by Ward Larsen
He wondered if he had done the right thing. He’d vacillated over dispatching Delta to begin with, the risk being considerable. He thought the man would prevail, but it wasn’t a certainty. And if he failed? Patel would then be forced to reboot his dream. Not at square one—in fact, considerably to the right. Badenhorst might be dead, but Patel had the surgeon’s notes. His work had been exquisite, this made clear by the results. But there were other competent surgeons in the world. Certainly other patients.
He decided he would order a good Napa Valley red tonight and raise a glass to the doctor’s memory. Who would have imagined it—two had survived the implantation surgery. Bravo and Delta. It spoke volumes about the efficacy of Badenhorst’s new technique. And even without those successes, the most important component of META was established—the software had gone active and, barring Patel’s intervention, would soon worm its way home, embedding as a permanent fixture in its host.
Patel was increasingly sure he’d made the right decision. It would be the ultimate test. And if Delta did survive? The very thought was intoxicating. The man was a force of nature. Atif Patel’s surrogate assassin. He remembered as a teenager playing Mortal Kombat and Call of Duty. First-person shooter games in which a nearly invincible killer wreaked havoc across the battlegrounds of the world. Patel had now taken things to the next step—a second-person shooter. Or was it third-person? Either way, this reality was not virtual. He controlled the ultimate weapon, as surely as if he had a joystick in his hand. All he had to do was sweep away the vestiges of its birth, make everything look as it had before META’s genesis. Patel would remove all the creators save for one.
He pocketed his phone and walked back out into the rain. He looked up at a sky that was gray and brooding, and once again longed for the California sun.
32
The colonel relayed the improbable news. His team was assembled in a conference room inside the massive federal building at 10 Causeway Street in downtown Boston, barely a mile removed from their double snatch on the lawn of the Logan Hilton.
“So there it is,” the commander said.
His second in command, an Army major, spoke for the others. “This whole mission had been an abortion from the beginning! Now Benefield, our commanding officer, gets murdered halfway around the world? Does this not bother you?”
The colonel nodded. “No doubt about it—he was executed. The State Department is up in arms, but so far they haven’t attached Benefield to us. Chances are, they never will. So the question becomes, where do we go from here?”
“We reported solely to Benefield, and none of us know what unit or command he was responsible to. With the general gone? No question—we chop back to SOCOM.” He was referring to Special Operations Command, the joint overseer of U.S. Special Forces.
Everyone looked at the colonel.
“Look,” he said, “I know how you all feel about this mission. The general assured us this op was targeting a domestic terrorist cell, a group who were an extreme and immediate threat. That’s the reason our unit was created—we are the no-questions-asked response to verified domestic threats. But we’ve all seen this mission play out. That woman we killed at the cabin, the clinic we hit. I’m having the same doubts you guys are—this whole thing has stunk from the get-go. Now we’re sitting here with two people in custody and no guidance on what to do with them. We’ve been chasing this guy for days on a ‘kill quietly’ order, but the officer who issued it is suddenly out of the picture … and, I should add, under highly suspicious circumstances.”
The major spoke up, thumbing toward the hallway behind them. “You talked to this guy. What do you make of him?”
“Gut feeling … I can’t picture him as a threat. As for the woman, she’s a Coast Guard investigator, and definitely not on our target list. So that’s our situation, gentlemen. The way I see it, it’s our decision as to how we clean this mess up.”
One of the two Navy SEALs, a lean, angular man, spoke up. “None of it adds up, boss. I think we have to consider the possibility that Benefield went rogue. If so, then none of our orders were legal to begin with.”
“If that’s true, we didn’t know it,” the other SEAL argued. “We can’t be held accountable.”
“Probably not,” said the colonel. “But if this goes public—that SOCOM has put together a black unit whose purpose is to strike terrorism suspects domestically, and with limited oversight—it’ll blow up big-time. Every two-bit congressman on Capitol Hill will be throwing knives at SOCOM, and heads will roll. I probably don’t have to tell you which five careers will be the first ones down the crapper—assuming we can stay out of Leavenworth.”
“Everything has been clean so far,” said the major, a man who never drifted from his tactical nature. “The nurse’s death, the op at the clinic—none of that can be tied to us. The only two loose ends are right here in this house.” He chinned toward the adjacent holding rooms.
“We can’t just waste ’em,” argued the colonel.
“No, I’m not saying that. But maybe we can impart on them the importance of keeping everything quiet.”
“Impart?” the second SEAL queried. “I can do some imparting.”
The colonel said, “No, it isn’t gonna be that easy. This guy saw what we did on Cape Split—he said as much at the hotel two days ago. He knows we’ve been hunting him. He’s probably wondering right now how the hell he’s still alive. He’s also seen at least two of our faces, including mine.”
“The girl hasn’t,” chimed in the second SEAL. “I got her clean today. I’m sure she didn’t get a look at either of us during the takedown.”
The colonel considered it, looking at each man in turn. “Okay, maybe we can talk our way out of this. I need to find out more about this guy—we don’t even know his name, for Christ’s sake. I want to know why he’s so important. Problem is, we can’t go about it in a damned Border Patrol lockup.” He looked around the room, and got four nods. “Okay, Trigger and Fry, I want a safe house. We need to move soon, so not too far away.”
