The Singularity Race (15 page)

The conductor offered to help a boarding passenger load his suitcase and golf clubs, but the man politely declined. Later, after the conductor checked the man's ticket, he thought it unusual that a passenger would bring golf clubs into Union Station, the heart of Washington D.C.

Chapter Twenty-two

Mullins swung the white Ford Escort in a wide arc around the parking lot and purposefully chose a space ten down from their motel unit.

Allen Woodson had left the rental car at Mullins' apartment building in Shirlington along with a key for a single room at the Breezewood Motel in Vienna, Virginia. He'd advised Mullins to place his and Li's cell phones in Mullins' Prius and Woodson would park it at a Wal-Mart in Maryland. As a further decoy, they left the Malibu in the lot at the apartment so that anyone tracking either the Chevy or their cell phones would be drawn to the wrong locations.

Woodson had booked them a room on the backside of the mom-and-pop motel. Using the false identity papers he'd received from Vice Admiral MacArthur, Woodson had checked in under the name of Roger Ethridge and told the clerk he was accompanied by his wife and child. He'd paid in cash for two nights and given the license plate of the rental car so that there would be nothing that drew attention to the family's stay. Unless the clerk himself came to the room, Mullins, Li, and Peter should be as safe there as anywhere.

Mullins killed the Escort's engine and cut the headlights. “Let's sit for a moment.” He glanced in the backseat where Peter had fallen asleep.

“What are you waiting for?” Li whispered.

“Scan the motel's windows. See if anyone is peeking out.”

Most of the rooms were dark. It wasn't a busy Sunday night at the Breezewood. There were more pickups and vans in the lot than cars, which indicated to Mullins that the motel was used by out-of-town construction workers here for a few days of contract labor.

After five minutes, Mullins reached overhead and disabled the interior courtesy light. “You take Peter. I'll get our bags.”

“He can walk. Otherwise you'll have to make two trips.”

The boy was groggy, but he managed to carry his own suitcase without complaining. Mullins used the electronic key and they entered a room that held the faint scent of cigarette smoke and could have last been decorated in the nineteen fifties.

“Sorry for the accommodations.” Mullins surveyed the two queen-sized beds and small desk with a single straight-back chair. “My son-in-law insisted we stay off the radar, but I didn't realize he'd put us in a time machine to do it.”

Li smiled. “At least it's clean. We'll spend most of the day at Brentwood's laboratory anyway.”

“Yes. But not till Allen checks in with Vice Admiral MacArthur and we get more protection. Why don't you and Peter take the bed closest to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Li set the boy's suitcase on the foot of the bed. “Let's change into your pajamas, Peter. It's nearly ten.”

“I'm not sleepy anymore.”

“Well, change anyway,” Li said. “You can read your book in bed.”

Mullins pulled out his burner phone. “I need to let Allen know we got in okay. He said he'd like to stop by, if that's all right. There are some things we need to go over.”

“Sure. No problem. I'll get Peter ready.”

“One other thing,” Mullins said. “Could I read the data you got from the searches? We talked about the main concerns, but there were other points like Brentwood's background and the Zurich banking information that I need to review.”

Li took her laptop out of its case. “The documents are in folders. The language is a little stilted since the computer outputs Esperanto rather than English. Brentwood's idiosyncrasy means I had to run it through a translation program.” She shook her head. “Seems crazy that he's so hung up on using a non-national tongue.”

Maybe crazy, Mullins thought. More likely Brentwood had no use for national allegiances and was loyal only to his own ideology. That could be good or extremely dangerous.

Li placed the computer on the desk and turned it on. “It will need a few minutes to boot up. As soon as I get Peter changed, I'll pull up the information.”

Mullins nodded and dialed his son-in-law.

Shortly after ten-thirty, a soft knock came from the door. Mullins looked up from the computer where he'd been reading files. Li sat on the bed behind him, giving room for Peter who lay asleep with the
I, Robot
book open by his pillow.

Mullins held up a finger signaling Li to remain quiet. He went to the window and peered through the narrow crack between the drapes. Then he nodded confirmation, threw back the deadbolt and opened the door. Allen Woodson entered.

