Nobody spoke for a moment. The photo of Majorana stared out at them, from beyond the grave.
“Okay,” said Ford. “Point taken. You don’t want quantum computing to be militarized. You want it to be for everyone. I’ve got that. Truly. And thank you very much. Unfortunately, you are grant recipients of national security agencies of the United States government. Which means that when you sign research contracts, you have to abide by the rules.”
“We’ll quit the program,” said Malloy.
“They’ll sue you,” answered Ford. “And bar you from doing further business with the government. They’re not playing around.”
“We don’t care,” said Sagan. “We are scientists. We would rather vanish, like Majorana, than do something we think is wrong.”
“The intelligence community is making a mistake,” said Malloy gravely.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” responded Ford. She looked over at Flanagan, who was motionless for a moment and then nodded. Who could deny it?
Ford paused. She studied a pad she had brought along and then cleared her throat. Her manner was determined and solicitous.
“There’s one last item, this morning,” she said. “Not to flatter this group. But I have a technical question for all of you. Something that I want to understand better.”
“Just ask,” responded Malloy. “We’re scientists. It’s our business to answer questions.”
“What can you tell me about the quantum approach that’s being pursued by a company in Seattle called QED? Quantum Engineering Dynamics. Do any of you know them?”
Flanagan leaned back on the swivel of his chair as she spoke. He glanced down toward the bag by his side.
“Sure, we know them,” said Sagan. “We’ve been watching their work for a decade. They claim they’ve already built a quantum computer.”
“Are they right?” asked Ford gently. “That’s what we want to know. Does their technology work, in your opinion? It’s something we’re trying to evaluate.”
“No,” said Malloy flatly. “What QED is doing is quantum annealing, not quantum computing. It’s not the same thing.”
“But does it work?” pressed Ford. “It may not be a duck, exactly, but can it quack?”
“Sometimes. It can solve some problems. We’ve read all of Jason Schmidt’s papers, back when he was still publishing them. But we don’t think his machine is any better than a good supercomputer, and in many ways it’s worse.”
Ford paused again. She looked at Flanagan, who avoided her gaze.
“Can it factor numbers, this annealing technology?”
“Maybe,” said Malloy. “But not very well, as far as we know. But don’t ask me. Ask Jason Schmidt. He’s your boy, from what we hear. He has entered the black cavern that we’re trying to avoid.”
The room was still for a moment. The mid-morning sun illuminated the shrubs beyond the window so that they shimmered a hot green. The waves of the Pacific rolled onto the beach beyond. The only sound was the cool whir of the air conditioner flowing through the vents.
Denise Ford rapped her knuckles on the conference table, signaling that the session was over.
“We can’t discuss what we may or not be funding, of course,” she said. “With QED or anybody else. But I wanted to get your views, unclassified only, and that was helpful. Now let’s adjourn for some lunch, and then we’ll meet back here for a final session about grant procedures. Thank you all so much for coming this morning.”
Denise Ford rose and moved toward the door, following her guests out into the hall.
Flanagan stayed behind, checking his tape recorder to make sure it had captured Ford’s last words accurately. It took him no more than thirty seconds.
When Flanagan emerged from the conference room, Ford was waiting just outside the door, by the poster that said “Computer Science Group.” Her composed, presentational face had hardened.
“What were you doing in there after I left?” she said icily.
“Just gathering up my stuff. You know.” Flanagan wasn’t a smooth liar. His face reddened.
She fixed him with a look that carried the weight and menace of a woman who had spent decades in study, apprenticeship, and then, when blocked, in a creative reinvention. She was not going to be blocked again.
“Be very careful, Mark,” she said. “This is dangerous work we do.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked down the corridor to the private dining room they had reserved for lunch.
That afternoon, after the second discussion session, Denise Ford complained to Flanagan that she was feeling sick. She took the elevator up to her room before Flanagan could follow. She entered the room, turned on the bathroom fan, and then left, taking the service elevator down to the basement. She walked to a nearby shopping mall and entered a department store. She bought a floppy hat that obscured her face and a raincoat that covered her black dress. She left the store through another door that opened on a parking lot on the other side of the building.
At the far end of the lot was a municipal bus stop. She waited for a bus that took her to the Newport Beach public library, which adjoined the city hall.
Ford pulled the brim of her hat down low on her head. On her face was a smile of pleasure, exhilaration, even. This was the work for which she had trained, for which she had joined the agency. Now, again, she was able to use her gifts for a purpose she had convinced herself was noble.
The library had the empty feeling of a place with too many books and not enough readers. Ford went to a kiosk that had two public Internet connections. She opened a password account at an address she had never used before, on a server in the United States that she had been told was clean and safe.
Denise Ford composed a message to her case officer. Though she wrote in veiled language, to avoid any words that might be on a watch list, she conveyed three essential messages: She was under surveillance by the man who was her new deputy; there were rumors that a colleague was similarly under investigation after a visit to “MC”; and she had learned that a technology of interest, under development by a company in Seattle, might be adapted to complex problems that could not otherwise be solved.
