BETA - Project Avatar, page 24
“You eat the most disgusting things,” Dee said. This was delivered with the flat objectivity of a simple factual statement. She had been watching Abe eat disgusting things for a decade now.
“Is that bona fide Greek cuisine?” John asked.
Abe stuck another dripping gobbet of food in his face while still chewing the first one. “Nachos are universal.”
She took advantage of the lull in the conversation to say, “Not to interrupt your meal, Abe, but have you checked on Ed?”
Abe sipped a little beer, then replied, “Yeah. I talked with his wife yesterday. There’s no change. The doctors say he might come out of the coma any time. There’s just no way to tell.”
“Poor Ed. But thanks for checking. If you hear anything new, let me know.”
John had his hand on his chin and a look of deep thought on his face, as he gazed at the floor. “So,” he said to Dee. “The situation, if I follow your account, is that you have come into accidental possession of this peculiar piece of software, via the Endyne Corporation. You know nothing of its military background, and nothing of the people who originally wrote it. Furthermore, although you have completed classified projects for dozens of clients, none of your past work has any bearing on your current predicament, as far as you can tell. In particular, you have never worked for XCorp, and you know nothing about them. And until a few days ago, you knew nothing whatever of the blighters who are now chasing you all over the world, leaving a trail of bodies as they go. That, in a nutshell, is your account. Correct me if I’ve missed something.”
Dee squinted at him. She didn’t care much for his tone, though she wasn’t sure what to say in response. After all, he had nailed her story precisely.
“Hey, don’t get nasty with her,” Abe mumbled through a mouthful of food. “She’s just trying to protect herself. But, Dee, it probably is time that you told us what’s really going on.”
She stared at Abe’s face on the screen, feeling betrayed. He looked back at her placidly, his cheeks bulging rhythmically as he chewed.
“I’ve told you everything I know!” she asserted. This was pretty close to true—certainly close enough.
John smiled and wagged a scolding finger at her. “The lady doth protest too much, me thinks. Come, now, Dee. Over the years, you’ve worked for so many interesting clients. Do tell us your real connection with XCorp, why don’t you? We’re all friends here.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I don’t have any connection with XCorp—I mean, none that I know of.”
“Oh, come on,” Abe encouraged her. “At this point, you might as well tell us the real story. What harm would it do? It’s good to protect your clients, and all that, but come on! If you’re worried about the phone line, take my word for it, it’s totally secure.”
“There’s the voice of good sense,” John agreed. “Don’t worry yourself unduly if you have perhaps done something criminal or, shall we say, ethically dubious. I’m sure I speak for both Abe and myself when I assure you that your secrets are quite safe with us.”
“Oh, that is just too much!” Dee exploded. “Ethically dubious! You dare to speak to me of ethics!”
“Here, now,” John said, beginning to look alarmed. “No need to get miffed. I was just trying to remind you that we’re on your side.”
“That’s rich! Neither of you even believes me! You don’t trust me at all. So how am I supposed to trust you?” Dee struggled to compose herself. “If you’re such good friends, help me figure out how to dispose of this thing. There must be somewhere I can take it. Somewhere I can just turn it in and wash my hands of it.”
John and Abe watched her, neither of them saying a word, waiting for the mood to pass.
Dee’s shoulders slumped. “All right,” she said. “I suppose there’s no such place. What am I going to do?”
John said to Abe, “I’ve been preparing a new identity for her, as you can see. She’ll have a Canadian passport.”
Abe nodded his approval as he shoved an amorphous wad of cheese and chips into his mouth. He managed to say, “I’ve got her set up with a ghost credit account under the name Karen Collins. If you send me her new information at the Substructure dead drop, I’ll give her a new account. I can send you the bank codes if you have hardware to issue the credit card.”
“Duck soup,” John replied.
“Well, that’s that, then.” Abe tossed away an empty beer can and fished under the table for a fresh one. “I’d better get back to work. Oh, and John, there’s no need to watch out for Dee anymore—I’ll assign someone else.”
“You assigned John to watch out for me!” she sputtered. “Without even asking me?” Then turning to John, “You lied to me!”
“Now, see here!” John exclaimed. “I was just trying to help.”
Abe defensively raised both greasy hands. “Hey, just relax, Dee. We’re both just trying to help. John, it’s nothing personal. I’m just trying to minimize the number of people in the loop. You know some of my best friends are MI-6.”
“Dash it! I have told you both before, I am no longer employed by the Service.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, Dee, when you’re tired of being John’s guest there in France or England or wherever he’s got you, give me a heads-up, and I’ll see if I can arrange contacts for you at your next destination.”
Dee was touched. All things considered, it was quite a thoughtful offer. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Abe said. “But seriously, please try not to get any more of my associates killed. It’s hard to find smart people these days.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“Especially smart people of dubious affiliation and cunning disposition,” Abe added as an afterthought. “And with a kind of anarchic sense of mischief.”
“Remember Waldo?” she asked, quite out of the blue. “Sophomore year?”
Abe laughed, or possibly choked. “Waldo! Sure, I remember.”
