Quantum

by Tom Grace

  This isn’t the first time Artuzov has incinerated a living person for me, Pyotr Voronin thought with a smile. No doubt, it won’t be the last.

  As Voronin walked out of Artuzov’s funeral parlor, he thought about Guk’s cousin in Moscow and the visit he would soon receive from Dmitri Leskov.

  ‘Fool,’ he said incredulously, ‘you stole from the wrong man.’

  18

  JUNE 30

  Sverdlovsk 23, Russia

  Lara Avvakum sat back in her chair, her legs propped up on a cushion that lay across the top of an open desk drawer. With a pad of paper on her lap, she stared out her window at the Siberian forest in the distance and the rhythmic swaying of the branches in the wind. The movement was both orderly and complex. In her mind’s eye, she could see the ebb and flow of energy within the organic system outside her window, the fluid beauty of nature framed before her like a painting by van Gogh.

  Sverdlovsk 23 was the name government planners had given this secret research facility, and Avvakum had spent the past decade of her life here. It was a remote collection of buildings nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, and its existence was still considered a state secret.

  A sharp knock at the door brought her reverie to an abrupt end.

  ‘Da,’ she said, recovering from her meditation.

  The door opened slightly, and the graying head of Boris Zhirov emerged through the crack.

  ‘Lara, you have a visitor,’ Zhirov said, his voice carrying equal measures of concern and excitement. ‘Georgi just called from the main gate. She’ll be here in a minute.’

  Visitors were uncommon events at Sverdlovsk 23. One never knew how to take the unexpected arrival of a government official – the only kind of visitor permitted there.

  Avvakum stood and adjusted her pale yellow dress. ‘What do you think, Boris?’ she asked, hoping she was presentable.

  ‘Beautiful, as always,’ Zhirov replied. ‘Here she comes.’

  Zhirov opened the door and stood aside, allowing a tall, well-dressed brunette to enter Avvakum’s office.

  ‘Dr Avvakum, I am Oksanna Zoshchenko, deputy director of the Russian Academy of Sciences.’

  ‘I am honored. Please have a seat.’

  Zoshchenko nodded, accepting Avvakum’s hospitality despite the fact that the long, jarring drive from Yekaterinburg had left her back and buttocks aching.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Perhaps later. Right now, I would like to get to the purpose of my visit.’

  Zoshchenko zipped open her thin leather briefcase and extracted a white file folder embossed with the academy’s insignia. The file tab bore Avvakum’s name.

  ‘You have worked for the academy since you graduated from Moscow State University, a little over ten years ago?’

  ‘Da.’

  ‘Your doctoral work was quite impressive,’ Zoshchenko continued, skimming over the dossier. ‘You did your thesis on quantum laser optics, which led to your assignment at this research facility.’

  ‘Da,’ Avvakum replied, wishing now that she’d studied something less interesting to the academy’s military-applications apparatchiks.

  ‘I see that you have requested reassignment on numerous occasions and that each request has been denied.’

  Avvakum nodded, her throat constricting. A feeling of dread welled up inside. Her frequent requests had finally been noticed, and this woman had been sent to reprimand her personally.

  ‘Pity,’ Zoshchenko said as she closed the file, ‘there were a number of more interesting projects that could have used a mind like yours. I offer the academy’s apologies for allowing you to rot in this wilderness.’

  Avvakum’s mouth formed a small O, but she didn’t utter a sound. An apology from the academy for wasting so many years of her life was unheard-of. Like the sun rising in the west, this was something that simply did not happen.

  ‘You may know that the academy is branching out into new ventures, mostly of a commercial nature. Russia needs truly productive industries if it is to survive. This is the reason we are actively seeking commercial research projects – the academy needs to generate its own revenue, or it will starve.’ Zoshchenko stared directly into Avvakum’s blue eyes. ‘When was the last time you were paid?’

  ‘At the end of last year.’

