by Ward Larsen
Patel waited for a break in traffic, then set out across the street. DeBolt almost balked, realizing Patel had no understanding of the threat from Delta. He fell in behind, but as soon as they reached the other side, he said, “Tell me where we’re going. I’ll get us there.”
Patel almost replied, but then stopped on the sidewalk and stared at him. Ever so slowly, like a rising sun, a look of astonishment washed across his distinctly Indian features. “You’re not … not active, are you?”
DeBolt of course knew what he meant, and he felt a peculiar sense of relief. Patel was the one person on earth to whom he would not have to prove his abilities. There would be no laborious fact-finding or clever tricks. “I’m active,” he said. “Now, tell me where we’re going.”
Patel studied him carefully, in the way an art aficionado might view an intricate sculpture in the museum behind them. He finally said, “The Winter Riding School. I was given a private tour yesterday, but it’s been closed to the public recently for renovations. There should be no one there on a Sunday morning, and I think the service entrance might be open.”
DeBolt input the Riding School, and found it situated inside the Hofburg Palace, directly under one of the great domes. “Follow me.”
Patel hesitated. “But … you used it? Just now, to find the Riding School?”
“Yes.”
Patel smiled in wonder. “How incredible that must be.”
* * *
Five minutes later, after a long and circuitous route, they arrived at the service entrance of the Winter Riding School. A disinterested museum worker stood near the door—not security, but a custodian pushing a cleaning cart—and Patel dropped the name of the official who’d given him a tour the previous day. It seemed to work, and they walked into the great hall.
Inside was a towering gallery like nothing DeBolt had ever seen. Central was a rectangular riding area, the brown dirt floor hoof-beaten and emanating a distinctly earthen odor. DeBolt saw a poster advertising an equine show, the featured act being Lipizzaner stallions. The performance arena was surrounded by two high floors of box seating and observation balconies, giving the impression of a Roman arena. He and Patel were on the top level amid ornate columns and balustrades and statues—why should it differ from any other part of the Hofburg? It all seemed from another age, and DeBolt imagined gallant horses strutting, soldiers in riding coats and silken breeches. Altogether, it could not have been more incongruous to an age of smartphones and cyber conferences.
To an age of META.
Scaffolding dominated one wall, and on the framework were cross-planks holding half-used buckets of paint and plaster. Repairs of the chipped stone columns and sculpted cornices had obviously taken pause for the weekend. There were no workers in sight, nor any tour groups, and the custodian had pushed his cart elsewhere. They were alone—just as DeBolt had wanted.
He checked for cameras, with both his eyes and his connection, and as far as he could tell there were none in the high cornices. He uploaded a diagram of the place to learn the path to every exit—he was learning. Only then did DeBolt allow himself to relax. His journey from Alaska, through Maine and New England, was finally at an end. He had what he wanted—the undivided attention of META’s last surviving architect.
They stood along a heavy balustrade, two levels above the brown-dirt arena.
“Bravo,” Patel said, regarding him as a father might look at a long-lost son. “I knew live tests were inevitable. But the initial subjects were never expected to—”
“Survive?” DeBolt cut in, surprised by a rush of anger welling inside him. “Well, here I am! What the hell were you people thinking? Playing God with human life?”
Patel seemed suddenly nervous. “Yes, I know. I was never comfortable with that. But for you, the first group of four—the criteria were very specific. Alpha through Delta were supposed to be terminal cases, individuals with neural activity but no chance of recovering. We had to test the viability of the surgery, the implant procedures. I—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, studied the screen, then began thumbing out a message.
“What are you doing?” DeBolt asked.
“My presentation. It begins in a few minutes. They are wondering where I am.”
“Tell them you’re going to be late.”
* * *
Break her neck.
Delta reasoned that was his best chance to kill the woman and not be noticed. It struck him how thin and white her neck was—considerably more delicate than that of her colleague in Alaska. He’d used both hands on that man—but then, there had been no tactical reason to do otherwise. Here he would have to finish Lund with one hand, leaving the other free to support her body when it went limp. It was, after all, a very public place.
