Cutting Edge

19

Atif Patel rose in a pestilent mood. He pulled open the curtains and was greeted by a depressing Viennese morning, the sun powerless against espresso clouds and a dense mist. He could barely see the adjacent Stadtpark, and the few people braving its paths looked hunched and hurried. Altogether, a world far removed from the California sun he so enjoyed.

He ordered room service, and thirty minutes later Patel was drinking tea that had gone cold and suffering a stale croissant. This from the Hilton Vienna, a reputed five-star establishment. By eight he had succumbed to the inevitable, and thrust his knobby arms into the sleeves of his winter coat. He patted his pockets methodically: room key, glasses, wallet, and the flash drive containing his PowerPoint presentation. All there. He struck outside and became one of the wretched figures in the park.

With his head down into a stout November wind, Patel hurried along without noticing the statue of Schubert, and gave but a passing glance to the Kursalon, the pavilion where Johann Strauss had performed his first concert. Patel was a slightly built man with distinctly Indian features: dark skin and olive eyes, a nose like the prow of a ship. His mother was from Bangalore, his father Mumbai, but their only son had been born in Palo Alto, in the shadows of Silicon Valley and the Vietnam War. Indeed, if there was any providence at all in Patel’s life it was that he’d been born a U.S. citizen — without that he would never have gotten the security clearances necessary to be where he was today.

As he put the park behind him a drizzle began to fall, and with quickened steps Patel navigated the busy Tuesday streets until the Hofburg appeared. The palace façade was grand as ever, its wide arcing entrance topped by a magnificent golden eagle. Contained within the endless halls and colonnades were the official residence of the president of Austria, the Imperial Library, and the famed Winter Riding School. Inspiring as that might be, what had begun in the thirteenth century as a palace destined for kings and emperors had inevitably diversified in scope and digressed in grandeur, now putting on offer banquet facilities, exhibition space, and an array of tawdry gift shops. And this week only: the World Conference on Cyber Security.

Patel had hoped the long walk would have a tranquilizing effect, yet as he climbed the final set of stairs a statue of Hercules slaying Hydra with a club did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. Of course, it was neither the coldness of his tea nor the inclemency of the weather that had soured his day so early. At 3:00 A.M. he had gotten a call from the general, and been told to expect a visit.

He thought the timing might have been intentional, meant to ruin a good night’s sleep. Patel tolerated the man, yet even after two years he did not completely trust him, this in spite of the most intimate professional association he’d ever joined. His future and the general’s had become forever intertwined, and he supposed it was the permanency of that bond that bothered him. Patel was a software designer, and the swirl in his gut today was not unlike what he felt during the beta testing of a critical new version of code — the fear of failure, the excitement of new possibilities, and always that back-of-the-mind certainty that more work lay ahead. But then, Patel had never been afraid of work.

He walked into the conference center and found a schedule of the day’s events on a pedestal. He dragged a finger down the program to find his name. Hofburg Galerie: Dr. Atif Patel, “Protocols and Architecture in Highly Secure Systems.”

He sighed mightily. There had been no getting around it — he’d committed to the presentation nearly a year ago. It was the kind of thing that was expected from professors at Cal Berkeley, and in spite of the poor timing, Patel knew that great minds across history had endured worse. Among these was his personal hero, J. Robert Oppenheimer, who’d also taught at Cal, and who had published groundbreaking work regarding wave functions, approximation, and quantum mechanics. Yet in spite of his technical brilliance, Oppenheimer was today known for but one thing, the government project he had so capably managed — the Manhattan Project. Oppenheimer was universally regarded as the father of the atomic bomb.

It was curious, Patel had always thought, how history unfailingly distilled the life of any scientist to a single prominent work. Einstein and his special theory of relativity, Schrödinger and the paradox of his cat. He supposed authors and filmmakers and musicians were likewise doomed: a relevance of singularity. Still, the important thing was to have that one masterpiece. To have a Manhattan Project. Patel thought he might have found his — if he could make it work, it would be every bit as revolutionary. The surgeon, Dr. Abel Badenhorst, was capable enough, but Patel was without question the innovator, the driving force. And Badenhorst knew it. General Benefield, unfortunately, was another matter. His unmatched ego and aggressive nature were likely bred of education. Patel had attended Caltech, the general West Point, which meant they were trained to different standards, and dispatched into the world with markedly different missions. Now, by some tease of fate, those missions had intersected in an undertaking with mind-bending potential: the META Project.

