by Andrew Watts
Wilcox said, “Meaning, these guys are good at what they do.”
Rinaldi nodded. “A lot of people could have made this shot. Not a lot of people could have evaded detection so well.”
Colt said, “So this makes you think the Trinity claim of responsibility is . . . what? A distraction?”
“We’re still investigating. It’s just too early to say,” Rinaldi replied.
Sims added, “To play devil’s advocate, let’s say Trinity really is more powerful and well-organized than we thought. Or maybe there are just a few Trinity followers who have deep pockets and criminal connections? They could be taking certain actions and claiming responsibility under the name Trinity.”
Weng said, “Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. A self-fulfilling conspiracy theory group. You tell people there is a group that wants to use violence to harm AI tech companies, and the crazies come running to join in the fun. Before you know it, that’s what’s happening. It’s not unlike Islamic extremist lone-wolf terrorism. All you need is to seed the idea for it to come true.”
Colt cursed. “How do you fight that?”
Uneasy looks from around the table.
Colt folded his arms. “Okay. Is it possible that someone who follows Trinity is stealing information from the fourth floor? Could that be the stolen data Kozlov stumbled onto?”
Wilcox removed his glasses, rubbing the lens clean with his shirt sleeve. “We don’t know. But I think we should treat it as a real possibility until we have more certainty.”
Weng said, “That’s why we need you on the inside.”
“What about Ava Klein?” Colt asked. “Is she on the list of potential suspects?”
The screen switched to a professional photo of her. Sims said, “As the head of marketing, Ava is less privy to the research and development side of the house. While she is included in fourth-floor meetings with the Pax AI leadership team, she doesn’t have access to the Mountain Research Facility. So according to Kozlov, that rules her out.”
Rinaldi tapped on his computer and the screen shifted to a middle-aged man in khakis and a polo shirt.
“This is their head of security, Sean Miller. Formerly with the Defense Intelligence Agency. Retired about eight years ago and cashed in bigtime. He’s got access to everything, but one would hope with his background that his loyalty is indisputable.”
Colt frowned. “Is there any way he knows about this fourth-floor data leak?”
Wilcox shook his head. “Unlikely. I’ve had closed-door conversations with him, and he’s been very honest with me. I didn’t show our cards, but I think he told me everything he knows. I think they are completely unaware they have a mole. Trust me, he’s looking for them.”
The screen changed to show several magazine covers, each with Jeff Kim in various proper poses.
Weng recited his bio. “Jeff Kim. Second-generation Korean-American. Ultra-successful entrepreneur. He left college early to start his first company, which he sold for more than eight figures. He’s driven. Intense. Introverted. You never know what he’s thinking, but when he speaks, it’s usually to say something brilliant. He has a following on social media that rivals Taylor Swift.”
“Is that good?” Rinaldi said.
Wilcox cleared his throat. “Go on.”
Weng said, “Jeff Kim’s profile in Vanity Fair was revealing. In an interview, he said something to the effect that he harbored deep worry about mankind’s future . . . with his gifts come great responsibility, and he feels the burden of being the one who might unleash AGI upon the world. He actually told the interviewer he thinks he’ll either be mankind’s savior, or our destroyer. He doesn’t think there will be an in-between.”
Colt narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like he thinks highly of himself. That’s good, though. We can use that. But is he really a person of interest here?”
Wilcox shook his head. “For obvious reasons, it’s highly unlikely that he is stealing his own data from the headquarters. He’s in charge of the company. He has good financing and government support, and has great talent working for him. He just needs to execute, and he’ll be at the forefront of the next major tech revolution. Why would he sabotage himself?”
Colt said, “Exactly.”
Rinaldi argued, “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been involved in Kozlov’s murder. We don’t know that Kozlov’s death is related to the data breach.”
Colt raised his finger. “That raises a question. You said you don’t want to disrupt patterns of life at Pax AI. You haven’t informed their head of security about the data breach. Does that mean you are going to continue to let whoever is doing this steal information?”
