herself, she recognized the entire production. Her picture front and center, widest possible dissemination. The backdrop of a tragedy.
The police wanted very much to talk to her.
Lund watched for any other pictures, any headlines she could decipher. She saw nothing to further her understanding of things, and more disappointingly, nothing to suggest that the brute who’d launched the attack was either deceased or in custody.
Lund realized she was gawking at the screen from the sidewalk. Was the barman staring at her? Possibly. But maybe only as an invitation. Maybe he needed another female to help balance his cast of regulars. She set out quickly, like any woman would who was underdressed for a chilly night in Vienna. She took a turn at the first side street.
Two blocks farther on, she took another.
Lund knew what she had to do—stay out of sight until morning. Either that, or think of a way to find Trey before Patel’s presentation. Of course that would be the better option.
But how?
52
Budget. Cash. Hostel.
These were the words DeBolt concentrated on as he searched for a place to spend the night. The results came quickly.
Certain quarters of Vienna were inarguably historic, steeped in the culture of Europe’s great periods. Others leaned toward finance, districts where money was kept behind great walls, and prosperity itself seemed etched in the air. The neighborhood of Schottenfeld was neither of those. It was boxy and constrained, crammed with angular buildings of no particular era. The residents also seemed an uneasy mix. He saw groups of restless teenagers, impatient to move on, and the old and indifferent who weren’t going anywhere. DeBolt counted more backpacks than briefcases, and he saw bike racks at every building. Yet for all Schottenfeld’s ambiguity, it did hold one particularly endearing trait: it was a place where budget hostels gladly took cash in advance.
The night was winding down, dinners at an end and the streets falling empty. DeBolt picked up his pace, knowing where Schottenfeld was headed. In a few more hours only three factions would remain on the sidewalks: the drunk, the criminally inclined, and the police. He wanted nothing to do with any of them, nor their unavoidable interactions.
More than anything, DeBolt needed rest. His body was drained by travel, his mind dulled by hours of experimenting with maps and phone cameras and computers. He was so tired, in fact, that when a message popped into his head, absent any input from him, he initially attached little importance to it. He ignored it as one would an unknown caller on a phone. Then, as if through a fog, he remembered receiving the plot on Joan Chandler’s phone ten hours after his request. He studied the message, and its very uniqueness brought him back to his senses.
REPLY IF POSSIBLE.
He blinked, unable to make sense of it. DeBolt nearly responded with, Who the hell is this? but then paused on the sidewalk. Confused, he sat down on a knee wall fronting the brooding façade of a minor museum. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think clearly. He finally sent: Source of last communication.
A quick response.
00 1 907 873 3483
SHANNON LUND
SMS TEXT MESSAGE SOURCED VIENNA, AUSTRIA
DeBolt’s foot slipped and he nearly tumbled off the wall. “You’re here?” he whispered to himself. He immediately formulated a reply: You’re here in Vienna?
YES. HAVE TO SEE YOU REGARDING META/PATEL.
DeBolt was overwhelmed. Happy. Fearful. Confused. There could be only one reply: Meet me at 84 Kandlgasse.
CAN’T COME TO YOU. LOOK AT NEWS.
He didn’t take the time to find out what she meant: Where then?
RIESENRAD.
PLEASE HURRY.
DeBolt: I’m on my way.
He immediately conjured a map, then pushed and scaled it to fit his needs. The Riesenrad, he discovered, was a giant Ferris wheel at the Prater amusement park. Lund was two miles north of where he stood. DeBolt had wits enough to avoid running, a residual of his previous thought—drunks, criminals, and the police. He set out at a measured pace, and with his navigation set and his weary legs responding, he did what she’d suggested and searched t
he local news. It took a few tries, but he hit the mark with: Vienna, headlines, American, woman.
Three options were presented, and he selected an online news article, the late edition of something called The Local. DeBolt scanned an article recounting a disaster this evening at a local Bundespolizei precinct. The headline summarized that five people had been killed. He found Lund’s name in the third paragraph:
Bundespolizei have undertaken a nationwide hunt for the suspect in the killings, an unidentified male, large build and clean-shaven head, and also an American woman, Shannon Ruth Lund, who escaped from police custody during the attack.
A light drizzle began to fall, the tops of buildings going hazy in the uplit swirls. The sweet smell of rain cleansed stagnant urban air. DeBolt quickened his pace, knowing what it all meant. There could be no mistake, no illusions. Delta had come to Vienna, as single-minded as ever. In Boston he’d assaulted a safe house and killed an entire team of Special Forces operators. A district police station in a peaceful quarter of Vienna? That would be child’s play. Five more bodies in the wake of his destruction.
But there was one strand of hope.
Shannon had escaped. The Bundespolizei were scouring the country for her, but DeBolt knew where she was, less than two miles away. Unfortunately, he also knew who else might be searching for her. The distant Riesenrad had just come into view when he skidded to a stop on the sidewalk in the gathering rain.
His hair was matted and his breath came in slow gasps. What was it? Something terribly wrong. Then he understood. He knew what it might be.
How can I be sure?
DeBolt considered a way to prove or disprove his frightful new idea. Options came and went until he settled on one. It required little composition: Quick stop for smokes. What was your brand?
The reply was immediate.
MARLBORO.
DeBolt breathed a sigh of relief and set out again, full-on rain pelting his face in a cold rush of wind.
