The Singularity Race (11 page)

“So, tag, I'm it?”

“No. Nothing that will come back to bite you. I need some lab work done through Quantico under whatever legend you want to create, but that in no way ties to Double H. I'll be sending you prints on a glass and hair samples. Process them as fast as you can.”

“All right,” Hauser agreed. “And if we get a hit?”

“Make goddamned sure the report comes only to you marked as highly classified as possible. Better yet, an unrecorded verbal report.”

“You're killing me with curiosity, my friend.”

“Good. Glad I've got your attention. Now I need a secure pouch here to go directly to you. If I put her on, will you instruct Boyce to provide one?”

“Yes. I'll make sure it comes to me this afternoon. How do you want to get the information?”

“I'll call. If you haven't heard from me by Monday, I want you to track this cell.” Mullins gave him the number for his burner phone.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, tell Boyce I was never here. And if Brighton asks if you've heard from me, tell him I was hounding you for an update on the FBI's investigation.”

Hauser laughed. “He'd sooner believe that than if I told him the earth was round.”

“Thanks, Rudy. Hang on, I'm going for Boyce.”

Mullins didn't trust himself to put the call on hold. He laid the receiver on a stack of papers and went to the conference room. Boyce was checking e-mails on a laptop. He knocked on the open door.

“You done?” she asked.

“Almost. Director Hauser wants to speak with you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “He wants to talk to me?”

Mullins looked around the small room. “Is there another Lindsay Boyce? If so, you'd better find her. I left the Director of the FBI lying facedown on her desk.”

She bolted from her chair, pushed past Mullins, and ran to her office.

Mullins smiled. It was nice to have friends in high places.

Chapter Eighteen

Dr. Lisa Li rechecked the algorithms defining the threshold for when data processes would move from an insulated core to wider dissemination. These basic prototypes would be the building blocks for birthing the entity known as Asimov. Her work meant she also needed to create a simulated Apollo so that the brain-within-a-brain concept could be tested without linking to the real Apollo.

To accomplish this, she required the help of the scientific team developing Apollo so that a secure, unbreachable pathway could be devised for what she saw as a shadow entity that would self-destruct after each test. No trace would remain in Apollo's memory because the process would never reach his conscious identity. Li modeled it after a splintered human mind suffering from split personalities. A temporary mental illness to be carefully controlled.

The more she thought about this approach the more she liked it. Not only could she safely test the conscious-subconscious interaction, but she could divert the computing power designed for Apollo to whatever Rusty Mullins might need.

She'd have to run the dual Apollo identities by Brentwood because he had to authorize the coordination with the other team. Those scientists would run tests after the identity switched back to Apollo to make sure no residual memory remained. She wasn't sure how Mullins would play it. The last thing she wanted was to inadvertently sabotage any investigative avenue he might be pursuing. Better to keep Brentwood unaware that her plan would create a powerful resource for Mullins that never revealed its existence to anyone else. That would be a conversation between Mullins and her.

For a moment, her thoughts returned to their private time the previous night and her hand on his arm as they sipped their Scotch in the moonlight. Not exactly intimacy, but the closest human contact she'd had since her husband died. She shook off the thought. Mullins was a professional doing his job. There was nothing more. Yet there was something about the expression on his face as they said good night. Was she reading what she wanted to read?

Li returned to her keyboard and the string of symbols on her screen. Here was the world she understood. The emotionless world she could control.

A knock sounded behind her. She turned to see Brentwood's face smiling through the narrow opening of her door.

“Might I interrupt a moment?”

“Of course.” Li moved to the small conversation area in her office.

Brentwood stepped in and closed the door. He carried a thin folder in his right hand. “I'd like to review something with you, but I need your word you won't tell anyone.”

“About the project?”

“Yes. Something limited to your aspect. Something only you and I will know.”

“Not even Rusty?”

“No, not even Rusty. This has nothing to do with his responsibilities. In fact, it might aid him.” He gestured for her to take one of the two chairs. “Can you promise me your confidentiality?”

“All right.” Li sat, nervous about the tone of the conversation.

Brentwood gave her the folder. “I'd like these embedded in Asimov's core—unalterable, inviolable, and unassailable in their primacy.”

She flipped open the cover and found two typed pages. She read the first one carefully.

Brentwood relaxed as he saw the smile curl at the edge of her mouth.

When she turned to the second, she found herself looking at unintelligible words. “What's this?”

“A translation of the first page. Esperanto. The language of Apollo.”

She looked up, seeing him with fresh eyes. “You have a plan, don't you?”

