The Singularity Race (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

At breakfast the next morning, Mullins made two requests: the return of his phone and the use of a vehicle.

Brentwood set down a half-eaten English muffin and used a linen napkin to wipe blueberry jam from his mouth. “I understand the phone but why the vehicle?”

“Lisa's in the lab and Peter's with his tutor, right?”

The boy looked up from a bowl of Cheerios. “I can help you, Mr. Mullins.”

“You've got school,” Lisa Li said firmly.

“That's right,” Mullins agreed. “Study hard today and I'll give you some detective tips tonight.”

Peter beamed at the prospect.

“I thought you wanted to use our facilities for your investigation,” Brentwood said.

“I do. But I need to focus my inquiries. I have a contact at the Asheville resident agency of the FBI who can help guide me. It's better if I speak to him personally. And alone. No limousine.”

Brentwood smiled. “You want invisibility.”

“Something like that.”

Brentwood pushed back his chair and rose. “All right. You know best. I'll call the office. You'll have your phone and I'll have a car ready. We have a few company vehicles on hand.” He checked his watch. “Let's leave in thirty minutes.”

When they stepped off the elevator at the lower level, Felicia rose from her desk to greet them. Yesterday's dashiki had been exchanged for a white blouse and navy blazer. The Maine coast had changed into an Appalachian vista.

“Good morning. I trust everyone is well rested.”

“Yes,” Li said. “Peter and I are ready for big things.”

“Excellent. Peter, I'll take you to Miss Collier. She has an exciting day planned.” Felicia picked up two phones from her desk. “And these have new sim cards. Mr. Jenkins, the head of our security, asks that you share the new numbers only as absolutely necessary.”

“Will we get the original sims back?” Mullins asked.

Felicia looked at her boss, uncertain how to answer.

“That will be no problem,” Brentwood assured. “Especially after you uncover who was behind those terrible attacks.”

A neat trick
, Mullins thought. Brentwood had shifted responsibility back to him. He took his phone, fully aware the burner would still be critical for communication with Allen. He'd treat this one as if every person in Brentwood's organization were listening.

“And we have a car whenever you want it.” Felicia dangled a smart key in front of him. “A Chevy Malibu. No flash, no trash.” She dropped the key in his open palm. “Ned Farino will show you its location.”

“And where do I find him?”

“I'll take you,” Brentwood volunteered. “His office is next to mine.”

He led Mullins down a different hallway and through two security doors that unlatched and swung open at their approach.

Mullins fingered the badge hanging around his neck. “Are these doors activated like the elevators?”

“Not exactly. A combination of things. Not one but six cameras scan our faces, each getting a slightly different angle. The composite is a much more accurate confirmation of identity that is then cross-referenced with the data on your badge. Even though the system recognizes your face, it won't allow entry without the badge.”

“Better than a retinal scan?”

“It eliminates the prospect of gouging out your eye and holding it to the reader. Or cutting off your hand for a palm scan.”

Mullins laughed. “So your tactic is to inconvenience them. What a pain to have to take my whole head.”

“If you're concerned, we'll work on it.” Brentwood sounded so serious Mullins thought he wasn't kidding.

Ned Farino's office was spacious with a conference table surrounded by eight chairs, a chrome and glass desk, and a separate higher desk where he worked standing up. A virtual window created an overview of the Washington Mall looking toward the U.S. Capitol. The Stars and Stripes fluttered before the dome and puffy clouds drifted across the sky.

Farino turned from where he stood at the desk and greeted them with a nod. He was a short man, no more than five-foot five. He wore khakis with a sharp crease and a yellow golf shirt. His thinning brown hair looked darker than his eyebrows. Mullins suspected an expensive dye job that in another few years would turn into an expensive toupee.

“I'll see you at the lake tonight,” Brentwood told Mullins. “Plan on dinner at six-thirty.”

“That will be fine,” Mullins said.

Farino motioned for him to sit at the table and then took the chair opposite him. “So, you're settling in?”