She leaned toward the webcam. “Then you know where I’m going.” Waldo Neto had been a transfer classmate of theirs at Stanford. He hailed from Rio de Janeiro.
“Oh, I mean to say!” John fumed, realizing he’d just been left out of something important. “That is hardly cricket.”
“Got it,” Abe said to Dee. “I’ll see what I can do for you. Take good care of her, John.” The video window on the laptop screen went blank.
She turned to John. “So Abe asked you to keep an eye on me? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! Why?”
“Well, if you want the truth, he called in a favor I owed him. But I was happy to help.”
“Well, I don’t need your help, thank you very much!” She stormed over to the sofa, surprised at how offended she felt to learn that John was helping her only because he owed a favor.
John leaned over the drawing table, pointedly turning his back on Dee and returning to work on the passport. “You know,” he said coldly, “a fellow could make a strong argument that you might be wise to place a bit more trust in me, rather than well-meaning friends who are mere amateurs in the trade.”
“Oh, but I thought you said you’re now an amateur yourself,” she replied, still fuming.
He sniffed. “I shan’t credit that silly comment with a reply. At any rate, you’re safe right here for the moment, and for the foreseeable future. Unless you’re a much bigger fool than I take you for, you must surely see that it’s in your best interest to stay under wraps for at least a month or two. Meanwhile, I assure you that I will continue your investigations for you, using all the resources I can muster.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m your hobby.”
He half turned his head to look at her, then seemed to think better of it and turned back to his work. “I think it only natural that my curiosity should be piqued,” he muttered.
She closed her computer and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to pour myself another coffee.”
“Make yourself at home,” he said, in a formal tone. Then he added, “Oh, say, before you wander off, is there just the one copy of that program? Your Beta program.”
Dee stopped with her foot on the top stair. “Why do you ask?”
“You haven’t . . . made any copies? Given any copies to anyone? Or perhaps stored a copy somewhere?”
She frowned. “I’m not in the habit of storing and distributing copies of classified and sensitive code. A cryptographer could lose her reputation pretty quickly that way. Not to mention the risk of committing high treason, in this particular case.”
“Excellent policy,” he said. “I’m relieved to hear there are no loose ends dangling behind you. However, in a case like this, don’t you think it would be wisest to put aside one copy somewhere? It might come in handy for bargaining, one fine day. Might even save your life. You could hide it somewhere safe.”
“Somewhere safe . . . um, let’s see, where might that be?” She already knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
John spread his hands. “Well, like right here, for example. This must be one of the most isolated safe houses in the European Union, if not the world.”
She turned to face him. “You’re asking me to make a copy of Beta’s code and give it to you?”
“Only if you think it prudent. I’d be happy to show you where the vault is hidden, down in the wine cellar. It’s quite cunning, really, the way they’ve tucked it away down there.”
“Fat chance,” she said, and started down the stairs. “And don’t even think about trying to steal a copy. My hard drive is booby-trapped with viruses, and some of them are real killers.”
Chapter 24
Brigadier General Tyrone Grimmer’s B-58 dropped through the low cloud cover over Lake Geneva, and rocketed loudly through light rain toward the Cointrin landing strip. The supersonic jet, with its needle nose and delta wings, had been a state-of-the-art strategic bomber several decades ago. And it was still an imposing sight in a nostalgic sort of way—a jet that could fly halfway around the world at the speed of sound. Using UMBRA funds, the general had picked it up for a song at an arms auction a few years back. He had thoroughly renovated the interior, and its large munitions bay now sported a cozy lounge with a wood-paneled bar.
All the airport’s regular business ceased for a five-minute window while the jet made its approach and landing. It fell screaming out of the sky and skimmed along the wet runway, using almost the full two miles to come to a halt. Then it taxied swiftly from public view and wandered off among the maintenance buildings. The door of a large hangar opened to admit it, and the moment the jet trundled inside, the big door closed behind it.
A few minutes later, the general and his hulking aide, Major Oliver, strode out the back of the hangar, wearing black slickers to keep the rain off their uniforms. Under his hood, the general’s face was pinched with anger.
The two men crossed a hundred yards of tarmac and came to a row of aluminum Quonset huts that lined the back fence of the airport property. Two sentries, in U.S. Army uniforms, stood at attention on either side of the front door of the third Quonset hut in the row and saluted the general as he and Oliver barged through the door.
The cavernous interior was brightly illuminated with dense rows of suspended fluorescent lights. The first thing the general saw under those lights was Bishop and Stoddard, hastily getting up from a card table near the door. Holtz was on a couch not far away, and he, too, hastened to his feet. All three men were dressed in civilian suits, and their haggard faces suggested they hadn’t slept much lately. Their jackets were damp from the rain, indicating that they had spent most of the day outside, arriving at the hut not long before the general.
The general walked up to Bishop, who stood at rigid attention. The general took a moment to look arrogantly around the room as he approached. The Quonset hut, on loan from another branch of the NSA, was used to store clandestine electronics, light arms, and a number of locked file cabinets that resembled safes. The back of the room had been converted into a sort of enlisted men’s lounge, and there, on either side of a ping-pong table, Giacomo and Peszko stood at attention, paddles in hand.
