Sails nodded. “They did. I, in fact, did.”
Bell studied her for a moment. Sails knew that the man would have had her checked out. Her work with DARPA, some of her nonmilitary published works, and maybe even her paper on the probability of interdimensional physics as a valid and emerging field of legitimate study. He was the kind of man known to be thorough. Not exactly judgmental as demanding to a very high degree. He had, at least as far as his defense projects went, a very open mind. And because Bell was a scientist as well as a contractor he generally personally vetted the people with whom he worked.
“And—?” he asked.
“As I understand it this device—this ‘God Machine’—was designed by your son?”
“Yes.”
“Who is thirteen.”
“Yes.”
“He designed this without assistance from any adult?”
Bell sipped his scotch. “Yes.”
“That is remarkable.”
“No kidding.”
They studied each other for a moment. “Mr. Bell,” she said, “I have a few very important questions.”
“I figured you might.”
Sails crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. Bell did not even flick a glance at her legs. Nothing. The man really was a robot.
“I guess we need to start with the obvious,” she said. “Why is it called a ‘God’ Machine?”
“Ask my son.”
“I can’t. You won’t let anyone near him.”
Bell shrugged. “Figure of speech. Look, cards on the table. Prospero is a very troubled boy. You’ve probably read his psych evals and they’re all over the place. Highest IQ ever scored. So high, in fact, it calls the validity of the test into question. Kid’s legitimately off the charts. That said, he’s also deeply disturbed. His shrink says he’s not actually on the spectrum because there are too many ways in which he doesn’t fit the profile for Asperger’s or autism. He doesn’t fit into any slot. I can say without contradiction that he’s one of a kind.”
“Well, Mr. Bell, I don’t know if we can actually say that, can we?”
Bell stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on,” she said, smiling, “do you think that the Majestic program operates in a vacuum? You look surprised.”
“Shit,” said Bell.
She nodded. “Do you have any current affiliations with Howard Shelton?”
“No.”
“But you know him.”
“Knew him. We had a falling-out. The man’s a psychopath.”
“Maybe, but he’s our psychopath.”
“Cute. My answer stands. I haven’t spoken to Shelton in years. Not since I agreed to adopt Prospero. And let’s be clear on that, Major; Prospero is my son. That’s legal.”
“Does he know he’s adopted?”
“He’s smart,” said Bell. “I’m sure he suspects. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s my legal son.”
“An argument can be made that he is the property of the United States Department of Defense.”
“Is that a fight you want to pick? Because I’ll take it to the Supreme Court. That’d put a lot of dirty laundry on the public wash line.”
“You signed certain papers.”
“And I’d be happy to produce them for public scrutiny. Rolling Stone magazine would do a cover story on them, have no doubt.” Bell snorted. “I invited you here to talk business and you come at me with threats? No wonder people blow whistles on you assholes.”
Sails held up her hands in a placating gesture. “We’re just having a conversation. Nobody’s making threats.”
“I fucking well am. If you try to take Prospero away from me I’ll—”
“Don’t,” she said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s back up and try this again. Fair enough?”
Bell thought about it for a moment, his eyes cool and calculating. “It’s your dime, Major.”
“Howard Shelton,” she said. “You worked with him in the past?”
“You already know I did,” said Bell irritably. “I did two off-the-books contract projects for Majestic Three. A gyroscope mounting and the spherical guidance system for one of his T-craft projects. It went nowhere.”
“Has he invited you into any other projects related to the T-craft?”
“No. I thought that was a dud.”
She did not comment on that. Instead she asked, “Has he invited you to bid on any other projects?”
“No.”
“What is your current relationship with Mr. Shelton?”
Bell almost smiled. “We stopped sending each other Christmas cards, if that’s what you mean.”
“Please explain.”
“Why? It’s a matter of record and if we’re having this conversation, then you’ve read the transcripts. I did some work for Majestic Three and now he’s using other contractors. I lost four major contracts because Shelton got fickle. It took me a while to recover from that.”
