Cutting Edge

27

They began their quest from Lund’s room, which was more comfortable, and certainly more secure, than an airport donut shop. It was standard-issue: two beds, one television, and a desk near a tiny sitting area. Everything was clean and gray and soulless — a road warrior’s bunker. It was exactly what they both needed.

He spent nearly an hour explaining what he’d been through since leaving Cape Split. Lund allowed him to talk with minimal interruption, holding her questions until the end.

She said, “Tell me how this thing works. How do you manage it?”

“There’s a screen in my right eye, embedded in my field of vision. I concentrate on words, phrases, and they appear on the screen. It’s hard to explain, but I’m getting better at it.”

“The facial recognition — how did you do that?”

“I can capture images, almost like snapshots, and upload them. I don’t always get an answer, and it doesn’t work on kids, probably because their faces aren’t in whatever database I’m drawing from.”

“Where do you think this is all sourced?”

“I have no idea — that’s one of the things I’ve been trying to figure out. I have noticed that I lose my connection every now and again — in rural areas mostly, just like a cell phone. Even when I have a good connection, certain responses come more quickly than others. Sometimes I get no information at all. I managed to get a plot on where Joan Chandler’s phone had been in recent weeks, but it took half a day to arrive. It all makes sense, I guess. Every information source has its limitations, and plowing through data takes time.”

“But you can get information on license plates and income taxes — that could only come from our government.”

“Probably.”

“FBI, DOD, CIA,” she said, thinking out loud. “It has to be some three-letter agency.”

“Maybe all of them. Right now, the most frustrating thing is that I don’t even know what I’m capable of. I’m constantly stumbling onto new ways to use it, angles I’d never thought of.”

“This is mind-numbing, Trey.” She strolled to the fifth-floor window and looked outside blankly, trying to grasp the scope of what he was telling her. “Imagine the things you could do. Access to any electronic file. Do you realize how powerful that could be?”

“Gets you thinking, doesn’t it? But honestly, at the moment … it doesn’t feel powerful at all. It seems like a burden. And I’m sure it’s the reason I’ve been targeted.”

“The clinic you told me about, the one that burned down — do you think that’s where the surgery was performed?”

“It’s a only a guess, but Joan Chandler was a surgical nurse. And like I said, I got a track on her phone. She went to that clinic almost every day in the weeks before and after my accident.”

“But then she took you to her cabin after the surgery. Why would she do that?”

“She never said, but I don’t think anyone else knew I was there. I think I was given up for dead at the clinic. Joan might even have made it look that way. One of the few things I recall from the hospital was her administering a shot. I’ve never felt so cold…” His voice drifted away for a time. Lund said nothing, and he eventually finished the thought. “She somehow transferred me to her place to recover. I think she did it all secretly, without anyone else at the clinic realizing I was still alive.”

“So she rescued you.”

“I think so.”

Lund pondered it all. “When this clinic burned down, were there any casualties?”

“Five fatalities according to the fire chief I talked to.”

“Then there must be an ongoing investigation. That’s something I can work with.”

“How? I mean, no offense, but why would CGIS Kodiak be interested in an arson in Maine?”

“I’ve already talked to a detective in Washington County about you. I have contacts in the other Washington as well.”

He sat on the bed, and she eyed the wound on his leg. “I should have a look at that. It’s a gunshot wound?”

“I can’t say for sure, but yeah, probably. It happened that night on the beach … there were a lot of bullets flying.”

She kneeled for a closer look. “It seems to be healing, but it’s pretty deep. I could take you to a clinic or a hospital.”

“Out of the question. If it is a gunshot wound it would have to be reported to the police, right?”

Lund nodded.

“Until I know who’s after me, I can’t take that risk. And besides, just to sign in at a hospital you need insurance information and an ID. I don’t have any of that … not anymore.”

DeBolt retrieved bandages and antibiotic ointment from the pocket of a light jacket, all bought at Walmart yesterday. She cleaned and dressed the wound, and as she did, he said, “Now that you know my situation, I have to ask — are you sure you’re up for this? There are people hunting me. They’ve found me twice, and there’s a good chance they’ll find me again.”

“I’m up for it,” she said without hesitation. “You really have no idea who they are?”

“All I can say for sure is that they were driving a Chevy Tahoe with DOD plates.”

“I don’t get that,” she said. “The Department of Defense doesn’t send out kill squads, and certainly not on home field. Maybe if you were a terrorist, and they thought an attack was imminent … but you don’t fit that bill.”

“Neither did Joan Chandler, but they gunned her down in cold blood. I saw it with my own eyes. And if our government is involved, then going to the police or the FBI isn’t an option. All I could tell them is what I’m telling you. Chances are, they’d put me in a straitjacket and hand me over to the very people I’m worried about.”

She finished the dressing and stood. “All right … if there’s DOD involvement, then that’s where we start looking.”

“How?”

“You do whatever it is you do, and I’ll search the old-fashioned way — my laptop, maybe a few phone calls.”

