Cutting Edge

by Ward Larsen

  At that point, Lund had thanked Urlacker and gone back to her office. She’d trolled social media sites, and found a handful of accounts, but DeBolt had never been very active, and there was no usage whatsoever since his alleged passing. She did get hung up briefly on his Facebook profile picture: a rescue swimmer in midair jumping out of a helicopter, the sea below a maelstrom of white in the rotor wash. She thought it might be a stock photo, dramatic as it was, but then she discerned DeBolt’s name stenciled on the back of his survival suit.

  In the end, her hours of work went for naught. She could find no evidence to support the idea that DeBolt was still alive. The only things she had to work with: an apartment that had been searched, fingerprints on a doorknob thousands of miles away, and a young girl who’d seen a swimmer. Perhaps most mysterious of all, a Learjet flown to parts unknown.

  It gnawed at Lund late into that evening, until she finally told herself it was nothing more than false hope. She rarely let cases get to her, but this one was an exception. Exhausted, she decided to go home. Before she did, however, one last thought flickered to mind. She pulled out her phone, added a new contact, and left a brief voice mail.

  It was, without doubt, the most ridiculous thing she’d done in her investigative career.

  19

  Atif Patel rose in a pestilent mood. He pulled open the curtains and was greeted by a depressing Viennese morning, the sun powerless against espresso clouds and a dense mist. He could barely see the adjacent Stadtpark, and the few people braving its paths looked hunched and hurried. Altogether, a world far removed from the California sun he so enjoyed.

  He ordered room service, and thirty minutes later Patel was drinking tea that had gone cold and suffering a stale croissant. This from the Hilton Vienna, a reputed five-star establishment. By eight he had succumbed to the inevitable, and thrust his knobby arms into the sleeves of his winter coat. He patted his pockets methodically: room key, glasses, wallet, and the flash drive containing his PowerPoint presentation. All there. He struck outside and became one of the wretched figures in the park.

  With his head down into a stout November wind, Patel hurried along without noticing the statue of Schubert, and gave but a passing glance to the Kursalon, the pavilion where Johann Strauss had performed his first concert. Patel was a slightly built man with distinctly Indian features: dark skin and olive eyes, a nose like the prow of a ship. His mother was from Bangalore, his father Mumbai, but their only son had been born in Palo Alto, in the shadows of Silicon Valley and the Vietnam War. Indeed, if there was any providence at all in Patel’s life it was that he’d been born a U.S. citizen—without that he would never have gotten the security clearances necessary to be where he was today.

  As he put the park behind him a drizzle began to fall, and with quickened steps Patel navigated the busy Tuesday streets until the Hofburg appeared. The palace façade was grand as ever, its wide arcing entrance topped by a magnificent golden eagle. Contained within the endless halls and colonnades were the official residence of the president of Austria, the Imperial Library, and the famed Winter Riding School. Inspiring as that might be, what had begun in the thirteenth century as a palace destined for kings and emperors had inevitably diversified in scope and digressed in grandeur, now putting on offer banquet facilities, exhibition space, and an array of tawdry gift shops. And this week only: the World Conference on Cyber Security.

  Patel had hoped the long walk would have a tranquilizing effect, yet as he climbed the final set of stairs a statue of Hercules slaying Hydra with a club did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. Of course, it was neither the coldness of his tea nor the inclemency of the weather that had soured his day so early. At 3:00 A.M. he had gotten a call from the general, and been told to expect a visit.

  He thought the timing might have been intentional, meant to ruin a good night’s sleep. Patel tolerated the man, yet even after two years he did not completely trust him, this in spite of the most intimate professional association he’d ever joined. His future and the general’s had become forever intertwined, and he supposed it was the permanency of that bond that bothered him. Patel was a software designer, and the swirl in his gut today was not unlike what he felt during the beta testing of a critical new version of code—the fear of failure, the excitement of new possibilities, and always that back-of-the-mind certainty that more work lay ahead. But then, Patel had never been afraid of work.