The general put his scowling face six inches in front of Bishop’s.
“Bishop,” he said slowly, as if savoring the name, his leathery face stretching into a taut, chilling smile.
The general’s smile was always horrible to behold, but it was especially disconcerting for those who had known him longest. In the five years that Bishop had served with UMBRA, he had seen the general smile only three times. On both previous occasions, several members of Bishop’s team had ended up dead in action over the next couple of days.
The general turned his head slightly, not taking his eyes off Bishop for a second though speaking over his shoulder at Oliver. “Major Oliver,” he said. “Didn’t I give this man a direct order to bring me the civilian Dee Lockwood and her electronics within twenty-four hours?”
“Yes sir,” Oliver drawled, as if his mind were on other things.
“And when did I give that order, Major?” the general inquired.
Oliver didn’t bother to consult his watch. “Ninety hours and twenty minutes ago, sir.”
The general stopped smiling and leaned another inch closer to Bishop’s face, raising one eyebrow. “Ninety hours, Bishop. Ninety goddamn hours. And you still haven’t come through.”
Holtz cleared his throat tentatively, but the general raised an imperious finger to cut him off. His eyes still hadn’t moved from Bishop’s face.
“You shut the hell up, Holtz. You see, Bishop, I’m trying to sort out a mystery here. And the mystery is, how the hell can this woman, this civilian, be right in your hands three times—three times!—and you just keep letting her slip away? I am a generous man, Bishop. And I would like to be generous and simply write you off as a bungling incompetent. Unfortunately for you, though, you are not a bungling incompetent, and if you don’t believe me, I can show you your service record to prove it. So do you know what that means? It means this is starting to look like dereliction of duty.”
The general turned away from his victim and began sauntering stiffly away, as if he had suddenly taken an interest in the storage racks lining the sides of the hut.
The only sound was the dull drumming of the rain on the arched aluminum roof.
The general turned and faced his men, breaking the tension with a friendly scowl. He waved a hand dismissively. “All right,” he growled. “I know I’ve already expressed these sentiments during our telephone debriefing last night. I’m sure you boys will bring her to me in the next twenty-four hours or die trying. Isn’t that right? Now, I think I’m about ready for a drink.”
Two young UMBRA commandos began scrabbling around in cabinets, hastily gathering Scotch and vermouth and Angostura bitters. Oliver crossed the floor toward them in long, relaxed strides, to take charge of mixing the general’s Rob Roy.
The general pulled off his slicker, sat down, and made himself comfortable on a long, threadbare sofa. He sighed and stretched his shoulders. “All right, Bishop. I think I’d better hear all the details. What the hell happened last night?”
Bishop’s face was livid with pent fury, and his gray eyes glittered like ice. Stoddard, behind him, glanced at Bishop and then looked quickly back down at the floor.
In controlled tones, Bishop said, “We had her, General—twice. But dragging Holtz around is like hauling a dead weight through the streets.”
Holtz’s cold blue eyes narrowed.
“Stoddard and I had her cornered in an alley,” Bishop continued. “The mission was on the verge of completion. But Holtz was supposed to be covering us from behind, and he kept dragging his ass. We lost precious seconds.”
“With your permission, General,” Holtz said impatiently. “I was not in a mission-critical position, much as I would have liked to be. I was left to guard the van, and later I was instructed to cover the retreat route. Obviously, the failure of the mission was due to the forward team.” He looked pointedly at Bishop. “Particularly the team leader.”
Bishop stared straight back but spoke to the general. “Our team was in hot pursuit, sir, but we were dragging a ball and chain. This man is not one of my team, sir.”
The general accepted his Rob Roy from Oliver, grimaced by way of thanks, and took a thoughtful sip. “You don’t choose the team, Bishop,” he said. “If you screw up one more time, I’ll just give your position to someone else.”
“Have you seen this, General?” Holtz asked. He handed over a copy of the morning’s English-language edition of the Tribune de Genève and tapped the front page with a long, white index finger.
The general scowled with amusement at a small headline near the bottom:
Downtown collision halts traffic
Accident involving police van
blocks Rue de la Monnaie for 3 hours
“No, I haven’t,” the general chuckled. “I’d say we can live with that. But I don’t mind telling you, I had to perform some little miracles to get this incident hushed up.”
“I’m sure you understand, sir,” Bishop hastened to say, “that this sort of operation is hard to keep within a reasonable stealth protocol.”
The general waved aside this concern. “You don’t need to tell me that, Bishop. We’re operating under extreme time constraints. There’s no time for a lot of pussyfooting.”
Bishop nodded curtly. “That was the way I understood my mandate, sir.”
The general sipped at his drink. “As for the shootings, and the rest of the damage to friendlies in this operation, I don’t want any of you to lose too much sleep over that. Frankly, we’re operating so far off the grid right now, it’s hard to even say what side we’re on.”
This brought a round of uncomfortable chuckles from everyone except Oliver, who didn’t appear to see the humor of the comment. The general ignored him and turned to Bishop.
“Now, give me an update. Did you manage to find out where Lockwood has been staying in the city?”
“Yes sir,” Bishop told him. “And it wasn’t easy.”
