The Singularity Race (5 page)

Mullins nodded gravely. He knew it was the response Brentwood wanted. Now was the time to press for what had motivated him to get in the car.

“If I agree to guard Dr. Li, then I must have latitude in deciding what to do and how to do it.”

“As long as it doesn't compromise the secrecy of our work.”

“That means I must know what we're up against. I need your resources and the operational support to investigate this Double H and any other threats that might exist.”

Brentwood hesitated. An investigation outside his full control could be a problem. Yet if he balked, he'd undercut the very argument that he would do anything to protect Dr. Li.

“All right,” he said. “As long as it's not illegal.”

“We might have to push the envelope,” Mullins stipulated.

“Just don't push me in front of a goddamned congressional hearing.” Brentwood offered his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Mullins found the other man's palm was drenched with sweat. “One other thing. I'd like a mailing address for Dr. Li. I'm going to add something to your cumulative effect.”

Brentwood arched his eyebrows but didn't ask for an explanation. “I'll e-mail it to you while we drive back to your apartment.”

The limo dropped Mullins at the building's front entrance. He gave a slight wave, and then turned his attention to his next move—shipping a new Washington Nationals baseball cap to Dr. Li.

Before the limo was out of the parking lot, Brentwood speed-dialed his phone. “He's in.”

“Any problems?” Ned Farino asked.

“Nothing unexpected. Play your card.”

***

Across the Potomac in the Office of Naval Intelligence in southeast Washington, Vice Admiral Louis MacArthur hung up the phone. President Brighton had been so hyped up MacArthur figured he could have heard the man from the Oval Office without needing the phone.

The message had been loud and clear: give Rusty Mullins all updates on the Marriott shootings. The disregard for the protocols of security clearance was unprecedented and MacArthur couldn't help but marvel at what must be Mullins' influence. Was the man some kind of intelligence genius?

MacArthur summoned his chief communications officer. The cable would be short and only for the eyes of the commander of surveillance operations in the Indian Ocean. He gave one name, the name of the man he wanted in his office within thirty-six hours, no questions asked.

The vice admiral smiled to himself. The more he thought about it, the more he liked his idea. Two separate objectives carried out by the same operative. President Brighton would have the link to Mullins he wanted. MacArthur would have the informant he needed.

Things could work out quite well.

Chapter Eight

“Paw Paw.”

Mullins loved hearing the two syllables spoken by his grandson. He couldn't help but smile at the name christening his grandfather status.

“Paw Paw,” Josh repeated. “Done.” The three-year-old pointed a stubby finger at the bowl now empty of Cheerios.

“Good job, Josh. Paw Paw just has a few more bites.”

The child and grandfather sat side by side at Kayli's dining room table in what had become a Saturday morning ritual. Mullins entertained Josh while Kayli talked with her husband stationed somewhere in the Indian Ocean. In port, Kayli and Allen could Skype, but, at sea, video communication was forbidden. This morning their prearranged call would be by POTS—a naval acronym standing for the highly technical term, Plain Old Telephone System.

Josh started squirming in his booster chair.

“Wait. Be polite. Let me finish.” Mullins hurried his last few bites of cereal.

“Paw Paw,
PAW Patrol
. Josh's urgent demand to watch his favorite cartoon,
PAW Patrol
, sent an involuntary shiver down Mullins' spine. The TV show featured a pack of super hero dogs and started every episode with a theme song that infected the brain. Mullins likened it to the mind-numbing effect of Disney World's “It's a Small World” ride and the title song that looped incessantly. When he and Laurie had taken Kayli as a child, it took weeks to knock the tune out of his head.

“Paw Paw,
PAW Patrol
.” The demand turned into giggles as Josh delighted in the multiple “Paws.”

“Kayli!”

“I'm brewing another pot,” came her reply from the kitchen.

“Your call's at ten, right?”

Kayli walked into the room. She wore a terry cloth bathrobe loosely cinched around her pajamas and clutched a mug of steaming coffee. “Don't shout, Dad. We have neighbors, you know. And, yes, ten.”

“Well, I can't endure another episode of
PAW Patrol
. I'll take Josh to the playground and we'll be back in time for him to talk to Allen.”

“
PAW Patrol
,” Josh petitioned his mother.