  He walked into the conference center and found a schedule of the day’s events on a pedestal. He dragged a finger down the program to find his name. Hofburg Galerie: Dr. Atif Patel, “Protocols and Architecture in Highly Secure Systems.”

  He sighed mightily. There had been no getting around it—he’d committed to the presentation nearly a year ago. It was the kind of thing that was expected from professors at Cal Berkeley, and in spite of the poor timing, Patel knew that great minds across history had endured worse. Among these was his personal hero, J. Robert Oppenheimer, who’d also taught at Cal, and who had published groundbreaking work regarding wave functions, approximation, and quantum mechanics. Yet in spite of his technical brilliance, Oppenheimer was today known for but one thing, the government project he had so capably managed—the Manhattan Project. Oppenheimer was universally regarded as the father of the atomic bomb.

  It was curious, Patel had always thought, how history unfailingly distilled the life of any scientist to a single prominent work. Einstein and his special theory of relativity, Schrödinger and the paradox of his cat. He supposed authors and filmmakers and musicians were likewise doomed: a relevance of singularity. Still, the important thing was to have that one masterpiece. To have a Manhattan Project. Patel thought he might have found his—if he could make it work, it would be every bit as revolutionary. The surgeon, Dr. Abel Badenhorst, was capable enough, but Patel was without question the innovator, the driving force. And Badenhorst knew it. General Benefield, unfortunately, was another matter. His unmatched ego and aggressive nature were likely bred of education. Patel had attended Caltech, the general West Point, which meant they were trained to different standards, and dispatched into the world with markedly different missions. Now, by some tease of fate, those missions had intersected in an undertaking with mind-bending potential: the META Project.

  With a few minutes to spare, Patel diverted to a washroom. At the mirror he removed his glasses and used a wad of paper towels to wipe the mist from his thin face. Strangely, it seemed to reappear after a few moments. He knew it wasn’t the presentation—with a lectern in front of him, he was always at home, firmly in command of his subject matter. It is the critical juncture of the project, he thought.

  Patel wiped his face dry a second time. He then straightened his lapel, snugged his tie, and walked resolutely to the Hofburg Galerie.

  * * *

  DeBolt woke late and ill rested, but a shower improved his outlook considerably. The wound on his calf was sore, and he decided it would require a bandage and something to ward off infection. He had other aches and pains, but most were improving. He went to the window where light was streaming in, and the first thing he saw was the pharmacy. That’ll be the first stop, he decided.

  The Cadillac was still in the parking lot, which seemed reassuring. Even so, DeBolt was reluctant to use the car again, and for the same reason he discarded the idea of stealing a different vehicle using OnStar or a system like it—convenient as it was, such thefts could be tracked. Anyway, the issue of transportation seemed pointless with no destination in mind. That would be his priority today.

  He had to find out what had been done to him, and his only lead was Joan Chandler. He referenced the mainframe in his head, performed a search on her name, and was soon faced with choosing the correct Joan Chandler out of sixty-three on offer. It turned out to be a simple problem. He cross-referenced inputs of nurse, Maine, and, finally, property records for Washington County. There was only one Joan Chandler who met those narrow criteria.

  He was getting more proficient.<
br />
  She had been born in Virginia, educated at the University of North Carolina, and was an RN with a certified specialty in perioperative nursing—in essence, a surgical assistant. This gave DeBolt pause. She had admitted to putting a needle in his arm. It’s what saved you, Trey. But had she also been present during his surgery? He thought it likely until the next bit of information arrived. Chandler’s nursing license had been revoked last year. The reason: substance abuse.

  He recalled her nightly bouts, the drinking that seemed to accelerate each day at the cottage. DeBolt steeled himself, then requested recent news about Joan Chandler. He expected an obituary, an investigation into her violent death. What he saw was incomprehensible. Her cottage had been destroyed in an explosion, the origins of which were suspicious and under investigation.

  DeBolt, of course, knew the truth. Five men. Five professionals who would never be held to account. Not unless he could do something about it. He suppressed a surge of something new—anger—and began plodding through Chandler’s work history and tax records. He discovered that for the last nineteen months she’d been employed by RTM Services, an ambiguous name for a company whose digital footprint turned out to be equally opaque. The only grain of useful information—RTM was incorporated in the state of Maine.

