“Why not?”
“Because I will have transferred META to its new owner.”
“New owner?”
“Of course. I’ve known from the outset that META’s prospects in the U.S. were limited. The surgery is extensive, revising multiple lobes of a subject’s brain to permit both visual and aural signals, not to mention subvocalization — that’s the ability to transfer your thoughts to the screen in your right eye. It involves circuitry in your head, and a biologically sourced power supply. All very invasive, and entailing considerable risk.”
“Alpha and Charlie are proof of that.”
“There, you see? Moral outrage. Most Americans would shudder at the concept, call it human experimentation. Fortunately, I ran across General Benefield, a man with the right connections, and whose ambition outweighed his sense of ethics. He procured the window I needed into NSA. Mind you, it could never be permanent. Five years, perhaps ten, and someone will uncover my architecture and remove it. It doesn’t matter. Years ago, as I formulated the concept, I sent inquiries to colleagues in a select group of nations, asking if their governments might have an interest in pursuing such work. The NSA’s networks would no longer be at my disposal, but Russia and China have parallel, if somewhat less effective agencies. Their responses were enthusiastic to say the least. And now I have Delta to prove the concept — my living, breathing, technology demonstrator.”
“Russia and China? You’re going to sell this madness to the highest bidder?”
“Certainly. Delta — and by some accident, you — are merely the beginning. You are the beta-test versions, as we might say at Cal. In two, perhaps three years, I’ll have a veritable army of operatives like you in development elsewhere.”
DeBolt held steady. As Patel talked, he let his eyes wander across the entrances of the great hall. He had to keep the man talking. “So this is all about money. You would sell out your country? Perform experiments on others like you did on me? On Delta?”
“Your patriotism falls hollow on me, Bravo. I was born in the United States, but what does that mean for a man whose skin is as dark as mine? My parents came from India, and worked day and night to give me an education. I played by all the rules, worked and studied hard, but I still heard the whispers behind my back, heard so-called friends laughing at me. America might be my homeland, but I have always felt like an outcast … so if it is harmed by my work, I will suffer no remorse.”
“An outcast? Just like Delta will be for the rest of his life? The difference, I suppose, is that he doesn’t know it.” DeBolt then very deliberately repeated his earlier words. “He will learn that you’re lying to him.”
Patel was silent for a moment. His gaze went taut as he analyzed what DeBolt had just said. How he had said it.
Both men heard a door burst open somewhere in the great hall.
61
Lund could breathe again. The big man behind her had abruptly turned and left.
Had he been waiting for Patel’s speech like the rest? She had noticed him a few minutes ago when she’d turned around. Even half hidden behind a wall he was hard to miss — broad chested in a full-length coat, his face and head obscured by a hat tilted low. Was it the man from the station? She’d caught only a glimpse of him then, little more than a meaty face behind an outstretched gun. There was also the grainy picture Jim Kalata had sent, the one that had mysteriously been wiped from her phone.
Was it him, or am I only seeing ghosts?
She’d been worried enough to keep watching the man — on the column in front of her seat was a polished steel chair rail, and in its reflection she’d watched him closely. It was imprecise, like surveillance using a funhouse mirror, but if the man moved she would know it. And move he had.
She’d watched him shoulder away from the alcove and step slightly closer. Lund had no weapon, but she knew there was an exit at the other end of the room. She was seconds from bolting when the man had gone still. He didn’t move for nearly a minute, then rushed away in a flurry of coattails and felt. He was surprisingly quick for a big man, and left the room with a purpose. She’d caught but one direct glimpse as he disappeared out the door, the back of his coat and hat, an amorphous dark mass turning left into the outer hallway.
That had been two minutes ago.
Lund got up slowly, no longer concerned about the appearance of Dr. Patel. She went to the entrance, leaned carefully out into the corridor, and looked left.
She saw no sign of the man in the overcoat.
DeBolt and Patel spotted him at the same time.
Delta.
The two remained a few paces apart along the high balustrade, a grand seating box from which emperors and queens had watched the Riding School’s stallions parade through routines.
Delta had emerged from a side entrance, and he was coming at them now. Slowly and deliberately, like a machine building steam. He took an angle that stranded them, penning Patel and DeBolt between two ornate walls and the gilded balcony railing. Effectively blocking the only way out. Delta came to a stop, and for the first time DeBolt saw expressiveness in the killer’s face. But what was it? Pain? Anger? Whatever the source, it was hateful and murderous … and fixed very clearly on Patel.
“What is wrong?” Patel asked. He looked at DeBolt. “What have you done?”
“You should know,” said DeBolt. “You gave me the ability to transmit audio in real time. How does it work? The cochlear implant you mentioned? I actually researched that. It’s essentially a microphone, and using META I can upload sounds for analysis — words to be translated or voiceprinted. A very useful function.”
Patel’s gaze switched back to Delta.
“He heard everything you said,” DeBolt assured him. “He deserves to know the truth.”
Delta took a step toward Patel.
“No! It’s not like that at all! I can repair your speech … if anyone can, it’s me! I promise you, I will never stop working until you are made whole.”
Delta kept coming, and soon the three men formed a perfect triangle. All at once, Patel seemed to remember the gun in his hand. Synapses connected, and signals were sent through his unaltered brain. He lifted the gun until it was level on the assassin’s chest. “Stop!”
Delta kept coming.
Patel fired, the sound of the shot thundering through the great hall.
DeBolt saw a tiny explosion on Delta’s chest, smoke and a confetti-like burst of fabric. The killer only moved faster. Patel got off three more rounds, all striking Delta in the torso, before the two men met chest to chest. Delta wrapped his massive arms around Patel and began to squeeze. The engineer flapped his arms and legs as he was lifted completely off the ground. He gave a visceral scream, desperation echoing through the hall, and then all the air seemed to go out of him. His mouth remained wide in agony, but no further sounds came. DeBolt heard a terrible crackling sound, like a dozen tiny balloons popping, and Patel seemed to fold in half, his head bending back toward his heels.
The assassin’s face was red with rage, his mouth open in a soundless scream as he lifted the lifeless engineer over his head and threw him over the rail. Patel’s body thumped onto the dirt floor three floors below, his spine creased at an impossible angle.
DeBolt quickly spotted the gun on the floor nearby. With one step, it was directly at his feet, yet he made no attempt to bend down and retrieve it. Strangely, Delta didn’t try to intercept him. Instead, he moved back to where he’d been moments ago — a position to block any escape. With the gun at his feet, DeBolt kept his eyes on Delta. Patel had struck the killer with multiple rounds — DeBolt had seen the bullets strike home — yet he appeared uninjured. But he wasn’t invulnerable.