Everyone looked at Wilcox. “Tomorrow, when you get there, they will give you a desk and a computer on their network. You’ll help us install surveillance software to make sure we can monitor for any further data theft.”
“Without their knowledge?”
Rinaldi said, “We have a warrant.”
Colt looked at Wilcox to check that he approved. His face said he did. “Okay.”
Wilcox said, “I think we can be reasonably confident Jeff Kim is not the source of the data theft. And again, we need to catch whoever that operative is. But we don’t want to piss off Jeff Kim. He’s a national treasure. Hurting our relationship with him hurts our national security. Understood?”
Colt nodded. “Understood.”
Rinaldi said, “We have three major questions to answer. Question one, who is the mole inside Pax AI, and who are they working for? Question two, who killed Kozlov?”
Colt said, “And the third question?”
Weng leaned forward in her chair. “Whoever eliminated Kozlov wouldn’t have taken that risk if he’d already passed on everything he knew. There must be something more. Something he hasn’t told us . . . or something he didn’t know he should tell us. Maybe he didn’t understand its importance. So . . . what did Kozlov see that was so important he had to be killed?”
9
An hour later, Weng and Colt walked along the streets of Chinatown.
“This is the Dragon’s Gate,” said Weng. “It’s a famous tourist spot.” A Chinese-style faded green roof sat atop stone pillars. Small orange serpents rested above the gate. It reminded Colt of a Chinese temple or ancient building.
They turned to walk up a very steep street—Colt was finding that every street was a climb here. They passed gift shops selling traditional Chinese dresses, statues, and trinkets. A cable car bell rang a few blocks away.
“The financial district is down there.” Weng pointed down the hill, people and cars everywhere. Some of the buildings had Chinese architecture, their rooftops curved upward. On one street Colt saw beautiful murals painted on brick walls. One with Bruce Lee, his body flexed in a kung-fu stance. Another mural extending nearly one hundred feet along a city block depicted a red and purple dragon with a golden tiger’s head. And many of the restaurants and shops were titled with both English and traditional Chinese lettering.
They walked for several blocks, and Weng filled him in on street names and notable buildings. A lot of them were three- and four-story buildings with residences atop ground-level shops. Fire escapes zig-zagged along the street-side exteriors.
Colt tried to categorize the faces of people on the street. To keep aware of any eyes that might be watching from the windows, but there were so many it was nearly impossible.
He said, “This place must be a nightmare for street work.”
Weng said, “It is. But we know a few places where the sharks like to feed.” She nodded toward a Chinese restaurant to their right. “Let’s get a bite to eat.”
They entered and Colt felt like he was no longer in the US. Elaborate decorations of red and gold adorned a polished wooden wall. Dark metal statues of ancient Chinese-style animals rested between tables. Tasteful paintings of Chinese landscapes hung on the wall. Colt was one of the only white people in the place.
The waitress showed them t
o a seat near the front of the restaurant. She offered them two menus, but Weng said something to her in Mandarin and the waitress hesitated before taking them back. Weng said something else and the woman replied in a conciliatory tone, departing with a slight bow.
“She was gonna give us the fake menu. Hmph.”
Colt frowned. “Fake menu?”
“They give it to all the white people. The tourists who come in here. All good Chinese restaurants have two sets of menus. One for people who can read Chinese and know what to order and one for people like you.”
“Good to know.”
“So are we going to get a different menu?”
Weng shook her head. “Nah. I know what to get here.”
Soon the waitress was back, bringing tea, followed a few minutes later by Peking duck, a dough-like bread, and green onions. It wasn’t a ton of food, but it was excellent. And they weren’t really there to eat anyway.
Weng’s eyes were on her food when she whispered, “The guy across the street, about half a block down, sitting by himself under the pink umbrella.”
Colt glanced in that direction. A line of umbrellaed tables stood outside another Chinese restaurant. “I see him.”
