Cutting Edge

45

KLM Flight 23 landed smoothly in Amsterdam at 8:09 the next morning, twin puffs of blue smoke whirling from its main landing gear on touchdown. DeBolt looked through his window, the glass peppered with condensation, and saw a brooding day in the making, steady rain and mist obscuring a milky sky. He’d slept well on the overnight flight, but as the massive jet lumbered toward the terminal, anxiety made its own landing.

Two questions governed his thoughts, and the first was answered immediately. On the screen in his mind he entered and sent the words: Amsterdam Schiphol METAR.

The response was almost immediate. It felt like a benediction.

METAR was the international format for aviation weather — as a helicopter crew member, DeBolt knew how to decipher it. Cool, wet, misty, fifty degrees — it was a lousy day in Amsterdam. Far more relevant — his private telecom network seemed operable in Europe. There had been no way to know if META would reach this far, so DeBolt was immensely relieved. He was sure the system had been birthed, at some level, inside the United States Department of Defense. But that gave no guarantee it would work worldwide. Then again, if META truly was some type of military program, wouldn’t that be the point? He imagined a unit of men like Delta, all able to access unlimited data from any place in the world. How lethal a force multiplier would that be?

DeBolt’s musings were cut short when the airplane reached the terminal. There his second concern rose to the forefront. Would Ronald Anderson’s identity get him through Dutch immigration? That question ran headlong to an answer. He was one of the first passengers to disembark, and found no line whatsoever at the customs and immigration queues — another perk of business class — where a stern-faced blond man took his passport.

The irony of that moment was not lost on DeBolt. He had been born in Colorado, yet his parents were both Dutch, as was his surname. Standing at the immigration booth as Ronald Anderson, DeBolt looked at a man who one generation ago would have been his countryman, the same light hair and blue eyes, the same open facial features. There was a fleeting moment of panic that one Dutchman might recognize another, some primal ethnic connection. Then the passport came back through the window and DeBolt heard, “Have a nice stay in Holland, Mr. Anderson.”

It was over that quickly. With no luggage, DeBolt walked outside to the curb and ran headlong into the cacophony of cars and busses that ringed every big airport. There he stood and tried to work out his next problem: how best to cover the last five hundred miles to Vienna.

Two hours after DeBolt reached Amsterdam, Lund arrived in Vienna on the nonstop United flight from Dulles. She was arrested immediately.

They were waiting in the gate area, two uniformed policemen and a plainclothes officer with a photograph in his hand.

“Shannon Lund?” the man with the photo asked as she emerged from the jetway amid a single-file crowd.

It was an ominous introduction, and one that left no room for denial. “Yes.”

“I am Oberkommissar Dieter Strauss of the Bundespolizei. You must come with us.” The man’s accent was hard on the consonants. As a law enforcement officer, Lund realized he was not making a request.

“What is this about?” she asked.

“The United States has formally requested your detention. It relates to a criminal matter, but I can say no more here.”

Lund wasn’t surprised. Not really. Wheeley, or someone higher in the chain, had flagged her passport. Not soon enough to keep her from leaving the United States, but a ten-hour flight had allowed them to play catch-up. She was now a demonstrated flight risk, which wouldn’t make her situation back home any easier. Worst of all — it brought her efforts to help Trey to a skidding halt.

She said the only thing that came to mind. “I’d like to talk to someone from the embassy.”

The policeman grinned with one side of his mouth. “And someone from the embassy wants very much to talk to you. You will meet them at Bundespolizei headquarters.”

“I checked a bag.”

“One of my men is retrieving it now. Oh, and I must ask you for your mobile.” He held out an empty hand.

Reluctantly, Lund reached into her purse and handed over her Samsung. The inspector seemed to study the device, then found the correct button to turn it off.

“Anything else?” she said with undisguised annoyance — even if she would have handled things precisely as Oberkommissar Strauss had if their places were reversed.

“No,” said the policeman.

“Okay, then let’s get on with it.”

Everyone played their roles with staid civility. There were no cuffs, and they guided Lund to an unmarked government car which, twenty minutes later, delivered them to the side entrance of a building marked simply POLIZEI.

She was escorted through a long hall, rose three floors in an elevator, to be finally deposited in a very secure-looking interrogation room with a cipher lock on the door. Lund was given a water bottle, denied a cigarette, and asked very politely to wait.

As if she had a choice.