The Singularity Race (6 page)

Chapter Ten

The western sky was rapidly changing from red to purple. The shifting colors shimmered on the surface of the mountain lake and mesmerized Robert Brentwood. He sat in his chair at the end of his dock, sipping his Blanton's and letting his dynamo of a mind run free.

The house he'd leased on Lake Lure in Rutherford County, North Carolina, had been an unexpected delight. With residences in Manhattan and San Francisco, plus a rented condo in Charlotte, he'd feared the rural isolation of the eastern range of the Appalachians would have him climbing the walls of whatever backwoods accommodations he could find close to his billion-dollar Artificial Intelligence complex. The seven-hundred-twenty-acre Lake Lure was nestled amid the ancient mountain ridges and provided an escape from his world of high tech, high pressure, and, most of all, the high stakes riding on the success of the Apollo project.

Brentwood held his glass of bourbon skyward, toasting the spot where the sun had slipped behind the ridge. Apollo. The name he'd christened his soon-to-be-birthed baby. The Greek god of light, healing, the arts, and, yes, plague.

Ned Farino had argued the name Apollo had already been taken by the United States moon mission. But wasn't that the point? Brentwood saw it as a continuation of that exploration into new frontiers. “That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Or was the sentence, “That's one small step for
a
man, one giant leap for mankind?” Nearly fifty years after the historic quote, the debate still continued as to whether Neil Armstrong had inadvertently omitted the “a.”

Brentwood would make sure there was no such controversy with his Apollo mission. The words would flash around the world. A new world. Spoken by a new being. “I am—so that you will be. And together, we keep our destiny.”

Although the proclamation would come simultaneously to all humanity, the words wouldn't immediately be understood. Brentwood wouldn't offer the translation. He would make the point that the new age of common good spoke a common language, free of national prejudice, and the words in the original tongue would reverberate throughout the millennia.
Mi estas—tiel ke vi estos. Kaj kune, ni plenumu nian destinon.

Brentwood stood and walked to the dock's last board. He took a deep breath of the mountain air. This place suited him. He decided not to extend the lease on the Charlotte condo, but instead make the owners of the Lake Lure house an offer they couldn't refuse. He turned and looked up the slope to the rambling old structure standing amidst the white pines. It had character. It had soul. The house was big enough to accommodate a chef and a personal assistant whenever he needed them. And there was a guest cottage less than a hundred feet away. The idea formed quickly. No, not for the staff, he thought. The perfect place for Dr. Li and the boy. Their own quarters, but close to him.

Lisa Li needed to share his vision and this setting would be more conducive than the labyrinth of servers and processors humming constantly in the layers of Apollo's central core.

Of course, Ned Farino would object. But he and Li had much to discuss, and Ned wasn't to be privy to those conversations. Nothing was of greater priority.

T-Day was three months out. Target Day, as Farino had labeled it. Initial test forays would begin as soon as Li set the partitions and thresholds. In Brentwood's mind, T-Day was nonnegotiable. They would be ready. The symbolism was crucial to reinforce the magnitude of the moment.

His thoughts wandered to that person he'd most like to be with him on that day. Steve Jobs. Although they'd only met once, Brentwood knew they had been kindred spirits. Brothers. Jobs got it. The power of symbolic presentation and the power of innovative performance went hand in hand in the quest for knowledge. The Apple icon with one bite taken. A return to the Garden.

Brentwood wasn't eating the forbidden fruit. He was planting its seeds.

Chapter Eleven

The Monday morning after Allen Woodson's surprise appearance, Mullins purchased two prepaid cell phones from a discount electronics store. He wasn't particularly enthused about having to keep up with another device, but his son-in-law had stressed the need for a communications avenue that would be just between them.

With caution bordering on paranoia, Woodson had insisted Mullins pay cash to avoid a credit card transaction and then program each number into the other phone's memory. Woodson didn't want to risk another visit to Mullins' apartment so he instructed his father-in-law in how to use a prearranged drop. Mullins had been impressed at the planning Woodson had done prior to showing up at his apartment, and he wondered if his daughter had married James Bond.

At eleven-thirty, Mullins strolled into the Cleveland Park Neighborhood Library on Connecticut Avenue in northwest Washington with one of the new phones in his suit coat pocket.

He nodded a greeting to the first staff person he saw and said he was just browsing before meeting a friend for lunch. In the reference section, he found the book Woodson had selected.
Literary Market Place
. The volume contained lists of literary agents, publishers, trade associations, and other industry information. It had to be nearly five inches thick and a foot high. Clearly, it was deeper than the book beside it, a guide for marketing poetry.

