Cutting Edge

by Ward Larsen

  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.

  BEHIND YOU.

  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.

  54

  The silenced gun had a surprisingly loud report. It was nothing compared to the resulting crash when the window behind DeBolt, which fronted a closed souvenir shop, shattered and rained to the ground. He dove to his right, tumbling behind a freestanding restroom, as two more shots laced the rain-shrouded night. He scrambled to his feet, and using the building for cover DeBolt reached a narrow alleyway. He burst through the first doorway he encountered, and found himself in a kitchen facing two surprised young men. Both wore cooking aprons.

  “Wo gehst du hin?” one asked.

  DeBolt didn’t even try to decipher it. At a glance he saw a grill and an oven, kegs of beer stacked against the far wall. Beyond the two men he saw a passageway leading to a crowded bar. The air smelled of fryer oil and chlorine.

  “Call the police!” DeBolt shouted as he rushed past the cooks.

  Neither tried to stop him as he dashed into the bar. There everyone’s eyes were glued to a soccer game—the same one on all four televisions—and a raucous cheer rose as something happened in the game.

  “Polizei!” DeBolt yelled. “Call the Polizei!”

  The revelry died in an instant. The place went quiet except for the game’s televised commentary.

  “Polizei!” he shouted again. “The killer from the police station—the man they’re searching for! He’s outside!”

  He saw a woman put a mobile phone to her ear. That was good. DeBolt needed help. He needed people and fear and confusion.

  “What did you say?” said one of the barkeepers, his Austrian accent thick.

  “The killer from the police station! He’s outside!”

  “I heard about it,” someone said from the crowd. “They are looking for a man.”

  Erring on the side of caution, the barkeeper extracted his own mobile from under the counter. DeBolt looked out the pub’s front window and saw a reasonably well-lit sidewalk. A lone couple was walking by casually. He glanced back toward the kitchen, expecting Delta to appear any second. Nothing happened.

  The mood in the pub began to split. Some of the patrons looked warily at the door he’d just come through. Others were looking at him. DeBolt shouldered through the crowd, toward the front door. Then he stopped suddenly, something holding him back. Nothing is making sense. He had a ten-second lead on Delta, no more. The man should have arrived by now, crashing through the kitchen, killing anyone who tried to stop him. Might he have circled out front?

  DeBolt sensed something very wrong. He of all people should have seen it coming. When Delta reappeared a minute ago, he’d shown no signs of exertion. DeBolt felt like he’d run a four-minute mile.

  He’s hunting me, he thought. He’s using META.

  But how?

  He edged closer to the window and scanned outside. He saw a pair of young women walking arm in arm. A girl on a bicycle, her head down against the rain. There was no sign of Delta. His caution went to fear.

  How are you doing it?

  He glanced a second time at the girl on the bicycle. Could that be it? Did Delta have transportation? Possibly, but that wouldn’t work alone.

  How are you tracking me?

  Delta was
the lion chasing a gazelle, slower on foot but wearing his prey down, technology taking the place of a companion pride. DeBolt didn’t think his position was being linked in real time—he was increasingly convinced it only transmitted when necessary to support certain applications. If not that, then what?

  Then a recent memory flashed, partial and disjointed: 98 Mill Street in Calais, Maine. A tiny red light. Staring up at himself and waving. He remembered the train station in Cologne, studying his surroundings while he’d sipped an espresso.

  What had worked in Maine hadn’t in Holland.

  So let’s try Austria.

  DeBolt searched outside and saw them right away. One was mounted on a pole, another wedged under the eave of a T-shirt shop. Closed-circuit cameras.

  He immediately went to work: CCTV near present position.

  STAND BY FOR AVAILABLE FEEDS.

