Mother Night spoke to the whole world.
However, buried within that global message was one directed only to the members of her family. And to him.
She’d said, “Mother Night wants to tell all of her children, everyone within the sound of my voice, all of the sleeping dragons waiting to rise—now is the time.”
Those were her words.
He smiled with such deep contentment that it was nearly orgasmic.
He could almost smell the sulfur on the match as she struck it.
You have to burn to shine.
Parker got up from his computer, crossed the room to the table, and completed the last few small steps necessary with the waiting devices. Then, still smiling, he began carefully placing each device into a separate backpack.
Chapter Fifteen
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Sunday, August 31, 6:36 a.m.
Nikki Bloomberg was the third most senior member of the DMS computer division. Only Yoda had more seniority, and then of course there was Bug.
Nikki had been part of Bug’s team for nearly five years and she loved her job. Even though she worked in a glass-walled office buried a hundred feet below Floyd Bennett Field, she felt like she was an international woman of mystery. A superspy with superpowers. Working with MindReader had that effect.
Each senior member of the computer team—variously known as Bug’s Thugs, the Igors, or the Nerd Herd, depending on who was sending the e-mail—ran a different aspect of the MindReader network. Yoda was head of cyberintrusion, and it was his job to make sure that no opposing system could lock its doors to MindReader. That meant that he had to write code or edit code all day. It wasn’t a job Nikki wanted.
Her job was to manage the pattern search team. MindReader had more than seven hundred pattern recognition subroutines, each of which could be used separately and all of which could be combined into a massive assault on raw data. All day long her team received notices in the form of small pop-up windows with keywords and case numbers. Each pop-up contained a hot link to a data cascade where everything related to the keyword was collated. It took a certain kind of mind to be able to interpret that data and make sense of it. Nikki had that kind of mind. A super anal-retentive skill set that was unattractive in, say, relationships, but invaluable within the DMS. She also had a photographic memory, without which she could never even attempt that job.
She was at her desk rerouting data threads from the pop-ups when a new one blipped onto her screen. This one came with a red flag in one corner, indicating it might belong to one of the major active cases. Nikki opened the link in the pop-up and suddenly her screen was filled with a fragment of a video clip. An Asian woman speaking directly to the camera. The phrase MindReader had plucked out and flagged for attention was this: “
’Cause remember, kids, sometimes you have to burn to shine.
”
The software pulled the words
burn to shine
out of the sentence and floated them as text on the screen. The file to which this was attached was one of Joe Ledger’s.
The Mother Night case.
One of the few DMS cases that was unsolved.
“Oh my god,” breathed Nikki. “She’s back.”
She hunched over her computer and began hitting the keys that would ring alarms all through the halls of power.
Interlude Three
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Seven Years Ago
Artemisia Bliss sat at one end of a massive oak conference table. Three people sat at the far end. Dr. William Hu and two strangers, a big white man and a short black woman. The woman looked oddly like Whoopi Goldberg. She could have been her twin, except that she had eyes that were as flat and cold as a Nile crocodile and a mouth that was permanently set in a frown of disapproval.
Hu said, “You understand that anything we discuss here is strictly confidential.”
“Okay,” said Artemisia. “Do I need to sign some kind of nondisclosure form?”
The black woman’s disapproving mouth hardened.
The big white man opened a briefcase but instead of producing government forms, he removed a package of Nilla wafers, opened it, selected a cookie, bit off a corner, and munched quietly. He placed the package on the table but did not offer a cookie to anyone else. No one asked him for one.
Artemisia waited. She didn’t know who he or the woman was, but it was clear from Hu’s demeanor that they were his superiors. Hu’s manner had become immediately deferential when they’d entered this conference room, particularly to the white man. The big man looked sixtyish, but it was the kind of middle age that came with no diminution of personal power. He wore a very expensive Italian suit, an understated hand-painted silk tie, and tinted sunglasses that effectively hid any expression in his eyes. The lenses looked flat and did not appear to have any corrective curves, so she guessed that their sole purpose was to keep people from reading his eyes. That was interesting. Either he was the most closed-in person in the world, or he was aware that his eyes were the only weak link in otherwise impervious armor. Whoever he was, Artemisia was certain that he was in charge of this place. He had a natural authority and sense of power that was palpable, and yet he did not appear to be deliberately projecting an alpha dog vibe. He simply was the alpha. Here and, she thought, probably in most situations in which he found himself. She was certain she’d never met anyone quite like him.
