Hot brass cascaded from the ejection port, but there was hardly any noise or recoil as the magazine emptied into the Russian’s torso. King felt the man lurch as the rounds punched through him, but even before the bolt blew back on the last chamber, the Russian slumped atop him, dead or very nearly so.
King heaved the corpse away, his hands now slick with the man’s blood. His eyes caught the glow of a cell phone, its light illuminating Brown’s face. The gambler seemed oblivious to everything else, his attention consumed by whatever was being displayed on the screen. King snatched the device from the other man’s grasp. It was the quantum phone. The small screen showed just two words:
Operation complete.
He grabbed Brown’s shirtfront with his free hand and pulled the man close. “What did you just do?”
The gambler’s defiant smile was particularly creepy in the phone’s glow. “Locked in my bet. Nothing you can do about it now.”
“We’ll see about that,” King growled. He punched Brown squarely on the chin, the slim phone in his hand adding just a little bit of heft to the blow, and the man slumped unconscious onto the deck.
King dropped the quantum phone into his pocket, then bent over Brown and rifled through the man’s clothes to find the Chess Team phone. He was dismayed to see that it was also radiating light; somehow, Brown had activated it. He swiped his thumb over the screen and spoke the voice command that would put him in touch with Deep Blue back at headquarters.
As he waited for the call to connect, he retrieved the Uzi from the fallen commando. A quick search yielded half a dozen magazines of 9 mm rounds for the gun, a satchel full of improvised explosives-flashbangs and claymores, along with loose packets of plastique and blasting caps, and another ballistic knife. He then hauled Brown’s unresisting form into the Zodiac he’d originally commandeered and climbed in after, shoving off from the damaged boat. He didn’t see the third boat anywhere, but the apparent absence of the remaining members of the Spetsnaz team did not fill him with confidence. They were out there somewhere. It was only a matter of time before they realized what he had done. As he aimed the prow of the inflatable craft toward the nearest land-Ile de la Cite-he heard a familiar voice in his ear.
“King!” Deep Blue sounded more frantic than King could recall ever hearing. “What’s happening? Wait…”
King could just make out the words that followed over the whine of the outboard. “Aleman. Abort. I’ve got King on the line.”
Abort? What’s going on?
The voice returned to full strength. “All right, King. Report. And make it quick. We’ve got a shitstorm brewing here.”
King did not immediately answer. He thought about the quantum phone…about how his own phone had been active when he’d taken it from Brown… “I think maybe your problems are related to mine,” he said finally.
He hastily recounted what had happened on the riverboat. Aleman joined the conversation, peppering him with questions he couldn’t answer when the subject of the quantum computer devices were brought up. He didn’t go into detail about the game he had played, and ultimately lost, with Brown, but instead focused on Pradesh.
“Shiva?” Aleman said, using Pradesh’s hacker alias. “That explains what happened here. In fact, it’s the only explanation.”
The tech expert quickly related the details of the cyber-attack, which had inexplicably ended only a few seconds before King had called, and just before he’d pulled the pin on a handful of incendiary grenades that would have reduced the Chess Team mainframe to a puddle of molten goo. The virtual damage was already done; there was now nothing to be gained by physically destroying the mainframe.
“With a quantum computer at his disposal, Shiva could break into any computer, anywhere. Government computers, banks…he’d control everything.”
“I’m not sure that’s Brown’s plan,” King countered. “Think about what we already know. Brown tried to develop an alternative energy source with Bluelight. Then he hosts a conference about the future of energy. And now we know he hired one of the architects of the Stuxnet computer virus to help him design the ultimate computer. What does that add up to?”
There was silence on the line, so King laid out his conclusion. “I think Brown wants control of the power grid. I think he plans to use the quantum computer to put Stuxnet into the computers controlling the grid.
“He was very insistent about making sure that the quantum computers went to ten men, all of them operations managers at big power stations. The power grid is designed so that if one station goes down, the demand can be met by others, but if you could knock out several of them simultaneously, the whole system would crash. I think Brown plans to use that threat to hold the world’s electrical supply hostage.” A light bulb flashed on in his head. “Or maybe he wants to destroy the grid so he can step forward with Bluelight, a power supply that doesn’t require the grid.”
“There’s a problem with that,” Aleman said. “Stuxnet is sophisticated, but it capitalizes on what are called ‘day-zero’ vulnerabilities. In other words, it exploits weaknesses that are built into the original programming language.”
“Then he’s using a different virus,” King said.
“You’re missing the point. Someone like Shiva wouldn’t need a quantum computer to pull off what you’re suggesting. Heaven knows, the power grid is vulnerable enough as it is.”
That stopped King. “You’re saying it would be like trying to drive a nail with a sledge-hammer?”
“More like with a jackhammer. There’s something more going on here.”
“I’ve got one of the quantum phones with me. Maybe we can use it to reverse engineer their system and find a back door. And I’ve got Brown.” King glanced over at the form of his nemesis. Willingly or not, the gambler was going to answer all their questions.
