How was it developed? The human brain was the most complicated thing in the known universe and notoriously difficult to model. Massive testing must have been done but no one thought about that any more than they thought about how their new phone was developed. Was it possible that Dresner had decided to test the military unit in a war zone? Again, doubtful, but not completely out of the question. If the man was anything, he was thorough.
And what about Christian Dresner? Smith had read everything the government and media had on him, which wasn’t much. Why would it be? Digging through the trash cans and hacked phones of supermodels and movies stars was a hell of a lot more interesting than putting a microscope on a sixty-odd-year-old recluse who went around trying to make the world a better place. While admittedly intimidating, Dresner slotted in on the sinister scale somewhere between a baby seal and ice cream.
Smith spotted a muddy side road with an old truck waiting to pull out and he checked his iPhone again, confirming that it wasn’t his turn despite the fact that the Merge was still painting his path yellow. The trailhead was another 5.4 miles.
Thoughts of Dresner were just reestablishing themselves in his mind when the truck darted out in front of him. Smith slammed on the brakes, but with the slick road and lack of traction control, the rear of the Triumph slid out and bounced off the larger vehicle’s front bumper with the heartrending sound of crumpling steel.
He tried to compensate, but what was left of his tires’ grip disappeared when he hit the muddy shoulder. A moment later the passenger door slammed into a tree and threw him into what was left of the console he’d spend hours building.
And then all he could hear was the light rain on the crumpled soft top. That is until his own voice drowned it out.
“Son of a bitch!”
He tried to open his door, but didn’t succeed until he rammed a shoulder angrily into it. Leaping out into the mud, he tried to squelch the fantasy of beating the driver of that truck to death with his own arm. Before he could completely eradicate the violent image, though, something moved in the woods about twenty meters to his right.
Smith was using the commercial version of the Merge, so there was no sophisticated outline enhancement, but it didn’t matter. He knew the barrel of an M16 when he saw one.
He made a move for the Sig Sauer stashed in the Triumph’s glove box, but then froze when a shout rose up behind him.
“Don’t!”
He held his arms out non-threateningly and turned back slowly. One gun had become three and all were held by men who appeared to know how to use them.
The sound of a motor became audible up the road and he watched a dark blue Yukon come to a stop next to what was left of his Triumph. The man who stepped out was probably around seventy, with gray, close-cropped hair and a thin but powerful body that would have taken iron discipline to maintain at that age. He moved with military precision and not the mercenary swagger that Smith had learned to immediately recognize. No, this man had served his country as a soldier—probably for his entire career. But what country?
“Colonel,” he said with an American accent that answered that particular question. “I’m a great admirer. We all owe you a debt for your work on the Hades virus. And of course, your involvement in Cassandra and Chambord’s computer.”
He’d listed the operations in a matter-of-fact tone, but they’d clearly been chosen for impact. While some of Smith’s role in Hades was in the public record, his involvement with the other two incidents was highly classified.
Smith examined the man as he approached—the intensity of his green eyes, the scar running along the weathered skin beneath his chin, the expression that gave nothing away.
“Walk with me, Colonel,” he said, passing by and heading into the trees. A quick glance around confirmed that the armed men were still there. And even if they hadn’t been, a physical confrontation with this man, as old as he was, wouldn’t be a trivial matter. Better to just play along for now.
“I’m sorry about your car,” he said, actually sounding sincere. “It’s a beautiful piece of American history.”
Smith thought again about the gun safely tucked into what was probably now an inoperable glove box and how, if he survived this, Randi would never let him live it down. How many times had she criticized him for not always bristling with weaponry?
Disconcertingly, the man also seemed to be able to read minds.
“I’d like to talk to you about Randi Russell.”
“I’m sorry,” Smith responded. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
The man’s smile had the look of a rare event. “I have to admit I thought it was odd that you were the first person she came to. Your history with her sister and husband seems like it would make your relationship…complicated.”
“We’ve been to therapy,” Smith replied, his sarcasm somewhat tempered by the fact that he subconsciously wanted to end the phrase with sir. “Can I assume she’s getting a similar visit?”
“You cannot. It’s my understanding that she’s an unreasonable and unpleasant woman. Out of respect for both of you, I’m hoping to keep this civil.”
“And what exactly are we talking about here?”
The man didn’t reply immediately, instead continuing deeper into the woods. Despite his comment about civility, it was hard not to notice that they kept moving farther and farther from the road.
“We’re talking about the severed head Ms. Russell brought back from Afghanistan.”
Smith had been prepared to hear just about anything, but that hadn’t been on the long list in his head. Still, he managed to keep his expression passive.
“You have an incredible opportunity here, Colonel. The bomb sniffer you’re working on could make IEDs an unpleasant memory. The enhanced ability to separate enemy from civilian will give us a real chance to fight insurgencies without turning the locals against us. I’m even confident that you’ll get those directional microphones working eventually.”
