The Singularity Race (4 page)

Chapter Six

Nearly two weeks after the assassinations, Mullins had yet to hear any update on the investigation. His own inactivity created growing frustration and restlessness, but he had few options.

His surgeon had urged him not to drive until he was further along in healing. Unfortunately, the doctor gave those post-operative instructions in front of Kayli, and his daughter had had the audacity to remove the Prius from the JW Marriott and park it on the street in front of her condo in Arlington. She kept the keys safely stowed in her purse. He felt like a teenager who'd been grounded.

Mullins lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a high-rise building called Shirlington House. He'd moved there a few years after his wife died of ovarian cancer because it was located midway between Kayli's condo and the convenience of the upscale shops and restaurants that made up the Shirlington neighborhood. His walk was less than a mile to either destination.

Kayli lived in Fairlington Villages, a neighborhood constructed during World War Two to house Pentagon officers and their families. Her husband, Lieutenant Commander Allen Woodson, was a naval intelligence officer on a ship somewhere off the east coast of Africa. Kayli was essentially a single mom juggling her part-time job at the Shirlington Library with the demanding responsibilities of raising a three-year-old. When Mullins wasn't working, he became the chief backup babysitter for his grandson, Josh, a title he relished.

Convenience to his grandson offered another advantage. Kayli brought him dinner every night until he felt well enough to join her and Josh around her dining room table. That had been the extent of his outings when he'd received a call from Elizabeth Lewison. The widow of his boss and friend wanted to meet and discuss something personal.

On the second Thursday after his release from the hospital, Mullins strolled along the sidewalk, glad to be out on the sunny April morning, but anxious about seeing Elizabeth. They'd spoken briefly at Ted's memorial service. She was still in shock and swamped by numerous friends offering condolences; he was still weak and unsteady, forced to lean on Kayli as they processed along the receiving line.

His real anxiety lay in the second thoughts plaguing him every time he closed his eyes. Should he have seen the killers approaching sooner? Surveyed the room before running to evacuate his charge? Would his warning to Ted have made a difference if it had come a second or two earlier? His professional brain said no; his personal loyalty to a friend and colleague argued otherwise.

So, with mixed feelings, he entered Peet's Coffee a few minutes ahead of their ten o'clock rendezvous. Elizabeth Lewison was waiting in the back. Two cups of coffee were already on the table.

She smiled and gestured to the seat opposite her. “Medium roast, black. Correct?”

“Perfect.” He sat.

She reached out with her fingers curled halfway open and he cupped his hand over hers, latching onto her, digit for digit, as if what they shared was too important to be bound by a common handshake.

“How are you, Rusty?” She eyed his left arm immobilized by a sling.

“I have no complaints. I'll mend.”

“How's the PT?”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “A home health therapist comes every day.”

“I didn't know the company's insurance was that good.”

“It's not. I mean…” he stammered at what he was afraid sounded like criticism “…I mean our coverage is fine. I was told Jué Dé's providing the therapist.”

“Who?”

“The Chinese company that employs Dr. Li, the woman I was guarding.”

“Good. You earned it.”

Mullins took a deep, slow sip of his coffee. He wanted to buy some time and let her lead the conversation. It was strange seeing her without Ted. They'd been married twenty-four years. While Ted had been posted around the world, Elizabeth had put herself through Howard University and passed her CPA examination. When Ted gave his final salute, Elizabeth created the business plan that would become Prime Protection. She wasn't only his friend's wife, she was the person who signed his paycheck.

He took a second sip and thought how much the couple looked alike. She was tall, nearly six feet, and she carried herself with Ted's military bearing. Although she was physically striking, it was her aura of self confidence that defined her. She was a woman comfortable in her own skin and gifted with the ability to put others at ease.

Except she wasn't at ease this morning.

“What have you heard?” Her eyes searched his face for any sign of duplicity.

“Nothing. And I'm supposed to,” he admitted. “From sources high in the investigation.”

“Do they not know anything, or are they not telling anything?”

Mullins had been asking himself the same questions. “My guess is that they know precious little and are guarding that scant data hoping they can work it without alerting their suspects. But the press is baffled and in a town that leaks like a sieve, I'd say that means the investigation is going nowhere.”

She nodded. “I've got my own connections and I'm hearing the same silence. It's like this Double H appeared at the hotel and then vanished from the face of the earth.” She rotated her cup on the table, staring at the black liquid for a moment. When she looked up, her eyes were moist. “When are you back?”

It was the question he'd been dreading. He took a deep breath. “I don't think I will be. Prime Protection deserves someone in their prime. It's time I came off the front line.”

Disappointment covered her face. “Is that you or Kayli talking?”