“No. Better than a plan. I have a dream.”

***

A few minutes before noon, Mullins turned through the stone gate into Chimney Rock Park. The road quickly began a steep ascent with switchbacks so tight Mullins thought he was driving up a corkscrew.

After a mile, he pulled beside a ticket booth where an older gentleman leaned out the window and handed him a map.

“This here will show you the trails and buildings. You by your lonesome?”

“Yes. How much?”

“Fifteen dollars. Had been thirteen when the elevator was broke because you had to climb five hundred steps to get to the top of Chimney Rock. Some folks my age found that a tad too taxing.”

Mullins gave him a ten and a five from his billfold. “Then I'll be taking the elevator. Crowded today?”

“Pretty decent for a Wednesday. One bus of seniors and a motorcycle gang.”

“Gang?”

The man laughed. “Group. Club. Whatever. They're riding those big Hondas, not Harleys. They're about the size of a small car.” He handed Mullins a receipt. “Enjoy the view.”

Mullins drove on expecting to find a parking lot around the next bend. Two miles farther, he pulled into a space across from a cluster of motorcycles. He saw a bus at the top of the lot, and a scattering of SUVs, sedans, and pickups. A white Ford Taurus bore Virginia plates and he wondered if it belonged to Allen Woodson.

Walking up the paved lot, Mullins felt the breeze stiffen as the trees disappeared. Granite replaced soil and the opening vista gave Mullins a spectacular view down the length of Hickory Nut Gap Gorge to Lake Lure beyond.

A stone wall about three feet tall formed a barrier between the public area and the downward curve of the bare rock. Several benches stood parallel to the wall where tourists could sit and admire the view. Allen Woodson was alone at the nearest one, fiddling with a camera bag on the seat beside him.

Mullins walked past. He stopped about twenty feet away, slowly pivoted, and took in not only the panorama of the gorge but also the park buildings and signs. By a gift shop called Cliff Dwellers, a white tarp shaded a man playing a hammer dulcimer. The Celtic tune sounded familiar but then so many shared the lilting bounce that Mullins couldn't recall a specific name. A row of CDs spread out from either side of the wooden instrument. Mullins considered buying one as evidence he had no reason to hide his trip to the park, but he'd learned those who preserve a cultural tradition are often proselytizers for the cause and anxious to preach to anyone who stops to listen. He could be stuck in conversation for fifteen minutes.

Mullins looked up at Chimney Rock towering what looked like ten stories above him. The U.S. flag strained at its line and snapped in the wind. Five hundred steps. He followed signs to the elevator and something called the Sky Lounge.

The elevator's doors were built flush into the side of the cliff and opened as he approached. A cadre of senior citizens, obviously a part of the bus brigade, appeared to have packed themselves inside like sardines and it took a while for them to untangle their canes and walkers. Mullins pressed his palm across the edge of one of the doors to keep it from closing before the elderly tourists had safely emerged.

“I bet there are at least that many more waiting at the top.” Allen Woodson murmured the words as he passed Mullins to enter the elevator.

Mullins followed and pushed the button for the only other level. He thought of Brentwood's automatic elevator where two floors meant you were always going to the other and a selection was superfluous. The doors closed.

“Did I have a tail?” Mullins asked.

“Not that I could see. You expecting one?”

The elevator rose slowly.

“No,” Mullins said. “The car's probably on a live GPS feed back to Brentwood.”

“Did I screw things up by choosing this rendezvous?”

“It's an obvious tourist spot. I'll say I checked it out for Dr. Li and her nephew.” Mullins looked at Woodson's camera bag. “Something in there for me?”

Woodson unzipped the top and pulled out a silver point-and-shoot Nikon camera. “Put this around your neck so you'll look like a tourist. It already has photos on its memory card of the documents I received from Vice Admiral MacArthur. You can either load them to a computer or view them on the camera. There's still plenty of room to snap some pictures.” Woodson smiled. “So you can play your tourist role with authenticity.”

“Smart,” Mullins said. “And you'll keep the bag in case someone noticed you with it earlier. It can hide what I brought you.” He reached into his coat pocket.

The elevator stopped with a mild jolt.

“Not now,” Woodson cautioned. “Let's look at the view and then take the stairs down. I doubt if they're being used.”

True to Woodson's prediction, the doors opened to reveal a semicircle of seniors poised for their descent. Mullins and Woodson turned sideways and gently navigated their way through the gray-haired crowd. They stepped into a combination gift shop and deli. A short line stood at the sandwich counter, a longer line waited for ice cream.

