The Singularity Race (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Breaking in and finding the Woodson condo empty was a relief. Taking hostages, especially a three-year-old, was a contract Heinrich Schmidt would have refused for any other client. But this client was different. Over the years, he'd marveled at the detailed information that had been provided for each job. He considered it nothing less than the resources of the entire American intelligence network. Every hit had been a perfect execution—except New Hampshire and that unforeseen complication. All had gone well since until the disaster at the Marriott. Now things seemed to be falling apart, culminating in the shocking order to kill MacArthur.

Plus Schmidt knew if he ever refused any job, he'd be doing so at his own peril. The hunter would instantly become the hunted. So, he'd stay in the game. And, he'd insist on a bonus.

The current circumstances had forced him into taking risky action. He'd stopped at a Comfort Inn near the Charlotte airport and asked for a room. At seven in the morning, his request could be memorable, but he'd made the excuse that his connecting flight had been canceled, an event an airport motel wouldn't find unusual.

He'd slept for six hours, eaten a stale honeybun from a vending machine for lunch, and gone to the business center off the lobby.

At one-thirty in the afternoon, the computer stations were empty. Schmidt took the one in the far corner and quickly logged onto his e-mail account. As he feared, a new message was in the draft folder. Schmidt clicked on the icon.

“Meet your friend tonight at the lake. Take him out for a good time.”

Schmidt stared at the photo embedded beneath the text. Rusty Mullins. He smiled. “Finally.”

***

At four o'clock, Mullins walked up to the guardhouse and smiled at the man on duty. “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, sir. Can I help ya?”

“Just need some fresh air. I'm not a virtual person, if you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. It's like Disney World in there.”

“Mind if I walk around the grounds a minute?” Mullins asked. “I've been sitting all day.”

“Go anywhere ya like. If ya wander out in the field, try not to step in a buffalo pie. Nothin' virtual about them.”

Mullins laughed. “Thanks for the tip. I'd better get my prescription sunglasses so I can see.”

He went to the Prius, pulled a pair of sunglasses from the glovebox, and retrieved the burner phone from beneath the driver's seat. As soon as he was around the corner of the building, he dialed Woodson.

“Everything okay?” Woodson answered.

“Kayli and Josh are fine. Lisa's been able to run some new searches. Did you book your flight with MacArthur's debit card?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It pulled the funds from the same account that paid the assassins.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes. And half a million went into our shooter's account the day before MacArthur's death.”

Mullins heard Woodson take a sharp breath. “Someone in our military had him killed?”

“Someone with access to that account. Ten-to-one it's marked for covert operations with very little oversight.”

“Text me the number,” Woodson said.

“No. It's too dangerous a possibility that you'll trip some alarm. We're better to work from this end. Did you have a chance to look into MacArthur's schedule?”

“Yes. His aide fell all over himself offering to help after he saw the President's directive. MacArthur's been in D.C. the past six weeks. Lots of appointments back and forth between the Pentagon and Office of Naval Intelligence. I found three things of interest.”

“I'm listening.”

“The night of the Marriott attack he was working late.”

“So?”

“It was a Friday night. His normal weekend routine is to go to the Chesapeake. He has a home in St. Michaaels. That night he said he had to catch up on some paperwork. He was then in the position to take the lead in the intelligence op that broke immediately after the attack. His fast start made him the logical choice to head the investigation.”

“You're speculating he knew the attack was coming?”

“I wasn't. It was just an anomaly, but now you're telling me MacArthur controlled the account that paid the assassination team.”

“Maybe,” Mullins said. “What else?”

“MacArthur ordered a full alert of their cyber defenses last Saturday night. All areas were to be monitored for breaches while test hacks were attempted. His aide personally brought him the report early Sunday morning. No security breaches were identified or registered during the test.”

“But Lisa said Brentwood was hacking into the Department of Defense that same night.”

“Right,” Woodson confirmed. “Which means either she's lying or the test was extremely successful. What better challenge to Apollo's invasive capabilities than to hack a target that's on full alert?”

“MacArthur must have known about Apollo's hack,” Mullins said. “He didn't tell his staff. If the hack had been detected, he'd claim it was the planned simulation. But when it wasn't—”

“He didn't tell anyone it had happened,” Woodson interjected. “Just he and Brentwood's team would know.”

