Trial Run (18 page)

T
rent packed his research materials for the second time in three days. His movements were robotic, his brain spiraled through useless data. A robot felt nothing because there was no way to program emotions. In the human experience, intellect and emotions were separate functions. Thus knowing and experiencing followed completely different parameters. Trent had heard a psychologist explain this was why scientists often felt like fish out of water when leaving their labs and entering the external world. They could design an algorithm to describe a basketball player's muscular structure, the gravitational restrictions, the air resistance, the calculations required to put the ball through the hoop. But put them on a court, especially when there were other humans in opposition, and they fell apart.

Trent knew his mind was running in circles as tight and useless as a gerbil on a metal wheel. He felt no emotions because he had shut down. He had returned to the same mental cage he had dwelt in as a kid. What he needed was an algorithm that would eliminate his emotions entirely.

Shane reentered his office and asked, “Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” He dumped another shelf's worth of books into the next box. “Not a single, solitary thing.”

“You were the one to say this was what we needed to do.” When he did not respond, she added, “Don't bug out on me, Trent.”

He started to say that he was okay. But he stifled the words before they emerged. He would not make the day worse by lying.

Shane said, “Murray Feinne called again.”

“I'm not taking any job.” When they had delivered the latest algorithm, Murray had called back within half an hour. Kevin Hanley was desperate for Trent to come work for his team.

“Your own lab,” Shane said. “Pay and perks out the kazoo.”

“We weren't told to start this partnership just to dissolve it a week later.” Trent fed a pile of research documents into the departmental shredder. He winced at the sound. He might as well feed his heart through the metal teeth. “I'm not working for some company Kevin Hanley hasn't even bothered to name.”

“In that case, Murray says the group wants to get a lock on your future work. All of it. Murray has negotiated a flat up-front fee of one million dollars.” When Trent's only response was to feed more paper into the shredder, she asked, “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes.” He knew he should be ecstatic. He had never imagined possessing such a sum. But just then, it was all he could do not to rage at the sky. He fed the last of his research documents into the shredder, then sat down at the computer. He plugged in the two external hard drives, the one from the office safe and the other he kept with him at all times. He told himself to get it over with. But his hands would not obey.

That afternoon, at what was to be his second meeting with his new thesis advisor, Trent had resigned from the doctoral program. Or at least, he had tried to. His new advisor was the former head of the physics department, who had returned to teaching in order to have more time for his own research. But the man retained a dean's ability to read the
winds. He had excused himself, apparently to phone the president's office. Five minutes later, he had returned to the office and informed Trent that his request to
delay
his thesis work had been accepted. The university intended to maintain a very close connection with their new rising star, the professor told him, clearly repeating what the president had said. Trent was urged to take whatever time he needed. And then return. His position would be waiting for him.

Shane broke into his thoughts with, “Those external drives are all that's left of your thesis?”

Trent stared at the two hard drives. “Yes.”

He reached for the mouse. If only he could remember what he was doing this for.

Shane covered his hand with her own. “I have an idea.”

Trent listened to her plan.

She asked, “What do you think?”

Trent licked his lips. He tasted something, a fragrance so faint he could not actually name it as hope. Even so, he said, “Let's do it.”

W
hen the door shut behind the departing colonel, the woman said, “Jason.”

The young man reached into the briefcase beside his chair and set another file before her. The woman opened it, scanned two documents, and signed both. As she wrote, she told them, “Your projects are hereby reinstated under my direct supervision. You will report to me and me alone. Tell me you understand.”

Reese asked, “Who are you?”

“My name is Amanda Thorne.” She gave Reese the full force of her steel-blue gaze. “You may consider me as the only person who matters. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Good.” She shut the file. “So, Ms. Clawson. You have achieved a controllable extension of human awareness. Spooky.”

“You have no idea.”

“You're working with technology that was stolen from a foreign source, is that correct?”

“Their system was passed to us by a dissatisfied team member. Some of the team is American. The leader is an Italian psychologist, Dr. Gabriella Speciale. They are based in the borderlands between Italy and Switzerland.”

“What tie do they hold to foreign governments?”

“I am almost certain that there is none whatsoever.”

“If they're in this room, would we know it?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“So how do we know they're not here right now?”

“To date, every known non-physical contact with the group has been tied to a specific risk identification. Something or someone has directly targeted their team.”