He’d been watching her for fifteen minutes, which seemed an interminable wait. He would have done it by now if there weren’t so many damned people around. He’d seen guards in the halls behind him, but they were only museum police, and none too alert. Men and women trained to look for thieves and pickpockets. Not trained assassins.
All the same, he’d entered the Hofburg cautiously. No photos had arisen from his attack last night on the Bundespolizei outpost—META’s cleansing of the police video files had been meticulous. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so easy to erase the memories of the handful of policemen who’d glimpsed him. A general description had been circulated of a muscular bald man. To confuse the issue, Delta had bought a long, loose overcoat, and tied two sweaters around his waist. It made him appear simply overweight, and he’d topped everything off with a cheap felt trilby to cover his bald head. Taken together, more the profile of a soft banker than a hardened killer.
He was situated at the back of the meeting room called Festsaal. He thought it was a stupid name. Delta had rarely found himself in conference rooms over the years, and when he did they typically had names like Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal. He stood partially hidden in a small alcove, ten steps behind the last row of chairs. That was where Lund was sitting. It was an amateur move, but then she was nothing more than a detective. She had opted to hide in a shadow, which in this scenario was the worst possible choice. In a more central seat, surrounded by a crowd, she would have been far more difficult to spot, and harder yet to attack. As it was … ten steps.
Yes, definitely the neck. It would be quick and clean, and if he released her carefully she would remain in a sitting position. Pull her eyes closed, Delta thought, and she might be a conference attendee who had stayed out too late, or one who’d gone catatonic from a tedious presentation. His plan also allowed a simple egress to the back doors. Yet there was one problem: a man had taken a seat immediately to Lund’s left, a middle-aged matchstick in a knitted scarf. There were three empty seats in every other direction.
Delta grew impatient. He decided to snap the matchstick as well.
It all came down to timing. Patel’s presentation was due to begin in two minutes. Only there wasn’t going to be a presentation. Delta had received two text messages from Patel, the first fifteen minutes ago: Have DeBolt with me. Then, moments ago: Come quickly. I think he suspects something.
Delta wondered if Patel was carrying the gun he’d provided. Probably, he decided. But would he know what do with it?
Ten steps.
His frustration peaked. At that moment he was frozen by the crowds. There was a constant stream of attendees at the entrance, double doors only a few steps to his left. Some were arriving late for a talk that wasn’t going to happen. A handful of others were leaving, already seeing the writing on the wall. He wished Patel had shown up—everyone’s attention would then be predictable, focused on the lectern at the front of the room.
Delta felt tension knotting in his arms and shoulders. He didn’t want to lose Lund—not when she was this close. In the end, he did what he was trained to do. He settled back on his heels and waited ever so patiently. The little programmer would have to take care of himself just a little bit longer.
* * *
DeBolt let Patel send the text to explain he would be late. Then he made him start from the beginning.
“It was my concept,” Patel admitted. “I had been talking with DARPA for years about a project to give high-level systems management a more operational focus. DARPA, of course, is a DOD asset, and I finally gained a proponent for the idea in the Pentagon.”
“General Benefield?”
“Yes. He and I had many meetings, and I convinced him that with enough support, with access to certain high-level servers, we could develop a system to harness virtually limitless cyber capabilities and funnel them in near real-time to select individuals. ‘Cyber-soldier’ was his preferred term. The Army has been researching such concepts for years. I explained that I could write software to link with a neural interface—it would create a direct pathway between the brain and available communications networks.”
“That’s what’s in my head?” DeBolt asked. “Some kind of antenna to connect through Wi-Fi or cell networks?”
“Essentially, although it’s much more complex. Other networks exist—military and government grids. The system prioritizes available channels and chooses the best and most secure method. It’s all transparent to the user.”