  DeBolt stared out the window, past his heisted car to the river beyond. Soon a new option came to mind. He input Chandler’s name, her address on Cape Split, and performed a search for her phone number. The wait was longer than usual, but he got a result, courtesy, apparently, of AT&T. He wondered if the company was aware that its data was being shared. If not, could he somehow be held accountable for the breach? That question was easily replaced by another: What can AT&T do for me?

  DeBolt input the number, then added: Location track, last two months.

  He waited a full five minutes, but there was no response, not even “REQUEST INVALID,” or “NULL.” Nothing at all. He had presumably found a new boundary, and took it with grudging acceptance. Certainly there were limits to what he could acquire.

  Still at the window, a defeated DeBolt focused on the Cadillac. More than ever, he was bothered by it. It seemed like a marker, a beacon that could only attract trouble. He should have parked farther away. Last night he’d been tired, not thinking clearly. Now he felt a compulsion to get clear, even if he didn’t have a destination in mind. He turned away from the window and grabbed the backpack full of cash—he had yet to count it, or even estimate how much was inside. DeBolt decided to set out on foot, and once he was safely away from the car he would concentrate on the basics—food, fresh clothing, a bandage for his leg—before trying to discover more about Joan Chandler and her mysterious employer.

  He’d just gripped the door handle when he heard heavy boots on the stairs. DeBolt froze. He’d heard a similar clatter last night, but now it struck him differently. Then it had seemed an annoyance. Now it came as a warning.

  I’m too close to the car.

  Five men.

  DeBolt put his eye to the peephole and saw a man on the staircase landing outside. He only got a glimpse, but it was all he needed—a face he would never forget, last seen in the parking lot of Roy’s Diner in Jonesport.

  DeBolt let go of the door handle like it was on fire.

  20

  The room above DeBolt’s own was the only other with a view of the Cadillac. Multiple sets of boots stomped across the floor. How did I not see it?

  He quickly crossed the room, keeping to the shadows, and looked out the window with a new suspicion. On the sidewalk he saw two old men walking side by side, one with a dog on a leash. A woman maneuvered a stroller around a puddle. A UPS driver was delivering packages to the pharmacy. With rising paranoia he mistrusted them all.

  DeBolt tried to settle his thoughts.

  The Tahoe—he tried to recall the license plate number, but drew a blank. Maine, 846 … no …

  “Dammit!”

  How could he recover it? He sent: Archive searches.

  INVALID CRITERIA

  History.

  NULL INPUT

  DeBolt pressed his eyes shut, tried to concentrate. How does it work? he wondered.

  Very deliberately, he input: Search history, November 19, Chevy Tahoe, Jonesport, Maine.

  864B34, MAINE

  CHEVY TAHOE, WHITE, VIN 1GCGDMA8A9KR07327

  REGISTERED U.S. DOD

  VEHICLE POSITION 44°31’59.5”N 67°63’02.5”W

  JONESPORT, MAINE

  “Yes!” he whispered.

  DeBolt focused on the first two lines, trying to highlight them. The image faltered and blinked, his frustration mounting. Then success—the VIN went bold: Present position this VIN.

  He waited. His heart missed a beat when another set of boots shook the staircase outside, then faded. Climbing or descending? He couldn’t tell.

  The result flashed into view.

  CHEVY TAHOE, WHITE, VIN 1GCGDMA8A9KR07327

  REGISTERED U.S. DOD

  VEHICLE POSITION 45°11’02.5”N 67°16’07.3”W

  CALAIS, MAINE

  And there it was—confirmation. In an increasingly common theme, DeBolt was encouraged to have gotten a result, but shaken by another disquieting truth.

  Input: Plot lat-long on map.

  Seconds later a perfectly scaled map of Calais, Maine, appeared—there were also two dots, one blue and one red. What could be more intuitive, he thought. Blue Force and Red Force, just like a military exercise. The Tahoe was two blocks south of the Calais Lodge. They had tracked him here, likely through the Cadillac.