“Or a confidante he had within his chain of command. But as far as we know, he never sounded the alarm.”

“Or never had the chance,” Woodson said. “I found it unusual that after that test, he went to his St. Michaels home and called me Sunday afternoon to meet at the Waffle House in Maryland on Monday because he was headed to Annapolis. I told him about your discovery of the hack into the drone program and he never said anything about the security test that same night.”

“And that's your third point of interest?”

“No. The third thing that caught my attention was his Monday schedule. There was no meeting in Annapolis. No apparent reason we couldn't have met in his office.”

“So he wanted to get you to that location.”

“Rusty, he might have been setting me up. No wonder he was surprised when he realized the bullet carried his name instead.”

***

Lisa Li worked in her lab until seven-thirty, refining her algorithms as she kept Apollo offline and unaware of her searches. In addition to pursuing the questions posed by Mullins, she prepared Asimov for the final linkage and integration into what promised to be the world's first super intelligent computer, the smarter than human singularity that was the Holy Grail of computer science. Her goal was to create a network of bridges with a thousand lanes coming into the subconscious and one lane coming out. The final action would be opening that lane as the sole conduit from Asimov to Apollo.

Before she returned Apollo to primacy, she asked her own question. “Given the history of submitted inquiries, what question should we be asking?” The answer came back immediately in Esperanto. “Kiam vi estas tiel proksima, kial vi laboras aparte?” She ran the translation: “When you are so close, why do you work apart?”

***

“That was Asimov's question? ‘When you are so close, why do you work apart?'” Mullins looked at Li for visual confirmation he had heard her correctly.

The two of them were in his Prius following Brentwood's limousine. Peter, Josh, and Kayli rode with the CEO. Josh had been excited to ride in what he called, “that big car.”

The twenty-minute trip from the lab to the lake house gave time for Li to bring Mullins up to date on what she'd learned that afternoon. She'd begun her report with the computer's unexpected question.

“Yes,” Li said. “The more I've thought about it the more ambiguous it becomes. He might be responding to the partitions going on within Apollo. Maybe the fact that programming input is coming from two sources—me and the Apollo team.”

“I've never thought of computers as being ambiguous.”

“Rusty, we've never dealt with a computer like this one. Its sensory input alone is staggering.”

Mullins found the whole concept of an intelligent, conscious machine staggering. But if a computer by design provided precise answers, wasn't it logical that it would create precise questions? “When you are so close, why do you work apart?” Mullins ran it through his mind multiple times. What if the question wasn't ambiguous at all?

“What else did you learn?” he asked.

“I researched Ned Farino as you requested. He's been with Brentwood since the beginning. He's two years older. They met when they were in college.”

“Farino went to MIT?”

“No. He went to NYU. He grew up in Queens. His father was a plumber and his mother worked as a nurse at Mount Sinai Hospital. Like Brentwood, he was an only child.”

Mullins took his eyes off the road a second to stare at Li. “Sounds like they came from different worlds. How could they meet in college if they didn't go to the same school?”

“They didn't meet at the same school. Maybe they crossed paths in the summer.”

“I would have thought Farino would have had a job every summer.”

“He did, and he worked while he was in school. He was a part-time security guard at an apartment building on the upper east side.”

“Anything shady in his past?”

“No. Squeaky clean. He's been Brentwood's right-hand man for over thirty years. As much the face of the company as Brentwood. Lots of pictures of him with congressmen and generals. He also heads the philanthropic foundation established by Brentwood. The Internet has a number of photos of Farino presenting checks to major humanitarian organizations.”

“Okay.” Mullins nodded. “Thanks for the due diligence.”

“Why the interest in Farino?”

“Because of something he said about Brentwood. How Farino's like a Secret Service agent protecting Brentwood from himself.”

“Himself?”

“Yeah. I took it to mean Brentwood can become mentally unbalanced.” Again, he glanced at Li. “You're a neuroscientist, right? You studied the human brain and are applying what you learned to a computer brain.”

“Correct.”

“This trick you're pulling on Apollo, using other identities that you create and destroy to test the subconscious, could that happen in a human brain?”

“Yes. Like I said, I'm creating multiple personalities, but the difference is I delete and expunge all trace of them after each test.”