“From what I can see from your corporate earnings statements, you haven’t quite recovered yet.”
“I’ll get there. It won’t be with Shelton. No way. End of story. I have nothing to do with him or M3. That whole Majestic project is a black hole into which Uncle Sam is pissing money that would be better spent elsewhere.” Bell snorted. “No, Major, I have nothing to do with Shelton or his mad science games.”
Sails set her scotch aside. “Tell me,” she said, “does your son know who he is? Hasn’t he ever wondered why he is so unlike other children his age? Hasn’t he ever wondered why his intellect is so far above anyone else’s?”
“He knows he’s gifted,” snapped Bell. “He thinks he’s a freak.”
“‘Freak’?” she echoed. “So you haven’t told him? I mean, what on Earth would he say if he ever had his DNA sequenced?”
Bell sneered. “Stop trying to intimidate me, Major. You’re not formidable enough to sell it. Save it for the rubes. You’re acting like you discovered something and are calling me on the carpet for it, but let’s be clear—I called you. As soon as I saw what Prospero was attempting to build I brought it directly to you. Per the agreement I have with the DoD. This is me being a team player, so stop trying to scare me to death.”
They sat and drank scotch for almost a full minute before Sails replied. “You live up to your reputation.”
“Flattery. Nice. What’s next? An offer for a blow job?” He rubbed his eyes. “Jesus, Sails, can we cut through the bullshit? I brought the God Machine to you because I know what it can do. Not what my son thinks it will do. He thinks it’ll open a doorway to a different universe that will allow him to go home. Like I said, the kid’s off his rocker. But in the process of developing it he hit a couple of speed bumps, and that’s what I want you to pay me to develop.”
“Speed bumps?”
“What he thinks are design flaws are actually a golden goddamn fleece. Two in particular.”
“Yes,” she said, almost purring. “A portable electrical null field generator?”
“I nicknamed it Kill Switch.”
“Catchy.”
“Yeah, well,” said Bell. “It’s truth in advertising. We both know there’s nobody who has anything remotely close to this. This is a quantum jump forward in defense technology and don’t pretend that it’s not. If we can work out the kinks and solve the overheating problems and configure a portable version, then we win the arms race. Bang, just like that. Done. You know it and I know it. This is potentially more important than the Manhattan Project. This is a brand-new branch of science and my son created it. My son.”
“My colleagues feel that anything Prospero develops is a by-product of existing military technology.”
“A ‘by-product’? That’s what they’re calling my son now? Jesus. If you’re here to bully me into giving it up without an offer, then you are sadly and sorely mistaken.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied smoothly. “I’m being frank about what some people in my department think. I didn’t s
ay I shared their view.”
Bell stood up and held out his hand. “You’re empty, give me your glass.” He crossed to the wet bar, poured more of the scotch, came back slowly, handed her the fresh drink, clinked against her tumbler without making a toast, and sat down. Sails considered the amber depths of the whiskey.
“Take a moment to consider everything you know about me,” he said. “With everything that’s probably in my file, is it your considered opinion that I am more likely to be swayed by threats and intimidation or an offer of inclusion and partnership? Go on, think that through. I have plenty of scotch and we have all afternoon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE NATIONAL SZÉCHÉNYI LIBRARY
F BUILDING OF BUDA CASTLE
BUDAPEST, HUNGARY
TWO WEEKS AGO
Harry Bolt climbed into the room, removed the flashlight from between his teeth, and used the powerful little beam to sweep the room. He produced a small device from his pants pocket, thumbed it on, and held it out on the flat of his palm as he turned in a slow circle. The tiny green light did not change to yellow, which meant there were no hidden alarms and no electronics down here. There was a large hatch in the ceiling that had a heavy steel door. No doubt it was securely locked from above. That was okay. He didn’t need to mess with that.