Again, his words were meant less as a compliment and more to showcase his startling access to classified military information.
“I think you’re overestimating our advantage,” Smith said, probing. “If this thing was already in Afghanistan a month before it was released, I wonder how long until everyone has access to it.”
The man stopped and looked directly at him. “No one else has access to it, Colonel. Just do your job. You’re good at it.”
They stood there locked in a stare until, to Smith’s surprise, the man looked away and started back to the road. “This meeting was a courtesy, Colonel, but you don’t want to cross my path again. The next time it won’t go as well for you.”
34
Near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
USA
SMITH PULLED HIMSELF CLOSER to the tree, escaping the heavy raindrops exploding against his head, though it wasn’t much of an improvement. He’d spent the last two hours bushwhacking to a road running parallel to the one he’d left the Triumph on and had been completely soaked through for most of it.
On the brighter side, there was no way in hell he’d been followed—assuming the man he’d met with was even interested in doing so. More likely, he could be taken at his word. A truce had been called and now it was just a question of whether Smith would honor it—which, of course, he wouldn’t.
And that was just about guaranteed to make things interesting going forward. Whoever the man was, he was clearly not someone to be screwed with. Nor someone accustomed to passing out second chances.
Smith heard a car approach and retreated a little farther into the woods. He didn’t recognize it when it crested the hill, but it slowed and started hugging the edge of the road when it got close.
Smith darted from cover, timing it so he could grab the handle and jump in before the vehicle came to a full stop. The sudden acceleration nearly caused the door to clip his foot as the driver executed a perfect 180. Engine noise filled the cramped interior and steam rose from the tires a
s he fumbled with his seat belt.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Don’t insult me,” Randi Russell said, casually sipping from a Starbucks cup despite their speed and the rain.
He looked around at the shabby upholstery of the nineties Honda for a few seconds, then craned his neck to take in a backseat full of old CDs and dog hair. Not your typical Agency-issue vehicle.
“Did you sweep the car for bugs?” he said.
“Nah. I stole it. Best way if you want to be absolutely sure.”
Smith leaned an elbow on the windowsill and rested his wet head against his hand. She’d always had what his grandmother euphemistically called “sticky fingers” when he was a kid. But instead of candy bars and comic books, she tended toward things like Humvees, small aircraft, and cars.
“I really don’t need this right now, Randi.”
“Don’t be such a prude. I got it from long-term airport parking and I’ll have it back before the owner ever knows it’s gone—detailed and with a full tank of gas. Besides, I believe you got me out of bed to come save your ass. A little gratitude would be in order.”
* * *
C ARPET!” MAGGIE TEMPLETON WARNED.
Smith leaned against the doorjamb to remove his muddy running shoes before proceeding into the outer office.
“Towel!”
He grabbed the one folded neatly on top of a safe that served as a filing cabinet, using the thick cotton to catch drips as he made his way toward an open door at the back.
“So you’re certain you’d never seen the man before,” Klein said by way of greeting.
“Positive.” Smith arranged the towel on a chair before carefully lowering himself onto it. Despite the effort, he could hear the metronome-like drip of water falling to the floor.
Randi slipped in with a coffee refill and fell into the chair next to him, taking a hesitant sip as Klein pressed the intercom button next to his phone.
“Star? Could you come in here for a moment?”
She was just a few doors down and appeared a moment later, looking even more impressive than usual. The familiar piercings, tattoos, and black leather boots were all in evidence, but were now accessorizing a rather frilly pink dress. Smith suppressed a smile, suspecting how it must have happened. In the constant battle of wills between her and Klein, the old man had undoubtedly made the mistake of saying something to the effect of “couldn’t you just wear a dress?”
Those kinds of exasperated suggestions were pretty much his only recourse, though. A former librarian still in her early thirties, Star was a genius at tracking information—particularly information that hadn’t yet made its way to the digital world. She was, in the very real sense of the word, indispensable.
“I need to find someone,” Smith said.
“Sure.” She acknowledged Randi with a friendly grin. “Name?”
“I don’t actually know.”
“That’s okay. Male or female.”
“Male.”
“Where does he work?”
“Dunno.”
“Where’s he live?”
Shrug.
“Do you know where he’s from?”
“America. I’m fairly confident about that. Ninety percent.”
Her smile began to fade. “I’m probably not going to need a notepad to remember this flood of information, am I?”
“I doubt it.”
“Okay, what can you tell me?”
“Late sixties to early seventies. Probably retired U.S. military. I’d bet decent money marines—I can smell a jarhead a mile away. Five foot ten, probably a hundred and seventy pounds, only about two of which are fat. Gray military cut, no hair loss.”
“Original color? Any hanging on from when he was younger?”
“No.”
“Eyes?”
“Green,” Smith responded and then ran a finger from his collar to beneath his chin. “And he has an old scar along here.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that should narrow it down to a little over a million people.”
Smith smiled easily. “If it was simple, anyone could do it.”