  ‘Then you personally understand the situation the academy is in. Things cannot continue this way. There is a company, a Russian firm that has requested scientific assistance from the academy. It was involved in a research project with a group of Americans that has since dissolved. This firm would like to continue the research with the intent of developing a marketable product.’

  ‘What kind of product?’ she blurted out, curious to know more.

  ‘It has to do with energy production. I’m sorry, but I can’t be any more specific than that, except to say that both the firm and the academy believe that you are the most qualified candidate for the project. Under such an arrangement, the firm would pay a fee to the academy and pay your salary directly. It is my understanding that this money would be in hard currency.’

  Avvakum’s eyes widened at the prospect of not only being paid but being paid in a currency whose value wouldn’t evaporate like the ruble.

  ‘The firm would also pay to relocate you to Moscow,’ Zoshchenko continued, ‘where a private laboratory would be equipped for your work. You will reside in a nice apartment building off Tverskaya Ulitsa, not far from the Bolshoi Theater.’

  ‘How do you know this company can do what it says?’ she wondered, afraid it was all too good to be true.

  ‘I can assure you that this firm is reputable and well financed. It has dealings around the world and its founder is a confidant of the President. It has already established an account containing approximately one million American dollars in funding for this project. As an added incentive to you, should any marketable product result from your work, you will be awarded shares of ownership in the company. This is an opportunity to create something worth-while for yourself and your country. In truth, it is far more important than what you are doing here.’

  Avvakum felt dizzy. She’d dreamed of escaping this place, of returning to civilization somewhere, but never did she imagine such an opportunity. The world had changed so much in the past ten years. Economics had replaced ideology, and consumer goods were more important than weapons.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Of course I accept.’

  Zoshchenko smiled. ‘Wonderful. I think you’ll find your new position very rewarding. I’ll make arrangements for you and your belongings to be transported to Moscow. Make whatever preparations you feel necessary to turn your current work over to your replacement.’

  Zoshchenko extended her hand across the desk; Lara Avvakum grasped it heartily.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Avvakum said, on the verge of tears. ‘This is beyond anything I could have dreamed of.’

  ‘Lara,’ Zoshchenko said, smiling, ‘this is not the same Russia we were born to anymore.’

  19

  JULY 10

  Yekaterinburg, Russia

  When she left Moscow a lifetime ago, Avvakum had journeyed east aboard a cramped and ancient car on the Trans-Siberian Railway. For her return trip, a corporate jet waited to whisk her from Sverdlovsk 23 to freedom. As she walked across the tarmac, she saw VIO FinProm’s logo, a golden double eagle on a field of royal blue, emblazoned on the jet’s triangular tail.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Dr Avvakum,’ the uniformed pilot said as she stepped into the luxurious cabin of the needle-nosed aircraft. Inside she saw Zoshchenko talking with a distinguished-looking man. Both rose as she approached.

  ‘Lara, it’s good to see you again. I would like to introduce your patron, Victor Ivanovich Orlov.’

  Orlov clasped Avvakum’s offered hand with both of his; the grip was firm but gentle. ‘I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Lara. Oksanna has told me a lot about you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Avvaku
m said shyly, not sure how to respond to Orlov’s attention.

  ‘What do you think of my new jet?’ Orlov crowed proudly.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Considering where you’ve spent the past decade, I’m not surprised. It’s the latest design from Dassault. Supersonic. Capable of Mach one point eight. It’ll only take about two hours to fly to Moscow from here.’

  ‘Two hours! My last trip by train took days.’

  ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

  The pilot sealed the fuselage door and walked into the passenger cabin. ‘We’re just about ready to leave. If you’ll please take your seats.’

  ‘Thank you, Brody,’ Orlov replied.

  Orlov motioned to a wide leather captain’s chair. Avvakum sat and felt herself slowly melting into the supple material as the chair conformed to her shape.