“So, Brentwood, the benevolent, idealistic personality that we've seen, could have a dark counterpart, maybe one that's only expressed around those closest to him. Someone like Farino.”

“Anything's possible with the human brain. But it's highly unlikely. Brentwood's been such a high-functioning innovator for so many years. Surely some more public manifestation would have occurred during that time.”

“What would trigger such an event?”

“A trauma. It's often abuse as a child or witnessing some horrific event that gets locked away in a secondary personality.”

“A personality that could reside undetected in the subconscious?”

“In an overly simplified way, yes. The boundary between conscious and subconscious can fluctuate or be breached.” Li stared at the limousine in front of them. “Do you think we're in danger from Brentwood?”

Mullins heard the fear in her voice and understood her concern. Were her son, his daughter, and grandson riding in the car ahead with a man who could be their guardian, their adversary, or both?

Chapter Thirty

As the motorcade from the research campus passed through the lake house gate, Mullins noticed Jenkins, the head of security, standing on the front porch of the guest cottage. He was accompanied by five other men and all six were dressed in camo.

Mullins parked the Prius nearer the main house where Brentwood planned to serve a late dinner. “Why don't you go in with Peter and join Kayli and Josh,” he told Li. “I'll put your luggage in the cottage.”

“Aren't you staying there?”

“Probably.” He nodded toward the porch. “I want to go over the security plans with Jenkins.”

“I don't like him, Rusty. Please don't let him be inside with us.”

“I won't, but it's important for you to be as relaxed as possible. For Peter's sake.”

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Whatever you say.”

With Lisa Li's suitcase in one hand and Peter's in the other, he stepped on the porch where Jenkins and his men were talking. They stepped aside to clear a path, but Mullins stopped.

“Can we talk inside a moment?” he asked Jenkins.

“Sure.” Jenkins turned to the others. “Take up your positions. It'll be dark soon. Jefferson will come into rotation after he eats.”

Jenkins walked into the cottage and Mullins picked up the suitcases and followed. He put the bags in the bedroom and found Jenkins standing in the kitchen.

“So, what's on your mind?” Jenkins leaned back against the counter.

“I'd like to know your plan. I'm not trying to get in your business. I know you have a job to do for Brentwood, but I'm also responsible for Dr. Li and the boy, and now my own family's part of the mix.”

Jenkins spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “We both want the same thing. I'll have seven guys in rotation. Three men will be patrolling in a triangular pattern around the cottage and main house. One man will be stationed by each residence, and two will be in rotation relief. The laser beam is activated across the top of the fence and will trip an alarm if obstructed.”

“These men are all known to you?”

“My best guys. I served with two of them in Desert Storm.”

“How'd you come to work for Brentwood?”

“My mother had breast cancer. Brentwood's foundation paid for experimental treatments that cured her. I protect a man who saved my mother.” Jenkins' normally stony face broke into the first smile Mullins had witnessed. “And he pays me well.”

“What about the FBI?”

“What about them?”

“I thought a few agents would be onsite.”

Jenkins stared at Mullins in confusion. “Why? There's been no crime committed here.”

Mullins remembered the appeal for the FBI to come to the North Carolina facility hadn't been made directly to Director Rudy Hauser. Vice Admiral MacArthur had told Woodson he would take care of it. He hadn't. What else hadn't he done? If not for Jenkins and his team, Mullins and Brentwood's driver Jefferson would be the only security.

“I'm glad you're here,” Mullins said.

Jenkins relaxed and Mullins realized there had been a degree of resentment that Brentwood had brought Mullins into the picture. After all, Jenkins was the head of security and an outsider had been thrust into his area of responsibility.

“Listen, I want to be of assistance any way I can. Why don't you put me in rotation so you've got eight men covering your five positions? It will shorten everyone's hours and I can cover the cottage except for one shift off to grab a couple hours sleep. I'd like to do my part.”

Jenkins rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mullins could tell he was tired.

“All right. Put on the darkest clothing you can find. I'll get you a communications rig. We're using the Thales P25. I assume you're familiar with it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mullins said. “Very.”

Working in radio contact with a team was as natural to him as breathing.

