The Memorist

Chapter 24

Vienna, Austria

Sunday, April 27^th-10:05 a.m.

The six-foot-three-inch-tall Texan poured what must have been his sixth cup of coffee of the day. He didn’t blow on it or sip it. If it burned, he didn’t let on. There was a china plate of fruit and another of cheese and a basket of bread on the table in front of him, but they remained untouched. Caffeine was the only fuel Tom Paxton needed, even if it was too hot.

Seated opposite him in the suite’s dining room, now outfitted as a makeshift office, were the architects of the plan that had won Global Security this contract. Kerri, his personal assistant, sat next to him as she always did, her laptop open and her fingers flying over the keys. Paxton felt reassured by the constant tapping.

Bill Vine, who, along with the other two men at the table, had been in Vienna for the last month overseeing the “symphony job” as they’d dubbed it, was bringing his boss up to date when Paxton interrupted.

“If I read you right on that last point, you’re saying there are still access control issues? You haven’t resolved all of them? Do I have to remind you the concert’s four days away? What the hell is going on?”

“There’s only one issue we don’t have locked down. That’s all. And we’re close to solving it.” An ex-army guy, Vine never lost his cool. He’d seen enough death and had enough bad memories stored up to haunt him for the rest of his life. While he knew every job was a matter of life and death, not much rattled him. Certainly not a demanding boss, which was one of the reasons he still had this job. “Let’s go over what we’ve got squared away first. The traffic issues are taken care of. We have the city’s agreement to close the street outside the concert hall on the night of the performance. Even VIPs will be let off a block away and required to walk. Access to all entrances and exits of the protected area will be handled with a Zenith biometric access card and mantrap and we’re up to speed on all that. Everything’s in top working order and we have backups to our backups. The locals are being very cooperative.”

Vine had been with Global since Desert Storm. His PTSD would have incapacitated a less determined man but he kept his demons under control. Even so, every once in a while, like this morning, just to be safe, Paxton searched for evidence of them deep in the man’s eyes. He didn’t see them. If he ever did, Vine would be out no matter how close the two men had become or how much Vine had done for the company.

“Can you show me the card setup?” Paxton asked.

“You bet.” While Vine typed commands into his computer to bring up the right program, Paxton shifted his focus to the other members of the team, checking them for alertness, signs of tension, weariness. Being at the ISTA conference in the catbird seat, he couldn’t afford any screwups. It had taken him too long to get there.

Every year the noteworthy body gathered in a different country to share the latest developments in security products and procedures, see demonstrations, debate policy and discuss challenges. Attended by the top brass from every major security company, hundreds of analysts, VIPs and officials from most governments’ security agencies, the International Security and Technology Association conference was a giant bull’s-eye: a sweetheart target for a showy terrorist attack. And on Thursday night it would be his responsibility to prevent that from happening.

Since ISTA’s inception in 1958, individual firms competed for the honor of providing the conference’s security each year. Several companies were usually chosen, depending on how many venues there were. This year there were six. One to handle the conference center where most of the activities, meetings, panel discussions and exhibitions would take place, and one for each of the four hotels where the attendees were staying. Those five firms would do little more than provide backup systems since the venues themselves were chosen based on the state of their security.

But the site the sixth company would be protecting was not as secure.

The systems in place in the one-hundred-and-thirty-nine-year-old Musikverein concert hall at Bösendorferstraße 12, off the Kärntner Ring were mediocre at best, so the company awarded that contract inherited the biggest opportunity along with the biggest challenge. And that company was Global Security Inc.

“You want all the gory details?” Vine asked his boss.

“You may think we all know every step of this system as well as our own names but-”

Vine cut him off, finishing the sentence for him. No one else on the team had the nerve to do that but Paxton actually cracked a smile as Vine intoned the company mantra, mimicking his boss’s voice: “But repetition is a small price to pay to ensure everything goes smoothly.” And then he launched into a monologue illustrated by dozens of 3-D visual displays on the laptop. “The holder will activate the card by placing his or her thumb in the left quadrant. The thumbprint will need to match the chip implanted within the card. The chip will have specific information about the cardholder…” Vine looked up and over at Paxton. “You know that drill, you set it up. Am I right in assuming you want me to keep going anyway?”