His vibe was extremely scary. And sexy.
She doubted he would have showed off by making a comment about her name and the connection to the artist, as Hu had done. While with Hu that was mildly flattering, the doctor’s energy was more earthy and real. This man was far more aloof, and probably didn’t need the ego stroke of wanting to appear hyperintelligent and well-informed.
Artemisia realized that she feared him for reasons she could not adequately understand. She was in the presence of power on a level she’d never previously encountered.
And the woman, the Whoopi Goldberg with ’tude, had a lot of power, too. But it wasn’t quite on the same level.
After the cookie was gone, the big man took a handkerchief—a real one, not a tissue—and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. He folded the handkerchief neatly and placed it on the table beside the box of cookies.
“My name is Church,” he said, then nodded to the black woman. “This is Aunt Sallie.”
“‘Aunt Sallie’?” echoed Artemisia.
“You can call me Auntie. Call me ‘ma’am’ and I’ll kneecap you.” She wasn’t smiling when she said it.
“Noted,” said Artemisia.
“Dr. Hu speaks very highly of you,” said Church.
Artemisia nodded. She was letting her instincts guide her, and the remark did not seem to warrant a verbal reply. The man was stating a fact, not asking for agreement.
“Your profile suggests that you would be a good fit for us.”
“May I ask who ‘us’ is, exactly?”
“We’ll get to that.” Church studied her for a long time. A longer time than was comfortable, and she began to fidget. She hated that, because she never fidgeted. It was a point of pride for her. The big man ate another cookie. Slow bites, a lot of measured chewing. A dab of the handkerchief. Without consulting any paperwork or computer, he said, “You were first in science and math in every school you’ve attended. You graduated from high school at age fourteen, you received special consideration that allowed you to earn a doctorate at twenty. You don’t appear to have much in the way of personal politics.”
She resisted the urge to give a dismissive shrug. Instinct told her that a reaction like that would cast her in a poor light. Probably in the black woman’s eyes and definitely in the big man’s eyes.
“I care more about people than political parties,” she said.
“Oh, jeez,” sighed Aunt Sallie.
Mr. Church gave a faint smile. “Would you mind elaborating on that?”
Artemisia felt her face growing hot. Despite her best effort she’d put her foot wrong. Still, she kept her voice controlled, her manner calm. Much calmer than she felt inside.
“I don’t know enough about politics to have an opinion that would matter. Not when it comes to Republican and Democratic pissing contests. If we’re talking the politics of science, then I land on the humanist side.”
“Meaning—?”
“Meaning that science should benefit humanity. I have a private loathing for any science that exists for its own sake. Science should be used. It should be applied. The end result of research is practical and beneficial application.”
“What about military applications?” asked Mr. Church.
“Is that a trick question?”
“No.”
“I won’t build nukes, I won’t create bioweapons. Beyond that … if you’re talking about drone technology that can fight an enemy in a modern combat scenario while keeping U.S. troops out of the line of fire, then … sure. I’d do that. Would I build a space-based laser system so the CIA can assassinate whoever’s on their shit list, then no. That’s bullshit and it’s too much of a gray area.”
“You distrust the Agency?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re untrustworthy.”
“How so?”
She took a moment to find the word that she thought would work best. “They’re inept.”
The Whoopi Goldberg lookalike turned away to hide a smile. Dr. Hu studied his nails.
“What makes you say that?”
Now she did shrug. “Because they get too much press, and none of it’s good.”
“It could be a front,” he said. “A misdirection.”