“I spent twenty years living out of a suitcase. I hope you're focusing the attention on Dr. Li and Peter. They're the ones who've been uprooted.”

“We are. And I don't see this lasting more than three months, if that. Most of the heavy work has been done.”

Mullins studied the other man's face. Farino seemed annoyed that they were having this conversation.

“You're not impressed with Dr. Li?”

Farino shrugged. “I'm sure she's a brilliant scientist. But that's not my area of expertise.” He pointed to the U.S. Capitol out the artificial window. “That's my arena. Government relations mean government contracts. If I had to weigh in on every whim that caught Robert's fancy, I'd never get any work done.”

“You think Dr. Li's a whim?”

Farino drew back. “That's not a slam at her. Robert's whims have made us billions of dollars. But for every home run there are a hundred strikeouts. Whether his current obsession with the subconscious will amount to anything is a crap shoot. I'm just being realistic here.”

Mullins leaned across the table. “I'm just being realistic that someone tried to kill Dr. Li.”

Farino spread his hands palm up. “And you have my full cooperation. If I've done anything to indicate otherwise, then let me reassure you that nothing is more important than their safety. We stand ready with whatever you need.”

“The Malibu will be fine for today. Where is it?”

“Right at the front door.” Farino stood. “It has a company identification unit for the gate. You should use your badge to enter the building, of course. There's also an enhanced GPS system using our own satellites. Push the red button and speak your destination.”

Mullins got to his feet. “I'm surprised the car doesn't drive itself.”

“Give us time, Rusty. Give us time.”

***

Mullins' visit to the FBI wasn't a priority, but since he'd used it as the pretense for securing a car, he knew he had to visit the Asheville office. There not only might be a record of his journey but also live tracking of his position at all times. And the car could be bugged for audio or even video.

He realized such potential monitoring of his route complicated his plan. His burner phone for contacting Allen lay under his mattress in the cottage and he'd have to swing by the lake to retrieve it. But that stop also opened up another possibility that made the FBI office more than an inconvenient diversion. He could use their resources. He'd just have to create an explanation for why he'd first returned to the cottage if Farino or Brentwood questioned him.

The risk was worth it. He needed the burner phone, and getting the dirty glass and hair samples to the FBI could prove critical to his investigation.

Mullins was in and out of the cottage in less than thirty seconds. With the dirty milk glass in his sport coat pocket and a blank note pad, burner phone and hair samples on the front seat beside him, Mullins turned on the GPS and said, “FBI—Asheville, North Carolina.” The video screen showed an office building with a circle around a second-story window. A voice said, “The FBI resident agency is on the second floor, suite 211, 151 Patton Avenue. If you would like, I can connect by telephone.”

“No, thank you,” Mullins told the disembodied voice.

“Very well. Here is a list of potential parking garages. You may begin driving.”

Jesus
, Mullins thought. The specificity of the device was unnerving. He drove away from the lake house feeling like a ghost was riding with him.

The FBI office was in the Federal Courthouse, and Mullins had to clear security before being directed to the second floor. He'd had the foresight to leave his Glock in the car.

The office door was locked and he pressed a buzzer to request admittance. A young black man opened the door. Mullins offered his Prime Protection photo ID, but before the agent even examined it, he said, “Mr. Mullins?”

“Yes.” Mullins wondered if the damn GPS had somehow called ahead.

“I'm Vance Gilmore. How can we help you?”

“How did you know I was coming?”

Gilmore laughed. “Director Hauser sent a bureau-wide background briefing regarding everyone involved in the Marriott shooting. He included photos.”

“And he mentioned I was likely to start investigating on my own.”

Gilmore gave a sly smile. “That I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Fair enough.”

Gilmore stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Come in.”

Mullins entered and looked around the outer office. “Are you the agent in charge?”

“No, sir. Special Agent Lindsay Boyce heads this resident agency. Would you like to speak with her?”

“Please.”