“Uh-huh. When do you need it?”
He opened his mouth to respond but she held up a hand and retreated through the door. “Never mind. I already know what you’re going to say.”
Randi watched her disappear around the corner before speaking. “I have to admit that I’m looking forward to seeing what she finds out. It sounds like he had you dead to rights and didn’t take the opportunity. Why? Has he figured out a way to use you? Is he trying to convince you he’s something he’s not? That you’re on the same side? Does he really think you’ll give up just because he trashed your car and had some thugs point guns at you?”
“I can answer one of those questions,” Klein said.
Randi turned to him. “Which?”
“He’s not trying to portray himself as someone he’s not.”
Klein slid two pieces of paper across his desk, one meant for each of them. Smith took his and leaned over it, trying to stay ahead of the drops splattering across the text as he read. It was an immediate transfer to the Amundsen-Scott research station to relieve the current doctor. He had to rack his brain for a few moments to come up with the location of the facility.
“What’s yours say?” he asked Randi.
“I’m being reassigned—effective immediately—as an advisor to a rebel group in Yemen.”
“Sounds cushy.”
“Really? What’s yours?”
“South Pole.”
“Antarctica,” Randi said, a hint of admiration crossing her face. “Well, we’ve learned two things about your new friend: He has a hell of a lot of juice and a certain amount of style.”
“A little too much of both for my taste,” Klein said.
“Can we assume you’ll do your magic and make these transfers go away?” Smith said.
Klein looked uncharacteristically doubtful.
“Fred?”
“I’m working on it but it’s not a simple matter.”
“You’re saying that I might be moving into my bunk in Antarctica in a couple of days?”
“Could be worse,” Randi said. “You could be barricaded in an apartment with a bunch of lonely Yemeni freedom fighters.”
Klein frowned. “I haven’t been able to determine how these transfers were done and on whose authority. What I’m finding is the same kind of maze that I leave when I get you your indefinite leaves of absence.” He paused for a moment. “Look, I don’t want you to worry about this. I’m going to get it done but, as always, I have to do it in a way that doesn’t expose Covert-One or the president.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I need you to figure out what we’re into here. We have a slight advantage in that whoever this man is, he thinks he understands the limitations of your resources as an army scientist and CIA operative. Based on what we’ve seen so far, though, he isn’t going to be fooled for long.”
35
East of Chiang Mai
Thailand
NOW THAT WE’VE HAD A CHANCE to get together and analyze numbers for first quarter,” Chris Mandrake, Dresner Industries’ acting CEO, started, “I’m happy to say that we’ve had to increase our sales estimates for a third time.”
Dresner was sitting motionless, concentrating on the live feed from the meeting as it was transmitted directly to his mind. The app, submitted by a group of students from MIT, calculated size of known objects like chairs and coffee cups, then scaled the image using that information. The room Dresner was in had completely dissolved, replaced with a crowded boardroom half a world away.
As stunning as the software was, though, he’d been forced to send the industrious students a rejection. The interface allowed the user to stand and take a few steps before the image faded—too dangerous for the general public. But within the confines of his Thai compound, it was a
joy.
“In-store demonstrations have declined significantly, but we’ve learned that it’s really a function of the positive word of mouth the Merge has been getting. Feedback is fairly consistent in the under-forty demographic—they want to buy. Cost has overtaken concern over the head studs as the primary barrier to purchase. In fact, stud integration continues to be well above our initial projections. We’re already at almost fifty percent and I feel confident that by the end of the first year, we’ll see eighty-five percent of experienced users integrated. Tooth microphones are running much lower due to the fact that the procedure has to be done by a qualified dentist and because the collar microphones work fairly well. As people go in for checkups, though, we’re expecting to see those numbers come up.”
“What about the older demographics?” someone said.
“The trend continues to move heavily toward adoption. Our campaign highlighting vision correction and the sleep function has been even more effective than we’d hoped. We’re also prioritizing developers whose apps target that market, per Mr. Dresner.”
There were some quiet murmurs, but no protests that rose to a level of being intelligible. His insistence on expending so many resources trying to capture people over fifty had met with significant resistance for financial reasons, but there was more to the Merge than making money. Much, much more.
“How many units are up and running right now?” a woman he’d swear was actually in the room with him asked.
“Usage varies over the course of the day, but our peak to date is four point two million worldwide. Interestingly, the variation in the number of Merges online over a given twenty-four-hour period is flattening very quickly. People are discovering that there’s no reason not to use the sleep system, even if it’s just for the alarm clock function. That’s another thing that’s driving head stud adoption, particularly in older users: Sleeping with the headset just isn’t practical.”
“Satisfaction levels?”
“Stratospheric. About one percent of people simply can’t adapt to the input and we’re giving full refunds on those units. Of course, we also have a small number of people with head stud problems—the occasional infections that we expected. Non-specific complaints like excessive pain have been significantly lower than we projected—probably because of the general satisfaction with the technology.”