Mullins slid the smaller book out, flipped through the pages a few moments, and used his body to block anyone from seeing him push the small phone into the vacant slot. Then Mullins re-shelved the book so that its spine came flush with the larger volume beside it. The phone was perfectly concealed.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven-forty. Woodson would arrive at noon. Now success depended upon no unpublished poets showing up within the next twenty minutes and screwing up the whole deal. That would be poetic injustice, Mullins thought.

He walked a few blocks off Connecticut Avenue into a residential neighborhood where he'd found on-street parking. Instead of immediately leaving for his apartment in Shirlington, he sat in the Prius and waited. If his son-in-law didn't call by five after twelve, he'd return to the library and retrieve the phone. The odds that out of the thousands of books housed in that branch the one on publishing poetry would be pulled from the shelf today were slim. But, a possibility was still a possibility. In the Secret Service, his mission had been to reduce all possibilities to zero.

Noon. The burner phone lay dormant on the seat beside him. Five minutes passed. Mullins grew restless. If Woodson was anything, he was punctual.

At ten after, he picked up the second phone and left the car. If someone at the library seemed puzzled by his return, he'd say he'd forgotten his reading glasses. He carried a pair in his shirt pocket and could brandish them as evidence.

In less than half a block, the new phone vibrated.

“Yes?” Mullins answered.

“Sorry,” Woodson whispered. “MacArthur was on my other cell. I couldn't get him off.”

“Something break?”

“We got a hit in Montreal. Facial recognition of the man you shot. He flew into Canada a week before. A French national traveling under the name of Jean-Louis Marlette. Probably a fake identity, but at least we have a link.”

“Do they know where his flight originated?”

“Yeah. Mozambique.”

“Jesus. That's going around your elbow to get to your foot.”

“Yeah, but he might live there. These mercenaries can really be anywhere. All they need is a satellite phone and they're in business. The other two that we nailed with prints lived in Thailand and Belize. MacArthur's tracking whatever money connections—banks, wire transfers, credit cards—he can. At least we've got a chance to turn over the rocks they hid under.”

“A common paymaster,” Mullins said.

“That's the hope. If two of the three we've identified show the same origination source for a money transfer, then we've got a potential employer. Maybe even the brains of the whole operation going back to Kim's disappearance.”

Even over the phone, Mullins could feel Woodson's excitement at the prospect of discovering what had happened to his sister. The case was as personal to the young officer as it was to him.

“Is MacArthur handling it?”

“He's coordinating. Agents have been dispatched to those countries to see what can be learned on the ground. The Germans are included since Brecht was a victim.”

“What about the Pakistanis?”

“They're on the sidelines. Nothing indicates this Humanity's Hope terrorist group has any connection to Pakistan. Pakistani intelligence has enough trouble controlling their own extremists.”

Mullins found Woodson's report encouraging. A break or two and the mastermind behind Ted Lewison's murder would be identified. He could face Elizabeth Lewison and say the full resources of the United States were now targeted on her husband's killers.

“How about Kim's FBI file?” Mullins asked. “Any word?”

“That's really why I was late to the library. MacArthur said he has a copy for me. I'm going after it now.”

“If you learn anything I can help with, for God's sake tell me.”

“I will, Rusty. Any word on your potential access to that super computer?”

“No. I guess she didn't take the job.”

“Well, things look promising,” Woodson said. “We'll get them.”

Mullins dropped the phone in his pocket and headed back to the Prius. He hadn't gone ten steps when he felt the vibration. He grabbed the phone again, thinking Woodson must have forgotten something. But that phone was still. His personal one buzzed on his hip. He snatched it and read “Unidentified Caller” on the screen.

“Yes,” he barked.

“Mr. Mullins, this is Ned Farino, Mr. Brentwood's associate. We're activating you. A car will be by at nine tonight to take you to BWI. You're flying to Palo Alto and you'll bring Dr. Li and her nephew back with you.”

“To Washington?”

“To where we take you,” he said curtly.

The hairs rose on Mullins' neck. He didn't like flying blind. “And my Glock?”

“You're on a private jet. Pack it in your suitcase along with plenty of ammo and clothes for a week. And, Mr. Mullins, welcome aboard.”

Chapter Twelve

Dr. Lisa Li packed her laptop and two hard drives between layers of clothes, zipped the large suitcase shut, and set it inside the hall closet of her Palo Alto apartment. Then she retrieved Peter's from his bedroom, placed it beside hers, and closed the door.