“User? Is that what I am? You make it sound like I got new cable service.”
Patel acquired a tone of remorse. “Please … I realize you were not a volunteer for META. I had no say in the selection process for subjects. But now that it’s been done, and gone active … I’m naturally curious as to what functionality you’ve acquired.”
DeBolt explained some of what he’d learned to do, and Patel seemed pleased.
“The problem all along,” Patel explained, “has been the neuroscience. The human brain exhibits amazing plasticity—it adapts to injury and dysfunction. For years researchers have been closing in on a true web-neural interface, permitting communication between the brain and external devices. Think of it as using a computer without the mouse or keyboard, or a smartphone without the touchscreen. This is not science fiction—it’s long existed in bits and pieces. Cochlear implants are common. Retinal implants have been in clinical trials for years. META only joined all these elements a decade ahead of what might have been. The fact that you are standing before me, as Bravo, fully capable—you are the proof.”
“I don’t want to be your proof. I want my life back.”
Patel seemed disappointed. “Do you not realize what you’re capable of? You have abilities no human has ever had.”
“Trust me, it’s a curse. Ever since this operation, I’ve had a target on my back. Anyone who gets near me is either killed or kidnapped. And you should know something else … I’m not alone.”
Patel eyed him cautiously. “What do you mean?”
“Another of META’s experiments survived, and he also went—as you say—active.”
“Which one?”
“Delta.”
Patel’s gaze sank to the floor. “Delta? He is alive?” The professor’s hand went to his pocket and again retrieved his phone. He read a message before asking, “How do you know this?”
Suddenly DeBolt sensed something wrong. Patel’s reaction to Delta being alive. His phone play. He was too calm, too much in control. DeBolt said, “Are you aware of what happened to General Benefield?”
“The general? Yes, I know about that. A few days ago he came to Vienna to see me and … he was murdered.”
“He was executed. Delta has gone mad … or maybe he was already that way, even before you gave him the keys to your cyber-universe.”
A symphony of church bells rang outside, their notice reaching into the Winter Riding School and echoing between its walls. Ten o’clock.
Patel pocketed his phone.
Something is very wrong, DeBolt thought. He had to see what was on Patel’s phone. Should he invade the handset using META? No, he thought. Unlike his battles against Delta, here DeBolt was physically superior. It would be quicker to simply take it.
Yes, take it! Get the phone now!
DeBolt was three paces away. As soon as he took his first step toward Patel, the scientist backed away. His hand went into a pocket.
A different pocket, DeBolt realized too late.
It came back out with a gun.
59
“You knew about Delta,” said DeBolt as he looked down the barrel of a stubby semiautomatic. The weapon appeared steady in Patel’s hand, yet he took another step back to put more ground between them. A sign of confidence in his marksmanship? Or discomfort in the tactical situation? DeBolt suspected the latter. He estimated they were separated by eight feet—too far to go for the gun, regardless of Patel’s skill level.
“I created Delta!” said Patel. “Just as I created you.”
DeBolt shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “But … surely you realize every remnant of META has been destroyed. The surgery clinic in Maine burned to the ground, Benefield is dead.”
“There was also the unfortunate DARPA software team in Virginia,” Patel added. “You never knew about them. I could never have managed the project alone—the system architecture and coding were extensive. We hired a group of programmers, a few support personnel. Thirteen men and women altogether.”
“Thirteen?” DeBolt said, as much to himself as Patel. Yet another rise in the body count. By now he should have been numb to such a revelation, but it struck a blow all the same. “Were there other subjects?”
“Alpha and Charlie … but they never had a chance. One was an Army sergeant, the other a Navy corpsman. Neither could possibly have recovered from their injuries.”
“You’ve killed a lot of people.”
“It wasn’t me—I am only a technician, a computer engineer. Although, one might say I programmed the demise of META. The wet work, as they say, was done by Colonel Freeman and his Special Forces team. And of course Delta.”