Instead he moved to the chest. It was a big, square box except for a domed lid. Three feet per side, and it sat on a platform of cinder blocks. The chest looked very old, and was made out of iron from which rust had been forcibly sanded off. The box was covered on all sides by a variety of ancient religious symbols. He recognized some of them. Crucifixes and Hamsa hands, an Egyptian ankh, a St. Benedict medal, a Seal of Solomon, an ancient Roman word-square, a mezuzah, a Turkish evil eye—and others that he did not recognize. His first reaction was to smile at the mumbo jumbo because Harry did not believe in very much, but then a cold shiver suddenly rippled through his body and his heart began to flutter. He looked around. The underground chamber was small and filled with shadows that his meager flashlight could not dispel. Harry suddenly felt very alone down there. And very scared.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself, but his words seemed unnaturally loud. Alarmingly so, and he hushed himself as if someone was listening. As if maybe the box itself was listening. That thought wormed its way through his brain and, try as he might, Harry could not mock it into silence.
He made himself focus on the task at hand. Heavy iron bands held the chest shut and these converged at the hasp, from which hung a remarkable, heavy, old-fashioned padlock. More of the strange symbols were carved onto every square inch of the lock. He bent to peer at the lock, and then nodded. This was better; this nudged him back into his comfort zone. He was mediocre with electronics but he loved to pick locks. His father had hired a locksmith—and former professional thief—to give him lessons. That was a birthday present when Harry was eleven. His dad was like that. His father was never off the clock. He was Bolton, Harcourt Bolton, all the damn time. Even at Thanksgiving. Even on Christmas morning when Harry was a kid. Giving a complete professional forensic evidence collection kit when he was ten. Wrapped by the maid, no doubt. Another year it was a professional disguise and makeup kit under the tree. Always stuff like that.
Most of the time Harry hated his father for trying to turn his son into a clone. But as he removed the leather toolkit from his pocket down there in the dark, he was cool with it. He stepped up to the chest, studied the lock for a moment, then selected a tension wrench from the kit. He inserted it into the bottom of the keyhole and applied slight pressure, then he slipped a pick into the top of the lock and gave very slight torque to the wrench as he scrubbed his pick back and forth. He felt one of the pins move. Nice. He repeated this until all of the pins had shifted, though he was surprised to find that there were double the normal number of them and each moved with rusty reluctance. But Harry had a deft hand and after six minutes of patient work the lock clicked open.
“Easy-peasy, Mrs. Wheezy.” It was a nonsense thing the locksmith had said every time he opened a lock, and Harry had picked it up.
Harry gingerly removed the lock from the hasp and set it aside, then very carefully lifted the lid. The lock and the lid were absurdly heavy, almost as if they were made of lead instead of steel, but when he raised the lid he saw that the underside gleamed with gold and green. Copper. Or an alloy of both. Harry fished in his mind for what he’d learned of metallurgy from the locksmith—who insisted that his pupil understand all of the materials he might encounter. The name came swimming up out of his memories. Molybdochalkos. He grinned at himself for remembering that.
Then, as he looked inside the chest, his grin faded. He expected to find a false top, maybe with some actual ancient relics on it, with the real booty below—IDs and debit cards and maybe some weapons.
Instead he saw a book. That’s it. Nothing else. A book. It was big, two feet long and eighteen inches wide. At least seven inches thick, and it, too, was sealed by metal bands. Six of them running laterally and two more going up and over. Each one was fastened with a smaller but no less sturdy padlock. The bands were covered by a different kind of engraving than had been used on the chest. Instead of the holy symbols of protection, the bands and the book they surrounded were covered by monsters. Prancing goats with too many heads, writhing squids, demon faces with hundreds of eyes, shapeless mounds with too many mouths and worms for hair.
Harry flinched away. It hurt his mind to look at those symbols, and in his creeped-out imagination, they seemed to move. Or to tremble in anticipation of moving. He licked his lips, which had gone totally dry. His tongue felt like old leather and his heart was punching the inside of his chest.
“This is bullshit,” he told himself.
