64
Near Washington Circle, District of Columbia
USA
JON SMITH WATCHED WHITFIELD examine the wires connecting the disassembled Merge to Marty’s Cray, then turned his attention to the two men guarding them.
Both had switched to pistols due to the close quarters and both had the slightly wandering gaze of Merge users—undoubtedly the military version he’d been developing. The man Randi called Deuce had bright red hair and a sunburned face that made him look less than intimidating despite his black garb and body armor. The fact that he’d gotten fairly close to her a number of times and she hadn’t made a move, though, suggested that his appearance was deceptive.
The one standing next to him was older, probably pushing forty, with the look of someone who had risen through the ranks of the special forces and lost none of his edge to the passing years.
Smith had gone over every angle, every remote possibility, and concluded that there was no hope. Randi had been disarmed and these guys were serious players acting with a level of caution that suggested they were aware of what had happened to the team sent to Randi’s cabin.
Another man who stank of former special forces came in and snapped to attention when Whitfield turned toward him.
“The premises are secure, sir.”
“Police?” Whitfield asked.
“No calls from here have been received at the precinct. One neighbor made a complaint but it appears that these kinds of disturbances aren’t unusual and the dispatcher suggested they pursue the problem in civil court.”
Probably accurate, Smith knew. Despite the shabbiness of his home, Zellerbach was a multimillionaire with a battery of lawyers dedicated to keeping him out of jail. And one of their favorite strategies was orchestrating generous out-of-court settlements to the people he’d inconvenienced.
Whitfield dismissed the man and folded his arms across his chest. “What have you found, Martin?”
Zellerbach gave Smith a terrified, pleading glance but kept his mouth shut.
“Have you cracked Dresner’s encryption? Do you have access to the operating system?”
“No,” Zellerbach mumbled. “That’s…That’s impossible.”
His voice wavered a little but it was hard to know if it was fear or if he was getting to the end of his medication cycle. What Smith didn’t need was his old friend going manic in a situation this precarious.
On the other hand, maybe it didn’t matter. It was unlikely that either Klein or the president knew anything about Whitfield’s presence here, which meant that when he got the information he wanted, it would be a quiet burial for all three of them. He undoubtedly thought it would be easier to ask forgiveness than permission. And he was probably right.
There was a wild card, though. Despite Whitfield’s likely plan for their demise, they were basically on the same side. Was it possible that the man didn’t know anything about the hidden subsystem?
“Tell him,” Smith said.
“What?”
“Go ahead, Marty. Tell him everything you told us.”
Zellerbach just stood there, obviously wondering why his amazing mind couldn’t immediately grasp the elaborate ruse that Smith was recruiting him for.
“This isn’t a trick, Marty. He’s a son of a bitch but, in a way, he’s our son of a bitch. Answer all his questions completely and honestly.”
The aging hacker’s confusion deepened.
“He’s serious,” Randi said. “Do it.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing the word out as he watched his friends for some sign of what he was really supposed to do. “There’s a hidden subsystem.”
When Smith just gave him an encouraging nod, he continued.
“It’s disguised as battery management and upgrade paths. No one’s been able to figure out what they do.”
“But you have?” Whitfield said, undoubtedly aware of the mysterious hardware from Smith’s own reports.
“No. I figured out how to bypass the operating system and trigger it. But no one was wearing the Merge at the time so I don’t know what it does.”
While Whitfield’s face gave away nothing, his silence spoke volumes. He hadn’t known about this.
“How do we find out?”
Zellerbach licked his already wet lips. “The only way I can think of is to, uh, have someone try it.”
Whitfield nodded and pointed to Smith. “Okay. Why don’t we volunteer the colonel here.”
With guns on him and his companions, there wasn’t much choice.
“Jon…” Randi cautioned as he sat down at the terminal to calibrate the unit to his mind.
“We’re dead anyway, Randi. Might as well exercise my curiosity.”
He went through the familiar routine quickly and then stood, pointing to the chair. “Marty.”
“But I don’t know what it’s going to do,” he whined. “I don’t want to.”
To his credit, Whitfield didn’t threaten or even get involved. A commander who knew when to step back was a rare and impressive thing. Unless he was your opponent.
“Just do it, Marty. Okay? We need to know, and this is the only way to find out.”
Zellerbach reluctantly activated an icon on his screen and clicked it. Smith tensed as the screen flashed red and buzzers hooted through hidden speakers, but that was all. He waited eighteen seconds for the system to fully cycle but other than the adrenaline he was pretty sure he was generating himself, there was nothing.
Zellerbach glanced down at his feet for a moment and gave his lips another quick swipe with his tongue. It was then that Smith understood. He hadn’t triggered it, instead using his computer to generate some impressive, but meaningless, displays.
Unfortunately Whitfield came to the same conclusion.
“I’m not stupid, Martin.”
“I did it!” Zellerbach protested a little too energetically to be convincing. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it really is just an upgrade path. I could have the key wrong, too. I’m not a miracle worker!”
Whitfield glanced at his men, obviously trying to decide what to do. He’d be considering torture, of course. And putting a gun to Randi’s head. But in the back of his mind, he’d know neither of those strategies led to certainty. Zellerbach was, by every measure, a genius in his area of expertise. And that area was computer trickery.
Smith thought he’d considered all of Whitfield’s options and was shocked when the retired marine pulled Zellerbach from his chair and sat, starting to recalibrate the unit to his own mind.
When he was finished, he stood and shoved Zellerbach back in front of the terminal. “Do it.”
“I…I don’t think—”
“I didn’t ask your opinion, son. Just do it.”
Randi seemed happy with the turn of events and gave a short nod. “Go for it, Marty. Can’t get any worse for us.”
He pulled up an innocuous prompt, typing what looked like a nonsensical line of code into it. His finger hesitated over the return button for a moment, but then dropped obediently onto it.
This time, there were no alarms or flashing lights. A couple of seconds passed and Smith started to wonder if the system really didn’t do anything when Whitfield suddenly grabbed his right arm and grimaced in pain. A moment later, he had collapsed to the floor.
“Shut it off!” Smith shouted, dropping to his knees beside the man.
“I can’t. Once it’s triggered, it runs off the internal battery.”
Randi devised a typically inelegant but effective solution—grabbing a wrench and attacking the individual parts of the Merge on the table.
Smith ignored the men guarding them and felt Whitfield’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. Based on everything Smith knew about the Merge technology, it was impossible. But impossible or not, the man was dead.