She found the Festsaal room quickly, and on turning inside was immediately struck by two things. First was the overt grandeur of the hall. With mural-covered ceilings, carved stone, and chandeliers the size of cars, it had to be as beautifully appointed as any room in Vienna. The second impression was far more worrying — the place was nearly empty.
Had she missed the presentation?
“Dammit!” she muttered under her breath.
At the back of the room Lund saw two men engaged in casual conversation, and she caught a few words of English. She hurried over.
“Excuse me—”
The man she’d interrupted broke off, and both looked at her.
“I missed Dr. Patel’s talk. Did either of you see him leave?”
“Dr. Patel?” said the taller of the two, in what sounded like a Scandinavian accent. “He is not here until ten o’clock.”
“Ten?” Lund repeated. “But … what time is it?”
The other man checked his watch. “Nine twenty.”
Lund stared at him stupidly, recalling the man with the watch in the homeless shelter. She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, I forgot my phone … I’m lost without it.”
The distress on her face must have been pronounced, because the taller man said, “Don’t worry. We too have been waiting a long time to hear Patel.” He winked conspiratorially. “We will have the best seats, no?”
With forty minutes to spare, Lund thanked the men.
They watched her curiously as she took a seat in the back row, deep in a corner and partially hidden behind a column. Without a doubt, the worst seat in the house.
A simple misunderstanding, she thought, sinking back into a padded metal chair. It occurred to her that this had been the sequence of her life in recent days. Meandering through a grocery store one moment, flying off to Maine the next. Waiting in a police holding room, then dashing away from a killer. It was a distressing pattern — hours of boredom interspersed by moments of sheer terror. Once more, she found herself in the waiting cycle.
Which didn’t bode well for what was to come.
“Only two bags?” asked the bellman.
“Yes,” Patel replied, watching the young man carry his suitcases toward the door of his room. “They will be taken straight to the airport?”
“Of course, sir. Our concierge has made arrangements with the delivery service.”
Patel slipped the man five dollars, and watched him disappear. He checked his watch: thirty minutes remained until his scheduled presentation. He collected his speaking notes from the writing desk, an undeniably thin stack for a one-hour presentation. In truth, he’d not put much thought into the effort, deciding to stick with one of his stock lectures: “The Art of Systems Architecture.” Patel cared little if he engaged the crowd — today would be his final performance behind a lectern, his life in academia having reached its predestined end. He had not yet purchased his outbound airline ticket, but Patel’s preliminary feelers had identified three interested parties, all predictably to the east: Russia, China, and India.
All that would have to wait just a few hours longer.
Patel opened his leather portfolio and stuffed his notes inside carelessly. They hung up momentarily on the only other item in the attaché, a loaded 9mm Beretta Nano. Delta had provided it, Patel having no idea how to procure such a thing in a foreign country. He could use it in the most basic sense, but doubted it would come to that. Not if Delta did his job.
Either way, he was prepared.
Patel left the room, and when he shut the door it was perhaps with a flash of reflection. He thought he might return to Vienna someday under more casual circumstances. Stay for a time and relax in the very room where the marriage of META to its host had been consummated.
Having already settled his account, Patel bypassed the front desk and headed outside into a bland morning. He took his usual route to the Hofburg — through the Stadtpark, past the pigeon-laden statue of Schubert, and then the vacant Kursalon. He navigated Walfischgasse as if he were a local, and had just rounded the Albertina art museum, with its sculpture of what looked like a giant diving board, when someone called, “Excuse me, Dr. Patel?”
He stopped and turned, and encountered a man he’d never seen before. He was slightly younger than Patel himself, keen and athletic. Of course he knew who it was. Patel’s grip on his attaché tightened ever so slightly as he said, “Do I know you?”
“I very much hope so.”
With the benefit of forewarning, Patel managed things well — his face remained a blank. “I don’t understand.”
“The META Project, Dr. Patel. I’m what came from it.”
“You mean—”
“Yes,” the man interrupted. “I’m Option Bravo.”
58
DeBolt watched the man closely as he said it. I’m Option Bravo.
Patel appeared stunned, and looked him up and down. “You’re saying…,” he hesitated mightily, “they actually went forward with the surgeries?”
“I think there may be a lot you don’t know. I need some questions answered. We should talk.” He looked across the crowded sidewalk, then at the busy Albertina Museum entrance. “Somewhere more private, I think.”
“Yes,” Patel agreed, “I know just the place.”
Patel waited for a break in traffic, then set out across the street. DeBolt almost balked, realizing Patel had no understanding of the threat from Delta. He fell in behind, but as soon as they reached the other side, he said, “Tell me where we’re going. I’ll get us there.”
Patel almost replied, but then stopped on the sidewalk and stared at him. Ever so slowly, like a rising sun, a look of astonishment washed across his distinctly Indian features. “You’re not … not active, are you?”
DeBolt of course knew what he meant, and he felt a peculiar sense of relief. Patel was the one person on earth to whom he would not have to prove his abilities. There would be no laborious fact-finding or clever tricks. “I’m active,” he said. “Now, tell me where we’re going.”
Patel studied him carefully, in the way an art aficionado might view an intricate sculpture in the museum behind them. He finally said, “The Winter Riding School. I was given a private tour yesterday, but it’s been closed to the public recently for renovations. There should be no one there on a Sunday morning, and I think the service entrance might be open.”
DeBolt input the Riding School, and found it situated inside the Hofburg Palace, directly under one of the great domes. “Follow me.”
Patel hesitated. “But … you used it? Just now, to find the Riding School?”
“Yes.”
Patel smiled in wonder. “How incredible that must be.”
Five minutes later, after a long and circuitous route, they arrived at the service entrance of the Winter Riding School. A disinterested museum worker stood near the door — not security, but a custodian pushing a cleaning cart — and Patel dropped the name of the official who’d given him a tour the previous day. It seemed to work, and they walked into the great hall.
Inside was a towering gallery like nothing DeBolt had ever seen. Central was a rectangular riding area, the brown dirt floor hoof-beaten and emanating a distinctly earthen odor. DeBolt saw a poster advertising an equine show, the featured act being Lipizzaner stallions. The performance arena was surrounded by two high floors of box seating and observation balconies, giving the impression of a Roman arena. He and Patel were on the top level amid ornate columns and balustrades and statues — why should it differ from any other part of the Hofburg? It all seemed from another age, and DeBolt imagined gallant horses strutting, soldiers in riding coats and silken breeches. Altogether, it could not have been more incongruous to an age of smartphones and cyber conferences.