Mullins and Woodson exited onto a patio where diners sat at tables shaded by orange umbrellas. Beyond, a plank bridge stretched over a chasm between the deli and the final ascent to the top of Chimney Rock. Mullins crossed slowly. He had the sensation of being suspended in midair—like a cartoon character running off a cliff and freezing in panic a few tortured seconds before plummeting to earth.

“We should climb the rock,” Woodson said. “Otherwise, it's like going to the Louvre and skipping the Mona Lisa.”

The final steps were more of a ladder than a stairway. Above, Mullins saw several windswept firs clinging to what few patches of soil must have existed on the granite. A heavy metal fence encircled the summit.

Woodson motioned for his father-in-law to precede him. “Age before beauty.”

“That means you'll have to catch this old man if he topples backwards.”

“Nah. Much easier to jump out of your way.”

Mullins ascended the steep steps and lamented the strain he felt in his legs and lungs. Once the shoulder sling came off, he'd be hitting the gym. He found a diverse group of tourists scattered across the top. Some were pressed up against the fence, venturing as close to the edge as they could. Others clustered around the flagpole with a few actually holding on as if they feared a sudden gust could blow them off. Mullins was sympathetic to their plight.

“Man, quite a view,” Woodson said. “Can you see Brentwood's lake house from here?”

“No. It's around the bend on the far edge of the gorge.”

“Why don't we walk the perimeter and then head down the steps,” Woodson said. “Try not to get photographed. No telling how many Facebook and Instagram posts are happening.”

Mullins noted just about everyone around them brandished a camera or cell phone. From group shots to selfies, the photography continued nonstop.

“May I have your attention, please.” A man in black jeans, an orange T-shirt, and leather motorcycle vest pivoted in the center of the rock. “May I have your attention, please.”

People turned from the view to stare at the speaker. Beside him, a young woman stepped back with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment on her face.

“Thirty years ago, my father stood with my mother on this very spot. He knelt and asked my mother to marry him.” The man paused, reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small box. Then he dropped to one knee.

Cameras and cell phones went full throttle as the spectators realized what was about to happen. The woman in front of him started to cry.

“Sheila, will you be my wife?”

Sheila seemed too choked up to speak.

Someone called, “You'd better say yes, honey. It's a long way down.”

The laughter freed the woman's frozen vocal cords.

“Yes. Oh, yes!”

They kissed and hugged. Everyone applauded.

Mullins turned to his son-in-law. “Good time to go.”

“A photograph,” the new fiancée shouted. “I want a picture with all our witnesses.” She lifted a small camera from around her neck.

“Oh, shit,” Woodson muttered. “So much for a secret rendezvous.”

“Take the picture,” Mullins said.

“Damn. Just when I start to think I'm smarter than you.” Woodson raised his hand and walked forward. “Give me the camera so you both can be in it.”

“Come on, people,” Mullins said. “You heard the bride-to-be.” He waved his arms like he was shooing a gaggle of geese.

When the little community of about twenty strangers squeezed together in front of the magnificent panorama, Woodson snapped a series of pictures.

“Now you need to be in one,” Sheila said.

“Nah, I'll break the camera.”

“We insist,” her boyfriend said. “Don't we, folks?”

The crowd chorused, “We do!” and laughed.

“I'll take it,” Mullins volunteered. As he grabbed the camera, he whispered, “I'll crop you.”

Woodson stood at the edge of the group and Mullins framed the shot with only a piece of his left shoulder visible. He took several and then clicked the camera off before handing it back.

“Congratulations,” he told the couple. “You made our day.”

“Tell me about it,” the husband-to-be said. “Thanks to all of you.”

The celebratory moment passed and the witnesses broke into their smaller clusters. Mullins and Woodson descended to the platform at the base of the chimney.

“This way.” Woodson jerk his head to a sign indicating the stairs to the parking lot.

Mullins peered over the edge. The wooden steps doglegged back and forth against the cliff face like a ten-story fire escape. “Set the pace and we'll stop about halfway down. If you want, you can brief me on what you put on this camera while we're moving.”

Woodson led the way, taking each step carefully and slowly. “I took camera shots of the file documents. Surprisingly thin for an investigation into a missing FBI agent.”

“Was it still active?” Mullins asked.

“Technically active but not being worked. Kim's partner, Ron Gibbons, made a decent effort, but then was transferred out of the region.”

“To where?”

“Honolulu.”

“About as far away as they could post him,” Mullins said.