  ‘Don’t get so comfortable that you fall asleep on me, Lara,’ Orlov warned. ‘I still want to talk with you.’

  Avvakum, Orlov, and Zoshchenko buckled themselves in for takeoff as the jet’s three engines began powering up. A subtle change in the frequency of the engines’ whine accompanied a gradual forward motion of the aircraft. Were it not for the visual cues passing by the cabin windows, Avvakum might not have been able to tell they were moving.

  The sleek white jet taxied out to the end of the runway, where it paused for a minute. In the distance members of the airport ground crew stood outside the hangars watching the jet take off. The engines wound up again, louder than before, and the thirty-four-meter-long, delta-winged javelin hurtled across the runway. The world raced past the windows in a blur of colors as the aircraft’s speed increased to the point at which it freed itself from the ground. Minutes later they broke through a layer of low-lying clouds and into a blue sunlit sky.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Avvakum said as she stared out at the billowy cloud tops.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ Orlov agreed. ‘Shall we get to the business at hand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Avvakum agreed, a little embarrassed at her naive display.

  ‘For security purposes, Oksanna has told you little about what you’ll be working on for me. I assume that you’re curious about the project.’

  Avvakum nodded.

  ‘I’ll give you a little background information first. My company was involved in a research project with an American corporation. Both sides provided funding and staff, and most of the work was carried out in the United States. This project ran for almost two years, but then there was an explosion in the lab. Following that incident, my American partners dissolved our collaboration claiming a loss of faith in the project.’

  ‘Do you still have people working on this project?’

  ‘Nyet. One of the men I sent to the United States was killed in the accident. The other decided to stay there. What I do have is all their research. Are you comfortable with English?’

  ‘I am reasonably proficient.’

  ‘Good, because all the project materials are in English. My researchers were bilingual – theirs were not – so the project documentation was kept in the common language. Since this is going to be your project from now on, you can choose any language you like, as long as it’s Russian.’

  Avvakum and Zoshchenko laughed along with Orlov’s joke.

  ‘Will I be working with anyone?’

  ‘In the beginning, no. Oksanna and I have discussed this, and we believe that it will take you several months to completely familiarize yourself with the work. Once you have an understanding of what you are dealing with, then you can make a recommendation to me regarding your staffing needs. I want you to pick your own people.’

  Avvakum smiled. When the time came, she would have the opportunity to select the best people she could find rather than struggling with someone else’s castoffs.

  ‘Can you tell me more about the project?’ Avvakum asked.

  ‘Oksanna, would you?’ Orlov deferred.

  ‘Da, Victor Ivanovich.’ Zoshchenko took a moment to compose her thoughts. ‘You are, of course, familiar with negative energy state theory.’

  ‘Certainly. The early theoretical work in this area brought about the prediction of antimatter, which has since been proved to exist.’

  ‘Well, our researchers were studying the use of fluctuating electrical fields on evacuated chambers to see whether they could develop a better method for producing and containing antimatter. The result of these experiments was a device that outputs roughly two thousand times the amount of energy they put into it.’

  ‘I would like to see that,’ Avvakum said skeptically.

  ‘You will,’ Orlov promised.

  ‘I understand your skepticism, Lara,’ Zoshchenko continued. ‘I once shared it. In fact, that’s one of the reasons you were selected to continue this line of research. The team that discovered this phenomenon has never been able to explain how it works, which is essential in securing as broad a patent as possible on technological applications. We need to know why this device does what it does.’

  ‘You’ve brought up another interesting point,’ Orlov said. ‘Regarding patents. My former partners said they are no longer interested in continuing the project. Both sides parted company with identical copies of the research. While I have no proof as yet, I believe that they may also try to continue working on this project. If so, we are in a race, and the winner will control a technology worth billions of American dollars.’