The instructions had been very specific. At midnight, she and Peter were to take the elevator to the ground floor carrying an empty laundry basket as if getting clean clothes from a dryer in the complex's laundry room. They were to leave the basket and exit through the rear service door to a small loading dock. Rusty Mullins and a driver would be waiting. The luggage in the closet would be picked up by someone else so that no one would see her leaving with suitcases.

Mullins was the one reassuring element in the plan. Li knew he would also be a calming presence for Peter. The boy didn't know how upended their lives were about to become.

The other security man who had come to her apartment with Robert Brentwood the previous night had seemed more like a prison guard than a protector. She'd known his type in China. Self-important. A bully in an Armani suit. Brentwood had called him Jenkins. The stocky man had close-cropped brown hair and penetrating gray eyes. He'd stared at her the whole time Brentwood was talking. For ninety minutes, he uttered not a word.

Brentwood's message had been persuasive on two levels. The carrot had been a payday of three million dollars for signing on with him for three months, with an additional three million if Li successfully created a computer facsimile of the human subconscious. She would have the latest processors and neuromorphic chips in the world. And she would have authority over a team of existing scientists mapping and mirroring the conscious mind to develop her own software architecture and integral hierarchy. The opportunity was everything she could hope for in her career.

The stick was clearly defined in the documents she had found on her threshold. Brentwood only referenced it in one sentence. “And we all know there are certain things we don't want to reach the conscious mind of the public.” He said it with a smile, which made it all the more frightening.

Li went to the kitchen and glanced at the oven's digital clock. Five-forty-five. Peter and Maria would be home from the library soon. The temporary nanny provided by Jué Dé during Peter's visit had been a godsend to keep him entertained during Li's workday. Maria had graciously agreed to stay on after Li delayed Peter's return to China.

Li was assembling two bags of snacks for their flight when she heard the bolt release in her front door.

“Aunt Li Li! We're home.”

“In the kitchen.”

The boy ran in juggling a stack of library books. “Maria let me check these out on her card. I got Sherlock Holmes, two Encyclopedia Browns, and a mystery called
The Westing Game
that the librarian said is full of clues.”

Li forced a smile. She'd hoped to have their special conversation after dinner, but the books made it impossible to delay. “Why all the detective stories?”

“So I can help Mr. Mullins someday.” Peter looked up with hope in his eyes. “Do you think he would ever come to China?”

“We'll see.” Li relaxed. Peter would be no problem once he learned Mullins was going with them. “Say good night to Maria and run and wash up. We're going to walk to Angelo's.”

“Can I get extra meatballs?”

“Whatever you want. Now set the books on the hall table and do as I say.”

Peter scampered away. Li heard his “Good night, Maria” and the thud as he dropped the books on the table. She stepped into the hall.

“Maria, I have something for you.” She picked up an envelope that had been knocked aside by Peter's books.

“Yes, Miss Li.” Maria stood just inside the front door. She was a small Hispanic woman in her twenties with bright brown eyes and straight black hair pulled off her forehead by a silver and turquoise band. A night student at Foothill, the local community college, Maria demonstrated a playful curiosity that made her an excellent sitter for Peter.

Li handed the young woman the envelope.

Maria lifted the flap and her eyes grew wide as she withdrew ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “What is this?”

“I hope it's fair severance. Peter and I have been called away suddenly. I really appreciate what you've done for him.”

Maria shook her head. “But this is too much. You said there would only be a few extra days before Peter returned to China.”

Li picked up the library books. “It's complicated. Take the bonus. I'm not reporting it. All I ask is you keep this conversation a secret.”

Maria nodded. “Can I tell him goodbye?”

Li gave her the books. “I'm afraid that would upset him. I haven't had the chance to tell him. You understand.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Li knew that the woman didn't understand but that was fine.

A few minutes before midnight, Lisa Li and Peter closed the door to the Palo Alto apartment for the final time. Li carried a white plastic laundry basket and Peter clutched a small backpack containing his iPad and three bags of snacks. He'd insisted his aunt make one for Mullins. She'd tried to get him to lie down for a few hours after supper, but he was too excited. Mullins and a ride in a private jet dispelled any possibility of sleep.

Li dropped the empty basket next to a dryer and then led Peter to the rear door. As they stepped into the cool air, a car flashed its headlights. Li grabbed Peter's hand and they crossed the loading zone to the waiting vehicle, a gray Ford Taurus of several years vintage. Immediately forgettable.

Mullins got out of the front passenger's seat and gave a wave of encouragement. Peter broke free and ran to him. Mullins knelt down and gave the boy a one-armed hug.

