by Brian Nelson
Jack stepped through another air lock. Along both walls, rows of pressure suits, about a hundred on each side, sagged on their hangers, looking like condemned prisoners. This was the part he hated most. To get to the end of the corridor, you had to walk through them, and as big as he was, they always brushed against him. Jack tried to get it over with as quickly as he could. He had heard stories about people who had exposed themselves working with viruses like Marburg and Ebola. He shuddered at the thought. They put you into quarantine if that happened, sometimes for weeks. He considered it torture. Confined away from the world while doctors in suits like these came to examine you. And with nothing to do but think about how the virus you exposed yourself to was replicating inside you.
Finally, he reached a spacious changing room and the final air lock. Another biohazard triskelion and a warning: do not enter without wearing ventilated suit.
He swiped his pass card one last time and stepped into the main lab.
And there, sitting calmly at a huge table with three iSheets open in front of him, was Bill Eastman. “Ah, Jack, there you are.”
“I can’t believe you like it here,” he said, shaking his head.
“Love it! It’s the first place I’ve found in ten years where I can get some peace and quiet.”
“Yes, because the place scares the bejesus out of everyone else.”
“Precisely.”
Jack tossed his own iSheet on the table to show his annoyance and sat down heavily. “Did you notice I’m irritated?”
“Immediately,” Bill said.
“And do you know why?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“You should have told me Eric was Monty Hill’s son.” Jack said, giving Bill a hard stare. He remembered the night in the hangar, when he sensed that Bill was holding something back. This was a side of his friend that often grated on him: when he played puppet master, using that formidable brain of his to manipulate people.
Bill shook his head. “No. If you didn’t already know, then it wasn’t for me to tell you. Don’t you see? I didn’t want it to influence your decision to hire him. What’s more, there was Eric to consider. Not only does he not want to be in Monty’s shadow, but a suicide like that, when the person is so well known, becomes a very public event. He’s never brought it up, has he?”
“No, never.”
“Of course not,” Bill said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning close. “And please do me a favor and don’t go pressing him about it, either. The family really disintegrated after Monty died. A lot of pointing fingers about what pushed him over the edge. In many ways, Eric lost a lot more than his father. He lost his whole family.”
“All right,” Jack said, his anger dissipating. He remembered when it happened. The headlines. “It’s a shame. I heard Monty was brilliant.”
“Oh, he was one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. An incredible mind, until …” Bill trailed off. “Did you notice Eric’s age?”
Jack shrugged. “I assumed he was twenty-eight or twenty-nine like most of the postdocs.”
Bill shook his head. “He’s only twenty-six. He graduated a semester early from MIT with a double major, then shaved a year and a half off his PhD.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up. “He’s driven. That’s good.”
“Or he’s afraid he’s going to run out of time.”
“Out of time?”
“No one knows exactly what Monty had, but the cycles were getting worse every year. I saw it myself. Eric must have seen it, too. Monty was losing his mind. That would explain why Eric’s in a hurry. He thinks he’s inherited it.” Bill took a long drink from his coffee. “But this is all beside the point. It’s almost time for the re-opt. Are you going to keep him, or let him go? I had very high hopes for him, but after today …” He trailed off, thinking about the meeting. “Olex certainly doesn’t like him.”
Jack gave a snort. “If we kept people on the basis of what Olex thought, we’d have only one employee: Olex. Besides, the architect job is a tough one.”
Bill smiled. “Yet I noticed you didn’t come to his rescue today like you did with Isaac. You let Olex humiliate him.”
Jack gave a slow nod. “Yes, I did. Because on this occasion, I think Olex might have done us a favor. I’ve seen this type of thing before. Either Eric’s going to channel all that emotion into something positive, or he’ll give up.”
“So you want to keep him?”
Jack waited a moment before he answered. “I haven’t decided.”