“Wait just a moment.” Gilmore exited through a side door.

Mullins eyed two guest chairs lined against the near wall, but decided to remain standing. He figured he'd get a thumbs up or down quickly.

In less than three minutes, Gilmore re-entered followed by a slim woman in a well-tailored charcoal pants suit. Mullins pegged her to be in her late thirties. Her brown hair was cut short, not in a masculine style but in a look that complemented her high cheekbones. Her most striking features were her pale blue eyes, a sharp contrast to her dark hair. They scrutinized Mullins swiftly and efficiently.

“Welcome to Asheville.” Boyce extended her hand.

Her grip was firm.

“Thank you, Agent Boyce. I won't take much of your time.”

“Call me Lindsay. We're honored to assist in any manner we're permitted.”

Permitted
, Mullins thought.
A good way of limiting involvement while being cooperative.
He smiled. “May we speak in your office?”

Boyce led him down a short hall to a corner office, sparse in its furnishings with one guest chair and a desk cluttered with folders and reports. The only personal touch was a framed photograph of a yellow lab splashing in a stream at the base of a mountain waterfall.

Boyce indicated he should sit while she took the chair behind the mounds of paperwork.

“What's the geographical scope of the resident agency?” Mullins asked.

“Sixteen North Carolina counties and the Cherokee Indian Reservation. On some of these backroads, we'd be better off with mules than cars. If you think a suspect is holed up in these hills, it could be a hell of a time flushing him out.”

“No, nothing like that. You know I'm interested in the Marriott shooting in D.C. earlier this month. I suspect any break will come through high tech and not high elevation.”

Boyce eyed him warily. “So, what brings you to Asheville?”

“Talking to some tech people with facilities in Rutherford County. Cumulus Cognitive Connections.” He paused. “And Facebook.” He was grateful Brentwood had mentioned their facility was also in the region.

“Okay. How can we help?”

“I need to speak to Rudy Hauser.”

Boyce's eyes widened. “You expect me to put you through to the Director?”

“No. I'll do that myself. I just need a secure line and a place to make the call in private.”

Boyce stared at Mullins a few seconds. Agents didn't simply call the Director whenever they wanted. But to refuse to cooperate with a man Hauser had specifically mentioned in the Marriott assassinations background briefing was the greater risk.

She picked up her phone console and spun it around toward him. “Use the last line on the right. Do you need the number in case he has to call you back?”

Mullins thought about leaving the number of his burner phone, but he decided a secure line from the FBI would be much more difficult to intercept. “Yes. Thank you.”

Boyce scribbled ten-digits on a scrap of paper. “Leave it under the phone when you finish. There's a small conference room halfway back. I'll be there.”

She left her office, closing the door behind her. Mullins activated the designated line and a series of clicks and whistles preceded the normal dial tone. He punched in the number from memory, counting on Hauser not to have changed it since their collaboration in exposing the terrorist plot against the Federal Reserve.

Three rings. “Yeah.” Like Mullins, Rudy Hauser never answered with his name.

“It's Rusty. I need something.”

The loud laugh told Mullins the Director was alone.

“Don't be redundant. What trouble are you getting me into this time?”

“I don't know, Rudy.”

Hauser's voice turned serious. “You on this Double H thing?”

“Yes. I'm still guarding that scientist who escaped the assassination attempt.”

“Thanks to you,” Hauser said, “Brighton's been on my ass to make sure we extend you every courtesy down to hand-washing your goddamned underwear. What have you got? Pictures of him naked in some barnyard?”

“Just his undying gratitude.”

“If that's all, then watch your back, buddy. So, what do you need?”

“I'm at the Asheville resident agency. Your Special Agent Lindsay Boyce has been very cooperative, but it's important that what I tell you stays between you and me.”

“You think I've got a leak?”

“Not necessarily. I just want to stay out of the system. I know the investigation's crossing all intelligence departments, which increases the odds that someone will say something to the wrong person. Frankly, Rudy, you're the only person I trust.”