Reese waited then, dreading the woman's next question. Which would be, what specifically had happened for Reese to know all this. And the answer was, she had failed. She had never met this woman before. But she knew the type. Amanda Thorne hated failure above all else. Reese might as well put a gun to her head.

Instead, the woman asked, “You still have your mole inside their team?”

Reese did not know how to answer that.

Amanda Thorne nodded, as though she had wanted no other response than silence. “I'm glad not to hear it, Ms. Clawson.” She turned her attention to Kevin. “Let me make sure I have this straight. How far down the road are we looking before your team can break standard 128-bit encryption?”

“Maybe ten years,” Kevin replied. “Maybe never.”

“You are facing serious problems, then.”

“Huge. Maybe impossible to resolve.”

“But recently you were contacted by this young researcher.” She glanced at her assistant.

Jason supplied, “His name is Trent Major.”

“A student at UCSB suddenly offers you one completely new construct after another. And in the process, he accelerates your progress. But you are still some distance from your objective.”

“Affirmative.”

“Then yesterday, you obtained concrete evidence of Trent Major's direct involvement with this Swiss team.”

“Trent Major and the woman known as Elizabeth Sayer met in Santa Barbara,” Reese confirmed. “Sayer has been part of the Italian scientist's team since its inception.”

“Sayer, as in the pharmaceutical company?”

“Daughter of the chairman. Disowned.”

“Let's focus on Trent Major for just a moment longer. His obvious connection to anyone or anything outside our scope is certainly troubling.”

Kevin replied, “Trent Major's research is beyond cutting edge. Whatever his source, we need to tie him up. We offered him a job. He refused outright. His attorney has countered with an offer to give us exclusive rights to all future research. It cost us a million dollars up front.”

“Do it.”

“I already have.”

The woman turned back to Reese. “Say we determined that this Swiss team is an unacceptable risk to the security of our nation. Say we wanted to take them out. What would you advise?”

“Make no advance planning.” Reese had thought of this long and hard. Her response was immediate. “Give no warning. Decide and go. Attack from all sides. Use overwhelming force. And one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Anticipate serious casualties.”

T
his is as faceless as I could find,” Shane told him.

They were seated in her rental car outside a bank in downtown Goleta. UCSB was not actually inside the city that bore its name. Instead, it was three towns away, where it had acquired a former military base. But the regents of the California university system were not total dodos. The name University of California at Isla Vista held no draw whatsoever. If they could name the airport after a town nineteen miles to the south, why not the university? And so a lie was born.

The quiet middle-class town of Goleta was located midway between Isla Vista and Santa Barbara proper. Downtown Goleta was a hodgepodge of fifties-era family companies wedged between all the big-box stores that Santa Barbara refused to admit. The Goleta State Bank was a throwback to earlier days, a two-story hacienda-style structure with a polished, moneyed air.

“The deposit box is registered under my name,” Shane told him. “I've had it ever since my sister went down for the ninth time. Or
maybe the tenth. It holds the last remnants of our lives before the shredder. My father's watch. Mom's earrings. Our birth certificates and my passport. A bracelet. Everything my sister couldn't find and pawn.” She brushed the flies of memory away from her face. “There's plenty of room in there for your hard drives.”

Trent said, “Thanks. A lot.”

“It's not really breaking the rules, right? I mean, you've stopped your research and you're hiding away your results. Sticking it in a bank's basement is as good as frying the drives. Almost, anyway.”

Trent did not correct her. But he could do nothing about the dream memory. The crystalline-edged image had shown him demolishing the two hard drives and walking away from his research. For good.

Shane said, “When this is over, I need to see what's on that iPod. Why it was important for that woman to rock our universe.”

Trent had been thinking the same thing. But all he said was, “Let's do this thing.”

When they landed in LAX, Reese and Kevin turned on their cell phones. The chimes came instantly. Reese listened to her messages and shut her phone and wished she could smash it on a rock.

Kevin cut his own connection and announced, “Our new ops team has just reported in.”

Amanda Thorne had placed enough agents under Kevin's direct supervision to maintain constant tabs on Trent Major and Shane Schearer.

“They're already in place?”

“And not a moment too soon. Trent has resigned from the UCSB doctoral program. The university is calling it an interim sabbatical. But the kid is gone. He destroyed all records, all files. Or so we would have assumed, had our team not observed him going straight from the physics building to a bank in Goleta, where his partner keeps a safety deposit box.”

