Robert Ludlum's The Utopia Experiment - By Kyle Mills Page 0,88

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The cell phone in his pocket buzzed and the tone told him it was an encrypted text from Covert-One. He pulled it out and punched in his password. It was amazing how clunky and outdated the device felt compared with the Merge he’d left at home.

“It’s from Star,” he said.

There were no words, just a black-and-white picture of a young Naval Academy cadet with a familiar scar rising from the collar of his dress uniform. A second image had him digitally aged to around seventy.

Even without Photoshop, there would have been no doubt. It was him.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, shaking his head in admiration.

“What?”

“She found him,” he said as he dialed.

Star picked up on the first ring. The smugness in her voice was thick and obviously intentional. “Why, hello there, Jon.”

“Okay. How did you do it?”

“Child’s play. A forty-three-year-old Naval Academy yearbook.”

“Uh-uh. No way. I looked through that one. The picture you sent wasn’t there.”

“And where did you get your copy of the book?” she said, clearly enjoying herself.

“You can just order them online. I had it FedExed.”

“What did they teach you in all those years of higher education, Jon? The devil is always in the details. I used original books from people who’d graduated in those years.”

He let that process for a moment. “Are you telling me this guy’s picture has been removed from the current version?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Books are living things, Jon. They don’t just—”

The line went silent.

“What? Say that again, Star. You’re breaking up.”

He lost the connection and started to try to call her back but when he looked down at his phone, it indicated no signal. A moment later the power went out and left them sitting in the dim glow bleeding through the west windows.

The darkness lasted only a moment before a backup generator came on but the comfort provided by the return of electric light faded with the sound of shattering glass and a grenade bouncing across the wood floor.

43

Prince George’s County, Maryland

USA

THE EIGHT-BY-TEN PHOTOGRAPH was centered on the desk when Fred Klein walked into his office. He didn’t bother to sit, instead examining the digitally aged face looking up at him. The scar on his neck pegged him as the man who had threatened Smith, but there was something else. Something in the eyes, the severe turn of the mouth. He was certain he’d seen the face before.

Klein flipped the picture but there was no further information on the back. Only a note from Star scrawled in the corner: “Found him!!!!!!!” followed by a number of smiley faces and a few hearts shaded with a red Magic Marker.

He grimaced and took a sip from the steaming cup in his hand. For a long time he’d thought she did these things just to irritate him but now he knew it wasn’t true. And even if it was, it wouldn’t have mattered. When you managed to find someone with her level of talent, you learned that the tattoos, the bizarre piercings, and even the glittery hearts punctuating her reports were things you just had to let go.

“Star!” he shouted, knowing his voice would carry the short distance to her office. When she didn’t come running, he leaned his head around the door. Before he could call her again, though, Maggie tapped one of her many computer screens. “Quit yelling, Fred. She’s dialing out to Jon.”

Klein let out a long breath but didn’t immediately move. Finally, he slipped out of his office and began the reluctant but all-too-familiar trudge down the hall.

By careful design, his visits to her office were infrequent. He hated everything about it: The grinding music played at elevator volume. The plastic dolls, old records, and commemorative plates that covered nearly every surface. And then there were the framed pictures of her with men—all very famous, she assured him—who looked like they had just been released from prison.

Star held up a finger when he appeared in her doorway but she seemed to be looking right through him. It was an increasingly common phenomenon known as the Dresner Stare. Cell phones had been annoying enough, but at least you knew when people were using them. Now there was no way to tell what someone was seeing when they looked at you.

“Damn,” she muttered and then pushed the intercom button on the phone at the edge of her desk. “Maggie? I had a perfect connection with Jon and it just went dead. Now I’m rolling to his voicemail. Do