Her eyes lit up a little. “Ah, but I have a reserve parachute.”
“You know what I mean.”
Her smile said that she did. “I guess what I am saying is that I place myself at risk for my own needs. You do it for others. I am very selfish, while you are generous.”
Juan broke eye contact and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Listen, ah,” he stammered for just a second and changed subjects. “I hate to bring this up, but we could use your help. I’m convinced that your father was targeted for a specific reason. There is something he has that Bahar wanted.”
He used the present tense when mentioning her father, though he knew in all likelihood Croissard was dead.
“We’ve snooped through his electronic files for everything he’s been working on for the past year,” he continued. “So far, nothing jumps out at us. I was wondering if you would take a look and see if anything grabs your attention.”
She caught his eye again, her beautiful face somber. “He is dead, isn’t he?”
“I can’t confirm it, but I believe so. I am sorry.”
“My helping you will punish those men?”
“That’s the plan.”
Soleil nodded slowly. “I will try, but I think I mentioned that we weren’t close and I know hardly anything about his business dealings.”
“Just do the best you can. That’s all I ask of anyone.”
CABRILLO WAS IN HIS CABIN later that night when there was a knock on the door.
“It’s me and Eric,” Mark Murphy said.
“Come on in.”
The two entered the cabin with the eagerness of puppies.
“We figured it out when Soleil was parasailing, and I think we confirmed it,” Mark said excitedly. “The computers on the oil rig were the alpha test for why Bahar needed those crystals.”
“The beta machine uses optical lasers,” Eric put in before Mark could.
“Alpha? Beta?” Juan asked. “What are you two talking about?”
“Bahar built a massive parallel processor, perhaps one of the top-five most powerful computer systems in the world, and then casually threw it away, right?” Murph said.
“Yeah,” Juan agreed cautiously.
“Why?”
“Why build it or why throw it away?”
“Two questions, one answer. It was built to design its replacement. When he succeeded, Bahar chucked the old one. It was the firewall that went up two days ago that tipped me off. There’s no commercially available privacy program that we can’t hack. We tried every trick we knew and got nothing. This is something we’ve never seen before, and it isn’t software.”
“A new computer?” Cabrillo asked.
“A new type of computer,” Murph countered.
“A quantum computer,” Eric added.
Juan said, “Refresh me on quantum computers.”
“It’s a machine that thinks in ones and zeros, like a regular computer, but also uses the quantum effects of superposition and entanglement so that it can read data as both one and zero or neither of them at the same time. Since it has more options to represent information and to process it, it is fast. Blindingly fast.”
Mark said, “Because he was after those crystals, we think Bahar’s machine is also an optical computer, which means that there is no electronic resistance for the messaging system. It is one hundred percent efficient and probably a billion times more powerful than any computer on the planet.”
“I thought these things were still years away.”
“Ten years ago they were fifty years away,” Mark stated matter-of-factly. “Eight years ago they were thirty. Five years ago they were twenty. Today the best minds in the field say ten. But I think Bahar did it sooner.”
“What can he do with a quantum computer?” Cabrillo asked.
“There isn’t a network in the world he couldn’t get into and ultimately control. Bank records and stock transfers become open books. The best NSA encryption would be broken a few picoseconds after an initial attack. Secret military communications could be read in plaintext instantly. A Q-puter can analyze every piece of data hitting the net at the same time it arrives. Nothing’s off-limits. Every e-mail, every broadcast. Hell, everything.”
Eric’s next words chilled the room. “This capability gives Bahar unlimited power, and there’s not a damned thing anyone can do about it.”
“How sure are you about this?” Cabrillo asked, his mind racing.
“Positive, boss man. We had good access to Bahar’s business files and now we don’t. They’re still archived, we can tell that. We just can’t get at them. Something dramatic changed two days ago, and the only thing that makes sense is that he developed a computer so advanced as to make the superserver farm on the J-61 platform obsolete: a quantum.”
“We need to tell Langston Overholt about this. The CIA has no idea what’s coming their way.”
“Bad idea,” both young men said simultaneously.
“Why?”
“For whatever reason, Bahar considers us a danger to him,” Mark replied. “If we contact anyone about this, he’s going to hear about it. Any transmission we make, no matter how encrypted, will be listened to. We shouldn’t tip our hand that we know what he’s done.”
“Besides, a quantum computer would ace the Touring Test,” Eric said.
“I’ve heard of that,” Juan said. “It’s something about a computer being able to mimic a human being.”
“Give the man a cigar. He does listen to our technobabble on occasion. The test is designed to see if the machine can fool someone into thinking they’re interacting with a real person. Mark and I discussed the possibility that a quantum computer could actually mimic an individual, not just a generic person. We think it can.”
Cabrillo thought he understood what they were getting at, and it was a scary prospect. “You’re saying I could be on the phone with Overholt when in fact I’m talking to the computer?”
“And the only way you’d be able to tell is if you asked it something only you and Mr. Overholt know. Anything on the public record, however, the machine would have already digested and be able to spit back at you.”