“But META was your idea, your creation … why destroy it now?”
“You still don’t understand, do you. I haven’t destroyed it. I’ve taken ownership. META is mine alone now, and it can’t be reversed. The software you so blithely use to make amazing discoveries is deeply embedded at its source—it won’t be discovered for years, if ever.”
“What is the source?” DeBolt asked. It had always loomed as his biggest question.
“It won’t hurt to tell you. Not given your immediate prospects. But you should have figured it out. Think about it, Bravo. You don’t merely see maps and websites. You can access military intelligence and satellite imagery, obtain data on any individual in the world who has a profile on a server. You can hack into corporate databases, activate a cell phone camera in China, map the electrical grid in Bulgaria. What little you’ve stumbled upon so far—it only touches the surface.”
DeBolt stood still listening, hanging on every word.
Patel smiled. “Yes, there it is. I can see it in your expression—just like Delta. At first you don’t want any of it. You feel used, as if you’ve been turned into some kind of cyborg, half human and half machine. You’re overwhelmed and burdened by your new abilities. But slowly you begin to realize what you have. What you might do with it. Can you deny it? The feeling of supremacy, of having virtually all knowledge available for the asking?”
DeBolt wanted to deny it … but Patel wasn’t completely off the mark. He had felt it, a confidence, even an ascendancy. He had been given an intoxicating power others could scarcely imagine.
“Of course you know where it comes from,” the scientist continued. “Tell me—what is the most capable agency in the world when it comes to sorting data and signals intelligence? Who can hack at will into virtually any network—friend or foe, corporate or government? Who can monitor anyone’s phone traffic and track their commutes? What agency coined the term ‘yottabyte’—that’s ten to the twenty-fourth power—because ‘zettabyte’ wasn’t enough? Think, Bravo. You know.”
DeBolt didn’t want to admit it, but Patel was right
again. There was but one possible source.
He had known all along.
* * *
Lund watched the conference spokesman trundle up the center aisle. He was beefy and wore an ill-fitting business suit—put him in leather suspenders and lederhosen, and he would have looked right at home in a beer hall. He approached the lectern at the head of the Festsaal gallery, played with the microphone for a moment, and said in thickly accented English, “My apologies for the inconvenience. Dr. Patel has obviously been delayed. We are trying to reach him and discover the nature of the difficulty. When we get any information, an update will be provided. As we wait, refreshments are available in the main hall.”
There was a flourish of hushed conversation, and what had been a trickle of defectors became a flood. The central aisle filled shoulder to shoulder. The place would be empty within minutes. Lund considered joining the crowd, but saw little point. If Patel was going to show up, this was where it would be. Anyway, where else did she have to go?
She settled deeper into her chair.
If nothing else, she thought, I’m safe here.
The rail-thin man sitting next to her got up to leave.
60
The National Security Agency was born in 1952 as a child of the Cold War, tasked by none other than Harry S. Truman to crack the communications codes of hostile nations, in particular those in the Communist Bloc. Its very existence was classified for years, leading to the running jest that its acronym stood for “No Such Agency.”
By turn of fate, the end of the Cold War coincided perfectly with the rise of the information age, and seeing its primary mission fading, the NSA did what government agencies always did when survival became an issue—it morphed into something its creators could never have imagined.
Today’s NSA operates on a budget of no less than forty billion dollars a year, the exact amount being highly classified. It is run by forty thousand employees, and the headquarters building alone contains seventy acres of floor space. Dozens of subsidiary data centers lay scattered across the country like seeds on the wind, a cyber network whose collective electric bill is north of a billion dollars a year. Yet if any one fact could cement its reputation, it is found amid the personnel rosters: The NSA is the world’s largest employer of mathematicians. By their efforts, and without question, the National Security Agency is caretaker to the greatest pyramid of knowledge ever assembled. And Trey DeBolt, by no choice of his own, found himself at the apex.