“No
PAW Patrol
,” Kayli said. “You're going on Paw Paw Patrol. Show Paw Paw how you can use the big boy slide.”

“Paw Paw Patrol,” Josh squealed.

Mullins feared Kayli had just created the name for every outing he and his grandson would ever take. “Let me help you down so your mom can change you out of your pjs.”

Kayli set her mug on the table. “I'll do it. You're not to lift anything with that arm yet.”

Mullins ignored her and maneuvered his sling enough to grasp the tow-haired boy around the waist with both hands. As far as he was concerned, his grandson could never be too heavy. Two months premature, Josh had weighed less than three pounds and spent his first Christmas in a neonatal intensive care unit.

Mullins gently set the boy on the floor. “Believe me, honey, that was less painful than the TV show.”

Ten minutes later, Mullins and Josh walked hand in hand toward the neighborhood playground a few blocks away. Josh had to stop and examine every stone he found on the sidewalk and wave to every car that passed. Mullins didn't mind. A warm spring morning. A tiny hand clutching his finger. He wished the moment could go on forever.

It didn't. When Josh saw the other kids on the playground, he ran to them, leaving Paw Paw behind.

It wasn't so long ago that was Kayli, Mullins thought. “He's growing up too fast, Laurie,” he whispered. “What will his world be like?”

Mullins found an empty bench where he could watch Josh yet maintain the pensive mood that had descended upon him. His thoughts turned from his dead wife to Elizabeth Lewison. He knew the terrible grief she suffered. He wondered if she talked to Ted the way he did with Laurie. He hoped so.

If Robert Brentwood did hire him, Mullins would have to have a conversation with Elizabeth. No details. Just find a way to reassure her that he was working the investigation and might be out of touch for periods of time.

Kayli would be a bigger challenge. There had been no further discussion since those early hours in the hospital. He knew she was waiting for him to make the first move. He couldn't lie to her, but he could be vague. Tell her he wasn't going back to Prime Protection, but he was undertaking a private investigation for Elizabeth Lewison, a woman Kayli admired and respected. Investigations were far less dangerous than being on the front line. At least that's how he'd sell it. Dr. Lisa Li might not have to be mentioned at all.

Mullins turned his thoughts to other priorities. If Sam Dawkins delivered his message to President Brighton, it might prompt him to start the flow of information. He didn't know how it would come to him. That wasn't his problem. He did have expectations as to the quality of what he was being told, and he'd run enough cases during his time in the Secret Service's counterfeit division to know the prime avenue of pursuit—follow the money. The dead assassins were mercenaries, not jihadists. Somewhere out there lurked a paymaster.

“Paw Paw, look!” Josh sat at the top of the big boy slide. It was all of eight feet long.

“Want me to catch you?”

“No!” Josh pushed himself forward, slid to the bottom, and stumbled a few steps upon landing. But, he kept his balance and flashed Mullins a broad grin of triumph.

Their walk back took twice as long. Josh kept stopping, wanting to be carried. Mullins finally threw him over his right shoulder like a sack of grain.

When they entered the condo, Kayli was already on the phone in the bedroom.

“I want Mommy,” Josh whined.

Mullins set his grandson on the sofa. He gritted his teeth. “Wanna watch
PAW Patrol
?”

After a lunch of hotdogs, fruit, and olives, olives being Josh's favorite food at the moment, Kayli took the tired youngster to his room for a story and a nap. Mullins had just muted the TV sound of the Washington Nationals—Phillies pre-game program when Kayli reemerged.

“You can raise the volume. Josh went out like a light.”

He clicked off the set.

“Are you going?” she asked. “You're welcome to watch here. I'll get you a beer to settle those hotdogs.”

Mullins patted the sofa cushion beside him. “We need to talk a minute.”

Kayli cocked her head and eyed him suspiciously. “Did you hear something from your doctor?”

Suddenly Mullins saw her as his little girl, afraid she was about to hear bad news from her daddy.

“Nothing like that. Just sit.”

She joined him on the sofa.

“I'm not going back to Prime Protection. I met with Elizabeth on Thursday and gave her my decision.”

Kayli hugged his neck so fiercely that a jab of pain shot through his shoulder. He winced.

“Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. I'm just so happy.”

“But I can't spend my days sitting on a park bench feeding pigeons or at home watching game shows. I'll wither away.”

“I know. I'm not asking you to.”

“Good. Because I've taken on a new assignment.”

Instantly, Kayli became wary. “What kind of assignment?”

“An investigative one. Like what I did when your mom got sick and I asked to be relieved of presidential detail. You're the one who made me think I should treat you and Josh the same as I treated her.” He avoided any mention of one critical difference. His transfer to counterfeiting involved no assignment of personal protection duties. But he had been on several Treasury busts and those always carried an element of risk.

Kayli wasn't mollified. “Don't tell me you're going back to the Secret Service?”

“No. Nothing so structured. Elizabeth asked me to look into Ted's death. She's not getting any answers from the feds or the locals. I want to help her, Kayli. She's in a lot of pain. And I've got some chips I can call in from high-ranking people.”

“And they owe you more than they'll ever repay.” She sighed. “Okay. I guess that's better than being a human target. Promise me not to take any unnecessary risks.”

“Don't worry. I don't want to take any risks period. But I might have to travel some, if it means tracing back the route of the killers. I'll let you know as much as I can.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I'm holding you to it. Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Yeah. I'll take that beer.”

Two beers and seven innings later, Mullins lay stretched out on the sofa, snoring like a chainsaw, as Kayli and Josh tiptoed out the door for Saturday afternoon grocery shopping. She'd left a note for him to stay. “Steak, salad, and Pinot Noir are tonight's special. Olives are optional.”

At seven-thirty, Kayli and Josh dropped a well-fed Mullins at Shirlington House. He kissed his daughter's cheek and gave his grandson a high five. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor and fumbled for his keys as he walked to his apartment. He turned the lock and found the bolt already thrown. Immediately, his senses leapt into hyper-mode. He never left his door unlocked. He'd sooner forget to wear his clothes. Had maintenance come up? His gun was in the apartment and his half-bottle of wine didn't exactly prime him for hand-to-hand combat.

Since he'd been gone all day, the odds were any intruder had left hours ago. If the lock had been picked, no burglar would re-lock it. He opened the door slowly, grateful that the oiled hinges were silent. No sound from the apartment's interior came through the widening crack.

He stepped into his living room sideways, offering the smallest target possible, and he left the door open in case he needed an unimpeded retreat.

The lights came on.

“Sorry. I thought it was better if I let myself in.”

Mullins had never been so surprised in his life. In front of him stood his son-in-law, Allen Woodson. Less than eight hours ago, he'd been somewhere in the Indian Ocean half a world away.

Chapter Nine

“Hello, Allen. Nice of you to drop by. Hope I wasn't out of your way.” He shook Woodson's offered hand and then walked past him and sat on the sofa. He gestured to an adjacent armchair. “Care to explain how the
Starship Enterprise
teleported you here?”

Allen Woodson smiled in admiration of Mullins' quick recovery from the shock so evident on his face. “Good to see you too, Rusty.”

Mullins looked up at the young naval officer. He stood a few inches over six feet, trim and muscular. The brown eyes were bright but the deep blue circles beneath them proclaimed he'd gone many hours without sleep. Despite the fatigue, Woodson still carried his military bearing. Mullins noted the young man wasn't in uniform, but rather wore blue jeans and a black sweatshirt that looked like they'd been bought off the rack and never worn. “I suppose you have a good reason for lying to Kayli.”

Woodson sat. “At nine last Thursday night I was hustled into a chopper with fifteen minutes notice. Our commanding officer either didn't know, or wouldn't say why, I was shuttled faster than a donated heart until I was escorted into a back entrance at the Office of Naval Intelligence. I guess you could call that the mothership. My Captain Kirk was none other than Vice Admiral Louis MacArthur.” Woodson paused to gauge Mullins' reaction.

“When was this?”

“Nine o'clock this morning. I was told to tell no one of my location. As far as the Navy's concerned, I'm still in the Arabian Sea. Only two people, and now you make three, know exactly where I am.”

“Vice Admiral MacArthur and President Brighton.”

Woodson's face mirrored Mullins' earlier surprise. “You knew?”

“I was expecting a conduit. I never suspected it would be you. So, tell me your assignment, or will you have to kill me?”