“Could this thing imitate the president?”
“Probably, but, don’t worry, it can’t launch nuclear missiles. That entails face-to-face confirmation.”
“Any speculation as to what he will use it for?”
“We talked about it. This isn’t about money, though he could empty every bank account in about two seconds. This is political. He could have destroyed our computer infrastructure the moment the machine went live, so he’s after something else. We think it’s about making our government bend to his will.”
“Agreed. Recommendations?”
“Try to find where the computer is and blow it to pieces. And, no, we have no idea where it’s located. It could be anywhere.”
Cabrillo rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the rasp of day-old beard. “I guess it comes down to Soleil. Bahar went after her father for a reason, so there’s got to be something in his background that we haven’t seen or realized the significance of. Let’s all pray she can figure it out.”
“And if she can’t?”
“Then the world as we know it is about to become a very different place.”
22
MACD LAWLESS MARVELED AT THE RESILIENCY OF children. He’d expected that Pauline would have been traumatized by her abduction and the weeks of captivity, but when they talked about it that first morning she told him that they told her that they were friends of his and that this was part of a secret mission and that if she was a good girl she’d be helping him. She knew her daddy was a war hero and wouldn’t do anything that would get him hurt, so she played along with them. Besides which, they let her eat whatever she wanted and watch television all day and deep into the night.
He considered it a miracle that they had made it so easy for her, but he supposed it was for their own selfish reasons. A compliant child who thought she w
as helping her father was a lot easier to control than a frightened little girl wailing to go home. That they treated her well in no way made him feel guilty about killing them in cold blood.
That first day, they played on the beach, making sand castles and playing fetch with her dog, Brandy, who MacD suspected she’d missed most of all. Her appetite at mealtimes was normal, and at eight-thirty, when they put her to bed, she drifted off in seconds and slept through the night.
He had no illusions that there couldn’t still be psychological damage, but for now she seemed her normal happy self, especially now that her father was home. He talked with his parents about monitoring her over the weeks and months ahead. When he told them about the Corporation, they knew he had to go back, if for no other reason than to stop the man responsible for their granddaughter’s kidnapping.
He asked about his ex-wife and was told that she hadn’t had contact with Pauline for months. The news didn’t come as a surprise. He’d married her only because she was pregnant, and she skipped out on them when Pauline was two. The only real parents the girl knew were Kay and her husband. She knew MacD was her dad but treated him like a favorite uncle instead, and as long as she was happy that was fine by him.
It was dawn on the third day when trouble struck.
MacD was up early, brewing coffee in the kitchen of the borrowed beachfront cottage. It was located in Mississippi, but far from the hustle and bustle of the gulf cities and towns. It had no electricity without the generator, and water had to be stored in a giant cistern out back, but it was tidy and charmingly furnished.
He had fond memories of coming here when he was a kid and recalled that his first kiss took place in a back bedroom when his family vacationed with the owners, whose daughter was two years his senior.
The kettle on the gas ring was beginning to steam when he heard the distant whup-whup of helicopter blades. It wasn’t an unusual sound, because of their proximity to the offshore oil and gas fields, so he ignored it and opened the jar of instant coffee. But when the sound grew steadily louder, no longer a background thrum but a fast-approaching beat, he extinguished the burner and crossed to the front windows that looked over a two-lane coastal road, a narrow strip of sea grass, and the wide white beach.
The chopper was a massive Black Hawk painted olive drab so that it looked like a military bird, but MacD knew better. Somehow they’d been tracked. It came in low over the swells, its rotor wash whipping up spume. They were so close now that there was no way for him to get his parents and daughter to their car, parked alongside the cottage. He had a single Beretta 9mm from the Houston safe house stashed under his mattress. He ran for his bedroom, yelling to wake his parents. His father emerged from their room, his hair doing an Albert Einstein impression.
“Dad, it’s them,” MacD said, cocking the matte-black pistol. “Get Mom and Pauline and crawl out the back and run. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.”
He didn’t wait to see if his father followed his instructions. He went back to the front window and peered around its edge. The chopper touched down on the beach, kicking up a maelstrom of sand that completely obscured it. He expected a team of commandos to burst out of the dust storm, automatic weapons chattering. Knowing that the glass would deflect his shots, he smashed out one of the windowpanes and took aim, ready to plug the first figure he saw.
What he hadn’t expected was the chopper blades to begin to slow. Any combat pilot knew to keep the turbines wound up for a fast extraction. The blades continued to decelerate until the clouds of sand settled back to earth. The side door rolled open, and a man in uniform and wearing a flight helmet jumped to the ground. He waited a moment, then helped another man step from the helicopter.
He was elderly, with a shock of white hair and a stoop that had nothing to do with the proximity of the rotor blades. He looked like a banker, in a conservative three-piece suit in navy blue, crisp white shirt, and red tie. MacD didn’t know what to make of this dramatic entrance, but he lowered his weapon and moved to the front door as the aged gentleman made his way across the asphalt road. The chopper’s crewman remained behind.
