To an age of META.
Scaffolding dominated one wall, and on the framework were cross-planks holding half-used buckets of paint and plaster. Repairs of the chipped stone columns and sculpted cornices had obviously taken pause for the weekend. There were no workers in sight, nor any tour groups, and the custodian had pushed his cart elsewhere. They were alone — just as DeBolt had wanted.
He checked for cameras, with both his eyes and his connection, and as far as he could tell there were none in the high cornices. He uploaded a diagram of the place to learn the path to every exit — he was learning. Only then did DeBolt allow himself to relax. His journey from Alaska, through Maine and New England, was finally at an end. He had what he wanted — the undivided attention of META’s last surviving architect.
They stood along a heavy balustrade, two levels above the brown-dirt arena.
“Bravo,” Patel said, regarding him as a father might look at a long-lost son. “I knew live tests were inevitable. But the initial subjects were never expected to—”
“Survive?” DeBolt cut in, surprised by a rush of anger welling inside him. “Well, here I am! What the hell were you people thinking? Playing God with human life?”
Patel seemed suddenly nervous. “Yes, I know. I was never comfortable with that. But for you, the first group of four — the criteria were very specific. Alpha through Delta were supposed to be terminal cases, individuals with neural activity but no chance of recovering. We had to test the viability of the surgery, the implant procedures. I—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, studied the screen, then began thumbing out a message.
“What are you doing?” DeBolt asked.
“My presentation. It begins in a few minutes. They are wondering where I am.”
“Tell them you’re going to be late.”
Break her neck.
Delta reasoned that was his best chance to kill the woman and not be noticed. It struck him how thin and white her neck was — considerably more delicate than that of her colleague in Alaska. He’d used both hands on that man — but then, there had been no tactical reason to do otherwise. Here he would have to finish Lund with one hand, leaving the other free to support her body when it went limp. It was, after all, a very public place.
He’d been watching her for fifteen minutes, which seemed an interminable wait. He would have done it by now if there weren’t so many damned people around. He’d seen guards in the halls behind him, but they were only museum police, and none too alert. Men and women trained to look for thieves and pickpockets. Not trained assassins.
All the same, he’d entered the Hofburg cautiously. No photos had arisen from his attack last night on the Bundespolizei outpost — META’s cleansing of the police video files had been meticulous. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so easy to erase the memories of the handful of policemen who’d glimpsed him. A general description had been circulated of a muscular bald man. To confuse the issue, Delta had bought a long, loose overcoat, and tied two sweaters around his waist. It made him appear simply overweight, and he’d topped everything off with a cheap felt trilby to cover his bald head. Taken together, more the profile of a soft banker than a hardened killer.
He was situated at the back of the meeting room called Festsaal. He thought it was a stupid name. Delta had rarely found himself in conference rooms over the years, and when he did they typically had names like Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal. He stood partially hidden in a small alcove, ten steps behind the last row of chairs. That was where Lund was sitting. It was an amateur move, but then she was nothing more than a detective. She had opted to hide in a shadow, which in this scenario was the worst possible choice. In a more central seat, surrounded by a crowd, she would have been far more difficult to spot, and harder yet to attack. As it was … ten steps.
Yes, definitely the neck. It would be quick and clean, and if he released her carefully she would remain in a sitting position. Pull her eyes closed, Delta thought, and she might be a conference attendee who had stayed out too late, or one who’d gone catatonic from a tedious presentation. His plan also allowed a simple egress to the back doors. Yet there was one problem: a man had taken a seat immediately to Lund’s left, a middle-aged matchstick in a knitted scarf. There were three empty seats in every other direction.
Delta grew impatient. He decided to snap the matchstick as well.
It all came down to timing. Patel’s presentation was due to begin in two minutes. Only there wasn’t going to be a presentation. Delta had received two text messages from Patel, the first fifteen minutes ago: Have DeBolt with me. Then, moments ago: Come quickly. I think he suspects something.
Delta wondered if Patel was carrying the gun he’d provided. Probably, he decided. But would he know what do with it?
Ten steps.
His frustration peaked. At that moment he was frozen by the crowds. There was a constant stream of attendees at the entrance, double doors only a few steps to his left. Some were arriving late for a talk that wasn’t going to happen. A handful of others were leaving, already seeing the writing on the wall. He wished Patel had shown up — everyone’s attention would then be predictable, focused on the lectern at the front of the room.
Delta felt tension knotting in his arms and shoulders. He didn’t want to lose Lund — not when she was this close. In the end, he did what he was trained to do. He settled back on his heels and waited ever so patiently. The little programmer would have to take care of himself just a little bit longer.
DeBolt let Patel send the text to explain he would be late. Then he made him start from the beginning.
“It was my concept,” Patel admitted. “I had been talking with DARPA for years about a project to give high-level systems management a more operational focus. DARPA, of course, is a DOD asset, and I finally gained a proponent for the idea in the Pentagon.”
“General Benefield?”
“Yes. He and I had many meetings, and I convinced him that with enough support, with access to certain high-level servers, we could develop a system to harness virtually limitless cyber capabilities and funnel them in near real-time to select individuals. ‘Cyber-soldier’ was his preferred term. The Army has been researching such concepts for years. I explained that I could write software to link with a neural interface — it would create a direct pathway between the brain and available communications networks.”
“That’s what’s in my head?” DeBolt asked. “Some kind of antenna to connect through Wi-Fi or cell networks?”
“Essentially, although it’s much more complex. Other networks exist — military and government grids. The system prioritizes available channels and chooses the best and most secure method. It’s all transparent to the user.”
“User? Is that what I am? You make it sound like I got new cable service.”
Patel acquired a tone of remorse. “Please … I realize you were not a volunteer for META. I had no say in the selection process for subjects. But now that it’s been done, and gone active … I’m naturally curious as to what functionality you’ve acquired.”