“Sure. But I don’t think it is. I think they’ve had to do too much and never had enough legal funding. They let their need to accomplish an impossible agenda trick them into making bad choices. The whole drug thing in the sixties. That may even have begun as a well-intentioned reaction to the threat of Soviet expansion, but it was badly played. They broke so many laws while trying to save capitalism that it became their knee-jerk reaction. It became the easiest path to a series of short-term goals that probably looked good on reports to Congress but were chump change in terms of real global control. The space race did more to scare the Soviets, as did the Reagan-era military buildup. That’s what tore the wall down and collapsed communism.”
“So you
do
have politics,” observed the woman.
“No,” said Artemisia, shaking her head. “I’m aware of politics … but really what I’m aware of is the evolution of military sciences since the Manhattan Project.”
Mr. Church selected a cookie, tapped crumbs off, took a bite. “Why?”
“Because that’s the sandbox I want to play in, and I can’t do it from the outside. All of the university research projects are in permanent stall mode, presenting only enough results to renew their grants. And don’t get me started on the private sector. If I were a male Asian scientist I’d already have a job in the high six figures, but there is a bizarrely counterproductive bigotry against placing women, particularly ethnic women, in the trenches of the top military contract teams. That leaves DARPA or something like DARPA. Some kind of think tank way out on the cutting edge where results matter more than gender, race, age, or any other bias.”
Aunt Sallie opened a file folder, read for a moment, her lips moving, then raised her head and gave Bliss a direct stare. “What would you say if I told you that we have transcripts of your therapy sessions going back to junior high?”
“Hmm. Two things occur to me.”
“And they are?”
“First, fuck you.”
Auntie measured out a slice of a smile. “Fair enough. What’s the second thing?”
“I’d be surprised and a little disappointed if you hadn’t.”
That seemed to surprise Aunt Sallie. “Oh?”
“I’m beginning to get an idea of the scope of this organization, or division or whatever it is. If I was on that side of the table I wouldn’t hire anyone whose full psych records I didn’t have.”
“Invasion of privacy…?”
“I’m all for privacy, hence my telling you to go fuck yourself. But at the same time I understand your needs. It’s a gray area and I’m neither a philosopher nor political ethicist.”
Aunt Sallie nodded.
“If you have my records, then,” continued Bliss, “aren’t you going to ask me about the suicide attempts?”
“It was going to be my next question.”
“Yes, I tried to kill myself. Twice.” She held out her arms, palms up, to show her wrists. There were two lateral scars. “Razor blades the first time, pills the second. Ask your question.”
“Why do you want to die?” asked Aunt Sallie.
Bliss smiled. “I don’t. If I did, I’d be dead.”
“Explain.”
“A determined suicide is nearly always successful. Countless studies show that. That’s point one. Point two is how I went about it. Razors across the wrist.”
“Right.”
“Wrong. You’ve seen my IQ tests and all of my other test scores. Do you think that, even at thirteen, I was so unaware of human anatomy that I didn’t know where to cut? Lateral wrist cutting does tendon damage, and I didn’t wind up with much—if I had, I wouldn’t have had the muscular control to cut both wrists. If I’d made a precise venous cut I would have suffered cardiac arrhythmia, severe hypovolemia, shock, circulatory collapse, and cardiac arrest. Clearly none of that happened.”
Aunt Sallie said nothing. Mr. Church ate his cookie.
“And the pills … I took a fistful of tramadol between classes in school. I vomited and passed out in health class. Ask yourself, of all the teachers in a modern school, which one is most likely to know basic first aid? A health sciences teacher.”
“So what are we talking,” asked Auntie, “teenage angst? A cry for help?”
Bliss smiled. “No. Absolute boredom. I was in an accelerated school but I was miles above those others kids. I was smarter than all my teachers. And I hadn’t yet had the offers from MIT, CalTech, and the other schools where my intellect would be cultivated and prized. I was screaming to be heard. And if I couldn’t be heard, then I wanted to be locked away and medicated so I wouldn’t be aware of how sucky my life was and how nowhere my future would be.”