Suddenly a squeal of static filled his ear and he jerked the phone away as if it had stung him. The screen now read:
Connection lost
He waited a moment to see if the problem would resolve itself but there was no change. On an impulse, he took out the quantum phone but its display was dark.
He returned both phones to his pocket and focused on the immediate task of piloting the boat. The wheels of Brown’s plan were now turning, he was sure of that, but where they were rolling was anyone’s guess and time was running out.
25
The cold water was more of shock to Timur Suvorov’s body than the surprise attack that had preceded his plunge into the river. He remembered that Kharitonov had called out to him, warning that something was wrong, but before he could grasp what was happening, another boat had crashed into them and the next thing he knew, he was sinking into the Seine.
Sinking!
He clawed at the water, trying to swim back to the surface, but the weight of his equipment was bearing him into the murky depths like an anchor. He frantically pulled the sling of his Uzi off his shoulder, and then struggled out of the vest containing his spare magazines and an array of improvised grenades. His sodden clothes and boots still felt like an over-garment of concrete, but he was a strong swimmer and his powerful strokes reversed his journey. Nevertheless, his lungs burned with the acid of trapped carbon dioxide. The dark surface seemed impossibly far away…
He broke through with a splash, not caring if doing so revealed his presence to the enemy that had unexpectedly gotten the better of him, and sucked in air greedily.
He was treading water, turning slowly until he spied the barely visible silhouette of a Zodiac, evidently derelict, drifting a few yards away. The sound of a distant outboard motor drifted across the surface of the river but otherwise all was still. He swam over to the abandoned boat, and with no little difficulty, heaved himself up onto the inflated rubber hull.
The smell of fresh blood and recent death hung in the air. His probing hands found a body, wearing an outfit identical to his own. A wave of fear and anger built in his chest as he tore off the black balaclava to reveal the
man’s pale face and light brown hair. Suvorov burst forth in a howl of pain when he recognized the man; his teammate, his brother in every sense but the literal, Ian Kharitonov was dead.
Suvorov peered out across the river and spied the outline of another boat, the still visible wake leading almost directly back to the place where he had surfaced. Kharitonov’s killer-probably one of Brown’s mercenaries-was on that boat and so also, he assumed, was Brown. He mastered his emotions, forcing them down and corking them with a promise.
He couldn’t bring Kharitonov back. All he could do was see the mission through, and hope for a chance to give his friend’s death some meaning.
26
“What are they saying?” Alexander repeated.
Fiona gaped at Alexander. Yet, even if the intensity of his expression and the barely subdued violence of his hold on her shoulders had not left her speechless, she would have been hard pressed to answer his question. She was faintly aware that Sara had moved close, hugging protectively, seemingly trying to pull her away from the big man’s grasp, but Fiona did not move.
She didn’t know how to begin describing what she felt when she looked at the pieces of stone in the display cases. It was different than with the artwork. The paintings and sculptures seemed to both sing and glow, and while she couldn’t quite put that into words-into English words at least-she was starting to feel like she understood. It was like trying to describe a color; there were no words for it, you just had to find an example. She understood that the pieces of rubble had once been art, but whatever message they contained, ought to have been destroyed when the original statues had been blown up. The message of art wasn’t an intrinsic thing; a message written on a piece of paper didn’t fundamentally alter the paper.
Or did it?
Maybe it was like with a computer hard drive, where no matter how hard you tried to erase old data, there were always ways to retrieve the files. At least that was how it worked in all the police shows she watched on television.
Maybe what she was looking at was the original message, but all distorted and jumbled.
She was still trying to figure out how to put that idea into words when a hideous shriek ripped through the room, overpowering the atonal hum from the speakers. She clamped her hands to her ears, but the sound was undiminished, vibrating through every fiber of her body. Behind Fiona, Sara had collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony under the sonic assault that was playing havoc with her sensory disorder.
Alexander whirled to look at his equipment, undisguised concern on his face, then turned back. “Get out of here! Now!”
Fiona didn’t need to be told again. She knelt beside Sara and tried to help her to her feet, aided by an uncomprehending Julia. The electronically amplified shriek changed pitch, cycling randomly through different frequencies and occasionally falling silent, but even when she heard nothing, Fiona could sense that the sounds were still present, albeit at a range inaudible to the ordinary human ear.
Then, with an almost painful abruptness, true silence came.
Sara, now on her feet and braced between Julia and Fiona, gave a tortured gasp but seemed to regain some of her strength.
Julia, sensing that her assistance was no longer required, relaxed her grip and turned to Alexander, who was now hunched over a laptop on the table. The curator hastened to confront him, but whatever demand she had been about to make died on her lips when she reached the big man’s side. Her gaze was riveted to something on the table and after a moment, she reached out and plucked up one of the plastic disks. Even from halfway across the room, Fiona could see that something had changed; the center of the disk was now almost black.
“What does this mean?” Julia asked, thrusting the dosimeter into Alexander’s face, her voice trembling with fear.