“Yeah, I like hearing your voice.”

Vine offered Paxton the closest thing to a smile he could manage: the right corner of his mouth lifted very slightly. You didn’t notice what was off about Vine when you first met him. Square-jawed with a full head of dark brown hair, he was a good-looking man, just past his prime but holding his own. And then you noticed how little his face moved and how few expressions he could manage. Twenty-two separate surgeries had put Humpty Dumpty together again. Well, almost put him back together again.

“Each cardholder’s name, organization, age and weight will be entered along with a picture, passport and driver’s license information. The maintenance crews, catering crews and concert hall employees have agreed to comply. We’re almost done collecting their data.”

“How far from being done?” Paxton asked.

“With those groups, another twelve hours.”

“Good. Go on.”

Around the table, there was a subtle restlessness. Paxton didn’t care that he was boring the bejeezus out of them. He wanted to hear the details again. And again. Like a lover telling him over and over how good it feels. Not that he was sure he’d remember what that was like but this was no time to reflect on the dried-up, hostile battlefield he used to call a marriage.

“The card will work only when the thumbprint matches the database on the chip. We’ll have proximity readers read the cards. Enough so we don’t cause traffic at any of the entrances, which could be used as diversions. If the information given to the reader matches the original database in the access control computer, the mantrap access gate will allow entrance into the building. If the information doesn’t match, the gate will lock, allowing neither entrance nor exit. Of course there’s an override protection so that the guards at our monitoring point can allow access in cases of emergency. The concert hall isn’t happy about the gates.”

“Why?” Paxton asked as he got up and poured himself the seventh cup of coffee.

“Aesthetics.”

“Aren’t we using bulletproof plexi? They should be thankful we’re not bringing in metal bar gates.”

“The building’s an historic treasure and they-”

“Fuck ’em.” Paxton dismissed the concern. “How many pounds leeway are you building into the sensor pads in case the weight on the access card isn’t exactly the same as the weight entered into the database? I don’t want to have a repeat of the incident in Washington last month.” A Supreme Court judge had gained six pounds since his access card had been created and the mantrap had locked him in.

“Ten pounds. Should be fine.”

Paxton sat back down and ran through it all again in his mind, then looked at Vine with an expression of bewilderment. “So all that’s left is the orchestra. That’s where the snafu is? With the fucking musicians?”

“I’m getting to it.”

“Or avoiding it.”

“I’m waiting for a phone call and was hoping it would come in while I was briefing you. We’re at a standstill, Tom.”

“Why are they giving us a hard time?”

“The concertmaster doesn’t want to submit the members of the orchestra to the ‘ordeal’ as he insists on referring to it. He’s saying that these are world renowned artists and he won’t have them treated like criminals.”

“We need this solved ASAP.” Paxton was about to belabor the point but stopped himself. There was no reason to lecture Vine. Instead, he turned to his number two. “Alana, time for your song and dance.”

Alana Green, a science and math whiz who had graduated from MIT at eighteen, had been with Global ever since. Now, at twenty-four she was still the youngest employee and only one year older than Paxton’s daughter. About to launch into her presentation, she stopped when Kerri’s cell phone rang. Paxton’s assistant looked at the display and then answered it. “David Yalom is on his way up,” she said after taking the call.

“Let’s wait,” Paxton said to Green. “We might as well put this show on for the press.”

“And one other thing,” Kerri continued.

Paxton looked back at her.

“I just got word that, schedules permitting, we might have a few extra guests at the concert.”

Paxton raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“The Vice President of the United States and Secretary of Defense will be in Eastern Europe toward the end of next week. It seems that both of them are Beethoven fans.”