  DeBolt stood waiting, still breathing in ragged gasps. Everyone was watching him. A map lit in his visual field. According to the scale, it covered a one-hundred-meter radius. He saw twelve, perhaps fourteen cameras, most on established roads and pathways, a few inside buildings. There was a color code—red, yellow, and green. The colors meant nothing to him, but seemed intuitive enough. He highlighted the nearest green, and the reply took fifteen seconds. The video came streaming in, but certainly with a short delay, just as with the monitor he’d annexed at the embezzler’s front door in Maine. Like the college girl’s laptop he’d invaded earlier tonight.

  Yet for all intents and purposes, he was looking at a live video feed.

  He saw the front of the restaurant he was standing in. It was called Schweizerhaus. He saw the crowds inside, but felt no urge to zoom in and wave. DeBolt knew it was accurate. He switched to other cameras, got feeds from nearby pathways, including the courtyard behind Schweizerhaus where Delta had been minutes earlier. None gave him what he wanted.

  Where are you?

  The fourth feed, with a red symbol, was inoperative. The nearest yellow camera got the result:

  STAND BY ENCRYPTION BREAK

  ESTIMATED WAIT 15–90 MINUTES

  Not an option. He shifted to another feed, and when it came through he stood transfixed. On a tree-lined path he saw a large man atop a motorcycle. It was a medium-sized bike, but beneath Delta it looked like something from a circus act. DeBolt watched him dismount, then followed along as he walked the motorcycle toward a bush and left it there. Delta stood waiting in a deep shadow.

  DeBolt referenced the map. The spot was perhaps two hundred yards away—the direction in which he’d been running. The most obvious path of escape.

  A hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder. DeBolt turned with a start, his arm cocking back for a punch.

  The bartender, who’d clearly seen such moves before, leaned away.

  “You are okay?” asked the Austrian.

  DeBolt stood down. “Yeah, sorry. I’m on edge after…” He didn’t know how to complete the thought. Didn’t know how to raise an instantaneous lie.

  “The police, they are coming. You wait here for them.”

  DeBolt sensed another shift in atmosphere. Most of the clientele were watching him now. He’d been wholly absorbed by the images in his head, and DeBolt wondered how he must appear to others when engaged in his private exchanges with META. Did he look disconnected from his surroundings, a cell phone stare without the external device? Did he appear simply distracted, or more like a madman hearing voices?

  He said, “I’ll wait outside.” It was the most convenient answer for everyone.

  He went through the front door, passed beyond the welcoming awning. The rain had eased, but only slightly, and he kept his head angled downward. The vision remained in his eye, a camera feeding its constant view. He saw Delta standing in the open, much as he was—not scanning the sidewalk for his target, but holding fast with a thousand-yard stare. DeBolt turned toward the nearest camera, the one mounted on the closed T-shirt shop. He stood and looked right at it, steady and unblinking. On the screen in his eye Delta straightened ever so slightly. Then he quarter-turned to his right and did the same in response—he stared straight at the camera DeBolt was using to watch him.

  And there they stood. A surreal impasse in the rain, transmitted across miles of wire and routers and sky, opposing images fixed in coarse shades of gray. Two hundred meters apart, each man knew exactly where the other was. Each could track any movement. A High Noon standoff, twenty-first-century version. DeBolt stood tall and straight, but it was a false ease. He had broken Delta’s advantage, but for how long? Could the man disable his feed? Could he ruin the camera network, or even spoof looped images while he repositioned? DeBolt thought not.

  I’m learning, he thought. Then more purposefully: Delta … I’m catching up with you.

  On his screen he saw the man suddenly cock his blocklike head. DeBolt’s eyes narrowed, and he tensed slightly as Delta began to move. He watched cautiously as the killer walked toward his motorcycle. Watched him swing a leg over the seat and kick it to life. DeBolt was poised, ready to move. But then he saw Delta turn away and ride east, leaving the Schweizerhaus and the Prater behind.