“Does it matter?” He couldn't tell her the one speaking to him was his dead wife. But, then, maybe Elizabeth would understand.

“No. I guess it doesn't. But, Rusty, would you work for me?”

The request confused him. “What do you mean? Some sort of office job?”

“Work for me personally. Someone murdered my husband. That's what it was. Cold-blooded murder. I don't want you on the front lines as a protector. I need an investigator.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “Someone needs to speak for Ted. You're not only his friend, you're the best damned investigator in this city. Please.”

Her desperate face was replaced by others—Kayli pleading for him to retire, President Brighton requesting that he stay out of the line of fire, and finally his wife, Laurie, whispering, “She's in pain, Rusty. Help her.”

He made one final protest. “I don't know where to begin.”

“Who does?” she asked. “But I'll give you whatever resources I can, and at least I'll take comfort in knowing we're trying to do something.”

“All right, Elizabeth.”

They parted with a hug. He declined her offer for a ride to his apartment, claiming he had to pick up a few grocery items. When she was gone, he went back for a second cup of coffee and returned to the back table. He scanned through the contact files on his cell phone, not sure if he still had the number. It was there, a relic of the old days.

Just when he thought he was headed for voicemail, a voice snapped, “Dawkins.”

“Sam. It's Nails. Did I wake you?”

“No, I'm on duty. But I had a good three hours sleep.”

“I'm sorry. When are you rotating off?”

“I'm not back in the city for seventy-two hours. We're headed to Camp David. Orca's spending a long weekend.”

Sam Dawkins just assumed Mullins knew Brighton's code name. He was correct.

“Will you give Orca a message?”

A pause as the question forced Dawkins to consider his response carefully. Then he asked, “Is he going to shoot the messenger?”

“Not if you tell him you've no idea what it means. Just say I called and asked you to relay that I'm coming off the sidelines.”

“You're coming off the sidelines. That's all?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you expecting him to give me some sort of reply for you?”

“No. And tell him so. It's a heads-up, nothing more.”

“Nothing more, my ass,” Dawkins grumbled.

“Trust me. It's not your ass he's worried about.”

Dawkins laughed. “You nailed that right, Nails. Stay safe.”

“Always, my friend.” And he hoped his message to Brighton increased the odds of just that.

Mullins got up from the table, grabbed his coffee, and began walking back to his apartment, unaware of the black limousine trailing half a block behind him.

Chapter Seven

Mullins carried his coffee and his thoughts up the hill toward Shirlington House. Once he made the decision to help Elizabeth Lewison, his mind began searching for viable pathways to penetrate the secrets of his own government. Someone had to know something.

He was so deep in concentration that the world around him disappeared. Only when he heard his name did he realize a black limo was cruising along the curb, matching his pace.

He stopped and the car braked beside him. A man of about fifty with clear blue eyes and steely-gray hair looked out over a half-lowered, tinted rear window.

“Mr. Mullins, might I have a word with you?”

Mullins quickly scanned the area, alert for any coordinated assault. Late morning traffic was light and there were no other pedestrians. Mullins realized if this man wanted him dead, he would have shot rather than spoken.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Robert Brentwood. But that's not important.”

Robert Brentwood. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place the context.

“It's about Dr. Lisa Li. Just a few moments is all, and then you can be on your way.”

Mullins shook his head. “A few answers first.”

“All right.” Brentwood smiled. “Ask away.”

“Have I been under surveillance?”

“Yes. By my security team. Nothing sinister, I promise. I wanted to know how to reach you when the time came.”

The man's open admission signaled this wasn't going to be a conversation of game-playing. At least not initially.

“Why are you interested in me?”

“Because I'm interested in her.” Brentwood pushed open his door. “Hear my proposal. That's all I ask. Then we'll return to your building and I'll be on my way.”

Mullins clicked the name into place. “You head some computer company, don't you?”

“Yes. Cumulus Cognitive Connections. Actually we're high-level information systems and data management. I was alarmed and sickened by the murders at that conference, and I have reason to fear for Dr. Li's safety.”

Perhaps more than the door to the car might be opening. “All right. Mind if I bring my coffee?”

Brentwood laughed and slid over. “Not at all. There's Blanton's single-barrel bourbon in the bar if you need to add something a little more bracing than cream.”

Said the spider to the fly, Mullins thought. He got in, opted not to trap himself in the seatbelt, and closed the door. “Save the bourbon for another time. You've got my attention.”

Brentwood pressed an intercom button. “Drive us around the area,” he told the driver. “But no farther out than ten minutes from Mr. Mullins' apartment.” He released the switch. “Is that satisfactory, sir?”

“Your wheels, your gas,” Mullins answered. “Now what's up?”