“Then grab something to eat,” Jenkins said. “We've got a long night in front of us.” The security head moved to leave but Mullins blocked his path.

“Tell me something. How long have you worked for Brentwood?”

“A little over ten years.”

“Would you describe his behavior as normal?”

“Normal?” Jenkins looked at Mullins like he'd asked a question more obvious than what's the color of the sky. “The man's a genius. There's nothing normal about him.”

“Let me put it this way. Is his behavior erratic?”

Jenkins' eyes narrowed. “You mean like manic-depressive?”

“I mean is his personality unpredictable? Maybe even contradictory at times? Sometimes I find him hard to reach.”

Jenkins nodded. “You're talking about his overload.”

“Overload?”

“That's what Ned Farino calls it. Brentwood goes so deep in thought it's like the external world has disappeared. He's living totally in his head.”

Mullins remembered the words of the pilot who had flown them from California. “Or in the stratosphere,” he repeated.

“Whatever. He goes somewhere that leaves the rest of us behind.”

“What kind of action does he take during this state?”

“None at all.” Jenkins pointed to a kitchen chair. “He could sit there for hours. Almost like a trance. We know not to bother him. Eventually, he snaps out of it. And many times he's got some new idea or solved some problem.”

“How often does this happen?”

Jenkins shrugged. “It happens when it happens. We know it's not normal, except for Brentwood.”

After dinner, Mullins borrowed a dark sweater and windbreaker from Brentwood. A low pressure system began moving through the mountains. The moon and stars were obscured by clouds, and fog settled across the lake and shoreline.

Mullins advised Lisa Li and Peter to turn in so that the cottage would be dark. Silhouettes made good targets. He was torn between being within closer proximity to his daughter and grandson and yet he knew any attack would probably be at the guesthouse. He also knew the three guards not on duty were bunked in the main house and would quickly be roused by any incursion.

After assurances to Li that he would be close at hand, Mullins walked around the cottage searching for the spot of deepest shadows. He found an old white pine with limbs close to the ground. The tree was about midway between the side of the cottage and the fence. Spill light from the main house showed the faint outline of the fence's iron pickets. Mist hovered in the air just thick enough to reveal a trace of the thin red laser beam traveling about a foot above.

If someone knew the lay of the land, this would be the shortest distance from the fence to the guest cottage. Fortunately, the surrounding trees outside the fence were thick enough to make a long distance sniper shot difficult. The laser made scaling the fence nearly impossible. Mullins checked in via his radio to inform the others of his position and then melted into the protection of the piney boughs.

At two o'clock, a man named Crocker came to relieve him. Mullins returned to his room and stretched out on the bed, shedding only the windbreaker. Years of serving on presidential detail had taught him to sleep whenever and however he could.

***

Heinrich Schmidt laid the sniper rifle and bipod in the bottom of the stolen canoe. He didn't think he would find an optimal opportunity to use it, but he was moving into a zone of unpredictability where any resource might be the key to success.

His prep information contained the address for a house about a quarter mile down the shoreline from Brentwood's property. The owners were away and it was easy enough to cut the chain securing the dark green canoe. Schmidt knew from the satellite photos how close he could paddle without risk of being seen from either the shore or the dock.

He checked the luminous dial on his watch and then pulled the arm of his black sweatshirt over it. Two o'clock. Two hours to get in position. He stowed his small gear bag containing a twenty-foot length of rope with a rubberized, folding grappling hook, two magazines of nine-millimeter parabellum ammunition, and a pair of night goggles. He chambered a round in his Glock and secured it in the holster on his right side. Unconsciously, he then touched the sheathed KA-BAR knife on his left, its sharp blade coated black to eliminate any chance of reflection.

Carefully, he stepped into the canoe, knelt rather than sat on the seat and used the tip of the paddle to push a few feet off shore. Before starting his slow, silent strokes, he fixed the earbud in his right ear and turned on the receiver clipped to his belt. He had no need for the microphone of the Thales P25 system. He had nothing to say.

***

Mullins' brain worked like an internal alarm clock and he woke a few minutes before four. He radioed to alert the team that he was coming out. Crocker replied that he'd moved his position to a small grouping of saplings nearer the fence. Mullins could either return to his original position or take up the new one. Mullins said he'd make one pass around the cottage and then meet him.

