Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller)

by M. C. Soutter

  “Look at this tent, are you kidding me?” one exclaimed. “It’s got, um – ” She had to consult the packing list, and even then she seemed briefly at a loss over which items might be worth reading out loud. “It’s got rip-stop material!” she declared, with a happy glance at her partner. To share in the glory of rip-stop. They might never have heard of such a thing, but the concept was easy to grasp. It was a tent that didn’t rip. Miraculous. “Camping is just like anything else,” the lady went on. “It’s about being prepared.”

  Wait a minute.

  “You never know what’s going to happen out there in nature, especially at night. Right Linda? You’ve got to be ready.”

  Oh, no.

  “You’ve got to have the right stuff with you,” the first lady said, rising up on her toes. “You need this equipment! I’ll say it again, you’ve got to get ready!”

  Kevin threw the covers off and got out of bed. He went to his dresser, and he was not surprised at all to find the same set of exercise clothes clean and folded yet again.

  Washed and put away within the last two hours. Naturally.

  He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the home-shopping-network ladies. They had shifted their sales tactic subtly. Now instead of demanding that everyone buy this camping package, they were issuing a challenge. “If you’re not going camping, if you’re not taking a break every once in a while, then what’s the point? I mean honestly, take a vacation! What are you doing with your life?”

  “I don’t know,” Kevin said to the television, without looking up. “But you’re not helping.”

  “Shouldn’t you be camping?” the second lady asked. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Going outside yet again,” Kevin said. “For a walk this time, because I don’t think I could run another step. But I’ve become some sort of obsessive exerciser, so I’ve got to go. No idea why. It makes me feel calm.” He flipped the television off and threw the remote on the bed.

  “See you tomorrow night,” he said to the dark screen.

  A Middle-Of-The-Night Showdown

  The girl was already gone from the couch, out of his apartment. Andrew had somehow managed to wake her and lead her out (or carry her out, for all Kevin knew) and put her into a cab. All without Kevin hearing a thing.

  The man was smooth.

  Kevin came down the elevator and walked through the lobby feeling self-conscious. It was one thing for his personal assistant to have a window into his personal life, but the doorman seemed like a different story. Kevin feared judgment.

  Man goes out.

  Man comes back with a girl, one who has clearly had too much to drink.

  Man goes out and buys even MORE to drink.

  Girl is led out by a different man shortly after; she is dumped into a taxi like yesterday’s laundry.

  The whole scenario sounded like the opening sequence to a bad episode of Law and Order, and Kevin cringed just thinking about it. As he approached the door, he was relieved to see that there was a different man on duty. These doormen all looked similar thanks to their uniforms, but this man was clearly new. He was older than the others, and his face had a hollow, chiseled look that reminded Kevin of an endurance athlete. A professional bicycle racer or a runner.

  Guy’s been on a few late-night jogs of his own.

  Kevin nodded at the man as he passed, but he was surprised to see a stern look directed his way. He stopped.

  “What?”

  The doorman shrugged, but his sharp face and cold eyes sucked the leniency out of the gesture. He waited an extra moment. “Everyone needs to rest,” he said finally.

  Kevin nodded, relieved to be getting off so easily. He had been picturing the doormen gossiping with one another during the shift change, relating Kevin’s sordid late-night comings and going. But no, this man was only worried about the hour.

  “Can’t sleep,” Kevin explained. “Taking a walk.” He pumped his arms quickly back and forth, as though illustrating a strange new concept in athletics. “No big deal.”

  The doorman shook his head. “I’m not talking about sleep,” he said, as though there had been a misunderstanding. “I mean rest. One is a luxury, the other is essential.”

  Kevin nodded again, but now something was off. The doorman was not stepping out of the way.

  Kevin felt himself growing uncomfortable.

  “Could you unlock the door?”

  The man stared at him for another moment, and Kevin wondered if this was going to turn into some kind of bizarre, middle-of-the-night showdown. But then the darkness left the man’s face, and all at once everything was normal again. He reached over and turned the bolt lock, opened the door, and released Kevin into the wild of the Manhattan streets.

  Kevin let out a little breath of air.

  Well, that was exciting.

  There was no traffic. He walked slowly toward the park, trying to keep his mind empty. Which didn’t work for long.

  Get ready.

  “Right, but I’m exhausted,” he said out loud.

  He was starting to realize how truly tired he really was, and he had to admit to himself that the doorman was right. Whether it was insomnia or anxiety or anything else, he was not letting himself recover properly. He considered going back and asking the man for advice; who better to discuss sleep deprivation than a night doorman? Plus, he was clearly a veteran, a man who had all kinds of experience with insomniacs. He was surely not part of the new crew like all the other men Kevin had met so far –

  Hold on.