  DeBolt referenced the map and stepped through four different cameras, tracking the assassin until he disappeared in a tree-lined dead zone. He was at least a mile gone, headed away, when DeBolt finally lost track of him. So there was an internal network, he thought. Delta had gotten his message, but not replied. Did that imply there were risks in using it? Would such an application give up his position? Another facet of META left to explore.

  Sirens rose in the distance, and DeBolt looked over his shoulder. Someone in the bar was pointing at him and talking. He imagined what was being said. That one there. He rushed in shouting for the police. Next he was staring at the walls. Claims someone is following him.

  DeBolt began walking, and on his network map of CCTV cameras he identified a gap in coverage running through a nearby woodland. How easy … once you knew how it all worked. He ducked into the trees and disappeared. Newly confident. Newly empowered. For a week now he had been hunted. He’d been shot and assaulted, constantly running for his life. But now he sensed a divergence to that narrative. He was getting stronger, more capable.

  As he trod through the woods, pushing aside wet branches and slogging through puddles, DeBolt very deliberately reiterated his earlier thought: Yes, Delta … I’m gaining on you.

  55

  Lund spent the night in a homeless shelter three blocks north of the Imperial Palace. With no money, no identity, and wanting to keep a low profile, she played the part of a marooned American tourist who’d been parted from her passport, baggage, and friends—all true in the strictest sense.

  She was taken in without question, Austrians being a forgiving lot, and given a place in a church-run dormitory. For the price of a desperate smile she got a roof over her head, a smelly cot, and in the morning two surplus sausages with hot cereal, all capped by a spontaneous blessing from a roaming Catholic priest. She took it all in the spirit in which it was provided, which was to say, with gracious humility.

  She was told by a shelter worker, a college-aged girl with flaxen hair, that during the recent flood of immigration many such houses had been established. The girl also mentioned that Lund was the only passer-through she’d ever met who had arrived from the West. Syrians, Pakistanis, Ethiopians, Afghanis—they were the dominant lot, with an atmosphere of compassion prevailing, and Lund learned that any smile was quickly returned.

  It did not escape her how far removed she was from her old life. In the matter of a few days, she’d gone from being a CGIS investigator in Alaska to impersonating a homeless person in Austria. For Lund, it was perhaps the most profound manifestation of META’s insanity. All the same, that maelstrom had also brought Trey into her life, and for that she was grateful.

  She had just finished breakfast when she noticed a dark-skinned young man reading an English-language newspaper. With his face buried in the central pages, Lund went
closer, and on the front page she saw a picture of the Bundespolizei station where last night’s tragedy had unfolded. Thankfully, her own picture was not splashed next to it.

  She peered around the paper to see the man’s face, and realized he was very young—seventeen or eighteen, she guessed.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  The young man looked at her.

  “May I see that when you’re done?”

  “American?” he replied.

  She nodded.

  “My English no much good.”

  The rising question of why he was reading an English-language paper was answered when he slipped one page clear—the football news, which included a number of action photos. He handed her the rest.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gestured to a team photo on the page he’d retained. “Manchester United!” he said, and with no less enthusiasm than a lifelong season-ticket holder.

  “Yay!” Lund replied, adding an exaggerated smile.

  She backed away, settled on a nearby chair, and began studying the newspaper. Two articles covered the station shooting. One delivered the facts, and the second was an editorial on the woeful state of the Bundespolizei—according to the writer, a direct result of the right-leaning government’s penny-pinching ways. Lund concentrated on the fact-based article and learned that, as of press time, little headway had been made in the case. The suspect in the shootings, described only as a heavily built man with a clean-shaven head, was still at large. An American woman wanted for questioning had also not been found. One anonymous police source floated the idea that the two might be in cahoots. Alternately, a government spokesman speculated that the woman might well turn up as victim number six.

  For Lund it changed nothing. She discarded the paper and began walking through a room where fifty other refugees were milling about—people with whom she felt a surprising degree of camaraderie. She quickly found what she needed. A man with a wristwatch.