The two men closed the final few yards with lightning speed.
Lund shrieked in surprise when one of them seized her from behind.
DeBolt had barely raised his arms to resist when two electrodes penetrated his shirt, followed milliseconds later by two thousand volts.
31
DeBolt woke with a start. His body convulsed once, then settled to an aching stillness. He opened his eyes but saw nothing. His senses came back, seemingly one at a time, like a bank of light switches flipped on one after another. Sight … sound … smell … touch. It was the touch that explained why the others were impaired — a hood over his head. It was made from a material that was coarse and scratchy, probably tailored with the very intent of being an irritant.
Lying on a cold floor, he writhed up to a sitting position. It was no simple feat — his hands and ankles were bound, probably tighter than necessary. A virtual silence told DeBolt he was inside, no traffic noise or seagulls crying. The smell was correspondingly indoors, stale and musty, the air unmoving. He soon discerned voices — not far away, but muted as if coming through a wall. A discussion in the next room. No, an argument, but absent any bladed tones of anger. A measured disagreement. DeBolt strained to extract words, but only a few registered.
General.
Headquarters.
Abort.
Then long minutes of silence intervened until a nearby door opened, never-lubricated hinges squealing in protest. Heavy footsteps came close, then paused in front of him.
“Get up.”
DeBolt twisted, found a wall behind him for balance. He wrenched himself up through aches and stiffened joints until he was standing tall. “Who are you?” he asked.
No reply.
DeBolt saw nothing to lose in trying again. “Where is my friend?”
“You have no friends. Not anymore.”
All at once DeBolt recognized the voice. The Calais Lodge, the man whose arm he’d clubbed as he reached for a gun.
DeBolt stumbled over this thought, sensing an odd disconnect. What was it? He had recognized the man’s voice. But why did that seem so important? There was no accent to speak of. The tone was rough edged. Educated, but not in a private school way. Then he understood — the voice itself. It was something he could use and leverage. Something to concentrate on. He framed his next thought carefully, in the way that was becoming second nature: Voice recognition.
No response. He racked his altered brain, then: Voiceprint capability.
STANDBY
VOICEPRINT ENABLED
CUE ON COMMAND “START”
“What do you want from me?” DeBolt asked.
“You can begin with your name.”
DeBolt nearly did, but instead said, “If you tell me why you’ve been chasing me it might help us both make sense of things.” He gave the command: Start!
VOICEPRINT INITIATED
“You made some good moves, I’ll give you that. First on the beach, then later in Calais. We weren’t going to lose you a third time.”
“I don’t understand. Who do you work for?” DeBolt asked.
“Not germane — not for you anyway.”
“My friend?”
“We have her as well. She’s safe. But how did Miss Lund get involved in this? I really need to know that. Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Then what is she doing here?”
DeBolt was working up a reply, something to keep the man talking, when the door squeaked open a second time. A new voice said, “Important call, sir.”
DeBolt said, “Let’s talk about how she—” A slap on his cheek surprised him, cutting off his words. “Hold that thought,” the man said. “I’ll be right back.”
The man with the sore arm walked away. The door closed.
DeBolt stood in silence, wondering if he had enough. Wondering if it would even work. If not, he would simply have to find another way. He closed his eyes inside the black hood and saw:
VOICEPRINT VALIDATED AND QUEUED. AWAITING CONNECTION.
No connection? No … not now.
DeBolt tried the most basic command he could think of: Own location.
No response.
His frustration mounted. He had actually captured a sample of the man’s voice. But he couldn’t do anything with it.
The call had come two hours ago to the late General Benefield’s cell phone. Patel only saw it when he returned to his room from the conference — he had decided not to take the phone with him. The message was succinct, in the way military men preferred their communications.
BRAVO IN CUSTODY. WOMAN OBSERVED WITH HIM IS LEO — COAST GUARD INVESTIGATOR SHANNON LUND FROM KODIAK. NO INFORMATION ON ANY CURRENT COAST GUARD INVESTIGATION. POSSIBLE PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP. BOTH BEING HELD U.S. CUSTOMS DETENTION FACILITY BOSTON. ADVISE HOW TO PROCEED.
Patel sat on the bed, stunned. Bravo? Bravo was reported to have succumbed to his surgery. Patel knew Benefield had organized a tactical team — they had been tasked to eliminate every trace of META. He’d feigned surprise when the general had brought it all up at dinner: the facilities in Maine and Virginia, whisperings of a nurse who’d disappeared. Patel knew full well the general was cleaning house — it was why he himself had been on guard.
But Bravo still alive?
He tried to make sense of the rest of the message. LEO. Law enforcement officer? Yes, that had to be it. The team had her in custody, and suspected that Bravo might be involved with her. A Coast Guard investigator from Kodiak. Why couldn’t he have hit on a nice preschool teacher? Patel thought sourly.
The officer in charge of the tactical team was still sending messages, so obviously he had not yet been informed of his commander’s demise. That would change soon. Probably very soon. Patel weighed sending a response in Benefield’s stead, but saw a host of problems with the idea. Indeed, he admonished himself for even bringing the phone to his room — he of all people knew how dangerous that could be. That settled, he knew what had to be done.
Patel removed the SIM card from the phone, then the battery. Taking the elevator downstairs, he walked to the river on a casual stroll, and at intervals sent each of the three pieces spinning into a Donaukanal whose surface was speckled with rain. Is it ever pleasant here?
He kept walking, and eventually found shelter beneath a concert pavilion that looked like it hadn’t been used since the distant summer. Patel took out his own phone and saw two new emails, one from China and another from Russia. He ignored them for the moment, and dialed a number from memory.
Delta answered. Which was no answer at all. Patel could hear his breathing on the microphone, and in the background a boarding announcement for a departing flight. But of course it was him. That was an equation of logic Patel had long ago derived — when Delta answered there was never a greeting. And if the man’s phone was ever lost or stolen? Any other person would say “hello,” or its equivalent in another language. By his very silence, Delta’s greeting was unique.
His exhalations were steady, controlled as ever. Awaiting instructions.
“I have an amendment to your mission.” Patel explained what he wanted done. Of course there was no argument. “If you have questions, text me, either now or after you land.”
Patel rang off, then watched his screen.
A text: Who are these extras?