Chapter Nine
The Spy
June 19, 2025
Tangshan, China
The Fly looked again in the rearview mirror. They were still there, four cars back: two stone-faced men in a black BYD sedan. At first, he had laughed at himself. It was so cliché. I mean, come on: two secret policemen in a black BYD? Everyone knew it was their vehicle of choice—the way all the stories began when people talked about the disappeared. But now, as they matched his third turn since leaving the base, he felt his fear escalating.
Just a coincidence, he told himself. Besides, would they be so obvious? You’re just being paranoid. Meng doesn’t suspect a thing.
Then why are they following you?
Asking the question made his gut as heavy as lead. But what about the drop? He had made two dozen identical drops over the past two years, all brilliant in their simplicity. But now? Don’t do it. It’s too dangerous.
But, you have to warn them.
Just yesterday, he had gotten a lucky peek at General Meng’s own files. Project Crimson. You have to warn them.
But how?
He turned right onto Xinhua Road. The black sedan made the turn leisurely, then closed the gap. He could see them in the rearview mirror. At the wheel was an older man with a fat, round face and invisible eyes. In the passenger seat was a younger man, with short hair that bristled up like a brush. He wanted to look closer for some clue that would either confirm or dismiss his rising fear, but he dare not let his eyes linger in the mirror. One thing he knew was that he could not let his disguise break. He had to keep up the illusion that all was normal. Of course, he hadn’t noticed the sedan. Why should he? He had nothing to hide.
But they were definitely following him. He could deny it no longer. He decided against making the drop. He would just keep driving, go to a different restaurant. But then they would notice the change in the routine. After all, he went to the same restaurant every Thursday afternoon. The simple act of varying his schedule would heighten their suspicion. Shit. Shit. Shit. In the movies, being a spy was always glamorous and thrilling. And truth be told, it had been thrilling. He got a high off the danger. Sure, there were those first few months, when he had made himself sick with worry, but with each success he began to enjoy it more and more. He loved outsmarting General Meng and all his cronies, stealing right from under their stupid noses. He had grown confident, even smug, so certain they would never catch him. But, suddenly, within the span of three or four minutes, all that had changed. Now his insides twisted like wet clothes wrung by strong hands. Fool, you should never have gotten into this. The risk was too great. Your wife, your son …
Then the adult, the rational side of him, regained control. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. They know nothing. That’s exactly why they’re being so obvious: to spook you. If they knew that it was you, you’d be strapped to a chair on level forty-nine with Meng himself holding the alligator clips from the car battery. Just keep up the mask. It’s normal to be frightened; just don’t show it. Remember, you’re good. You can handle this. Just don’t give them any reason to suspect. Once they suspect you, really suspect you, it will bring a cascade of scrutiny until …
He exhaled and drew in a long, slow breath.
He really was good. It was no exaggeration. In many ways, he was the perfect spy. An affable, lika
ble man, charming enough that women liked him, but not so charming that other men hated him for it. He made people laugh, put them at ease. And then, of course, there was who he was. Who he knew. He was the most powerful man in the Tangshan lab—if political connections were the measure of one’s power. For he knew half the members of the Central Committee and had known them since he was a child. They called him Xiaolong, the little dragon, and treated him like a nephew. His father had been the governor of Tianjin, and his grandfather had served Mao loyally for twenty-five years and been one of the few to survive the purges. It was unthinkable that he would betray his country. And that kept them all blind to the truth.
And there was one last thing that made him the perfect spy: his job. The irony of it. He was a spy hunter: a party official assigned to the Tangshan lab to ferret out informants.
Despite these advantages, outwitting General Meng and his cronies was no small feat. Information in the lab was strictly compartmentalized so that few scientists could grasp the big picture and thus aid the enemy. The computers themselves could not talk to one another. Important files were stored in a virtual library, and authorized users could only check out the files pertinent to their specialty. It was also impossible to make copies of any file. Memory sticks, phones, iSheets, and visual enhancements were strictly controlled. Employees could us phones and iSheets, of course, but these were issued to them by PLA Security, and all the information they contained—call history, texts, and photos—was accessible to Meng at any time.