“Just the opposite. Reading between the lines, I'm to keep you alive.”

Mullins laughed. “I'll drink to that. Want a beer?”

“If you're having one.”

Mullins rose and went to the kitchen that wasn't much more than an alcove. He returned with two bottles of Heineken.

“What did MacArthur tell you?”

“That he and Brighton had independently zeroed in on me for the job. MacArthur said Brighton wants me to feed you updates on the Marriott assassinations. He assumes Brighton owes you for preventing the success of last year's terrorist attack on the Federal Reserve. Brighton also stressed to MacArthur that I'm to keep you out of harm's way. Like I'd be more motivated because you're my father-in-law.”

“And the reason MacArthur chose you?”

“Well, I gather Brighton's on his ass and pissed that MacArthur hasn't gotten you information sooner. MacArthur said I was his go-to guy only if you started investigating on your own. He wants me to feed information back to him so he'll know any developments before Brighton.”

“Hell, he's got his whole global intelligence network. I'd think he's doing this just to humor the President.”

Woodson took a swallow of beer and shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe he just wants to keep me close like Brighton's keeping you.”

“Why?”

“Because of the request I ran up the chain of command. I urged them to re-examine the FBI files on my sister Kim.”

For a moment, Mullins stared blankly at his son-in-law. Then the pieces fell into place. “The missing neuroscientists. Jesus. It never crossed my mind. That's inexcusable. I'm sorry, Allen.” Mullins knew Woodson had been very close to his sister. Her disappearance had been especially hard since Woodson had just been deployed to his first posting, a reconnaissance ship in the China Sea.

“Good God, Rusty. You were in a hospital bed. I should have called you. The point is I think MacArthur's using the FBI's files on Kim's disappearance as incentives for me to be his eyes and ears on whatever you're doing. He's promised to get me access, but he expects me to share anything you might uncover. I was ordered not to take any investigative action on my own.”

“Is that what you're going to do?”

Woodson grinned. “I'd never disobey an order. Of course, if I'm partnering with you, I'm not on my own, am I?”

Mullins toasted him with his beer. “No, I guess you're not. How long do you have to continue the charade with Kayli?”

“Till either you're satisfied that you've learned all you can or MacArthur pulls me off. He's the only one I'm reporting to. But, he warned me that if you're not happy, you'll go straight to the President. That connection seems to be a sore spot.”

Mullins realized Agent Dawkins had gotten his message to Brighton without delay, and he in turn had yanked the vice admiral's chain. Allen Woodson sitting in his living room was the result.

“Where are you staying?” Mullins asked.

“You could say ground zero—the JW Marriott. MacArthur's given me a temporary office in Naval Intelligence. I'll be able to access databases. If possible, I'll make my scheduled calls to Kayli. MacArthur routed the one this morning through a satellite to create the proper delay. It's killing me that Kayli and Josh are less than a mile away and I can't see them.”

“Why the extreme secrecy?”

“So there's no connection to you. You have no standing. We're violating almost every security clearance code. This is all off the books.”

“Did MacArthur brief you on what they know so far?”

“The getaway van was found in southeast near the navy yard. It was wiped clean. Two of the dead had fingerprint hits with Interpol.”

“I knew that,” Mullins grumbled.

“No IDs on the bodies. They figure passports and other documentation would all be fake and were probably waiting in the van. Best guess is the team was dispatched from Europe. The credit for the killings popped up from an Internet café in Amsterdam. Of course, there's no record of who posted it. I would suspect the killers were to be paid through a Swiss account.”

“They'd need expense money and probably half up front.”

“Yes,” Woodson agreed, “but no link's been found.”

“Facial recognition?”

“Scanned all custom entry points for the previous three months.”

“What about Mexico?”

“You mean did they penetrate our border from there?”

“Yes. Ten million undocumented residents show it's not like breaking into Fort Knox. Or Canada like the 9/1l terrorists.” Mullins paused as a thought struck him. “New Hampshire borders Canada.”

Woodson leaned forward, eyes locked on Mullins. “You think Kim's disappearance might be tied to some terrorist smuggling route?”