With a few minutes to spare, Patel diverted to a washroom. At the mirror he removed his glasses and used a wad of paper towels to wipe the mist from his thin face. Strangely, it seemed to reappear after a few moments. He knew it wasn’t the presentation — with a lectern in front of him, he was always at home, firmly in command of his subject matter. It is the critical juncture of the project, he thought.

Patel wiped his face dry a second time. He then straightened his lapel, snugged his tie, and walked resolutely to the Hofburg Galerie.

DeBolt woke late and ill rested, but a shower improved his outlook considerably. The wound on his calf was sore, and he decided it would require a bandage and something to ward off infection. He had other aches and pains, but most were improving. He went to the window where light was streaming in, and the first thing he saw was the pharmacy. That’ll be the first stop, he decided.

The Cadillac was still in the parking lot, which seemed reassuring. Even so, DeBolt was reluctant to use the car again, and for the same reason he discarded the idea of stealing a different vehicle using OnStar or a system like it — convenient as it was, such thefts could be tracked. Anyway, the issue of transportation seemed pointless with no destination in mind. That would be his priority today.

He had to find out what had been done to him, and his only lead was Joan Chandler. He referenced the mainframe in his head, performed a search on her name, and was soon faced with choosing the correct Joan Chandler out of sixty-three on offer. It turned out to be a simple problem. He cross-referenced inputs of nurse, Maine, and, finally, property records for Washington County. There was only one Joan Chandler who met those narrow criteria.

He was getting more proficient.

She had been born in Virginia, educated at the University of North Carolina, and was an RN with a certified specialty in perioperative nursing — in essence, a surgical assistant. This gave DeBolt pause. She had admitted to putting a needle in his arm. It’s what saved you, Trey. But had she also been present during his surgery? He thought it likely until the next bit of information arrived. Chandler’s nursing license had been revoked last year. The reason: substance abuse.

He recalled her nightly bouts, the drinking that seemed to accelerate each day at the cottage. DeBolt steeled himself, then requested recent news about Joan Chandler. He expected an obituary, an investigation into her violent death. What he saw was incomprehensible. Her cottage had been destroyed in an explosion, the origins of which were suspicious and under investigation.

DeBolt, of course, knew the truth. Five men. Five professionals who would never be held to account. Not unless he could do something about it. He suppressed a surge of something new — anger — and began plodding through Chandler’s work history and tax records. He discovered that for the last nineteen months she’d been employed by RTM Services, an ambiguous name for a company whose digital footprint turned out to be equally opaque. The only grain of useful information — RTM was incorporated in the state of Maine.

DeBolt stared out the window, past his heisted car to the river beyond. Soon a new option came to mind. He input Chandler’s name, her address on Cape Split, and performed a search for her phone number. The wait was longer than usual, but he got a result, courtesy, apparently, of AT&T. He wondered if the company was aware that its data was being shared. If not, could he somehow be held accountable for the breach? That question was easily replaced by another: What can AT&T do for me?

DeBolt input the number, then added: Location track, last two months.

He waited a full five minutes, but there was no response, not even “REQUEST INVALID,” or “NULL.” Nothing at all. He had presumably found a new boundary, and took it with grudging acceptance. Certainly there were limits to what he could acquire.

Still at the window, a defeated DeBolt focused on the Cadillac. More than ever, he was bothered by it. It seemed like a marker, a beacon that could only attract trouble. He should have parked farther away. Last night he’d been tired, not thinking clearly. Now he felt a compulsion to get clear, even if he didn’t have a destination in mind. He turned away from the window and grabbed the backpack full of cash — he had yet to count it, or even estimate how much was inside. DeBolt decided to set out on foot, and once he was safely away from the car he would concentrate on the basics — food, fresh clothing, a bandage for his leg — before trying to discover more about Joan Chandler and her mysterious employer.

He’d just gripped the door handle when he heard heavy boots on the stairs. DeBolt froze. He’d heard a similar clatter last night, but now it struck him differently. Then it had seemed an annoyance. Now it came as a warning.

I’m too close to the car.

Five men.

DeBolt put his eye to the peephole and saw a man on the staircase landing outside. He only got a glimpse, but it was all he needed — a face he would never forget, last seen in the parking lot of Roy’s Diner in Jonesport.

DeBolt let go of the door handle like it was on fire.