The naval intelligence officer took in the scene and smiled at Li. “Sorry to put you in this situation,” he whispered. “We needed a motel that wasn't part of a national chain because they'd record me in their database, and I didn't want to draw attention by booking two rooms.”

Li rose from the bed and they shook hands. “As long as we're safe. That's all that matters.”

Woodson gestured toward the boy. “Is it okay if we talk softly?”

“Peter could sleep through a typhoon.”

“Good.” He turned to Mullins. “I just got off a secure line with MacArthur. He said there's been no development in Spartanburg.”

“What about Brentwood's lake house? Is anyone staking it out?”

“FBI agents are in place. MacArthur also requested surveillance at Brentwood's research facility. Between the Bureau and Brentwood's security people, this guy should be spotted if he makes a move.”

“Lindsay Boyce got the request then?”

“Who?” Woodson asked.

“The special agent in charge of the Asheville region. I saw her before our meeting at Chimney Rock.”

“MacArthur didn't say anything about her. She must not have mentioned you.”

Good, Mullins thought. Agent Boyce was being tight-lipped. “Did MacArthur say how Brentwood reacted?”

“No. But Brentwood's company has enough government contracts that he won't risk alienating a vice admiral.”

“He might,” Mullins said, “but his Washington man Farino will probably keep him cooperative.”

“What about more official security here?” Woodson asked. “Or at the Fairfax lab where Dr. Li will be working?”

“Mention it to MacArthur but insist that he not put any instructions in writing. At least not in the computer system.”

“Why not?”

“Because what Brentwood's computer is able to do might also be achievable by our enemies.” Mullins looked at Li. “Dr. Li has been using Apollo surreptitiously. We can't overlook the possibility that Brentwood was already hacked and someone else is a shadow presence.”

“I don't see how,” Li objected.

“You've proven it possible so we can't dismiss it.” Mullins turned to Woodson. “And there's something else you and MacArthur need to know. Something I didn't want to say over the phone. Dr. Li uncovered tests being run that broke through the Department of Defense's cyber-security barriers like they were open gates. We believe they were able to breach the firewalls protecting the operational network of our drone program.”

“Jesus,” Woodson muttered. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Li confirmed. “Apollo has become self-learning, a remarkable breakthrough that clearly puts him in a class by himself. I'm hoping the tests were run as a security check for the military. Identify the weak spots and have Apollo develop new encryption techniques to eliminate any vulnerability.”

“Except he who writes the code can break the code,” Woodson said.

Li took a step closer to Mullins and clasped his wrist. She looked up at him with grim determination. “Which is why I've got to stay in the mix, Rusty. If Brentwood's working for altruistic goals, then we have nothing to fear from him. The challenge is external, the group called Humanity's Hope and their man in Spartanburg. But I have to be inside where I can both work and monitor the others.” She faced Woodson. “Neither you nor Vice Admiral MacArthur nor any of your colleagues are better positioned.”

“All right,” Woodson agreed. “I'm seeing MacArthur tomorrow afternoon. We'll surround you with a platoon of Marines if we need to.”

“And Peter,” Li added, “if Rusty thinks we need extra protection for him, then I want it. Peter's their breach through my firewall.”

Woodson stared at his father-in-law, waiting for a response.

Mullins' thoughts moved from the boy on the bed to another boy sleeping less than ten miles away. His grandson Josh. “You have your own breach, Rusty,” he heard his dead wife's voice clearly say.

“Tell MacArthur we need some kind of safe house and we need to include Kayli and Josh. As soon as that's done, Lisa can go back to work.”

“Okay,” Woodson said. “But MacArthur may still want me to remain invisible.”

“That's fine,” Mullins said. “I'm sure he wants me off the intelligence radar as well. You and I will continue as we have been.”

“What's your read on Brentwood?” Woodson asked. “Should we be worried about him?”