“At this point I don't think anything,” Mullins said. “All I remember is your sister was working on the disappearance of two MIT scientists, one of whom had a cottage on Little Lake Sunapee, and they found her car behind a summer playhouse nearby. We need more data before forming a theory. The other way around and we're simply fooling ourselves.”

“I know,” Woodson admitted. “But aren't you fooling yourself? How are you funding an international investigation? What are your resources? Your laptop?”

Mullins allowed a smug smile. “Money is no problem, and I'm utilizing the most sophisticated computer equipment in the world.”

For a second, Woodson could only stare at his father-in-law in wonder. “I guess we all have our secrets.”

“Yes, and if you don't go running back tattling to MacArthur, I'll tell you a few.”

***

While Mullins and his son-in-law drank their beer, three time zones and two thousand four hundred miles to the west Lisa Li and Peter returned to her apartment from a spring kite-flying festival at a nearby Palo Alto park.

Li thanked her security guard, opened the door, and stepped on a manila envelope lying just inside the threshold.

“Is it another package from Mr. Mullins?” Peter removed his new Washington Nationals baseball cap that FedEx had delivered that morning.

“No.” Li picked it up quickly. “Probably something from work. Why don't you go in the bedroom and start pulling your clothes together? I want you packed tonight since you're leaving so early in the morning.”

“And it will be Monday morning when I land. I still want to know where Sunday will go.”

She laughed. “You'll waste it on the plane playing your video games. Now scoot!”

Peter flipped the cap backwards on his head and did as she ordered. Only when she heard him opening drawers did she examine the envelope. “Dr. Lisa Li” had been hand-printed in black block letters on the front. No address. No return address. It was sealed only by the metal clasp. She bent the prongs up and opened the flap.

She extracted three pages. The first was an eight-by-ten photograph of her sister captured by a long lens as she emerged from her home. A thick red X had been scrawled over her face. Li felt her knees weaken. The second was a Chinese news article from eight years ago reporting her husband's accidental death. The final sheet was a copy of the electronic ticket Lisa Li had purchased for Peter's first-class return to Beijing. His seat number had been circled. Beside it, the name “Lu” had been written to show her that someone knew the Jué Dé executive who had offered to travel with Peter. A red arrow pointed to the edge of the page.

Li turned it over. Three sentences had been written in the same red ink—“You know we know. When you're approached, hear them out, then accept. Keep the boy.”

Li suddenly felt nauseated. Panic rose in her faster than when Mullins had led her out of the ballroom. Her world spun upside down and there was nothing she could do to regain control. “When you're approached, hear them out.” Who were they and what did they want? Was her sister's life in danger? Had Jué Dé and the Chinese government had a major falling out and she would be pressured into returning to state-sponsored research? If that was the case, why wasn't the message written in Chinese?

All she knew for sure was Peter wouldn't be on that flight tomorrow. She'd call her sister and tell her he was sick with a stomach bug. Then she would wait. But for what?

***

Nine time zones and over five thousand eight hundred miles to the east of where Lisa Li stood trembling in her apartment, Heinrich Schmidt logged into his e-mail account. At two in the morning, the all-night Internet café in Zurich was doing a brisk business. Schmidt preferred it that way. The more people, the less likely he'd be remembered.

He checked the drafts folder, not really expecting any communication. His client had been really pissed at the way the Washington job had gone. In Schmidt's opinion, he bore no blame. The man should have told him there would be more than standard hotel security. Not some goddamned protection detail led by a Secret Service agent. The hits and extraction would have been handled differently, if at all.

To his surprise, a new composition waited for his review. By sharing the same account, their e-mails were never sent. They always remained in draft mode and were deleted as soon as read. No travel between servers or accounts where intercepts would be more likely.

The message was short with one attachment to be previewed, not downloaded. “If needed, be prepared to move fast. No subcontractors. Standard retainer plus travel. You'll meet these new friends.”

Schmidt opened the attachment. A composite photo of two head shots. They looked like government-issued IDs. A younger man and an older man, each identified by name. His new friends. Allen Woodson. Russell Mullins.

He recognized the second name. The man who had shot his best agent and forced him to race away in the van and then fly to Montreal while his team lay in the D.C. morgue.

Schmidt memorized the faces. They were good quality head shots. Head shots, he thought. How appropriate.