The message, carefully written, was saved in draft form. Denise Ford signed off the account and erased the history of this email session on the library computer. She stopped at a drugstore on her way back to the hotel and bought a medication that induced some of the digestive distress about which she had complained. There were two voicemail messages from an anxious Mark Flanagan, who realized that he had lost track of her. Ford deleted them and took a nap.
28.
BEIJING, CHINA
Li Zian had more than one hundred rocks in his collection, each of them signed and dated to mark its significance. The oldest was a flat, reddish stone from the village in Hubei where his father was sent down by the Red Guards as a “capitalist roader,” inscribed by his father when Li was just twelve years old. Next to it was a black fragment of shale that Li had signed in Shanghai on the day his father died in 1979, too young. And another for his late mother, a willowy woman who had never lost her beauty through all the years of travail.
Li’s life as an intelligence officer had a foundation stone, too. It was a small chunk of granite that he had taken from the garden behind the Ministry of State Security in 1983, the year the Ministry was created. Before that, China’s intelligence service had been the Investigations Department of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. Li had been twenty-three years old, just out of university and on his way to graduate school in America. He had already been recruited in secret. Li had been present at the creation. Now, under his stewardship, the Ministry of State Security was wobbling. The comrades around him had gotten greedy for their share of the new wealth. That vexed him.
Li summoned Wang Ji on the day that the chief of the American Operations Division returned from Mexico City. He had read Wang’s operational cable, but it was elusive, like eve
rything about the man. Li wanted a personal report. He needed to understand where the pieces stood on the game board.
Li had the recent message from Rukou, relayed and decrypted, in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He took it and reread it. It was characteristic of a well-motivated agent to deliver intelligence and warn of danger. Rukou should not have taken the risk, but once it had been done, it was essential to put the information to good use.
Carlos Wang arrived five minutes late for the meeting. His collar button was undone, and his tie was loose. His hair looked shaggier than usual.
“I think you need a haircut,” said Li. “You look like a musician.”
“Yes, minister,” said Wang. He took out a cigarette and put it to his lips but didn’t light it.
“I want to hear about more about your meeting with the American. He sounds promising. The beginnings of a conscience.”
“I planted a seed,” answered Wang. “I told him about his Chinese life. I explained the story of his ‘Red’ grandfather, our comrade. I helped him to understand who he is. He had thought of himself only as an American, but he sees now that it is more complicated: People can be two things at once. This is not a man who can be squeezed. If we try that, we will fail. In sum, minister, he has been destabilized. He doubts his world, perhaps for the first time. We will see if this seed grows.”
“I want to water it and fertilize it. We are running out of time.”
“I await instructions, minister. But you cannot hurry something that is organic. I believe it was Leo Tolstoy who said that the strongest warriors are time and patience.”
“Tolstoy wasn’t a communist.”
Li looked at his watch. He picked up his phone and told his secretary to have his car and driver out front, immediately.
“Let’s get out of the office for a bit. Somewhere private. We need to talk. Or should I say: I need to talk, and you need to listen, and then you need to implement.”
“Of course, minister. I will get my coat.” He headed off down the hall, the slouch gone from his posture, and met the minister downstairs several minutes later.
“Take us to Yuquan Mountain,” Minister Li told the driver when they were in the car.
“To the Xianghongqi?” asked the driver, puzzled. Yuquan Mountain was in the “sensitive area,” a few miles west. It was one of the most carefully guarded places in China. It held a resort for the Politburo and, nearby, the bunkers where the Chinese leadership would seek safety in the event of a nuclear war.
“Yes, precisely,” said Li. “I have all the necessary papers.”
Li turned to the head of the American Operations Division, who was also curious about the destination Li had chosen.
“I want the PLA to know we’re there,” he explained. “But not what we say.”
The car headed west toward the Summer Palace and the mountain just beyond. From Kunming Lake on the palace grounds, you could see a graceful six-story pagoda atop a green hill. They drove to a concealed entrance, double-fenced. Burly PLA soldiers blocked the way. They wore special insignia that designated them as members of the Central Guard Bureau, a special unit responsible for protecting the president and members of the Politburo.
Even after Li showed his special MSS documents, the captain in charge of the unit said he would have to contact headquarters for permission to open the gate. Li held up his arm and walked slowly toward the office until he could speak without being overheard by other members of the detail.
“Comrade Captain,” said Li, “I see that you are a member of the unit that is code named ‘8341.’ That is a great honor.”
“Thank you, minister. But how did you know our code name? It is a secret.”
“Well, now, Comrade Captain, I will tell you the story of your code name. But it is a secret, too, so you mustn’t repeat it.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain leaned toward the tall, austere figure in civilian dress, so that he could listen.
“They say that our great helmsman, Chairman Mao, stayed in these woods, on this mountain, when he first came to Beijing in 1949. There were Buddhist temples then, like the one you see atop Yuquan.”