Reese waited until they entered the airport terminal's din to reply, “Maybe Trent has another formula in the works. Bigger than all the rest.”

“Maybe he's got a dozen. Or maybe he's become a repository for that group in Switzerland. Or maybe he's uncovered something awful. I don't care. I want it all, and I want it now.” Kevin checked the monitors for their Santa Barbara flight, steered them down the hall, and said, “I don't want to go back to Amanda and ask for more favors. We need something concrete to demonstrate we're worth the trouble.”

“I can handle this.”

“It's a safety deposit box in a private bank, Reese.” When she did not respond, he said, “You've got trained thieves on your payroll?”

She had actually thought of that and discounted it. “Too noisy. I told you I'll handle it and I will.”

They arrived at the departures gate just as their connecting flight was called. Kevin said, “You want to tell me what's got you looking so grim?”

“One of my team went out for dinner last night. Elene Belote. She hasn't checked in.”

“How late is she?”

“Fourteen hours.”

He shrugged. “That's nothing. Fourteen hours is one decent hangover.”

Reese shook her head. “This has never happened before. Especially not with this lady. Elene Belote lives and breathes for her next transit.”

Kevin studied her. “What aren't you telling me?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. Why not. “Elene and Joss Stone, the former Marine, they're who I consider my primary crew. I was hoping to shape them into something more than just hunter-seekers.” Reese followed Kevin into the flight for Santa Barbara. When they settled into their seats, she said, “I've got a bad feeling about this. Very bad indeed.”

W
hen Gabriella called, she must have caught Charlie's guarded tone because her first question was, “Can you talk?”

“In principle.”

“Where are you?”

“A realtor's office. Elizabeth says it's important.”

“This is another component of those images she received during the ascent?”

“Apparently so.”

Elizabeth glanced over. “Gabriella?”

When Charlie nodded, Elizabeth picked up a magazine. She flipped the pages hard enough to make them pop.

Charlie asked, “What time is it over there?”

“Almost one in the morning,” Gabriella replied. “The students just left. They have a message for you. It's why I called. Massimo says to tell you we have to move away from here.”

Charlie shifted in his seat, drawing in closer to Elizabeth. “Massimo gave you the message that we have to leave Campione?”

Elizabeth stopped turning the pages and stared at him.

“He and the other students together. They all received the same image.”

Charlie returned Elizabeth's gaze. “Did Massimo say what form the image came in?”

“They ascended. It was waiting for them. He said it was a very powerful experience.”

“Did Massimo say where we were supposed to go?”

“Only that you and Elizabeth would know. They saw a square enclosure covered in sand. Very large. Surrounded by a rock wall. They were high up. He could see the ocean in every direction. He says it is very important and you should look for this.”

Charlie directed his words at Elizabeth. “Massimo's image says we're supposed to find him a giant sandbox. On top of a hill. On an island. In the middle of the ocean.”

“Massimo and all the others. They said something else, Charlie. He said to tell you that spies are coming.”

“Did he say when, or who was behind it?”

“No. He said it was another image. A warning. It carried a sense of dread. He said the spy was a ghost. We were speaking Italian. That was the word he used. Or specter. Massimo says to tell you that the specter will be attacking us very soon.” Gabriella waited for Charlie to respond. When he remained silent, she asked, “When are you returning?”

“Hard to say.” Actually, Charlie was uncertain about a lot of things just then. Including what they were doing in this office. All he knew was Elizabeth had ascended the previous night. Without his knowledge. Alone. “I'll call as soon as I know something definite.”

Charlie said his farewells and shut his phone and relayed Gabriella's message. When Elizabeth did not respond, he asked, “Is there any particular reason why you didn't ask me to help with your ascent?”

She stared at the magazine. “I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to disturb you. The iPod's instructions are meant to be used alone.”

Charlie knew she wasn't telling him everything. But Elizabeth
was back in tough-girl mode. He had arrived for breakfast to find her dressed as she was now, in an outfit of black silk with two flashes across her padded shoulders and her hair spiked and her expression hard. Elizabeth's outfit and attitude was a distinct contrast to all the other wealthy women in the realtor's office.

He asked quietly, “Is there anything else from the ascent you think I should know?”

Elizabeth spread her hands over the magazine still open in her lap. She said, “The older me was there waiting again. Same envelope on the table. Just like last time. I opened it and got struck by three images. Hard. First, we're going to have to leave Switzerland, and soon. Second, we needed to come here and do this thing.”