  Kevin stopped in his tracks. He was at the entrance to Central Park, but now he turned around and forced himself to run straight back the way he had come. His legs cried out to him, cried out that they had nothing left, but he ignored them. He demanded any and all energy left in his system, and he ran. It was only seven blocks back to his apartment, and this was important.

  Don’t go anywhere. Just stay there. I’m coming.

  He was on Park Avenue now. Five blocks to go.

  Wait for me.

  67th Street. Almost there.

  He put on a final surge of speed to cover the last block, and he was pleased to see how quickly he could still move. He came to the door and put his hand on the glass, and the door opened immediately. Kevin burst in, leaned over, and put a finger up, signaling the man to give him a second to catch his breath.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Listen. When did you – ”

  But then Kevin stopped. He straightened up and looked at the doorman in shock and disappointment.

  It was not the same man.

  “Where’s the other guy?” Kevin demanded.

  The doorman looked back at him blankly. Baby-faced, sleepy. Like all the others.

  “The guy who was here five minutes ago,” Kevin said, his voice shaking with frustration. “Three minutes ago. Older, a little taller. He looks like an athlete.”

  A slow shake of the head. Confused and apologetic. “Sorry if you had to wait,” the doorman said. “I was in the bathroom for a second. Usually not too many people coming in and out this time of night, you know?” He gave Kevin a sheepish look, a look that asked for understanding.

  Can’t a man get a few minutes in the bathroom with a magazine now and then? It’s two-thirty in the morning.

  Kevin dropped his head and leaned against the door.

  Now the doorman was worried. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  The man nodded with relief, and he waited to see which direction this tortured, out-of-breath late-night jogger was actually hoping to go. After a minute Kevin stood up again and headed out.

  “Have a good night,” the doorman called. His voice was still worried.

  Kevin was moving even more slowly now. He was going to take a long walk, maybe twice around the loop if he didn’t collapse first. At this pace, it would probably take him the rest of the night.

  Which would be fine. Anything to get to morning.

  If He Can Surv
ive

  The man with the chiseled face left his doorman uniform in a trashcan at the corner of Lexington and 68th, and then he ducked down a set of stairs leading to the subway. He rode the 6-train uptown for one stop, then got off and climbed the steps to the corner of 77th street. He reached into his pocket and took out a cellphone, its design identical to the one assigned to his primary mark. He whispered to the phone, and the screen lit up.

  “Yes.”

  The man began walking quickly uptown.

  “It’s me. I just left. Can’t go back, he got me. But that’s not why I’m calling. He’ll need to come in soon.” A pause. “No, that’s part of the problem. He’s not sleeping.” The man sped up briefly to cross the street ahead of oncoming traffic. He was very fast. His motions were sure and strong, a combination of power and quickness.

  “Right, I told him that,” the man said, sounding exasperated. “Which is why I had to leave. He came back.”

  The man stopped and spun around suddenly, scanning the area behind him like a deer checking a meadow for hunters. Then he turned back and continued on his way.

  “Exactly,” he said. “And he’s not resting at all. That’s what I’m saying. He’ll have to come in. But listen, don’t get cute. Keep it simple. Give him the minimum.”

  Another pause.

  “No, otherwise he’s fine. Good progress, good focus. He’s picking it up. He’s quicker than I thought. What?” He put his hand on his head and looked at the sky. “Right. Sorry about that. He wasn’t supposed to remember that place at all. That cleaning woman was using a fake social, so we missed her. Got her out of there later that night, though. Beyond that, what can I do? The building’s there. If he wants to go sniffing around, it’s his choice. There’s nothing to find. It’s not going to hurt him.”

  The man glanced once more behind him, and then he ducked down the stairs to the subway stop on 86th street. The downtown platform.

  “No, I feel better now. I think he’ll be ready. All things considered, I’d say he’s doing well.”

  Another pause.

  “Well, obviously. If he can survive the next week and a half. That’s what I mean.”

  He ended the call and put the phone away.

  Jacob Brought His Fist Down

  When Kevin finally made it back to his apartment after his endless walk, it was 6AM, and faint light was making its way into the sky. He was shaking with fatigue, but he was still not sleepy. He felt as though he had just been given a large dose of coffee. Or maybe something stronger: adrenaline or bretylium or whatever a doctor would use to revive an addict who had overdosed on heroine. He could hear his own frantically racing heart pounding away in his ears.

  And now it was time to get ready for school.

  I’m not going to make it, he thought.

  Five blocks away, in the apartment loft on 72nd street, Jacob Savian’s computer was making a soft humming noise. Someone was trying to place a video call.