The big man’s expression tightened, as if trying to hold back unimaginable grief. “You know what it means. We’ve all been exposed to a concentration of gamma radiation.” He took a breath. “A lethal concentration.”
The pronouncement was too mind-boggling for Fiona to process. Radiation? Lethal? That just didn’t make any sense.
“Gamma rays?” Julia countered, her voice edging on hysteria. “From what?”
Alexander’s reply, if he had intended one, never came, for in the next instant, the room heaved and Fiona felt herself falling sideways into oblivion.
CAUSE/BECAUSE
In the beginning, there was everything.
From the first moment of existence, the first moment of time, the universe was complete.
Before that instant…there was no before. Time did not exist. Nothing existed. And then, the singularity…what scientists would some fourteen billion years later call ‘the Big Bang,’ brought everything into being.
All of the matter and energy that would ever exist began at that moment, as did the laws and forces that would govern their behavior. And because those laws were immutable, the very nature of reality and the ultimate destiny of this new universe existed as well. There was no other possible outcome. Everything that would happen-the changing states of matter and energy, the creation of simple elements from subatomic particles, the forging of the primary elements by gravity and atomic fusion and violent supernovae explosions into more complex metals, the emergence of molecules, even the arrangement of those molecules into living organisms-all of it was, from that incipient moment, inevitable. Everything that would ever exist, existed in that moment as an eventuality.
The final eventuality, where all that had been brought into being would return to the singularity, where even time and concepts such as before and after would cease to have meaning-the thing that Kushan villagers in the Bamiyan Valley had, with astonishing insight, imagined to be Angra Mainyu, demon of darkness and bringer of absolute destruction-had always existed as well, poised like the Sword of Damocles above all that had been made reality in the instant of the singularity.
But this awakening…this was something different.
27
Paris-2028 UTC/Local
King guided the Zodiac north, up the channel separating the two islands, and scanned the banks looking for a place to land the boat. He had just spied a stone ramp, descending from the battlement-like seawall surrounding Ile de la Cite, when the hull beneath him began to shudder as if passing over a washboard. King eased back on the throttle, letting the boat coast, but if anything, the turbulence seemed to increase. The black water all around him rippled violently, sloshing onto the nearby ramp and splashing in frothy waves against the seawall. Huge stone blocks were tumbling from the wall, crashing onto the nearby ramp and splashing into the undulating surface of the river.
King killed the outboard, and as the throaty roar died away, the night became filled with a discordant symphony of car alarms and grinding stone, punctuated every few seconds by an explosion. Even from his low vantage, King could see city lights bobbing crazily. Far off in the distance, a brilliantly illuminated needle shape-the Eiffel Tower-was snapping back and forth like the radio antenna of a speeding car.
“Earthquake?” King muttered. Paris was one of the most geologically stable places in Europe, but impossible as it was, there could be no other explanation.
The shaking continued, intensifying, and the cacophony grew louder. Then, as abruptly as a candle flame being blown out by a stiff wind, the entire skyline went dark. Other lights started to dance across the skyline, not stationary fixtures but the running lights of aircraft-helicopters, he guessed-spiraling chaotically downward to disappear in the darkened cityscape.
King shuddered in horrified disbelief. Helicopters were falling from the sky. An earthquake couldn’t cause that. What the hell is happening?
As suddenly as it had begun, the earthquake stopped. The deep rumbling noise ceased, but the din of the temblor’s aftermath continued to fill the lightless city-strident alarms and screams, punctuated by the crump of distant explosions and collapsing buildings. Though he could barely comprehend it, he knew that in a few mere se
conds, the City of Light had become a disaster zone.
Brown still lay unmoving in the boat, and King dismissed the idea of trying to rouse him. The gambler was unlikely to share anything meaningful and King wasn’t in the mood to entertain the man’s triumphant crowing. He knew that this event was somehow connected to the activation of the quantum phone, and his gut told him that Brown’s grand scheme would not merely be limited to a regional catastrophe. Whatever his plan, this was surely only the opening gambit.
There was one man who would be able to give King the information he needed. Not Brown. From past experience, King knew the gambler rarely troubled himself with the details-the physical realities-of his schemes. No, the man who could answer his questions was the man who had built the quantum phones in the first place.
King fired up the outboard, and brought the boat around, heading back toward the floating casino and the man who had taken his nom de guerre from the Hindu god of destruction. Bandar Pradesh. Shiva.
28
A blazing nail of pain drove through Julia’s head and she opened her eyes gingerly, anticipating a world of bright light that would only intensify the agony.
There was no light. Eyes open or shut, she could hardly tell the difference.
What just happened?
She was lying flat on the floor but the floor itself felt like it was sloping away. She thought that at any moment she might roll uncontrollably downhill. She remained motionless, careful not to let that happen.
A light, tiny but seemingly as brilliant as an arc welder, flared in the total darkness. She shielded her eyes with a hand, and saw a woman holding a small LED keychain light. After a moment, she recognized the woman-the American tourist that had accompanied the girl… Sara, that was her name. Now she remembered the girl… Carutius had known them somehow. And then…
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