  But DeBolt had one advantage. They had no idea he was nearly in their grasp.

  * * *

  He listened for five minutes, watched the street from the window. DeBolt felt like an animal in a sprung trap, waiting for the hunter to arrive and collect him. He saw the occasional passing car, a few pedestrians who looked harmless. A state wildlife officer drove by in an SUV, and it made him think of calling the police. But the men chasing him were driving a government vehicle, which meant they were official at some level. Going to the police would be akin to surrender.

  The conservative option would be to sit tight and watch. They had followed him to Calais, but obviously didn’t realize he was literally under their noses. How long would that last? DeBolt had never been patient by nature—not when there was a more dynamic option.

  He decided to leave.

  All too late, he wondered if there was a back door in the hotel. Fire escapes? Emergency exits? He should have researched it all last night. Yet there might be a way to find out—DeBolt was aware of it because as a Coast Guard rescue swimmer he was also an EMT, and had trained and worked with firemen. He went to the phone by the bed and saw the hotel’s street address typed neatly on the cover plate. He entered this into his request field, along with: fire department building plan.

  After some delay, a computerized diagram came to the frame in his vision. It was a layout of the hotel, and he moved and magnified the image until he had what he wanted—clear markings for all the building’s exits. Fire departments had something like it on file for every public building: a floor plan with emergency exits and stairwells and fire axes marked. DeBolt was disappointed to see only two options—the front door, and a lone exit to the rear, the latter down a short hallway from the base of the main staircase. Either way, he would be exposed for a short time.

  He searched the room for a weapon. A clothes iron he thought too cumbersome, and even more so a heavy table lamp. There was nothing—until he remembered the loose balustrade post outside his door. Crude certainly, but his best option.

  He shouldered the backpack momentarily, but then reconsidered and opened it. He stuffed wads of folded hundreds into each of his four pockets, then reloaded the backpack by a single strap onto his left shoulder. He listened intently, checked the viewing port. He stepped outside with his senses on high alert. He heard a television below, the vaguely familiar baritone of an over-the-hill actor giving a pitch f
or reverse mortgages. DeBolt saw the loose post, wrenched it free, and was heartened by its weight. A door rattled open on the floor above. DeBolt was about to rush down the staircase when he heard voices below.

  The first had to be the manager. “There have been five of you—that is too many! You must pay for breakfast!”

  A smart-ass reply, “Yeah, right. Here’s twenty, and we’ll call it even.”

  Footfalls on the staircase above.

  DeBolt saw an alcove on his right. Inside was a square shadow on the linoleum where a Coke machine had probably once been. He ducked inside, but realized too late that it wouldn’t work—he could still be seen from the landing. He rushed back out to the stairwell and was instantly eye to eye with a man he’d never seen before. But based on his reaction, a man who clearly recognized him.

  The man reached behind his back, at the belt line.

  DeBolt already had his wooden post swinging. His first strike landed a glancing blow, one that stunned the man and sent him stumbling against the rail. The second was a backhand swing, less powerful, but one that connected cleanly with the man’s temple. He crumpled in a heap. DeBolt rolled him and found the gun under the tail of his shirt. He didn’t know the make or model, but saw a safety and made sure it was off. He shifted the club to his left hand, then quick-stepped down the stairs, betting with his life that the gun was loaded and had a round in the chamber.

  He’d gone three steps when a second man he’d never seen appeared. He looked legitimately stunned, and went statuelike when he realized DeBolt was pointing a gun at his head.

  “Hang on,” he said in a calm voice. He was older than the others DeBolt had seen, concerned but collected. A soldier who’d been in tense situations before. DeBolt was no expert, but he had enough training to know where the threat was—the man’s hands remained still at his sides.

  “You killed her,” DeBolt said. “You killed the nurse. Why?”

  “Listen, buddy, you’re confused if you think—”

  “Why?” he shouted. “Because of me? What they did to me?”