Finally and most crucially, there were the hundreds of cameras, all equipped with facial recognition, that constantly tracked the physical location of each employee. If anyone entered an area where they were not permitted, it triggered an immediate alarm.
And yet, the spy could still move about the lab undetected. “Xiaolong, why can’t I find him?” Meng had asked one day.
Because you are looking in the wrong place, Bo Li thought to himself. Meng still suspected one of the scientists—he had even jailed two of them. It had not occurred to him to watch the watcher, the man who checked the scientists’ files for evidence of sabotage or copying. And this was perhaps the sweetest part: Bo Li was capturing terabytes of data without ever copying a file, without ever plugging his phone or iSheet into a computer. It was brilliant. It was genius. It was perfect. And they had no idea how he did it.
“I don’t know, General,” Bo Li had said, “but we’ll have to keep looking. I’m beginning to suspect a network of spies, all scientists, who are working together, sharing information, and meeting on the outside.” Meng had nodded in agreement; it made sense. Bo Li had suppressed a smile.
But now he was suppressing his fear instead as he parked in the trendy shopping district known as Phoenix Heights, north of downtown. It was the wealthiest area of the city, filled with sports cars, chrome-covered motorcycles, and American Jeeps and Buicks. He got out of the car and put on his sunglasses, resisting the urge to look at the black sedan just a few cars back. Instead, he turned around slowly, taking in all the glitter and commerce, as if he were thoroughly enjoying his afternoon off. On the sidewalk, he saw the usual: rich, skinny women with oversize sunglasses, and businessmen full of swagger. He fell into the stream of pedestrians with his typical lazy confidence, feeling more and more certain that he was safe.
It was logical, after all, that Meng should begin expanding his surveillance beyond the core scientists. Bo Li would be just one of a dozen people now being tailed by the Secret Police. When he saw Meng tomorrow, he would compliment him on the idea, make a joke about it. He knew they would follow him around for a month or so, and when they found nothing, they would leave him alone.
Halfway down the block was the restaurant—red and white, decorated with the image of an old man with a white chin beard. Fetching dark-eyed girls in tight pants stood outside with coupons, welcoming a steady stream of customers. The wonderful smells pulled Bo Li toward the door. KFC. He loved their Peking duck and the “Taste of Ireland,” a whole chicken bathed in Irish cream.
This was where the drop would be. Do it in a conspicuous place, doing a mundane thing. Stay in plain sight. Meet no one. Touch no one. Leave no evidence of your transaction. He was going to do it, he reminded himself—and right under their stupid noses.
He ordered the Taste of Ireland and took it on its red plastic tray to a table right in front of the window. He looked out at the busy street and the bustling traffic. A minute later the two secret policemen settled into a corner booth. They hadn’t bothered to order anything. They were just sitting there, the fat one with the round face talking on his cell phone. The younger one, Bo Li now saw, was outrageously fit, the veins on his forearms visible from here. Bo Li gave an inner sigh. Amateurs.
His chicken was wrapped in wax paper. He picked it up with both hands and bit into the breast. Though his stomach was still feeling queasy, he made a point of eating every bite, even sucking the meat off each individual rib bone. When he was done, he cleaned his fingers one by one with a napkin.
It was time.
Bo Li rubbed one eye and then the other, just as he had practiced, then wiped his fingers one last time on his napkin. He leaned back in his chair. A pretty girl wearing the Colonel Sanders logo over her ample breasts came and asked if he was finished. He nodded dismissively, and his tray disappeared.
He stood and dusted some crumbs from his lap, then walked out the door into the street. There. It was done. He began to relax a little, his calm expression no longer a false front. In just a few hours, the Americans would be warned. They would know about Project Crimson. Bo Li checked his watch: 2:15 p.m. The two idiots in the corner had seen everything. And nothing.