Li pointed to the finely wrought towers of the temple, five hundred yards distant. He continued, now in an even quieter voice.
“It is said that Chairman Mao encountered a monk, who came down from the temple; perhaps it was in this very place. Mao said he was going into Beijing and asked the monk if he needed to know anything to safeguard his trip. The monk answered: ‘8-3-4-1.’ Mao asked him what significance that number had, and the monk said he didn’t know. It was a message from heaven.
“So Mao proceeded, and you know the rest. He triumphed in our glorious revolution, and he passed away in 1976, the eternal hero of the people. But here is the thing, Comrade Captain. Listen carefully: When Mao died, he was eighty-three years old. He had been serving as leader of the Party for forty-one years. So yes, I think it was a message from heaven. 8-3-4-1.”
There were tears in the eyes of the young man who commandeered the Central Guard Bureau. He motioned to a sergeant to raise the gate, so that Li and Wang could pass.
“You honor us with your visit, minister,” he said. “I will never forget this story.”
The limousine rolled forward, accompanied by a military escort vehicle. After a hundred yards’ ascent, Li told the driver to stop and motioned for Wang to join him outside. The trees were densely clustered, but there was a path that meandered uphill toward the pagoda.
“We want to take a walk,” Li told the captain. “We’ll be a few minutes.”
“Would you like accompaniment?” asked the officer.
“No,” said Li, striding off toward the path.
The captain stood at attention and saluted. There was nothing in his regulation book that required an escort for visitors admitted to these grounds.
Li walked fifty yards uphill before he slowed his pace and turned to Wang Ji.
“Have you ever been here before?” asked the minister.
“No, sir. This is forbidden ground. I did not hear what you told the guard, but it must have been very persuasive.”
“It was a revolutionary fairy tale, that’s all. People need myths. Even PLA officers. This is sacred ground for our military and party. Do you know what is underneath our feet? There is a secret railway. It is called the ‘Underground Great Wall System.’ There are hundreds of miles of track, buried underground, so that our brave leaders can flee in secret if there is trouble. There is a terminal underneath the Great Hall of the People that connects with the bunker here in Xianghongqi. Never forget: Beneath even the greatest secrets, there are other secrets.”
“Thank you, minister,” said Carlos Wang. “But I hope to die above ground.”
They walked another fifty yards before Li Zian spoke again.
“We must discuss matters in confidence,” he said. “The walls at our ministry have ears, I am sorry to say. The PLA Third Department has paid us a visit. That would not have been possible without permission from somewhere high up. The wolves are gathering.”
“Good intelligence officers are mistrusted most by their own countrymen, minister,” said Wang. “This has been our lot since the days of Pan Hannian.”
Li smiled. He patted Wang on the shoulder.
“You are a clever one, to mention his name.”
Pan was Li’s role model. He had overseen Chinese counter-intelligence and deception operations against the Koumintang immediately after the revolution and used defectors, double agents, and captured radios to confound the enemy. But his rivals inside the Party framed him, and he was falsely convicted on espionage charges. Pan was rehabilitated in 1982, just as young Li was making his decision to become an intelligence officer.
“Here is what Comrade Pan would advise us,” said Li. “You must expand the operation you have begun with the American who calls himself Peter Tong. What is his real name? Harris Chang. He is our beachhead. We must broaden it. I believe that he is already un
der suspicion, thanks to your skill in Mexico. We must further confuse and frighten our adversary. This is the only way to protect our deep agent, Rukou.”
“You are the only person who has met Rukou. You alone would know.”
“Yes, Rukou is my burden. But Mr. Harris Chang is yours. I would like to scratch this wound that you have opened in his heart.”
“How would you suggest that we do this, Li Buzhang?”
“Here is my idea, which might surprise even Comrade Pan: We should behave as if we have already succeeded.”
“I do not understand, minister.”
“We pretend that ‘Comrade Chang’ is our asset. We send him a tasking message that will make the CIA suspect him, if they do not already. If we pretend to control him, the Americans will wonder if it isn’t true. They will doubt him and themselves. They will be distracted. You understand: Misdirection. False signals. Spreading confusion. This is the Tao of deception.”
“All warfare is based on deception,” answered Wang Ji, quoting a famous passage from Sun Tzu that was imprinted in the consciousness of every Chinese intelligence officer.
Li Zian, who also knew the passage by heart, simply nodded.
“How do you want to proceed with Mr. Harris Chang, then?”
“I have prepared a message. Have your subagent in Vancouver send it to the Tong phone.”
Li pulled a paper from his pocket and read it.
“ ‘Mr. Tong. We need to meet again, at the place that was agreed at our last meeting in Mexico. Please follow the protocol.’ ”
“There is no protocol, minister.”
“Of course not. Send this message. Also, I want you to find Mr. Harris Chang’s home address. I don’t care how you get it. Have a station agent in Washington deliver a satellite communication device to his home. Leave it where he puts his garbage or on the doorstep, I don’t care.”
The Quantum Spy Page 24