“Duration?” said the Air Force master sergeant whose call sign was Trigger.
“Three days is plenty.”
“Can we borrow one from somebody?”
The colonel thought about it. “Yeah, might as well. Speed is life.” He turned to the second SEAL. “Knocker, transportation. Same goes—if you can requisition something from Homeland or Border Patrol, I don’t care. We’ll only need it for a few days.”
The three men got up and left the room, leaving the colonel with his second in command.
“I’m thinking we ditch the girl,” said the major. “Drop her somewhere outside town.”
“My thoughts exactly. But we wait until tonight. In the meantime, let’s keep her wrapped tight—the less she sees and hears, the better for everyone.” The commander looked at his subordinate and saw him wrestling with something. “What is it?”
“The guy … there’s still something about him I don’t like, something under the radar. He’s been way too lucky.”
The colonel nodded—the same thing had been gnawing at him. “He’s a survivor, I’ll give him that. But yeah … I know what you mean. Benefield didn’t tell us everything. This guy is getting information from somebody. He’s seen us coming more than once. After we get safe, I’m going to have another talk with him. We need to find out who the hell he is, and why Benefield wanted him dead.”
“Okay, boss, but does the irony of what you just said not strike you? Right now—look at who’s dead and who’s not.”
33
“Passport,” said the immigration officer.
Arrivals at JFK International Airport had been streaming in all afternoon, the European rush heavier than usual, and the officer inside the booth was nearing the end of her shift. She reached out and took a document from the next person in line. Her head was down as she did so, and after finalizing the keyboard inputs for the previous traveler, she looked up and was doubly surprised.
/> The first thing to get her attention was the massive bald head. It was pink and cylindrical, reminding her of a gallon paint can. The body supporting it was built like a blockhouse. The second surprise was what came with the passport—a small wallet-sized card on which was printed: I HAVE NO VOICE AS A RESULT OF COMBAT-RELATED INJURIES. Beneath that was the emblem of the United States Marine Corps.
The immigration officer gave a tentative smile that was not returned. But then, the face in front of her looked barely capable of it. There were no crinkles at the edges of his mouth or eyes, and his features seemed swollen, the way she remembered her uncle when he’d gone on corticosteroids. Conversely, the man didn’t appear angry or taciturn. His face was simply a blank—as expressionless, apparently, as his voice.
She scanned the passport into her reader and his information lit to her screen. Douglas Wilson from Missoula, Montana. Departed JFK October twentieth, arrived in Vienna, Austria, the next day. Departed Vienna on the return trip nine hours ago. There were no flags, no warrants, no notices for special handling. Everything was in order.
She handed back his passport, and said, “Welcome home, Mr. Wilson. You can go.”
He turned away, and as he did she saw the scars on the back of his scalp. She called out, “Oh … one more thing, sir.”
He paused and looked back at her.
“Thank you for your service.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment, the look on his meaty face something near confusion. Then he turned toward the exit and was gone.
* * *
DeBolt’s circumstances went unchanged for most of that day. He sat in a holding room, hearing only the occasional muted voice through thick walls. The restraints on his arms and legs remained in place—he’d moved about the room to explore, but there was little of interest. Twelve feet by twelve. Linoleum on the floor, solid painted walls, a door that was all business. One simple table, no chairs. Most dispiriting of all, he still had no access to information—the screen in his vision remained a blank other than the “voiceprint queued” notification.
It was late in the afternoon, or so he guessed, when DeBolt got his first useful nugget of information—acquired by old-fashioned listening. He heard a male voice outside the door use the term “SCIF.” Taken with his surroundings, he knew what the man was referring to, as would anyone who’d spent time in the military in the last decade. SCIF. Sensitive compartmented information facility.
The building he was in, save for one anteroom near the entrance where mobile devices could be checked, was highly secure, designed specifically for the dissemination of classified information. Everything around him had been hardened to defeat electronic eavesdropping, which explained why he had no connection. Thick walls and shielding allowed no radio frequency signals in or out. The very fact that he was in a SCIF suggested he’d been brought to some kind of government facility. Military most likely, but possibly the regional office of some law enforcement or intelligence agency.
This much DeBolt found encouraging. These killers who at one point had tried to shoot him on sight seemed to have taken a new tack. He’d been placed into custody in a government building. There his logic faltered. DeBolt thought it contradictory that the man who had begun questioning him, and who’d recently tried to kill him, didn’t seem to know his name. Yet he did know Lund’s. Perhaps it was only an interrogation technique.
DeBolt arrived at two conclusions. He was secure for the moment. And whoever these people were, whatever they wanted, it had to be linked to his new abilities. Had to be linked to META. Nothing else made sense.
He was pondering it all, imagining where things might go from here, when, as if in answer, two men burst into the room. Without a word, they hauled him up and frog-marched him down a hallway. He stumbled twice in his shackles, but didn’t fall, the hands under his elbows not allowing it. Soon a door opened, and DeBolt felt a rush of clean night air.