  For a mind that regularly pondered the mysteries of the universe and plumbed the depths of subatomic structures so small that their existence could only be inferred, Avvakum found herself mentally unable to grasp the economic stakes involved in this project. If she succeeded, even a small share in an enterprise so vast could be worth more than the past twenty generations of her family had earned in their entire lifetimes.

  Orlov glanced at Zoshchenko, who smiled slyly back while waiting for Avvakum to recover her senses. A decade in an impoverished scientific backwater had turned Lara Avvakum into the perfect candidate for the job. She had both the ability and, more important, the incentive to succeed.

  ‘Would you like to see where you’re going to be working?’

  ‘Da.’

  Orlov opened his briefcase and pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph of a large, nondescript industrial building. A flag bearing the conglomerate’s logo fluttered from a pole mounted on the parapet. Below the flag, a string of large black letters spelled out the name VIO FINPROM.

  ‘I admit, it’s not the most elegant building I own, but the renovations are going quite well and security is excellent. It was built back in the time of Stalin; Gipromez used to design metallurgical facilities there. It’s on Prospekt Mira, about thirty minutes away from the center of Moscow. Your apartment is just a few Metro stops away, but we’ve arranged for you to have a car as well – a Saab.’

  Avvakum stared at the photograph but saw her new life instead. Here she was, hurtling across European Russia in a supersonic jet. Ahead lay an apartment, a paying job, a new car, and the culture of Moscow.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, barely able to speak. She felt as though her life had just been saved.

  20

  JULY 11

  Ann Arbor, Michigan

  The sun beat down on the cab of Bud Vesper’s Caterpillar E120B excavator. Even with the windows open, the temperature inside the cab was a good ten degrees hotter than the ninety-five predicted by the cute weathergirl on the local news.

  Yesterday the chairman of the University of Michigan’s physics department and several other dignitaries stood on the manicured lawn behind West Engineering and Randall. They wore unblemished white hard hats, and each was armed with an engraved bronze shovel. They broke ground with great ceremony, each turning a spadeful of sod to celebrate the construction of the modern addition that would join together the two old buildings.

  Today the steel bucket mounted on the end of the Cat’s hydraulic arm bit out thirty times more earth than t
hose ceremonial shovels each time it tore into the ground. After moving several tons of dirt and clay, Vesper called for Darrell Jones, the surveyor on his crew, to check the depth on the cut he was working on.

  Jones motioned that they had reached the specified depth, so Vesper started cutting the next section.

  Fifteen minutes into the new cut, Jones walked over with a story pole – an eight-foot metal ruler with markings accurate to a tenth of an inch. Attached to the pole was an electronic target that emitted a loud tone when struck by the oscillating laser on the surveyor’s transit. Jones held the pole vertical; the laser line was just shy of the target.

  Jones motioned for Vesper to dig a little farther. As the bucket deftly peeled away another few inches of earth, Jones signaled for Vesper to stop as a strange object caught his eye.

  Vesper had exposed a sixteen-inch-long piece of something. Jones dug around the edges of the object, which felt soft and rubbery.

  ‘I hope this isn’t some damn utility line,’ Jones groused.

  He gripped the object with both hands and pulled. It easily sprang loose, and Jones quickly realized that it was a human arm.

  ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ!’ he yelled.

  ‘Hey, Darrell,’ Vesper called out from the excavator.

  ‘Bud!’ Jones screamed, still bug-eyed and frantic. ‘Bud, somebody’s fuckin’ arm is in the goddamn hole!’

  ‘Easy, Jones, easy. Say again?’

  ‘There is a fuc-king arm,’ Jones replied, enunciating each syllable with deliberate precision, ‘in the god-damn hole.’

  Vesper looked down into the excavation and saw an arm lying right where Jones had left it.

  ‘I ain’t no gravedigger,’ Jones complained.

  Vesper shook his head in disgust, knowing that this discovery could set his project schedule back worse than a month of heavy rain. He pulled a phone off his hip and called Fred Murrow, the university’s project manager for this job.