Warily, MacD swung open the front door and stepped out onto the covered front porch, angling his pistol so that the man could see it.
“That’s close enough,” he called when the stranger reached the nearside shoulder.
“I assure you, Mr. Lawless, that with my hearing it is not.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Langston Overholt IV. I was once Juan Cabrillo’s boss at the CIA, and I’m afraid we need his help.”
MacD recalled the Chairman mentioning his former boss and how the Corporation was hired for quite a few black ops by the legendary spymaster. He safetied his pistol and tucked it into the back of his shorts. The two men met midpoint on the lawn, and Overholt insisted they shake hands.
“It is opportune that you’re here with your family,” Langston said, handing over his identification.
The old Cold Warrior was pushing eighty but had lost none of his mental faculties. The Agency kept him on well past retirement age as a sort of spy emeritus who’d forgotten more about espionage than the current crop of wunderkinder would ever know.
“How did you know who I am?” MacD asked.
“Juan mentioned that he’d hired you, and kept me in the loop about what happened to your daughter. The Corporation’s jet’s tail number was noted in Houston. I put two and two together when I checked the Times-Picayune online and read that, on the day you arrived, three unidentified drug dealers burned in a house fire. I flew to New Orleans and paid a visit to your parents’ house, and when they didn’t answer I asked a neighbor about them. I told the delightful, and talkative, Mrs. Kirby that I suspected you had all left on a hasty vacation and inquired where you might go. She told me that your family sometimes borrows a beach house from an old family friend, one David Werner. The land records gave me this address in all of ten seconds.”
MacD was chagrined. In their haste, he’d neglected to tell the neighbors not to mention they had gone to the Werners’ cabin. Overholt had found them without breaking a sweat. It would have been that easy for John Smith too, he thought darkly and cursed his oversight.
“Impressive,” he finally said.
“Son, I learned to be a spy from Allen Dulles himself. Do you know where the Oregon is?”
“Monte Carlo.”
“Excellent. I am afraid that I must ask you to cut short your visit and come with me. Time is of the essence.”
“Where are we going?”
“Pensacola Naval Air Station, where, if a colleague of mine has been successful, a jet is standing by to take you to the Oregon.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lawless, but I must insist we leave right away. I’ll explain everything once we’re airborne.”
To get an eighty-year-old man to fly halfway across the country, MacD knew that this was something important. “Give me a minute.”
He turned and was surprised to see that his father hadn’t listened after all, and his parents and daughter were crowded in the doorway, gawking at the chopper and its distinguished-looking passenger. All three seemed to know that he was leaving with the man. Pauline and Kay both had tear-welled eyes, and his dad had clenched his jaw to fight from crying too. The good-byes were as painful to experience as they were for Overholt to watch, especially knowing that young Pauline had just been returned to the bosom of her family.
Five minutes later the pair was settled in the utilitarian chopper and wearing helmets with a private voice channel so they could not be overheard by the flight crew. The cargo master, who had helped Overholt step from the big helo, studiously ignored them as the chopper lifted clear of the beach and started pounding eastward in a hundred-mile dash to the Navy base.
“I want to thank you again, Mr. Lawless,” Overholt opened. “I know you wanted to spend more time with your family.”
“You can call me MacD.”<
br />
Overholt digested the odd nickname and nodded. “All right, MacD. A couple days ago there was a security breach at the White House involving our nation’s nuclear codes.” He held up a hand when he saw the questions racing through MacD’s mind. “It was a demonstration of what our best and brightest finally figured out is a machine called a quantum computer. Do you know what that is?”
“It’s theoretical now, but someday they’ll make the ones we use today as obsolete as vacuum tubes.”
“Quite right. However, it is no longer theory. One was used to hack into the NSA and ferret out the most secure set of numbers in the world. With that demonstration came a list of demands that we pull troops out of Afghanistan and all of the Middle East, release the Guantánamo detainees, cut off aid to Israel, that sort of thing.”
“Is it al-Qaeda? That sure sounds like their manifesto.”
“Unknown at this time, but considered unlikely for reasons I’ll explain in a minute. The president delayed action, and at the exact same time the following day there was another communication—a fax, actually—stating that the blood was on the president’s hands. Moments later the Acela train crashed into another locomotive. Over two hundred dead.”
“God. Ah heard about that on the radio. They said it was an accident.”
“It wasn’t,” Overholt said sharply. “It was a deliberate act of terrorism.”
“What are we goin’ to do?”
“Therein lies the rub. The unknown terrorist knows our every move because he can tap into our communications grid—landlines, cells, and everything that passes through a satellite, including the military birds. And they tell me this computer can decrypt our toughest codes. We can’t mobilize our armed forces without telling him we’re coming.
“That is why our response must be carried out by couriers and all correspondence done on typewriters. We’re practically back to where I started in this game. It was Fiona Katamora who reached out to me. She was rescued by the Corporation last year and remembered the Chairman well. Because our hands are tied, we want to sic Juan and the rest of you cutthroats on this terrorist.”