Cutting Edge

53

Like most storied parks, the Prater was not without its ghosts. Over a century ago, in 1913, the lives of a remarkably disparate group of young men intersected in Vienna. There were four, and they came from all points of the compass, each bursting with the vigor and idealism for which youth is known. None could have imagined then, in the halcyon days of that verdant summer, how their respective revolutions would transform the world: Stalin, Trotsky, Tito, Hitler. All roamed the Vienna park called the Prater in that year of ill-omened serenity.

The rain was coming in sheets by the time DeBolt reached the Hauptallee, the pedestrian boulevard that ran centrally through the Prater. Chestnut trees arched over the path, skeletal and fading, their spent foliage lining the shoulders and sweeping into drifts against a burdened wrought-iron fence.

DeBolt passed a carriage drawn by a muscled draft horse, its wet coat glistening, a man and woman huddled under the awning behind the driver. He saw his destination looming to his left, the brazen Riesenrad wheel that rose high above the city. He rounded a planetarium, and on entering the amusement park encountered the usual assortment of carnival rides and bumper cars. According to a sign, the park was open until midnight for a special weekend celebration, but the rain had clearly thinned the crowds, and a number of rides appeared to have packed in early. Altogether, the place looked sodden and weary, ready for a good night’s rest. An ice cream vendor leaning on his cart looked hopefully at DeBolt, and a barker in the distance seemed to beckon him personally to a show, although it was hard to say since DeBolt didn’t speak a word of German. He imagined he could translate what the man was saying if he were so inclined — yet another function of META on his list to be explored.

He approached the Riesenrad cautiously. The ride was still, and he saw no one in line — only a two-hundred-foot-tall wheel suspended in a deluge. The operator sat under a tarp, his legs propped indifferently on a crate as if not caring whether he found another customer.

DeBolt stopped twenty paces from the entrance. He turned a full circle searching for Lund. There was a young couple on the sidewalk, elbows locked and smiling as they rushed through the rain. A mother and father prodded two young girls along, everyone looking edgy after a long day of fun. DeBolt didn’t see Lund, and he began to feel uneasy.

It came out of nowhere — a message flashing to the display in his eye.

DeBolt spun and saw him instantly. A huge figure in a heavy coat, a long-barreled gun hanging casually in his hand. He was standing under the overhang of a closed ticket booth, partially hidden but in plain view to DeBolt. Fifty feet away, he was at the edge of the useful range for a handgun.

DeBolt took one step back. Fifty-three feet.

Oddly, Delta didn’t move. He simply stood there waiting, his bald head glistening in the rain, his broad face a blank.

DeBolt knew he had only one chance — he ran.

He kept to the main thoroughfare, hoping for more people to add confusion, and perhaps a better chance of encountering a policeman. He sprinted past rides with names like Autodrom and Boomerang, and didn’t venture a look back for a hundred yards. When he finally did look over his shoulder, Delta was nowhere in sight. He sprinted onward, certain the killer was following. He wondered why Delta hadn’t taken a shot when he had one. Had it been too public? Was he not an expert marksman? Whatever the case, DeBolt relied on his one advantage, proven already on the streets of Boston. In a pure footrace, he would win every time.

How could Delta not know that?

DeBolt kept running, but his uncertainty began to grow.

The amusement park seemed endless, but finally gave way to something different — pathways lined with cafés and beer halls. The patios were all empty, but inside he saw warm lights and thick crowds. There wasn’t a policeman in sight, and DeBolt guessed they were all elsewhere — searching the city in vain for the killer who was right behind him.

He made a series of turns, then finally stopped to evaluate things. He was breathless, his lungs sucking air, his heart pounding in his chest. Delta could never have kept pace with his sprint. DeBolt envisioned him blocks away, bent over with his hands on his knees. Trying to recoup enough wind to check a hundred alleys and alcoves.

How long had he been running? Five minutes? Ten? DeBolt knew from rescue missions that time was difficult to gauge once adrenaline kicked in. He decided to keep moving in the same general direction, toward the Danube and away from the park’s entrance. He hadn’t gone ten steps when a great figure appeared in front of him.

In front …

Delta was closer this time, emerging from behind a sculpted hedge at the entrance of a faux British pub. He walked straight toward DeBolt at a casual pace. He didn’t look winded at all.

This time he raised his gun and fired.