Charlie waited, then asked, “And door number three?”

Elizabeth clenched her entire body, like a fist turning to stone. She trembled. Or perhaps she merely shook her head.

The receptionist walked over and said, “Mr. Credwell will see you now.”

Santa Barbara's main shopping street passed beneath the Central Coast rail lines before ending at the entrance to the pier. Right of the pier, the Santa Barbara harbor formed a clamshell design holding million-dollar yachts. South of the pier was a waterfront park with jogging lanes and bike paths that rose to join the oceanfront cliffs. The park was lined by beachfront hotels and private houses and high-end offices. The Christie's real estate office occupied the penthouse of a gleaming white cube at the park's northern end.

“Ms. Sayer? Nigel Credwell. So sorry to have kept you waiting. How nice to make your acquaintance. And you, sir, are . . .”

“My associate,” Elizabeth replied for Charlie.

“Of course. Delighted. Please, do be seated. Can I offer you refreshments, a coffee, perhaps?”

“No thank you.”

“Splendid. Well then, perhaps you'd be so kind as to share with me what I can do for you.”

The British realtor had done what he could to transform the sterile cube into something suitable. Charlie's chair was French and old and finished in silk. He was fairly certain the coffee table was rosewood. As was the desk. The chamber itself was framed in walnut wainscoting. Two display cases held antique scientific instruments. The oil behind the realtor's chair appeared to be a Gainsborough landscape. Beyond the damask drapes, sailboats drifted across a turquoise sea.

Elizabeth said, “I want to buy an island.”

“Do you indeed. How fascinating.” Credwell was dressed in what Charlie assumed was that year's mode for the yachtie set, a cream blazer with solid gold buttons, woven linen shirt, matching trousers. His Rolex was oversized and rattled on his bony wrist. “Might I say, Ms. Sayer, you have come to the right place. Christie's has more—”

“Not just any island. I want one with nation status.”

The realtor studied her. Then Charlie. Then back to Elizabeth. “You wish to acquire a property which comes with sovereignty.”

“That is correct.”

Credwell gave her a long look. “Such properties are extremely rare.”

“But you have one.”

“Might I ask how you obtained my name?”

“No,” Elizabeth replied. “You may not.”

“This is most astonishing.” Credwell steepled his hands. “As it happens, I am personally in contact with one family with a property that is not officially for sale. Or perhaps you are already aware of this.”

Elizabeth did not respond.

“Yes. I see. Well. The family patriarch passed away some eight years ago. Since then, the property has been used during the summer months only. There is an ongoing feud between the surviving family members. However, I am led to believe that a suitable offer might be welcomed.”

“How much?”

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million dollars.”

When Elizabeth glanced doubtfully at Charlie, the realtor lifted his chin slightly. “Might I say, Ms. Sayer, these days such a hefty premium means the property is really only suitable for an entity with very special needs. Such requirements, if you don't mind my saying, that are not—”

“Our reasons for needing the property are our own.” Elizabeth reached into her purse and came out with the Los Angeles bank documents. “We're good for the money.”

The realtor's eyebrows lifted at the size of their opening deposit. Five million dollars. “Would you mind terribly if I phoned the bank and confirmed this?”

“Go ahead.”

He started to rise, then settled back into his chair. “There is something you should know in advance. The property in question is a Channel Island, some eight miles off the northern tip of Guernsey. It is not, well, how shall I put this. To describe the accommodations as basic would be a vast overstatement.”

Charlie glanced at Elizabeth for guidance. She did not respond.

Credwell went on, “The island in question measures three miles long and two wide. But less than sixty acres are anything approaching level. The remaining landscape is quite hilly. Steep, actually. There is only one road, and that is of compressed shale. There is a manor, completed in the eighteenth century. Plumbing and electricity were added in the early twentieth century. Since then, very little has been done to the place. There are seventeen other permanent dwellings on the island, mostly cottages occupied by crofters and fishermen and shepherds.” He looked worriedly from one to the other. “I am told that in the summer it is quite nice. Welcoming, in fact. But between September and May the island holds a rather forbidding aspect.”

Elizabeth asked, “When can we do the deal?”

“Don't you wish to view the property?”

“I'll fly to London tomorrow. Go make your calls.” Elizabeth glanced at her watch. “We must leave for another appointment.”