He walked slowly in a counterclockwise circle. The damp leaves softened the sound of his footsteps. Good conditions if you were trying to surprise a foe; not so good if you were being stalked. Mullins went closer to the fence, listening carefully. There were no night sounds. Perhaps his motion had quieted them, but he got the inexplicable sense that something wasn't right. Four o'clock. The time when most people are in their deepest sleep. The time to attack for maximum impact.

He moved closer to the fence. Overhead, the clouds thinned and enough of the waning moon shone through to cast a pale light over the landscape. Mist now hung in small patches. Suddenly, Mullins saw what was wrong. There was no trace of the laser beam. He reached up and stuck his hand through the plane where it should have been. Nothing. The prime protector of the perimeter was down.

Mullins started to give the alert when he heard a muffled groan. He froze, focusing all his attention in the direction of the sound. Separating solid from shadow proved difficult.

Jenkins' voice broke the stillness. “Crocker, come to the main house when Mullins relieves you.”

Silence.

“Crocker? Copy?”

Silence.

Thin clouds parted and the moonlight intensified. Standing by the fence, Mullins looked back at the cottage. He saw the saplings and the shape of a man outlined against them. The man was taller than Crocker. He stood slightly angled and Mullins zeroed in on two alarming things: he wore night goggles and he held a long-bladed knife. In that revealing second, the man sheathed the knife and pulled a handgun from a side holster.

“Crocker down,” Mullins whispered. “Intruder. Intruder.”

Immediately, the gunman whipped his head left and right. Mullins knew that somehow the man had heard the alert and his next move would be to spin around. Mullins stepped behind the trunk of a large oak and drew his Glock. He took a count of five, estimating the intruder would need no longer to check the rear was clear. Then he'd make a split-second decision either to pursue his mission objective or retreat. Mullins couldn't wait. For all he knew, there was no one between the assassin and Lisa Li and Peter.

He heard the muffled sound of running footsteps, but he couldn't be sure if they came from the gunman or one of the security team. He jumped sideways, his Glock held in two hands and his mind focused on identifying the proper target.

The move brought him squarely into the path of the onrushing killer. In less than a second, their bodies crashed together like two NFL linemen at the snap of the football. The other man had the momentum and that extra force toppled Mullins backwards. But Mullins had seen his opponent and knew he carried a gun in his right hand. Even as Mullins fell, he thrust out his left arm, forcing the other's gun away. His fingers dug deep into the man's wrist, while with his right hand, he raked the Glock's barrel across the man's face, snagging the night goggles and ripping them off.

Mullins hit the ground hard. Even as the breath left his body, he kicked up his right leg to take advantage of his enemy's motion. The man continued through the air like an acrobat catapulted aloft by his partner. But instead of landing on his back, the man smashed upside down into the iron fence. The pickets clanged with the impact and the force propelled the man's legs between the iron rods. He twisted at the waist in an effort to pull himself free.

Mullins rolled on his stomach, still clinging to the man's gun hand. But weeks in a sling had reduced his muscle tone and he felt his left arm weakening. He knew he would soon be overpowered.

“Mullins,” the man hissed and whipped his right hand down to his side where he carried the knife. Mullins realized he couldn't ward off both the gun and the blade. He had no choice.

He jammed the barrel of his Glock under the man's chin and pulled the trigger. The explosive force of the cartridge sent a bullet through the brain and out the top of the scalp. Hot gas from the muzzle flash burned the side of Mullins' face. He felt the man go limp.

Mullins batted the pistol away and rolled clear of his foe. Three flashlight beams turned on in rapid succession. “Jesus,” Mullins heard the word both in his earpiece and from the man standing over him. In the backwash of the flashlight, Mullins saw Jenkins, his gun drawn and pointed at him. For a second, Mullins feared the security head was about to shoot him. Then Jenkins moved his beam to the man jammed into the fence. Although the top of his head was a bloody mess, his face was easily recognizable.

“Our sixth assassin,” Mullins said. “The man we traced to Spartanburg.”

“Keep everybody back,” Jenkins yelled, disregarding his radio communication and directing the order to the two men with him. “Make sure the perimeter is secure. This guy might not be alone.” Then he said in his normal voice for transmission. “Everyone verbally check in now.”