Weng said, “His name is Liu. MSS.”
“Chinese intelligence hangs out in Chinatown? Isn’t that a bit obvious?”
Weng turned to Colt. “There are a lot of benefits. Easier concealment for him and any ethnic-Chinese agents he is running. His countersurveillance blends in as well. And to be honest, I think he likes the food.”
They stopped talking as the waitress came by with the bill. Weng paid and thanked her in Chinese. Colt followed Weng out the front door and headed left down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction from where Liu was sitting.
After walking around the corner, Weng continued their discussion. “I’ve been tracking him for the past year. He usually eats there a few times a week. I figured we might get lucky.”
“Does he meet agents there?”
“Not that we’ve seen. He’s very careful. Liu is officially a science and technology advisor to the Chinese consulate here in town. We know he is actually a twenty-year veteran of Chinese intelligence. He runs a network of agents in the Bay Area, most of them students or Chinese citizens with temporary visas. China sends so many people here for school or work that there is no shortage of informants. Their agents usually don’t even think of themselves as working for the MSS. They’re just students, and sometimes a government man might come around, asking them questions about the latest tech research, and they know to pass information along when asked.”
Colt knew what Weng said was true. He had seen evidence of it during his own clandestine operations.
“Anyone at Pax AI?”
She shook her head. “We haven’t found a connection yet, but that’s concerning because Pax AI must be a target.”
Colt said, “So you think the MSS has someone inside Pax AI, and we just don’t know who.”
Weng signaled for a cab, and a luxury SUV pulled up. A strange radar-looking contraption sat on top. When Weng saw him looking at it, she said, “Driverless cars. Looks like this particular unit is still in testing, but some taxi companies in the city are already fully automated.”
Inside the car, Weng told the test driver where to go, and he typed in the location on a central control unit. Then the test driver sat behind the wheel, not touching anything as they began moving through the hilly streets.
“Check out over here,” Weng said, her voice low.
Colt turned to see a gentlemen’s club as they drove by.
“It’s owned by a guy with connections to the Russian mob. The GRU has an officer we’ve identified who goes there a lot. We think he sometimes picks off low-hanging fruit in there. Cyber-security managers. Programmers at big firms who are involved in government contracts. They have a few girls on the payroll at several clubs in the area.”
Colt saw a sign for the Civic Center, and Weng leaned forward in the car, saying, “You can let us out here.”
The car stopped on a city street painted red in the center lanes. Wide brick sidewalks emptied into a large brick plaza. Some people stood in line for food trucks while others ate their lunch on stone steps surrounding fountains in the center of the plaza.
They grabbed iced coffees from a nearby coffee shop and continued walking. Weng pointed to a few buildings, listing off several venture capital firms.
“This is where the SVR does its work.”
“What do you mean?”
“The SVR’s strategy is to recruit agents from the executive ranks of these venture capital firms. I’m not sure you can even call it recruiting, really. More like making deals. Finding partners. Not all of these firms play ball. But it only takes a few. The VCs know they’re making a deal with the devil. But they have teams of lawyers making sure they don’t get caught. This one here is Sheryl Hawkinson’s firm.”
“Hawkinson? As in Guy Hawkinson? The CEO of that private security contractor?”
Weng nodded. “Lots of rumors about her, none of them proven. Wilcox won’t let us go near her, though. Too risky, he said. Her family contributes to half the politicians in the state, including one senator on the intelligence committee.”
“Wonderful,” Colt said. “Where is the SVR running this out of?”
“The Russian consulate in Houston, we think. Petrov is the rezident there. He’s also the number two SVR officer stationed inside the continental US. He’s made half a dozen trips to San Francisco just this year. Rinaldi is pretty sure this VC recruiting thing is his op.”
Colt’s instincts tingled. “I know who Petrov is. He oversaw my agent. The one who disappeared after Seattle.”
Weng said, “So you must already be familiar with this program.”
