There were a few questions from the crowd, which the general fielded ably and with as much compassion as he could manufacture. He then instructed everyone to remain in the building, explaining that a team would soon arrive to begin the out-processing paperwork. Benefield departed the building virtually unnoticed.
In his wake, the gossip began in earnest. Programmers and analysts milled about the place, and there were traces of grumbling, but more optimism — the general had been convincing, and most took the favorable view that their follow-on work would be every bit as groundbreaking and lucrative as what they’d found in the META Project. Someone discovered that a table with sandwiches and drinks had been set up in the break room, and the gathering that ensued was something between a going-away party and a wake.
It was a female programmer, part of the original cadre, who noticed it first.
“I smell smoke.”
A Caltech grad, one of the world’s leading experts on signal compression, said, “Look at the vent.”
All eyes went to a ceiling ventilation panel where wisps of white drifted through like amorphous hands.
The most clear-thinking person in the room was a female encryption specialist who pulled the fire alarm handle near the refrigerator. Nothing happened. No bells, no red lights. The smoke thickened and turned black, belching from ventilation grates and rolling through the hallway in a surging ebony wave.
“Everybody out!” someone yelled.
All thirteen ran to the nearest door, the front entrance at the portico. The double doors were made of high-tensile steel and fitted with sturdy electronic dead bolts, standard issue for a highly classified facility. The doors were firmly locked, and the emergency release handle seemed disconnected. In the ensuing panic the group split, half going to the rear loading dock, and the rest coughing and wheezing their way up to the stairwell roof access. Neither door could be budged.
It was then that the screaming began.
Flames licked in from the ductwork, and began climbing the eastern wall. By some unseen consensus, or perhaps through survival instinct, everyone ended back at the front door, the last few arriving on hands and knees as the smoke began to prevail. Soon thirteen panicked sets of fists were banging on the vaultlike steel doors.
Five minutes later the banging went to silence.
By that time Benefield was over a mile away, driving slowly through the front gate. He could see the smoke from where he was, yet there was no sign of first responders. The place was remote by design, and with all lines of communication either cut or jammed, the fire department wouldn’t arrive any time soon.
He disliked what he’d had to do, but there was the crux — he’d had to do it. Like successful commanders throughout history, he had no misgivings about sacrificing good men and women. Not when the military objective was so vital. Early in his career, during the First Gulf War, senior officers had put his life at risk. Against serious odds, and through some combination of training, tenacity, and good soldiering, Lieutenant Benefield had survived to become General Benefield. He doubted any of those behind him would be so obstinate.
So lost in thought was Benefield that the phone call didn’t register until the third ring.
He saw who it was, and answered by saying, “Any luck?”
“We have a location on the car.”
“Where?”
“Northern Maine, right on the Canadian border.”
“Do you think he’s trying to get out of the country?”
“I have no idea,” said the commander of the tactical team.
He was a good man, Benefield knew. The small Special Forces unit included operators from three different services, and was unique in its anonymity, as well as its charter — it was the only unit authorized to work domestically. That legal footing had never been tested, but as long as they did their job cleanly, without mistake, it wouldn’t have to be.
“How soon can you get there?” Benefield asked.
“Twenty-eight minutes.”
The general smiled. He liked that kind of precision.
“And the other mission?”
A hesitation — the first from the colonel. Then, “Yeah, we took care of it.”
“Trust me, Colonel. What you are doing is imperative for the security of our nation. It will change the future of warfare itself.”
“How can one guy be so important?”
Benefield let silence be his answer.
“Right,” said the team leader. “We’ll let you know when it’s all wrapped up.”
17
The man they were looking for was, at that moment, staring at two suitcases. They were lying on the bed in the master suite, their flaps unzipped and contents exposed. DeBolt’s first impression was that the bags had been packed in a hurry: clothing folded haphazardly, toiletries thrown on top. One suitcase overflowed with women’s blouses and bathing suits, everything light and airy, meant for the sun. The other held men’s shorts and shirts, a pair of sandals, and — the eye-opener — three bricks of cash that would fill a large shoe box.
Between the suitcases were two passports and a printout of the confirmation number for an airline reservation — Cayman Brac, tomorrow night. He thought again of a courtroom in New York where an arraignment was playing out. A defense attorney pleading for bail, explaining to the judge that his client was not a flight risk. DeBolt wished the judge could see this picture. He idly wondered if there was some way to provide it. Can I send information out as well as I can acquire it? He discarded the idea. This wasn’t his battle.
He looked around the bedroom and wondered if there was a camera somewhere. Perhaps counterintuitively, he hoped there was. Aside from a team of killers, no one on earth knew that Petty Officer Second Class Trey DeBolt was still alive. A few pictures would at least validate his survival to this point. He picked up one of the stacks of cash and fanned through it. The bills were all hundreds, crisp and neatly bundled in fresh bank wrappers that belied their undoubtedly soiled provenance. In the closet he found an old backpack high on a shelf, and he requisitioned it and stuffed the money inside.
All of it.
He spent a few minutes rifling through drawers, no real idea what he was looking for. At some point, DeBolt knew he would need identification, yet Paul Thompson, as evidenced by his passport, was six inches shorter than DeBolt, dark haired, and balding severely. He looked at the other passport on the bed and was surprised to see not Lori Thompson’s document, but that of a young blond woman named Eva Markova.
Christ.
He was back in the Cadillac minutes later, the backpack on the seat beside him. He had considered locking the front door after leaving the house, but it occurred to him that his requests for information, so diligently answered, were likely getting logged somewhere. He knew enough about cyberspace to understand that flows of information could be tracked, and he wondered if he was leaving some kind of digital footprint. Did someone know where he was right now, what he was doing? Even what he was thinking? This last concept was particularly disturbing — the simple nakedness of having the window of one’s thoughts open to strangers.
Perhaps even recorded by them.
And kept forever.
He drove away from the scene of his most recent crime, and at the main road DeBolt turned toward the Calais Lodge. There was nothing left of the sun, only a lingering burn on the western horizon. He went through town once on the main drag, which didn’t take long, before settling on a destination and backtracking. He parked in the side lot of a chain pharmacy, hit the button near the steering column, and for the first time in seven hours the engine went silent. If it became necessary, DeBolt reckoned he could start the car as he had before. He was, however, increasingly worried that it might be used to track him — he wasn’t the only one in the world with access to information.