Delta waited until Patel was looking at him, then put his palms forward obviously as if to say, So what?
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. It hardly matters.” Patel pulled a small sheaf of paper from beneath his light jacket. Delta took it and saw the usual thirty-page printout bound with a standard office clip. It was yet another oddity — he was the most cyber-centric individual in the world, yet when it came to learning he was more comfortable with paper and ink.
“Lesson nine,” said Patel. “It covers third-party access and availability. Certain servers are tied knowingly to your network — phone companies, social media, every state and federal agency in the United States with a law enforcement arm. That includes IRS, SEC, FBI — even the Library of Congress has an inspector general whose data is readily available. You’ll find a list of foreign governments and private corporations who are unaware of their cooperation — all have been penetrated, some for continuous use, while the others can be accessed on demand if the need arises. The final category consists of organizations, companies, and foreign entities that either have very secure architecture, or whose data has been deemed not worth the trouble of acquiring.”
Delta paused, pulled out a card, and wrote: Can this last group be breached if necessary?
“Any network can be breached given enough time and effort. Because you operate with Priority Alpha status, any request you make will bring an immediate attack on the holding servers. But keep in mind that the time to get results from this final class will vary. Minutes, hours, even weeks. I suggest exhausting every other option in your network before going that route.”
Not for the first time, Delta was struck by the way Patel said it: your network. As though the entire system had been created for his benefit. He knew better, of course. He was here today, with all the world’s information available, only because he had run over an IED on a dirt bike and gotten his skull shattered in just the right way. One more broken blood vessel in his head and they would have pulled his plug. One less and he might be back in the Corps. As it was, he had fallen in precisely the right notch of helplessness to become a pioneer in a new era of warfare. A circumstance, he supposed, that held loosely with his creed: Semper fi.
For twenty more minutes Patel gave what was essentially a lecture, points of learning that would be reinforced by the sheaf of papers. He then turned to more immediate business. “Have you been able to locate Bravo?”
Delta shook his head. It was an essential feature of META that those enabled could not be tracked.
“What about the woman?”
Delta nodded. Not a lie, but also not the truth. To begin, he realized he’d made mistakes. He should never have deepened Lund’s involvement by leaving her associate’s body in her Kodiak apartment. It had been clumsy and theatrical. But his efforts to flush her out had worked, meaning a third trip to the Aleutian Islands wouldn’t be necessary — not only a time-consuming sideshow, but increasingly risky. He was certain Lund had arrived in Vienna. The problem — he didn’t know exactly where she was.
“All right,” said Patel. “Do what you do best.”
When Patel turned to go, Delta put a heavy hand on his shoulder. He pulled out a card and scrawled one last question: When will I be able to talk?
He showed it to Patel, who said, “We’ve been over this. Your dysfunction can be repaired, but we first have to identify the source of the problem. It likely involves one of the implants, or there might be errors in the software code. I’ve been working on it in every spare moment, but you must understand — there are over four million lines of code embedded in the chips in your head. Alternately, the anomaly could be a result of scar tissue from the surgery. Any of these problems are correctable in time. Our priority must be to eliminate these last two loose ends to ensure META’s permanence.” They began walking again, and Patel added, “That is what you want, isn’t it? To retain your new abilities forever?”
Their gazes met. Delta nodded once, and was surprised by the strength he saw in the scientist’s eyes. He had spent most of his life around physically powerful men, thriving in a hierarchy governed by who could bench-press the most or run the fastest, who had the sharpest eye on the shooting range. Patel was one of the most feeble specimens of manhood he’d ever seen, yet he exuded self-assurance.
Why does he not fear me? Delta wondered.
The two parted, taking opposite courses along the river. Delta trundled the path with his usual directness, and he soon encountered a pair of young girls, both a bit overweight and tipsy on high heels. As they passed one seemed to throw a glance his way, then said something to her friend. He kept going without pause. He was used to it. People had long reacted to his physical appearance, an imposing presence that generally put people off — even before his total alopecia. His rough look had been further amplified by META, the back of his bald head stitched with scar tissue, and now blisters on his face and neck evidenced his meeting with Bravo — the bastard had thrown a pot of boiling water on him.
For as long as Delta could remember, his appearance had intimidated people. Those not frightened were acutely aware of his presence. Yet there had been a few women — just a few — who seemed attracted to him, some peculiar synthesis of fear and sympathy. Like a three-legged pit bull getting adopted from a shelter. A year ago he might have responded to the glance, might have uttered some vague opener to see if the girl would stop. He’d never been good at talking to women, so it rarely worked. Today it was no longer even an option.
He mulled what Patel had said: his speech problem was no more than a technical malfunction. That was good, he thought. Technical malfunctions could be repaired. Like a gun with jam or a Hummer with a flat tire. Fixable. He decided Patel would work faster without the distraction of the two Coasties. The sooner he eliminated them, the sooner his voice would be restored. In that moment, as he advanced along the south shoulder of the Donaukanal into a gathering night, Delta redoubled his commitment to make it so.
48
When she’d decided to come to Vienna, Lund hadn’t known what to expect. She reckoned she might have a hard time finding either DeBolt or Dr. Atif Patel, whoever he was. A degree of frustration seemed a given, as was the prospect of fencing with authorities. The one thing she hadn’t foreseen was boredom.
She’d been in the holding room for eight hours, the only visits being from a junior officer who asked occasionally if she needed a bottle of water or a sandwich. She’d taken him up on both three hours ago. Lund decided she’d underestimated the reach and efficiency of the Coast Guard, or TSA, or whoever had recognized her departure from the U.S. She’d wanted to slip into Europe quietly, before anyone realized she was a no-show in Kodiak. Special Agent in Charge Wheeley was the most likely culprit. He was under a microscope right now, his Kodiak CGIS outpost in tatters with one agent found dead in the other’s bed. Regardless of how it had reached this point, Lund hated where she was now. Locked in a holding room, she could do nothing to help Trey. So it was, when a new face came through the door, she was encouraged. At least something was happening.
The man was average in height and build, with brown hair and — she had to say — a certain softness about him. Rounded edges, indoor complexion. He smiled mechanically, and said, “Hello, Miss Lund. I’m Blake Winston, with the U.S. State Department here in Vienna.”