The limo pulled away from the curb and Brentwood leaned against the door to face Mullins.

“I want to hire you to protect Dr. Li.”

“We can stop right now, Mr. Brentwood. I'm not going to California.”

“Of course you're not. Kayli and Josh are here.”

Brentwood's use of his daughter's and grandson's names showed Mullins the man had done at least a preliminary background check.

“You'll stay on the East Coast,” Brentwood continued. “There will be some travel by private jet, but for only a few days at a time.”

“Is Jué Dé transferring Dr. Li?”

“Jué Dé is out of the picture. Dr. Li will be working for me.”

“I understand she's here through the approval of the Chinese government.”

Brentwood waved his hand dismissively. “I'll handle the politics. They'll make a stink but nothing that won't blow over.”

“She'll be based in D.C.?”

“Part of the time. Part of the time she'll be at one of our centers where we can implement her research.”

“When would I start?”

“As soon as she agrees to join us. I can offer you two thousand dollars.”

“A week?”

“A day.”

Mullins made the calculation. Over half a million dollars a year to be a bodyguard. Overpayment, for sure. As soon as she agrees.

“I'm a lure,” Mullins said.

Brentwood chuckled. “You can call yourself that, but you more than proved your value at the Marriott shootings. I believe Dr. Li still needs protection and Silicon Valley isn't the place for her. You saved her life once. There's no one else who will make her feel more secure.”

The limo turned onto South Columbus and Mullins saw the brick building where Kayli lived in one of its four condos. Half a million dollars would more than pay for his grandson's education.

“Why her?” Mullins asked. “You've got the connections and bankroll to snap up any scientist you want. Why is she so special?”

“Are you interested in the job?”

“Not without more information.”

Brentwood frowned and tapped his fingers while he mulled over how much to reveal and how much to conceal. Mullins was living up to his reputation. “How much of the ‘secret' in Secret Service defined your career?”

“Everything that wasn't illegal. I've no interest in spreading confidential information, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I have your word?”

“Under the condition I just stated.”

Brentwood checked the driver to make sure the man's eyes were on the road and not reading lips through the rearview mirror.

“Do you read science fiction, Mr. Mullins?”

“Not really. Some as a kid. Mostly the ones that were shoot-'em-up Westerns, except in space.”

Brentwood pulled a latch on the back of the driver's seat and a shelf dropped into place just above his knees. Mullins saw a glowing keyboard with a milk-glass screen mounted perpendicular to it. A three-dimensional image of cumulus clouds and blue sky materialized and seemed to hover on the screen.

“When I was a kid, all I read was science fiction. Maybe I was trying to escape my surroundings, maybe I had a hyperactive imagination, maybe both. That's for a shrink to decide. But science fiction is the reason we're in this limousine, the reason there's Blanton's in the bar and a jet at BWI. Because I had my head in the clouds, I anticipated the Cloud before it had a name.” He gestured to the clouds in front of him. “And I built my company based on its evolution and now the accelerating revolution. Even I'm shocked at the speed with which mankind's knowledge is being captured in cyberspace. But that's mere storage and data archiving. The real power is accessing, connecting, and applying that knowledge in ways never before imagined.”

“Super computers?” Mullins ventured.

“No. That's limiting development to hardware. You know what the arms race of the twenty-first century is, Mr. Mullins?”

Mullins shook his head, not even bothering to guess.

“The quest for artificial intelligence. A race where there might be no second place.”

“Why's that? In the Cold War, mutually assured destruction kept the Soviet Union and us from using nuclear weapons.”

“Because we're not talking physical destruction.” Brentwood leaned forward, his face flush with a sudden burst of energy. “Have you heard of the singularity?”

“Something to do with black holes?”

“In cosmic theory, yes. The center of a black hole where matter is crushed to infinite density and the laws of physics break down. But I'm talking about the field of computer science. The singularity is a point in time when artificial intelligence becomes super intelligence, the technical achievement of cognitive abilities beyond human capacity. Then its intelligence will increase exponentially, leaving us poor mortals far behind. Uncharted waters, my friend, because we will no longer be able to control or protect the outcomes of our thinking machine.”

Brentwood clicked a few keys and the clouds turned into a night sky of stars and then swirling galaxies. “People like me see infinite benefits, especially for human problems like disease and even death. Yet there is a dark, dark side. What if our computer servants develop self-awareness that becomes self-preservation? A goal that finds humanity expendable?”

Mullins flashed back to his childhood, not to the sci-fi novels but to the bad sci-fi movies he loved to watch on Saturday mornings. “An army of robots?”

