Cutting Edge

44

While Ronald Anderson was having trouble contacting Elegant Escorts, a man similar in appearance took his assigned seat on KLM Flight 23. Everything so far had worked according to plan. Security had been a breeze. A weary TSA agent, no doubt at the end of his shift, had taken one look at the passport followed by a vacant glance at DeBolt’s face. The KLM boarding agent showed even less interest. And here he was.

The big jet began backing away from the gate, and a flight attendant made an announcement about placing electronic devices in airplane mode. This caused DeBolt to wonder. His burner phone was not an issue — he’d already discarded it in a restroom trash bin. But what about the link in his head? Was there a way to suspend it? None that he knew of. He supposed he could ignore the ever-present screen and make no new requests. In truth, he liked the idea of it — eight hours off the grid after the madness of recent days.

Anderson had booked a seat in business class, a luxury DeBolt had never before experienced. The wide leather berth seemed to hold him with a custom fit, and he’d already been offered a drink, but politely declined, smiling inwardly at the thought. Drinking and driving was dangerous enough — but to combine drunkenness with META? On the lighter side, he supposed it would open up a whole new world of bar tricks. Hopefully he’d survive long enough to come up with a few.

The smell of brewing coffee filled the air, and he hoped that would be the next thing put on offer. The flight would be a long one, sleep a necessity, but before he drifted off, DeBolt wanted to set a plan for his arrival in Amsterdam. He’d so far sensed no complications from his theft of Ronald Anderson’s identity. Nine hours — that’s all I need. Since the last flurry of text exchanges through Marta Kaminski’s hijacked phone number — voice was of course out of the question — the adulterous investment banker had gone silent. He was likely feeling used and powerless. A nice turn of justice, in DeBolt’s view.

The jet began its takeoff roll, and soon the city fell away, a tapestry of glass and concrete designed by ten thousand architects, built by a million hands. Vast as it was, DeBolt thought the city seemed inconsequential against the cyber realm in which he now lived — a boundless universe that had barely existed when he was born. Quite accidentally, he found himself at the pinnacle of a shadowed new world: Trey DeBolt, end user of all that was. He considered Dr. Atif Patel. Was he truly one of META’s creators? Could he explain to DeBolt what had been done to him? Did the man realize he was the last survivor of a government project gone mad?

“Coffee, Mr. Anderson?”

DeBolt looked up and saw a flight attendant: tall, blond, and certainly Dutch, eye-catching in a sharply pressed uniform. “Yes, please.” As she set a cup on his table — china, not Styrofoam — he said, “Will Wi-Fi be available on the flight?”

“Normally, yes,” she said, “but unfortunately this particular airplane is having a technical issue. I’m afraid you will have to disconnect for a few hours.”

He grinned widely. “Not such a bad thing. I almost wish I could make it permanent.” She smiled understandingly, then put cream in his coffee and was gone.

The city slipped away and a dark ocean took its place. The intimately familiar seascape below put DeBolt further at ease. By some strange pull, he tried for a connection, and managed one for a time. He used it to plot the position of Shannon Lund’s cell phone — and presumably Lund herself. She was somewhere south of Washington, D.C., which implied she wasn’t on her way back to Kodiak after all. He guessed she was continuing her search on META in some faceless government office. Maybe she’d even found something useful. His thoughts then turned tangential, to the safe house in Boston that wasn’t safe at all, and he remembered Lund reaching up and kissing him. Remembered being glad that she had.

He conjured up her cell phone number on the monitor in his head. DeBolt composed a simple text message: All is well. Stay safe, Shannon. Trey.

He launched it into cyberspace, and a response came immediately.

He tried to send it once more. DeBolt couldn’t tell if it went through.

“I’m standing at the United Airlines counter right now,” said Lund. She was talking to her commander, Special Agent Jonathan Wheeley.

“How long will it take you to get here?” he asked.

“It looks like tomorrow afternoon. I checked Reagan National, but that would have taken longer. Dulles has the best options, but it takes at least three flights.”

“All right. And would you like to explain why you’re in D.C. right now?”

Lund shut her eyes reflexively. She didn’t want to lie, but the truth was hardly an option. That would only put Trey further at risk — either that or get her an appointment with a Coast Guard — appointed psychiatrist. “It’s a long story,” she said.

Wheeley remained silent.

“Boss, look … you’ve always been straight with me, and I appreciate that. But there are a lot of complications here.”

“Do any of them involve what happened to Jim?”

“Yes … but not directly … I mean, it’s just too hard to explain.”

“All right, Shannon. But I’ll tell you one thing right now — if you didn’t have a rock-solid alibi, you would not be flying home commercial and unescorted.”

For the first time she heard coldness in Wheeley’s voice, a tone that said he wasn’t going to venture out on any long limbs to save her career. With a strange feeling of liberation, Lund realized she didn’t care. “I understand. I’ll be in touch as soon as I land in Kodiak.”

“You do that.”

A click, and she was free.

Lund slid her phone in the back pocket of her pants, and then looked at the ticketing line. It was relatively short, and the flight she needed didn’t leave for three hours. She went outside to the departures curb, lit up a cigarette, and took a long draw. It was wonderful. Traffic swirled all around, engines humming and horns blaring. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Lund pulled it out expecting a follow-up from Jon Wheeley. She saw instead a text message: All is well. Stay safe, Shannon. On way to Vienna to track down Dr. Atif Patel regarding META. Trey.

Her heart seemed to stutter, and she stood stock-still. Relief, joy, fear — all of it hit at the same time. Trey had gotten clear of the bloodshed in Boston. He was not only alive, but free. Dr. Atif Patel? She had no idea who he was, or what connection he had to META. She only knew that Trey was going to Vienna to seek him out.

Lund nearly responded, but as soon as her thumbs touched the keypad she hesitated. The text had come from a number she’d never seen. She was positive her phone had been tampered with — the photo of Douglas Wilson had vaporized. Was it safe to respond? Or would doing so only highlight Trey’s position? Was this new message even from Trey?

More than ever, she understood what he was going through. She was trapped in a cyber corner, not sure how things worked. In this glorious new age of information, Lund found herself in a digital house of mirrors, every bit of information, every revelation descending into the realm of virtual reality. She had seen photos disappear, seen her text threads altered. What was real? What was manufactured?

She took a long look at the message, feeling helpless, increasingly adrift. META seemed everywhere, and now its vortex was pulling her in — as inexorably as it had Trey. Her thumbs came off the screen and she rushed inside. Lund checked the big departures board. Sixty seconds later she was in the United Airlines ticketing line. She stared impatiently at her watch.