Cutting Edge

33

“Passport,” said the immigration officer.

Arrivals at JFK International Airport had been streaming in all afternoon, the European rush heavier than usual, and the officer inside the booth was nearing the end of her shift. She reached out and took a document from the next person in line. Her head was down as she did so, and after finalizing the keyboard inputs for the previous traveler, she looked up and was doubly surprised.

The first thing to get her attention was the massive bald head. It was pink and cylindrical, reminding her of a gallon paint can. The body supporting it was built like a blockhouse. The second surprise was what came with the passport — a small wallet-sized card on which was printed: I HAVE NO VOICE AS A RESULT OF COMBAT-RELATED INJURIES. Beneath that was the emblem of the United States Marine Corps.

The immigration officer gave a tentative smile that was not returned. But then, the face in front of her looked barely capable of it. There were no crinkles at the edges of his mouth or eyes, and his features seemed swollen, the way she remembered her uncle when he’d gone on corticosteroids. Conversely, the man didn’t appear angry or taciturn. His face was simply a blank — as expressionless, apparently, as his voice.

She scanned the passport into her reader and his information lit to her screen. Douglas Wilson from Missoula, Montana. Departed JFK October twentieth, arrived in Vienna, Austria, the next day. Departed Vienna on the return trip nine hours ago. There were no flags, no warrants, no notices for special handling. Everything was in order.

She handed back his passport, and said, “Welcome home, Mr. Wilson. You can go.”

He turned away, and as he did she saw the scars on the back of his scalp. She called out, “Oh … one more thing, sir.”

He paused and looked back at her.

“Thank you for your service.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, the look on his meaty face something near confusion. Then he turned toward the exit and was gone.

DeBolt’s circumstances went unchanged for most of that day. He sat in a holding room, hearing only the occasional muted voice through thick walls. The restraints on his arms and legs remained in place — he’d moved about the room to explore, but there was little of interest. Twelve feet by twelve. Linoleum on the floor, solid painted walls, a door that was all business. One simple table, no chairs. Most dispiriting of all, he still had no access to information — the screen in his vision remained a blank other than the “voiceprint queued” notification.

It was late in the afternoon, or so he guessed, when DeBolt got his first useful nugget of information — acquired by old-fashioned listening. He heard a male voice outside the door use the term “SCIF.” Taken with his surroundings, he knew what the man was referring to, as would anyone who’d spent time in the military in the last decade. SCIF. Sensitive compartmented information facility.

The building he was in, save for one anteroom near the entrance where mobile devices could be checked, was highly secure, designed specifically for the dissemination of classified information. Everything around him had been hardened to defeat electronic eavesdropping, which explained why he had no connection. Thick walls and shielding allowed no radio frequency signals in or out. The very fact that he was in a SCIF suggested he’d been brought to some kind of government facility. Military most likely, but possibly the regional office of some law enforcement or intelligence agency.

This much DeBolt found encouraging. These killers who at one point had tried to shoot him on sight seemed to have taken a new tack. He’d been placed into custody in a government building. There his logic faltered. DeBolt thought it contradictory that the man who had begun questioning him, and who’d recently tried to kill him, didn’t seem to know his name. Yet he did know Lund’s. Perhaps it was only an interrogation technique.

DeBolt arrived at two conclusions. He was secure for the moment. And whoever these people were, whatever they wanted, it had to be linked to his new abilities. Had to be linked to META. Nothing else made sense.

He was pondering it all, imagining where things might go from here, when, as if in answer, two men burst into the room. Without a word, they hauled him up and frog-marched him down a hallway. He stumbled twice in his shackles, but didn’t fall, the hands under his elbows not allowing it. Soon a door opened, and DeBolt felt a rush of clean night air.