Mullins stepped back and pointed to the laptop on the desk. “He's complicated. We got some background on him that isn't in the press releases or corporate bio. He grew up privileged in Manhattan, the son of a hard-driving real estate developer named Rex Brentwood who makes Donald Trump look like Gandhi. His mother was from a prominent Boston family and Brentwood was their only child. We accessed some medical records. He was withdrawn and slow to speak. An initial diagnosis leaned toward autism, but this was back when it wasn't as common or understood. The father appears to have had no empathy for the son's condition. The mother took him to pediatric therapists and encouraged him to interact with other children, but he preferred to keep to himself. They had a place in the Adirondacks where Brentwood spent hours with a telescope and read a mix of science fiction and science fact.”

“How did you learn this?” Woodson asked.

Mullins smiled. “You think someone with the money and technological wizardry of Brentwood isn't going to be thoroughly researched by his competitors and our own government? Most of what Dr. Li found came out of our domestic intelligence departments.”

“If he's autisic, it seems to have worked in his favor.”

“On some levels,” Mullins said. “One assessment is that despite his success, he's still awkward in social situations. What we see is a mimic of his father. The big limousines, the private jets, luxury homes and apartments.”

“Doesn't that just come with the money?” Woodson asked.

“Sure. But he doesn't really socialize. He doesn't throw parties. He drinks his Blanton's alone, usually eats meals prepared by a personal chef, he's never married or had a relationship with a woman or man. He claims he doesn't have time, but he might not have the capacity for such a relationship.”

“You're saying his role model was his father and so he indulges in those trappings because he has no real social skills of his own.”

“It's a theory floated by some of your people. But he's never manifested any behavior that would disqualify him from either winning government contracts or establishing influential political connections.”

“Do you like him?” Woodson asked.

Mullins glanced at Li. “Yes, I do.”

“So do I,” Li said.

“Do you trust him?”

“No,” Mullins said. “I don't have enough information. He's driven and he's brilliant, a potentially dangerous combination if tied to a personal agenda we don't understand. And he has had trauma in his life.”

“Like what?” Woodson asked.

“His father committed suicide when Brentwood was seventeen. The boy discovered the body.”

“Gunshot?”

“No. Sedatives and a plastic bag over his head. He suffocated himself.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“Yes. Brentwood's mother was in the hospital recovering from hip surgery. She'd said she'd slipped on a patch of ice the day before. Brentwood had spent the night in the room with his mother and when he went home in the morning to shower and change, he found his father sitting in the den, a half-empty bottle of Blanton's by his chair, an empty bottle of his mother's sedatives beside it. The plastic bag had been secured around his neck with duct tape. His father's fingerprints were on the roll as well as the whiskey and pill bottles.”

“Was there a note?”

“Yes. A simple handwritten line on a sheet of paper—‘Sorry for the harm I've caused.'”

“What harm?” Woodson asked.

“His wife admitted that he had pushed her down a flight of stairs. She didn't slip on the ice and it wasn't the first time he'd abused her.”

“Did Brentwood confirm it?”

“No. By then he was in prep school in New Hampshire. He'd come home when she'd called after the fall.”

“She called, not the father?”

“That's right. And then after his father's suicide, Brentwood came out of his shell. He started college at MIT the next fall, threw himself into the brave new world of computer science, and most importantly, convinced his mother to invest in two new companies, one was Apple and the other Microsoft. He cashed those out after their spectacular rise and started Cumulus Cognitive Connections.”

“What happened to his mother?” Woodson asked.

“She died of breast cancer when he was thirty. Since then he's made sizable donations to organizations working to prevent spousal abuse and he's endowed a foundation in his mother's name that supports cancer research.”

“So, the guy could be screwy and a saint.”

Mullins looked at Li. “Well, he's certainly on a mission, isn't he, Lisa?”

“Yes. And someone's going to win the race to create artificial intelligence. Robert Brentwood might be our best hope.”

Woodson took a deep breath. “Okay. I'll talk to MacArthur tomorrow. Do you want me to watch your room tonight?”

“No,” Mullins said. “We're fine. Someone sitting in a car all night will only draw attention.”