  George Savian was in the near corner behind Jacob; he was busy positioning a huge mirror on the wall. The mirror would normally have taken two able-bodied men to hang, but George was not having any difficulty. He was holding it near one of the bottom corners, bracing it with a hand and one knee, and occasionally glancing behind him at his brother. “Here?”

  Jacob squinted and tried to judge the mirror’s angle. It didn’t look centered to him. But in any case he couldn’t concentrate with that humming sound coming from his computer. He spun around in his chair and punched the keyboard. “What?”

  The Organizer’s face popped into view. His expression was serious. There was something to report, but Jacob couldn’t tell whether it was good news or bad.

  “Let’s have it.”

  “There was a cop talking to some of our guys,” the Organizer said. “Asking questions.” The Organizer was speaking slowly. Treading lightly.

  “Okay. So?”

  “A bunch of questions. Writing things down.”

  “Right,” Jacob said impatiently. “Fine. That’s the whole point of the painters and the vans, isn’t it? Get everybody feeling nice and cozy. Just a bunch of painters, the same painters you see every day on that street. They’re always passing through with their van. Hey there, friendly painter guys. Good to see you.”

  The Organizer nodded. “Yes, you put it well.” He coughed, a superfluous gesture that Jacob found unsettling. The Organizer was not someone who stalled.

  “What is it?” Jacob said, his impatience turning to anxiety. “Stop hedging. What happened?”

  The Organizer let it out. “One of our men decided that the officer constituted an unacceptable risk.”

  Jacob tilted his head. “And?”

  “Our man killed the officer.”

  Jacob blinked several times, making him look like someone forced to step from a dark room into blinding sunlight. “Where?” he said finally.

  The Organizer took a breath. “Two blocks from the school.”

  Jacob brought his fist down on the keyboard, snapping the spacebar in two. The video connection ended abruptly, and the Organizer’s face disappeared from the screen. Jacob put his head down and gripped the edges of his desk.

  He stayed in this position for several minutes, thinking.

  Finally he seemed to come to a decision. He turned back to George, who was still patiently holding the enormous framed mirror in place. George did not seem to be struggling; his mind was elsewhere.

  “You can put that down,” Jacob said.

  George looked at the mirror as if he had forgotten he was holding it, and then he placed it gently on the ground. The huge frame made a creaking sound as it leaned against the wall.

  “Did you know that the first computer would have barely fit inside this room?” Jacob asked suddenly.

  George shook his head placidly, as if to demonstrate, with the gentle wag of his great, battering-ram of a head, that he simply did not care about such things.

  “It was huge, but it was still a miracle machine,” Jacob went on. “It could do all kinds of calculations faster than any human.” He patted the chair next to him, inviting George to come sit down. George obliged him. He had been thinking about his next painting, and he could afford to humor his brother for a few minutes. “Speed has always been the thing,” Jacob said. “It’s what makes computers useful. Watch.”

  He turned and began typing on one of the two remaining keyboards at his desk, and in seconds a map had appeared on the center monitor. “That search took less than a second of Google’s CPU time, and now I have the location of every police station in Manhattan. With a little more effort, I could find the name of every officer in the city. And if you put a bunch of people to work, they could dig up the home addresses of every single one of those officers.”

  George nodded. Excruciatingly boring, his expression said, but very nice. The painting was coming together in his mind, slowly and pleasantly. As a painting should. A winter scene this time, sleds on a hill. Maybe in the park.

  “But interpretation is a different matter,” Jacob was saying now. “The ability to rise above the data, to make sense of it all in an intelligent way – this is what computers will never be able to do.”

  “Okay,” George said gently, starting to get up from his chair. “Let’s get this mirror hung, and then I’m going to – ”

  “You have to listen to this,” Jacob said sharply. “You have to understand what we’re doing. Why we’re doing it.”

  George sighed and sat back down in his chair. “Maybe you could go ahead and get to it, then,” he said. “I hear you scheming every morning with your odd army-type friends on the computer, but you haven’t explained a thing.”

  “Be patient.”

  “I am.”

  They stared at each other silently for a moment, and then Jacob spoke again. “I want to explain the singularity,” he said slowly. He was trying to avoid sounding patronizing, and only partly succeeding.

  “Go for it.”

  Jacob n
odded. “If this man, this Pascal Billaud, does manage to solve an NP problem, then computers will be intelligent. They will be able to interpret and synthesize.”

  “Okay,” George said. “Great. And then what?”

  “Nobody knows!” Jacob said, his voice rising suddenly. “And it’s not great. When a computer can solve an NP problem, anything’s possible. Computers can come up with new stuff. They can invent things. Actually create new ideas.”