Colt shook his head. “No. First time I’ve heard about it.”
They traded a look of concern.
Colt checked his watch. “I should get back to my hotel. I need to prep for tomorrow. I’m still playing catch-up on Pax AI. I need to know the numbers by heart when I meet their executive team. Don’t want to get in there and look suspicious.”
Weng ordered them another car ride, which came in less than a minute. As they were driving away, they passed a grassy park. Pedestrians walked along a paved path, many accompanied by dogs. Trees were scattered throughout the gentle slope of the lawn.
Under the shade of one of those trees, a woman sat on a park bench, speaking to a man in a business suit who was sipping an iced drink. The woman looked very familiar.
Colt craned his neck to keep his eyes on her as they drove by.
“What is it?” Weng asked.
He didn’t answer for a moment, mentally replaying what he’d seen. Then Colt leaned over to Weng and whispered, “You say it’s the SVR that operates in this area?”
She nodded. “What did you see?”
“I can’t be sure, but I think I just saw my missing agent.”
10
Colt awoke at four the next morning, his body still adjusting to the Pacific Time Zone. He threw on workout clothes and hit the hotel gym for an hour, listening to music while his mind turned over the same few questions plaguing his team.
Who was the mole inside Pax AI, stealing secrets from their most secure area? Who killed Kozlov, one of Pax AI’s lead scientists, and why?
Had Colt really spotted his agent yesterday? Marisha Stepanova, known only by her SANDSTONE cryptonym in the CIA’s classified intelligence reports, was one of the highest-placed Russian intelligence agents America had scored in years. She had gone dark after Kozlov was murdered. Colt would have done the same. As the one who had provided Kozlov’s name to the Americans, she needed to protect herself. If the Russians had killed Kozlov, they very likely knew she was a traitor. If she was really here, operating in San Francisco, SANDSTONE may have felt comfortable enough to continue her work with the SVR. She hadn’t fled.
Or it could mean she hadn’t been truthful when supp
lying information to the CIA. Perhaps she had been in on Kozlov’s murder? Weng said Petrov, Marisha’s SVR direct superior, was in charge of recruiting San Francisco-based venture capital executives as Russian agents. If so, why hadn’t Marisha ever informed Colt of the operation? Had she not been aware? If Colt really had spotted her here yesterday, that seemed unlikely.
Colt finished on the treadmill and grabbed a towel and bottled water, heading up to his room. Once there, he ordered a light breakfast, showered, shaved, and dressed in his business attire. Breakfast came and he read the Wall Street Journal digital edition while he ate.
He arrived at Pax AI’s headquarters at nine a.m.
Colt got out of the host company car and thanked the driver, who once again wouldn’t accept a tip. The headquarters building was at least thirty years old, by the look of it, and the exterior wasn’t flashy. Four floors. Gray paint on the walls. Decorative black shutters surrounded the windows, all of which had shades drawn. Next to the headquarters was a two-story elevated structure with an orange windsock. Their company helipad. Impressive.
Colt noticed a lot of CCTV cameras. Dark half-orbs like robotic eyes, taking everything in. Colt wondered if anyone was watching him as he headed toward the main entrance.
He passed an armed security guard who watched Colt enter through a revolving front door. The interior of the building had a more vibrant feel. Sleek hardwood floors, splashes of bright color on the walls, modern architectural design. A woman with purple hair sat at the front desk. Two more security guards stood at a desk behind her.
The front desk woman greeted Colt with a smile and took his name, then began typing a message to someone on her computer.
She looked up and spoke with a cheery tone. “Gerry says he will be right down.”
One of the security guards walked up and said, “Sir, if you would come over here, we’ll get your badge. Arms out, please. He’ll take your bag.”
Colt handed his briefcase to the second security guard as the first waved a metal detector wand around his outstretched arms and legs. They rifled through his bag and then handed it back before printing out a plastic ID card and attaching it to a lanyard.