Bo Li gave thanks to the man who made it possible: David Evanston, a man he had never met.
Five years earlier, Evanston had been working for Hydro Polymer Designs as a biochemist when he made an amazing discovery: a morphing synthetic plasma (a liquid plastic) that could copy the characteristics of half the periodic table. It was a revolutionary discovery: a plastic that could behave like silicon, copper, antimony, platinum, mercury, or strontium, among others. Not only that, it could switch forms in the blink of an eye. The young scientist had quickly realized the potential of such a plastic. Within a year, the first prototype was unveiled at the 2021 World Tech Forum.
It was an ordinary-looking piece of transparent lamination, the size of an 8½” × 11” sheet of paper and only slightly more rigid. Touch a button or give an audible command, and the page filled with text. It was a fully functional computer. Unfold the edge, and it became twice its original size. Unfold it again, and it was the size of an opened newspaper. Very thin. Very slick.
But that wasn’t even the half of it. You could fold it down, too. And you could keep folding and folding. Each time, the plasma would reorganize inside and create a new device. Fold it eight times, and it was the size of billfold and functioned as a phone or camera. Unfold it a few times, and it was a screen and keyboard for a laptop. Fold up the keyboard and it was a tablet. At any stage, at any size, it was a computer, a camera, a phone, a music player. Light and super thin, you could even wad it up into a ball and throw it across the room. Just unwrap it, flatten it with your palm, and it was ready to go.
Twenty-seven hours after the prototype was showcased, Hydro Polymer Designs was purchased in a hostile takeover by Apple Inc. The rest was history. When the iSheet hit the market nine months later, it was an overnight success. People did away with their laptops, tablets, phones, and cameras for one simple featherweight device that did it all.
It was currently believed that the smallest functional iSheet was two inches square. Everyone said it was impossible to make them any smaller. But Bo Li knew that this was not exactly true. At the behest of the US Navy, Apple had created a functional iSheet that was a tiny disk twelve millimeters in diameter—the size of a contact lens. Bo Li knew this because just a few minutes ago, he had had an
iSheet over each eye.
Chapter Ten
The Horseshoe Crab
May 27, 2025
Naval Research Laboratory, Washington, DC
Phase 1 Deadline: T-minus six months and ten days
Eric left the staff meeting with his eyes down, avoiding everyone’s gaze. He headed for the apartment block, struggling to act normal, to keep his appearance neutral, so that the anger and frustration didn’t show. It was no big deal. Stay cool.
As he tried to put his key into the lock, it fell from his trembling hand. He let out a seething breath and tried again. Once inside his apartment, he threw his back to the door, trying to control his breathing, trying to control his temper.
It didn’t work. He exploded in a wild fury.
First, he yanked up the mattress and flung it aside. Then he plunged his fingers through the thin fabric of the box spring, heaved it up, and hurled it against the wall. But just as he was releasing it, a spring cut into his palm, making a nasty gash. Howling, he stomped on the box spring until he heard the wood crack. Next, he gave the closet door a hard kick, then beat it with his fists. He felt the skin split and saw blood. He didn’t care. The pain felt good. It was release. His eyes fell on the desk chair, then the closet door, and he decided impulsively that he would split the door apart with it. His bloody hands made it difficult to grip the leather-backed chair, but soon he held it over one shoulder and swung it like a bat against the door. He heard the satisfying pop and crunch of splitting wood. Good … good. Then he heard a loud knock on his door.
“Hey, you all right in there?”
He ignored his neighbor but dropped the chair. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, and looked around at the wreckage. He felt the blood dripping from his battered hand. Breathe, breathe. Control it. He sucked in air loudly through his nose. That’s it, deep and slow. But then the rage surged again. With a savage kick, he sent the battered chair cartwheeling across the floor. It hit the radiator with a resonating crash. Again the knock on the door. Okay, enough. He wanted to go on, but that would just bring more trouble.