“I suppose you’re right. Technically, it’s not that far beyond what already exists.”
“Not far at all.”
“I feel like some kind of science experiment — only I wasn’t exactly a volunteer.” His humor dissipated as quickly as it had come.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I remembered something else. When I saw my medical records there were annotations next to my name in two places. It said ‘META Project,’ and below that, ‘Option Bravo.’”
“Next to your name?”
“Yeah. Like … like I was Option Bravo in some kind of experimental project.”
She blew out a humorless laugh. “Right. Trey DeBolt … Plan B.”
Dinner the second night was earlier, Benefield choosing on the very un-Continental hour of half past six. The general insisted on driving, and he arrived at the Hilton behind the wheel of a rented Land Rover. The two exchanged a perfunctory greeting, and Patel was happy when Benefield did not ask immediately for the codes. He had far more weighty issues on his mind.
With a distinct tremor in his voice, he said, “I saw a news article today about our facility in Virginia burning to the ground. It was difficult to see the names of the victims. So many of them were my friends.”
Benefield looked somberly at Patel and nodded. “A terrible tragedy. One of the FBI investigators called me this morning. He asked for information about the project.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What we tell everyone — that it is a highly classified effort to achieve breakthroughs in information technology. He’ll spin his wheels for a time, but given the level of secrecy we enjoy, not to mention the ambiguous nature of our stated goals — he’ll only hit a brick wall. I should have given him your number, let you inflict your briefing on META’s system architecture — the man would have fallen sound asleep, just like that senator from the Select Committee on Intelligence.”
A humorless Patel looked out the window. “What about the surgical unit in Maine?”
“The facility has been shut down,” Benefield said. “Everything was removed.”
“And the team?”
“They’re all aware of META’s termination, and everyone will get a well-deserved severance package.”
They arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes later. It was no surprise to Patel that the general had shunned Restaurant Ville in favor of something called Brandeis Schlossbräu, a beer house in the Baumgarten district. In spite of the chill evening air, Benefield asked to sit outside in the garden. Patel sat in a wooden chair beneath rows of carriage lamps that had been strung on wires. He didn’t complain when Benefield ordered beers for them both, and they arrived tall and frothing in the hands of a buxom waitress. Dinner was two slabs of beef that came on platters, sizzling with the smell of fat, and a heavy carving knife protruded from each like some medieval invitation.
Only then did Benefield finally get around to business. “You have the abort commands?”
Patel had his carving knife in hand, hovering over the set of ribs as if planning an assault. He set down the knife, pulled the hotel notepad from his pocket, and handed it over. The general flipped through, glancing at all three pages, then put them carefully in his pocket. More food arrived, the same waitress delivering a plate of sausage and sauerkraut to be shared. The two men suffered through challenged conversation for the course of the meal, Patel doing his best to deflect Benefield’s ill-informed technical questions. There was more beer, but thankfully no coffee or dessert, and at the end Benefield again picked up the check. Soon they were back in the Land Rover, Patel gorged with meat and beer, and sulking in the passenger seat.
“Have you seen much of Austria since you arrived?” Benefield asked.
“Hardly.”
“That’s too bad. It’s a beautiful country, and who knows when you might come here again.”
Patel saw a sign indicating that the A1, which would take them back to town, was one kilometer ahead. A bridge in front of them was backlit by moonlight, the high span arching gracefully between twin buttresses. Benefield suddenly veered the Rover off the road. He steered onto a gravel path but kept his speed up, and soon they were enveloped by darkness, the headlights flickering white over the forest ahead.
“What are you doing?” asked Patel.
“There’s something I want you to see, Atif.”
Patel looked outside, and the forest fell away. To one side he saw the fast-moving waters of a river. The only lights he saw were upstream, a row of streetlights at least a mile distant. Benefield pulled the Rover to a crunching stop on the gravel path. Patel looked squarely at a grinning Benefield, and was about to say something when the general interrupted with, “I’m sorry, Atif. This is not the end I envisioned for our mission, but it’s the only way.”
The window at Patel’s shoulder lowered, and he instinctively turned. A man appeared out of nowhere, a hulking figure dressed in a dark greatcoat. His arm swung up, and Patel instantly saw the long barrel of a silenced handgun. He shrank back into his seat.
It took only one shot from such close range, but of course there was a second for insurance. The killer was, after all, a professional. In no more than thirty seconds the body was in the water, carrying downstream and bounding off the occasional rock. The Rover began its steady climb back toward the A1 with the assassin in the passenger seat.
28
They worked through that afternoon, searching their respective databases. Lund took a law enforcement slant, but the hotel’s open internet connection was useless for accessing the secure networks she typically relied upon. That being the case, she began making phone calls to friends. DeBolt dove into the black pool of his mind, the depth and breadth of which was still undefined. He continued to make adjustments, organizing his thoughts for concise requests. For all its utility, META gave nothing on itself, which seemed a paradox of sorts. It was like a Google search on the word “Google” coming up empty.
Lund hung up after a lengthy phone conversation.
“So who was that?” he asked.
“A Coast Guard friend at the Pentagon.”
“The Coast Guard is under Homeland Security — since when do we keep an office in the Pentagon?”
“It hasn’t happened since World War II, but in times of war the DOD can assume control of the Coast Guard. So yes, we have a presence in the Pentagon.”
“Okay — so what did your friend say?”
“I had her look into the META Project. She actually found a listing for it under DARPA, the DOD’s research arm.”
“I’ve heard of DARPA.”
“Yeah, so have I. They work on cutting edge stuff. But my friend hit a roadblock after that. There were no details at all on the project, it’s totally black. Did you have any luck?”
“On META? No. In fact, I think I’ve only done one search that got me less information.”
“What was that?”
“Me — I input my name and discovered I wasn’t authorized access to myself.”
DeBolt was sitting on one of the beds, and she stared at him from across the room. “How weird is that — you can get intel on anybody in the world except yourself?”
“Apparently.”
Lund got up and stretched. “So how long do we stay bunkered up here?”
“Until we have something to go on, something that gives us direction. At least one night, I guess. After that we should probably move.”
“Move? How?”
“I bought a Buick.”
“A Buick.” Lund stared at him. She seemed about to ask for an explanation, but instead only sighed. “I need some fresh air. I think I’ll go outside.”