“None of the original subjects were expected to survive — all were terminal cases from the outset. Phase two might bring success.”
“Atif, you know we’ve put ourselves on extremely delicate ground. Terminal or not, we subjected live human beings — service members, for God’s sake — to extremely invasive surgery. In my opinion, META is as much a breakthrough in ethics as it is in technology, but the risks going forward were simply too great. Which leads me to something else. You said there would be a way to wipe the servers clean of your control architecture — some kind of abort code to erase the highest level software. We can’t just leave something like that lying around like an unexploded bomb.”
“We didn’t get past phase one, so the software never activated. I don’t see any harm in leaving it in place.”
“That,” Benefield said decisively, “is out of the question. We have to be very careful in shutting things down. The software code you inserted must disappear — it’s the only way to be sure the more delicate aspects of META can never be traced back to us.”
“All right,” Patel relented, “I will take care of it.”
“No, Atif—I need to take care of it. I worked very hard to get unprecedented access. The host agency only agreed, only gave us that autonomy, because I guaranteed that I would have a kill switch. Since we never reached phase three, I never bothered to ask you for it. But now we’re aborting, and only I have the security clearances necessary to initiate the termination.”
Patel sighed. “Yes, there is a special sequence of commands. It requires a series of codes.”
“Do you have them memorized?”
Patel might have laughed if the situation weren’t so delicate. Those who were not brilliant gave great credit to those who were. Sometimes too much. “I will return from the conference next week. When I get back to Washington—”
“No!” Benefield said, chopping his hand down on the table like a blade. He whispered in a venomous tone, “I need them now!”
“All right. But I would never keep anything so critical on my laptop — it will take time for me to retrieve the codes securely. Even then, I’ll need help from my liaison on the server end.”
The general seemed to look right through him. Or perhaps into him. Patel held steady.
“All right,” said Benefield. “We’ll meet again tomorrow evening. Have them by then.”
Dinner was an afterthought for both men. Benefield seemed content, devouring a massive slab of beef. Patel mostly spun his fork, nibbling at three of his six courses. In the end, the general paid and they walked outside.
“Where are you staying?” Patel asked.
“The Grand Hotel Vienna — it’s not far from the Hilton. I took a cab here.”
“I have a rental,” said Patel. “Can I give you a lift back to town?” There was little invitation in his voice.
Benefield smiled congenially.
23
Lund was on a private mission to cook more at home, shunning the caloric content of restaurant food. To that end, she created time each day for a trip to the grocery store in search of something fresh. Today it was a halibut fillet that would carry her through two nights. She’d just dropped the fish into her cart, and was turning toward the produce department, when her mobile rang.
The number didn’t register as known, but she picked up all the same. “Hello?”
“Hi, Shannon … it’s Trey DeBolt.”
Lund froze in the middle of the seafood aisle. “Trey … well, hi. I’m really glad you called.” She heard him expel a long breath. “Are you okay? Last time I saw you … I mean, when you left here, you weren’t doing so hot.”
“Still kicking,” he said.
Lund had heard that one before — a rescue swimmer’s response. “Look, I know we only met once, but do you remember me?”
“Sure I remember. You interviewed me at the Golden Anchor about that drunk skipper who lost his boat.”
“That’s right.”
“There was almost one other time,” he added. “You were at Monk’s Rock Coffee House … I saw you talking to another guy, so I didn’t want to bother you.”
Lund racked her brain, trying to remember. “Okay, right, a couple of months ago. I was with Jim Kalata, the petty officer who works in my office. He and I make up CGIS Kodiak. I wish you had come over.”
DeBolt said nothing for a time. The small talk was clearly awkward for them both. “Anyway,” he finally said, “it’s good to hear a familiar voice. When I got your message it surprised me. I guess it means you’ve been looking for me.”
“I have.”
A hesitation. “Can you tell me why?”
“Trey—”
“The reason I ask,” he interrupted, “is because some other people are looking for me. They’ve already tried to kill me twice.”
“What?”
“I watched them gun down a woman in cold blood. Now they’re after me.”
Lund wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Look, I know this sounds crazy … like I’m some paranoid lunatic. But there’s a lot going on, and … and I don’t know who to trust.”
Lund sensed an edge in his voice, and she tried to place it. Fear? Anxiety? Whatever it was, he sounded nothing like the easygoing, confident young man she’d had a beer with at the Golden Anchor. Lund was deliberately calm with her response. “Who are they, Trey?” she asked, caring less about his answer than his reaction.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure they’re under DOD, but I have no idea which branch.”
“DOD?” Lund struggled for another calm reply, something logical and full of assurance. Nothing came to mind.
“Sounds delusional, doesn’t it? The government is out to get me. I don’t know how to make you understand what’s happened. I wish I could, Shannon. I wish someone could explain everything to me and…” His voice went hollow and trailed off.
“Maine,” she said. “I can come to Maine.”
“What? Christ, you’re triangulating this call! You’re tracking it to tell them where I am! I’m outta here—”
“No, I swear I’m not, Trey! Please don’t hang up! I got a call from a detective, a place called Washington County. He called me because he’d discovered you were stationed at Kodiak — he said you were implicated in a case he was investigating there.” Lund waited, not breathing. The disconnecting click didn’t come.
“Implicated in what?”
“There was an explosion — a cottage along the coast blew up from a gas leak. They found fingerprints in the wreckage and got a match to yours, what the Coast Guard has on file. This detective saw right away that you were listed as deceased, but he was trying to figure out why you’d been to the cottage. He seemed to think the blast was suspicious.”
“Suspicious? That’s putting it mildly. I know exactly who was responsible — the same men who are trying to kill me. They did it to destroy any traces of their murder.”
For the first time Lund sensed a thread of reason, slim as it might be. That was good, because otherwise DeBolt was right — what he was telling her sounded delusional.
“But you left a voice mail I could access,” he said. “You didn’t believe I was dead. Why?”
She explained that she’d gone to his apartment and seen things that didn’t add up. She told him about the med-evac flight that never went to Anchorage.
“So that’s how I got here,” he said, “a private jet. I never even knew. I have a hazy recollection of being in a hospital, but the first thing I remember for sure is waking up in Joan’s cottage. That was her name, Joan Chandler — she was a nurse. Look it up. Now she and her house are both gone.”