Lund saw him smile for the first time since the Golden Anchor. “Old-fashioned?” he said. “Cell phones and laptops?”

“In light of what you can do,” she said, smiling in return, “I think maybe so. Think about it, Trey. Where was the world with connectivity when you and I were kids? Dial-up modems have gone to smartphones and beyond. What you can do now — it’s the next logical step. Miniaturize, create a direct interface to the brain. I never thought I’d see anything like it in my lifetime … but here you are.”

“I suppose you’re right. Technically, it’s not that far beyond what already exists.”

“Not far at all.”

“I feel like some kind of science experiment — only I wasn’t exactly a volunteer.” His humor dissipated as quickly as it had come.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I remembered something else. When I saw my medical records there were annotations next to my name in two places. It said ‘META Project,’ and below that, ‘Option Bravo.’”

“Next to your name?”

“Yeah. Like … like I was Option Bravo in some kind of experimental project.”

She blew out a humorless laugh. “Right. Trey DeBolt … Plan B.”

Dinner the second night was earlier, Benefield choosing on the very un-Continental hour of half past six. The general insisted on driving, and he arrived at the Hilton behind the wheel of a rented Land Rover. The two exchanged a perfunctory greeting, and Patel was happy when Benefield did not ask immediately for the codes. He had far more weighty issues on his mind.

With a distinct tremor in his voice, he said, “I saw a news article today about our facility in Virginia burning to the ground. It was difficult to see the names of the victims. So many of them were my friends.”

Benefield looked somberly at Patel and nodded. “A terrible tragedy. One of the FBI investigators called me this morning. He asked for information about the project.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What we tell everyone — that it is a highly classified effort to achieve breakthroughs in information technology. He’ll spin his wheels for a time, but given the level of secrecy we enjoy, not to mention the ambiguous nature of our stated goals — he’ll only hit a brick wall. I should have given him your number, let you inflict your briefing on META’s system architecture — the man would have fallen sound asleep, just like that senator from the Select Committee on Intelligence.”

A humorless Patel looked out the window. “What about the surgical unit in Maine?”

“The facility has been shut down,” Benefield said. “Everything was removed.”

“And the team?”

“They’re all aware of META’s termination, and everyone will get a well-deserved severance package.”

They arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes later. It was no surprise to Patel that the general had shunned Restaurant Ville in favor of something called Brandeis Schlossbräu, a beer house in the Baumgarten district. In spite of the chill evening air, Benefield asked to sit outside in the garden. Patel sat in a wooden chair beneath rows of carriage lamps that had been strung on wires. He didn’t complain when Benefield ordered beers for them both, and they arrived tall and frothing in the hands of a buxom waitress. Dinner was two slabs of beef that came on platters, sizzling with the smell of fat, and a heavy carving knife protruded from each like some medieval invitation.

Only then did Benefield finally get around to business. “You have the abort commands?”

Patel had his carving knife in hand, hovering over the set of ribs as if planning an assault. He set down the knife, pulled the hotel notepad from his pocket, and handed it over. The general flipped through, glancing at all three pages, then put them carefully in his pocket. More food arrived, the same waitress delivering a plate of sausage and sauerkraut to be shared. The two men suffered through challenged conversation for the course of the meal, Patel doing his best to deflect Benefield’s ill-informed technical questions. There was more beer, but thankfully no coffee or dessert, and at the end Benefield again picked up the check. Soon they were back in the Land Rover, Patel gorged with meat and beer, and sulking in the passenger seat.

“Have you seen much of Austria since you arrived?” Benefield asked.

“Hardly.”

“That’s too bad. It’s a beautiful country, and who knows when you might come here again.”

Patel saw a sign indicating that the A1, which would take them back to town, was one kilometer ahead. A bridge in front of them was backlit by moonlight, the high span arching gracefully between twin buttresses. Benefield suddenly veered the Rover off the road. He steered onto a gravel path but kept his speed up, and soon they were enveloped by darkness, the headlights flickering white over the forest ahead.

“What are you doing?” asked Patel.

“There’s something I want you to see, Atif.”

Patel looked outside, and the forest fell away. To one side he saw the fast-moving waters of a river. The only lights he saw were upstream, a row of streetlights at least a mile distant. Benefield pulled the Rover to a crunching stop on the gravel path. Patel looked squarely at a grinning Benefield, and was about to say something when the general interrupted with, “I’m sorry, Atif. This is not the end I envisioned for our mission, but it’s the only way.”

The window at Patel’s shoulder lowered, and he instinctively turned. A man appeared out of nowhere, a hulking figure dressed in a dark greatcoat. His arm swung up, and Patel instantly saw the long barrel of a silenced handgun. He shrank back into his seat.

It took only one shot from such close range, but of course there was a second for insurance. The killer was, after all, a professional. In no more than thirty seconds the body was in the water, carrying downstream and bounding off the occasional rock. The Rover began its steady climb back toward the A1 with the assassin in the passenger seat.