The room threw echoes back at him that distorted his words into meaningless and sinister mutterings. He forced himself to focus on the rust-pitted locks on the metal bands. When he touched them they felt strangely warm. It was more like touching skin rather than metal. Harry recoiled. He did not like any of this. Not one bit. He closed his tool kit and put it into his pocket, closed the chest, reset the lock, and moved over to the small hatch through which he’d entered.
Except …
Except that he did not do any of that.
His eyes seemed to glaze and when he blinked them clear he was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, his legs stretched out before him, and the big book resting heavily on his thighs.
Harry said, “What—?”
He had no memory at all of how that happened.
His eyes watered and Harry blinked again.
And he was no longer in the chamber. Now he stood in the entrance foyer to the museum. Again there was no memory of having climbed out through the hatch or of making his way up here. It was as if he had stepped out of his own mind and left his body to run on autopilot.
Except that wasn’t it. And he knew it. He could feel something shift inside of him. In his mind. In a moment of absolute mind-numbing terror Harry Bolt realized that he was not alone inside his own head. There was someone else in there. He flung the book away and ran screaming from the building.
Only he didn’t.
He wanted to. He saw himself doing that.
But he did not.
Harry stared at the book. He no longer held it but he clearly had not thrown it away. It lay on the floor at his feet.
It lay in a wide, dark lake of blood. A puddle of it that seemed to cover the whole floor. There were islands in that lake. Lumps. Red and torn. Covered with the last shreds of clothing. The gray and black of the library’s security patrol.
The all-black of the same kinds of clothes that Harry wore. Soft, nonreflective, nonbinding black.
Roy Olvera.
Jim Florida.
Their eyes stared at him with sightless astonishment; their mouths hung open as if frozen that way as they screamed their last screams. The bodies were …
Gone. No. Not gone. The islands i
n that lake of blood wore the same kinds of equipment. Parts of it. What was left of it. All of it crisscrossed with knife wounds and punctured with the red dots of bullet wounds.
Harry stared for three full seconds.
Then he screamed.
INTERLUDE TEN
BELL FAMILY ESTATE
MONTAUK ISLAND, NEW YORK
WHEN PROSPERO WAS THIRTEEN
Oscar Bell watched the major as she walked out to her car. Bell leaned against the doorframe and watched her drive off. He was four scotches in and felt more of it than he showed.
Songbirds sang in the trees and overhead a gull whose breast was flawlessly white sailed on the breeze, heading out to sea. Bell stepped down into the yard and strolled across the grass toward the backyard. The expensive play set that had been erected when Prospero was four was still there, cleaned by the yardman but as pristine as the day it was assembled. Prospero had never used it. Not once. Bell took his cell phone out of his pocket and sat down on the saddle of the center of three swings.
His first call was to Dr. Greene. After a quick exchange of meaningless pleasantries, Bell asked, “You mentioned something to me last year and I wanted to clarify it. You said that Prospero had atypical creative drives. Do you remember? You said that there was a definite correlation between his mood and the quality of his creative output. What did you call it? The tortured artist syndrome?”
“That was an off-the-cuff label,” said Greene. “The formal description is—”
“Save the jargon. Explain it to me. Layman’s terms.”
“Well,” said Greene, “it’s a phenomenon that has been observed in certain cases, particularly with people who have demonstrated artistic abilities coupled with savantism. In short, when Prospero is happy he develops a kind of creative lassitude. He doesn’t draw, he doesn’t write, and he doesn’t even go into the laboratory you made for him in the playroom. In other children freedom from stress sparks creativity. With Prospero there is a paradoxical effect. When he is feeling stressed, or has been in a fight with one of the other boys, or, um, has had, um, difficulties with you, then he is significantly more creative in all aspects. Most notably with his scientific pursuits. That is where his truest passion lies, and I suppose we can theorize that research comforts him. Or, perhaps, it empowers him in times when he feels disempowered. There is a theory that Vincent van Gogh experienced the same kind of thing, hence the nickname of the ‘tortured artist syndrome.’ It’s not an official label, as I said.”