“No.” Brentwood swept a hand through the air between them as if to cast the very concept from the car. “An infiltration by the first super intelligent entity into every network, every software program, every smartphone, laptop, mainframe, or even the world's weapon systems. A hacking of unprecedented speed and power. There will be no second place super intelligence because the first to reach the singularity will overpower and absorb all rivals.”

“Absolute power,” Mullins murmured.

“Corrupts absolutely. Why should that axiom not apply to a self-aware thinking machine?”

“Or to the human beings who might manage to control it?” Mullins said.

“Precisely. God only knows which would be worse.”

Brentwood's bright eyes lost focus as a new idea sparked in his brain. Mullins got the feeling the man truly was a genius, able to envision possibilities others couldn't imagine.

“Maybe that's what we're doing—creating God. A super intelligent being who can peel back the secrets of time and space in some infinitely looping Möbius strip where man is created by God so that God can be created by man.” Brentwood felt himself slipping into one of his trances and blinked a few times to clear his over-revving mind. “Sorry. Do you get the picture?”

“I believe so,” Mullins said. “You want to be the person controlling the machine.”

“No. I want to be the person programming the machine. Programming the machine with self-control, a safeguard against both human and computer tyranny.”

Mullins saw a glimmer of where Brentwood was heading. “That's the role for Dr. Li, isn't it?”

The CEO beamed like his three-year-old had just pronounced two plus two equals four. “A vital step is teaching a computer to find solutions to problems on its own. The field is called deep learning and the most promising model is proving to be blatantly obvious. The human brain. We've mapped the human genome. Now we're attempting to map every neuron cluster, synapse connection, and sensory input to reproduce the intellectual functionality developed by evolution.”

“The marriage of neuroscience and computer science,” Mullins said. “Dr. Li's topic at the conference.”

Brentwood couldn't restrain himself. He reached out and grabbed Mullins' good arm. “Yes. Yes. But her brilliance is being wasted—overlooked by focusing on the human brain as a model of learning, a super intelligent problem-solver.”

Mullins had to admit he was intrigued by what the man was saying. He was also confused. “What then?”

“It's not the discovery of answers that will propel IA into unknown dimensions, it's the ability to imagine the questions in the first place. To dream of things beyond the mind of us poor mortals.”

“And that's not the model of the brain?”

Brentwood tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Not the conscious brain. Not the problem-solving mind. I firmly believe we're looking at the role of the subconscious, the walled up, secretive partitioned space where seeds of ideas, unique connections, and fresh perspectives bubble and percolate until rising to conscious awareness in an ah-ha moment. Like the one I experienced envisioning the power of the Cloud.

“If I'd been consciously thinking of that too soon, I'd have dismissed it for all the reasons it wouldn't work. But my subconscious nurtured it in safety until it was ready to be born, too powerful to be ignored.”

The man didn't sound crazy, Mullins thought. Fanatical, yes, but not crazy. He'd read about people saying their revolutionary ideas popped into their heads fully formed. He'd experienced it to some degree when pieces of an investigation suddenly gelled and he'd awaken in the middle of the night with an unexpected insight. No, the man wasn't crazy.

“That's Dr. Li's area,” Mullins said. “She'll map it for you?”

“Not just map it. She's the most qualified person in the world to create both the complex algorithms and partitioning protocols to truly make an artificial mind with that undervalued component, a subconscious seat of imagination.”

Mullins couldn't suppress a laugh. “Surely you don't think Dr. Li will join your company because of me?”

Brentwood's face remained deadly serious. “No, I don't. You're a fringe benefit at best. It's the cumulative effect I'm after. There are other carrots I won't go into. You might be a fringe benefit to her, but you're a critical factor for me. The woman is a valuable asset deserving the best protection.”

“What's to stop the Chinese from surrounding her with guards and whisking her home?”

“Nothing. Other than the secrecy I stressed, Mr. Secret Service. If you buy the analogy to the arms race, say World War II's Manhattan Project, then you also need to understand how this is so drastically different. Back then it was a war between aligned nations. The Manhattan Project was a huge, secret crash effort to develop the atomic bomb first. Today other wars rage—wars of culture, ethnicity, religion, nations, and the newest front, multi-national corporations. It's no secret that Google, China's Baidu and Jué Dé, Microsoft billionaire Paul Allen, and an alliance of universities are all striving to be first in the race for artificial intelligence.”

“In which there is no second place,” Mullins echoed.

Brentwood relaxed. “Yes, you understand. There's no greater challenge on the face of the planet. The race has to be won by people of high moral character with the common good of humanity as their priority. The original prediction for the singularity was 2045. I tell you, Mr. Mullins, the singularity will be a reality within twelve months. I believe we're ahead, but others are close behind. If they reach the singularity first, then my work amounts to nothing.”