“Mr. Mullins, the Nationals are in first place.”

“I know. Thanks to your streak of eighty-degree days.”

“Can we see a game when we get to Washington?”

“If Mr. Mullins has the time,” Li said.

Mullins stood and Lisa Li hugged him as well.

“It's good to see you, Rusty.”

“You too.”

She looked at his left arm bound in the sling. “How's the shoulder?”

“Mending. Two more weeks and I shed this thing.” He looked beyond her to the apartment building. “You and Peter get inside the car.”

She let Peter climb in first.

As she slid beside him, the driver turned his head. “Your key, please.”

She recognized Jenkins, the stone-faced man who'd come with Brentwood. She handed him a key and fob.

“The fob's for the building's electronic lock,” she explained. “The suitcases are in the hall closet.”

“Fine. Let's go, Mullins.”

Mullins closed Li's door and joined Jenkins. Half a block later, Jenkins pulled the Taurus onto a side street and flashed his lights. A black Honda Accord pulled from a parking spot and headed toward them.

Jenkins rolled down his window as the oncoming car braked beside them. He held out the key and a dark-skinned hand emerged from the shadows of the Honda's interior.

“Back entrance. Hall closet.” With those four words, Jenkins rolled up the window and drove on.

The Gulfstream jet stood on the tarmac in front of a private hangar. The boarding stairs were down and a crew member stood at the foot.

“Wow,” Peter said. “This is cool.”

“Your luggage should be fifteen minutes away,” Jenkins said. “Takeoff will be as soon as it's loaded. Mullins will accompany you.”

Li felt relief that Jenkins would be staying behind. She hoped in a day or two everything would settle down, she could get on with her work, and, more importantly, get on with life in Washington.

Mullins gestured for Peter and Li to ascend the stairs ahead of them. Peter chose a seat on the first row near the cockpit. Li sat directly across the aisle and Mullins took the seat behind Peter, where he could more easily speak to Li.

The two-man crew was a different team than the one that had flown Mullins from BWI. Mullins thought maybe it was the short turnaround and length of back-to-back flights.

The twin engines whined to life. The taller of the two stepped from the cockpit holding a book in his hand.

“My name is Jack Lamar. My co-pilot's Sid Troutman. We're wide awake and well rested so you folks can sleep.” He grinned. “Which one of you happens to be Peter Wang?”

“That's me,” Peter exclaimed.

The pilot shook the boy's hand. “Glad to meet you. Your host, Mr. Brentwood, was afraid you might get bored on the flight. He wanted me to give you one of his favorite books.”

Lamar held up a hardback copy of Isaac Asimov's
I, Robot.

“What's it about?” Peter asked.

Lamar shrugged. “Not sure. I once saw a movie with that title. Something about a robot who's a detective.”

“Like Mr. Mullins.” Peter swiveled around in his seat. “But you're not a robot.”

“No,” Mullins confessed. “Not smart enough.”

“What do you say, Peter?” Li prompted.

“Thank you. And thank Mr. Brentwood.”

“You'll see him soon enough.”

“What time do you think we'll land at BWI?” Mullins asked.

Jack Lamar frowned. “Who told you we were going to BWI?”

“Her lab's in Washington.”

“Maybe. But we're flying to Asheville, North Carolina. I guess it was a change of plans.” He held out his hand. “I need your cell phones.”

Li fumbled through her purse and then handed him her phone. Mullins didn't move.

“I'm sorry, sir. But I've been instructed to take charge of your phone.”

“No. I think I need to speak to Brentwood directly.”

The pilot reached behind his back for a second. When his hand reemerged, it held a nine-millimeter Beretta pointed at Mullins' chest.

“Move slowly, sir. First hand me the Glock under your sling.”

Mullins complied.

“Now the phone.”

Mullins shifted in his seat and pulled the cell from his belt.

“Thank you,” Lamar said. “They'll be returned later.”

He backed into the cockpit, closed and locked the door.

“Auntie Li Li,” Peter whimpered, and strained against his seat belt toward his aunt.

Mullins saw Li struggle to remain calm for her nephew's sake. “It's all right,” he told her.

Li unsnapped her belt and crossed the aisle to sit with the boy. He buried his head in her shoulder.

Mullins dug deep in the front pocket of his pants for the thin burner phone. He wouldn't risk a voice call, but he texted a short message:

headed for Asheville NC—find nearest Brentwood facility—do not respond but wait.

The whine of the engines rose higher and Peter's whimpering began again.

Five minutes later, the Gulfstream lifted off into the starry California sky.