34
DeBolt was pushed and shoved into the backseat of a car. Two doors closed, and the car shot forward like a racehorse out of a gate.
Still cuffed and hooded, DeBolt was thrown left, then right, before the car’s accelerations dampened and fell in with the hum of steady traffic. Realizing he was finally outside the confines of the SCIF, he tried for a connection. His first request was simple: Own location.
The answer arrived instantly, a crisp map in vivid color. His blue dot was at the edge of something called the Thomas P. O’Neill Jr. Federal Building in central Boston. DeBolt was barely a mile from Logan International Airport, where he and Lund had been captured—the only word that fit. He searched for information on the building, and learned that among its tenants were the Department of Homeland Security, which encompassed Customs and Border Protection, and also the departments of State and Justice. The Secret Service was there as well, as was an administrative outpost of the Peace Corps. Even discarding the latter, it made for a long list of suspects who could be responsible for his abduction.
More ominous was the fact that he was leaving. The man who’d begun interviewing him—whom DeBolt had last seen on the floor of the Calais Lodge, and whose arm he’d nearly broken—had been interrupted by an important phone call. Had something in that call altered the situation? He didn’t like the trajectory of things. For a few hours a semblance of order and reason had taken hold. Now he was suddenly being hauled off to the notorious “undisclosed location.” He sensed someone in the seat to his left, and decided engagement was worth a try.
“Where is Shannon?” he asked. They already knew her name.
No reply. DeBolt used his knees and arms to explore. To his right was a door, and he could feel the buttons for the window and a recessed handle. There was no way to tell if the door was locked. Didn’t police cars have doors that could only be opened from the outside? It was yet another question he’d never before asked.
He decided to try again.
“I want to speak to an attorney. I have a right to—”
The blow struck DeBolt in the rib cage, an elbow probably, compact and heavier than it needed to be. It completely winded him, a nonverbal message that couldn’t have been clearer. DeBolt said nothing more.
He did not, however, give up on communication. There was a chance he was being transferred to a different federal facility, which meant he might end up in another SCIF where he wouldn’t have a signal. Sensing the car bogging down in traffic, DeBolt put META into high gear.
The first thing he did was call up the voiceprint of his interrogator, already recorded and saved—somehow—but never sent. DeBolt launched it into cyberspace. The reply took nearly five minutes, but was worth the wait. He received the identity of his interrogator with: “99.8% certainty.” Under present circumstances, good enough for DeBolt.
That name led to more requests, and soon the information floodgates opened. He approached his research from every conceivable angle. Some of the answers came right away, others more slowly. A handful never came at all. Certain information altered his course, new vectors taken and gaps filled in. His thoughts fell to a rush. Data in and queries out. He logged certain details as important, discarded others as irrelevant. With the greatest possible speed, DeBolt amassed a trove of information on the men who had been hunting him.
The results were nothing short of spectacular.
* * *
The colonel was happy. The transfer of their captives from the federal building to the safe house had gone smoothly.
Moving prisoners was never an easy thing. It combined the logistics of travel, always awkward, with any number of complications. Prisoners rightfully saw it as their best chance for an escape. Cars could break down and police could get involved. The last time the colonel had transferred a captive was three months ago: he and a Mossad assassin had hauled a much sought militant out of Yemen’s Empty Quarter, the man bound by his own bootlaces and strapped to the back of a donkey—or more precisely, he’d later been told, a Nubian wild ass. A bar story and a punch line all
in one. That they’d succeeded was nothing less than an act of divine providence. This time the commander of Unit 9 had everything in his favor. Two borrowed federal vehicles—solid and serviced, and staffed by his own team of operators—to move a pair of well-shackled prisoners to a suburb of West Boston. No ass involved.
During the journey to the safe house, he’d ordered that Lund and their mystery man were to have no contact whatsoever. Not yet anyway. They arrived in separate cars, and were taken to rooms on opposite sides of the house, one in the basement and the other on the second floor. The place was a two-story colonial, an FBI retreat established six months ago but rarely used since, situated in an agreeable neighborhood west of town. If the community had a theme it was acreage, the homes spaced widely apart. Mature trees and hedgerows gave further privacy to residents who clearly craved it—and none more so than the temporary occupants of 3443 Saddle Lane.
Once their charges were secured behind locked doors, the colonel assembled his team and went over the plan. “I’ve heard nothing new about what happened to the general, but honestly, I don’t expect to. It’s time to put this op to bed. We’ll dump the girl soon, but first I want to interrogate our man, and I need her as leverage—he seems to care about her safety.”
“Time frame?” the major asked.
“We unload the girl tonight. Then we’ll egress clean first thing in the morning.”
“And the Coastie?”
The commander hesitated. “That depends on what I find out about him.”
A watch schedule was posted, and two men were allowed to rack out in what was done up as a kid’s bedroom—there were Star Wars posters on the walls, and the bunk beds were dressed in sheets printed with fire engines. The colonel went to the room where their man was locked up—it had been hardened by the FBI for just that purpose. He went inside without knocking, but before he could say anything, their captive greeted him with, “It’s about time, Colonel Freeman.”