Kill Switch (18 page)

“This is what happened at the NASCAR thing, isn't it? And the presidential debate?”

“So it seems.”

“Which means they were, what? Test drives?”

“That would be my guess,” said Church. “But, Captain, it seems to me that you experienced this yourself. In your report you said that your equipment shut down and then restarted down in the cavern.”

I was silent. I'd told him that not an hour ago. So why hadn't I put two and two together?

Church was on the same tack. He asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” I said. “But I'm going to divert this plane. Find me a safe runway in Houston and we'll—”

“No, Captain,” said Church. “I was calling to inform you, not to put you into play.”

“Why not? This is why we have a Special Projects Office.”

“I'm aware of that, but you said that you and your men were exposed to some possible toxins.”

I had every intention of yelling at him and demanding that he put us into play. Instead I had a coughing fit that lasted two minutes. It left me spent and weak and feeling as fragile as spun glass.

“Go home, Captain,” said Church. “Let the medical team check you out. I'll keep you posted.”

The connection went dead.

 

INTERLUDE NINE

BELL FAMILY ESTATE

MONTAUK ISLAND, NEW YORK

WHEN PROSPERO WAS THIRTEEN

Oscar Bell poured three fingers of scotch into a chunky tumbler and handed it to Major Corrine Sails.

“Thanks,” said the major, sipping it, nodding, and taking the glass with her as she began walking slowly around the big office. There were cases of books, mostly histories of science, histories of war, histories of governments. No fiction, no autobiographies. Nothing that connected the man with other people. There were no framed photos on the walls, no family pictures on Bell's desk. No trophies of any kind. Major Sails noted all of it as she sipped her whiskey.

“Have a seat,” said Bell, waving a hand toward a pair of rich leather chairs positioned in a window alcove. Outside a pair of catamarans bounced over the light chop, and farther out to sea a big trawler was heading out to the fishing grounds off Montauk Point.

“Lovely view,” said Sails.

Bell nodded, accepting the comment without any visible sense of pride. She wondered if he ever took genuine pleasure in anything. Probably not. Her colleagues in the Department of Defense had warned her that he was a few degrees colder than a Vulcan. No visible warmth, no detectable personality. Not even precisely unlikeable, because there was nothing to like. Nothing really to react to.

She thought he was probably wretched in bed. A get-it-done approach to sex that was probably all about insuring progeny. No wonder he went through wives the way most people went through changes of clothes. The women were attracted to the billions, but not even the hardiest gold-digger seemed able to stay in it for the long haul. Sails couldn't blame them. Not that Bell wasn't attractive in his own way. He was lovely in photos and on TV, and when there was a camera he could turn on the charm and produce a winning smile. Off camera and away from the press he was a robot.

“If they sent you,” he said without preamble, “then somebody who doesn't have their head up their ass took a look at my proposal.”

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 say 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.