Cutting Edge

57

Through the waking of a dull and lusterless morning, DeBolt waited and watched a pond whose water was like glass. He felt a distinct urge to move to a new location — having just sent his position into cyberspace, he couldn’t discount the chance that it might be digitally hijacked by Delta. He forced himself to stay on the bench, refusing to succumb to paranoia.

He realized his plan had weaknesses. To begin, it made a number of assumptions. Would Patel even walk to the conference? What if he took a taxi or a bus? Would the server to which DeBolt was connected have enough capacity, enough raw processing power to scour thousands of faces in near real time? Once again, he imagined mainframes in some distant, dark room churning through terabytes of information.

He remained still on the bench.

After ten minutes there was no response.

After fifteen doubts began to weigh in. With each passing second it seemed more of a long shot. Time was not on his side. If no reply came soon, he would have to find a way to approach Patel inside the well-monitored confines of the Hofburg. All while keeping a wary eye out for Delta.

DeBolt decided to give it five more minutes. When that passed, he decided to wait five more.

Three hundred yards from where DeBolt sat on a bench, an out-of-breath Lund rushed toward the main entrance of the Hofburg Vienna. Once she was inside, her first reaction was one of surprise. She was taken aback that a gathering of cyber specialists and software vendors would be held against the backdrop of a gilded European palace. Lund found her attention diverted by ornate columns, copper domes gone green, and the vast field of statues dressing the cornices and anterooms.

She saw a series of signs directing attendees of the World Conference on Cyber Security to the official access point. Hoping she wasn’t too late, she followed the signs past a series of columns, and then up a staircase sided by a statue depicting Hercules or Neptune, or perhaps some Germanic mythological figure — art had never been her strong suit. Classical music drifted from unseen speakers, soft and soothing.

She arrived at a bustling reception area and found a pedestal where a schedule of the day’s events was posted: Dr. Patel’s ten o’clock presentation was set in a room called Festsaal. There was also a map to guide her to the right corridor. Lund had been to her share of conferences, and while hers had related to law enforcement, she supposed they were all similar in one respect — oversight would be lax. She took the direct route, falling into a role. She gave the occasional nod to strangers, glanced at a few merchant poster boards, but kept moving in one direction. Her confidence was rewarded when she drifted past the sign-in table without a glance from the two busy women behind it.

She found the Festsaal room quickly, and on turning inside was immediately struck by two things. First was the overt grandeur of the hall. With mural-covered ceilings, carved stone, and chandeliers the size of cars, it had to be as beautifully appointed as any room in Vienna. The second impression was far more worrying — the place was nearly empty.

Had she missed the presentation?

“Dammit!” she muttered under her breath.

At the back of the room Lund saw two men engaged in casual conversation, and she caught a few words of English. She hurried over.

“Excuse me—”

The man she’d interrupted broke off, and both looked at her.

“I missed Dr. Patel’s talk. Did either of you see him leave?”

“Dr. Patel?” said the taller of the two, in what sounded like a Scandinavian accent. “He is not here until ten o’clock.”

“Ten?” Lund repeated. “But … what time is it?”

The other man checked his watch. “Nine twenty.”

Lund stared at him stupidly, recalling the man with the watch in the homeless shelter. She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, I forgot my phone … I’m lost without it.”

The distress on her face must have been pronounced, because the taller man said, “Don’t worry. We too have been waiting a long time to hear Patel.” He winked conspiratorially. “We will have the best seats, no?”

With forty minutes to spare, Lund thanked the men.

They watched her curiously as she took a seat in the back row, deep in a corner and partially hidden behind a column. Without a doubt, the worst seat in the house.

A simple misunderstanding, she thought, sinking back into a padded metal chair. It occurred to her that this had been the sequence of her life in recent days. Meandering through a grocery store one moment, flying off to Maine the next. Waiting in a police holding room, then dashing away from a killer. It was a distressing pattern — hours of boredom interspersed by moments of sheer terror. Once more, she found herself in the waiting cycle.

Which didn’t bode well for what was to come.

“Only two bags?” asked the bellman.

“Yes,” Patel replied, watching the young man carry his suitcases toward the door of his room. “They will be taken straight to the airport?”

“Of course, sir. Our concierge has made arrangements with the delivery service.”

Patel slipped the man five dollars, and watched him disappear. He checked his watch: thirty minutes remained until his scheduled presentation. He collected his speaking notes from the writing desk, an undeniably thin stack for a one-hour presentation. In truth, he’d not put much thought into the effort, deciding to stick with one of his stock lectures: “The Art of Systems Architecture.” Patel cared little if he engaged the crowd — today would be his final performance behind a lectern, his life in academia having reached its predestined end. He had not yet purchased his outbound airline ticket, but Patel’s preliminary feelers had identified three interested parties, all predictably to the east: Russia, China, and India.

All that would have to wait just a few hours longer.

Patel opened his leather portfolio and stuffed his notes inside carelessly. They hung up momentarily on the only other item in the attaché, a loaded 9mm Beretta Nano. Delta had provided it, Patel having no idea how to procure such a thing in a foreign country. He could use it in the most basic sense, but doubted it would come to that. Not if Delta did his job.

Either way, he was prepared.

Patel left the room, and when he shut the door it was perhaps with a flash of reflection. He thought he might return to Vienna someday under more casual circumstances. Stay for a time and relax in the very room where the marriage of META to its host had been consummated.

Having already settled his account, Patel bypassed the front desk and headed outside into a bland morning. He took his usual route to the Hofburg — through the Stadtpark, past the pigeon-laden statue of Schubert, and then the vacant Kursalon. He navigated Walfischgasse as if he were a local, and had just rounded the Albertina art museum, with its sculpture of what looked like a giant diving board, when someone called, “Excuse me, Dr. Patel?”

He stopped and turned, and encountered a man he’d never seen before. He was slightly younger than Patel himself, keen and athletic. Of course he knew who it was. Patel’s grip on his attaché tightened ever so slightly as he said, “Do I know you?”

“I very much hope so.”

With the benefit of forewarning, Patel managed things well — his face remained a blank. “I don’t understand.”

“The META Project, Dr. Patel. I’m what came from it.”

“You mean—”

“Yes,” the man interrupted. “I’m Option Bravo.”