“Very convenient,” said Rosenblatt.
Jake’s demeanor darkened. “This conversation is now at an end,” he said through clenched teeth. “I need you to tell me where I can find Miller and Desh. And after that, the names of everyone who is a part of their little cabal.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” said Rosenblatt. He glanced at the computer once again. At his helpless family, and the armed men looming nearby. “But I can’t tell you how to find them,” he added, panic creeping into his voice. “They and the other two members of the core council are more careful than you can imagine. They move around all the time, and even they don’t know each other’s whereabouts unless they have to. And I’m just a junior member.”
Jake’s expression could not have been grimmer. “I warned you, doctor,” he said evenly. He spoke into his cell phone once more and on the tablet computer one of Jake’s men pulled out a high-caliber weapon and a small red circle appeared on the forehead of Rosenblatt’s sleeping five-year-old daughter. She was wearing a bright yellow sun dress and had the serene look of an angel.
Rosenblatt shook his head in absolute terror, his eyes bulging from their sockets. It was impossible to love anyone or anything more than he loved this beautiful little girl; a girl whose inner spirit and zest for life were infectious and a never-ending joy to be around. He choked back bile.
“You have thirty seconds to tell me how to find Kira Miller, Dr. Rosenblatt. And don’t make up a fake location to buy time. If Miller isn’t where you tell me, I’ll wipe out more than just your daughter. I hope to hell you believe me.”
Rosenblatt forced himself to turn away from the tablet computer and think. Would they really kill a five-year-old child in cold blood? He refused to believe it. But how could he possibly take that chance?
But how could he give up Kira Miller? He knew what she and the group were trying to accomplish. What was at stake for the entire human race, including vastly extended life for billions, and possible immortality within a generation. His captor had told him this was a lie, but he had seen the evidence himself. And he knew Jake’s other accusations were fabrications as well. Desh and Miller and the entire group were being framed somehow. He didn’t know by whom, but he knew it was happening.
Kira Miller was the key to unimaginable improvements in the human condition. The key to the next step in human evolution—directed evolution. She was the harbinger of an eventual galaxy or universe spanning intellect. Rosenblatt had been enhanced himself, and was well aware of the dangers, but he was also intimately aware of the breathtaking potential.
Far too much was at stake for him to betray Kira. But he had to protect his baby girl. He would sacrifice the entire universe if this is what it took to save his daughter.
But did he have to? Jake had to be bluffing. He had to be. He couldn’t be certain that Rosenblatt wasn’t telling the truth. This was simply a test. If Rosenblatt stuck to his guns and didn’t waver, even in the face of an impossible threat, Jake would have to believe him. No father would lie when up against this kind of compulsion.
“I’m waiting, Dr. Rosenblatt. You have ten seconds left.”
Tears began streaming down the physicist’s face. “I really don’t know,” he said, his voice distilled panic. “Really,” he pleaded. “I would tell you if I did. Oh God, I would tell you. I’ll do anything. Don’t do this.”
Rosenblatt wasn’t near the edge of hysteria, he was over the edge. He was betting his daughter’s life he could convince Jake he was telling the truth, so his terror at the prospect of losing her forever—worse, of miscalculating and being responsible for her death—couldn’t have been more real. “Miller and Desh are insanely paranoid,” he babbled on. “I’ll tell you anything you want. But I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”
Although his vision was distorted by tears, Rosenblatt saw a deeply troubled look come over Jake’s face. What did this mean? Was he convinced that Rosenblatt didn’t know Kira’s location? How could he not be convinced? No father on earth would hold this information back in these circumstances. That’s all Jake was after. He had produced the ultimate threat to be absolutely certain he had gotten all the information there was to get. And now he could be sure.
Jake whispered into the phone, and on the computer screen the man aiming the gun at Rosenblatt’s lovely daughter pulled the trigger. Jessica’s small head exploded like a melon dropped from a skyscraper, scattering blood and brain matter across the room and spraying the other unconscious members of Rosenblatt’s family.
“Nooooo!” screamed the wiry physicist, almost losing consciousness—his mind unable to cope with a blow to his psyche this great. “Noooo!”
“Should we move on to your next oldest daughter, or are you beginning to remember where I can find David Desh and Kira Miller?”
An expression of pure, thrilling hatred wrapped around Rosenblatt’s face, even as the tears continued to pour down his cheeks, but only for a moment. He was too shattered to maintain any emotion other than profound guilt, and bottomless grief. “I’ll tell you what you want,” he tried to say through sobs and the heaving of his body, but the words were unintelligible.
Jake nodded anyway. “Good,” he said, having easily guessed their meaning. “But you need to compose yourself first. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Jake exited the steel shed, never glancing back at the emptied husk of a man behind him, who was sobbing into the one arm that wasn’t handcuffed to a steel chair.
***
The moment the door of the shed swung shut, Jake steadied himself against the trunk of a nearby maple tree. He was shaking and fought to stop the moisture accumulating in the corners of his eyes from sliding down his face.
He closed his eyes and took several deep, cleansing breaths. Finally, regaining some semblance of control over his emotions, he walked the twenty or so yards to where the white minivan was parked. One of his men was monitoring the area for trespassers, but this was possibly the most secluded spot in Princeton and they hadn’t expected to have to turn anyone away.
He opened the door to the minivan and slid inside. His second in command, Major John Kolke, who had been monitoring the interrogation on a video monitor, was waiting inside, along with a lieutenant.
Jake turned to the lieutenant, his eyes still wet. “Please excuse us,” he barely managed to get out. “I need to be alone with Major Kolke.”
The moment the man left, the major caught his commander’s eye. “Are you okay, sir?” he asked softly, concern written all over his face.
Jake didn’t answer the question, but looked deathly ill. “What kind of hold does Kira Miller have on these people?” he whispered, his eyes wide with horror. “How could he have been willing to risk his daughter’s life?”
Kolke shook his head solemnly but did not reply.
“I can’t do this anymore,” muttered Jake, his eyes becoming moist once again. “I’ve been in firefights against overwhelming odds, and I’ve never complained. But this is too much to ask of anyone.”
“Colonel, I know the scene was devastatingly realistic. And I know you had to commit to the bit a thousand percent. But you’ve immersed yourself too deeply into method acting. Pull yourself back. You know it was only a special effect. That little girl is probably scribbling in a coloring book at her preschool even as we speak.”
Jake shook his head. “I know that. But what I did to that man’s soul wasn’t a special effect. I tortured him far worse than if I would have pulled out his fingernails. It was beyond cruel.” He looked away. “If you could have seen the look on his face.” He shuddered. “I have a little girl myself. I can’t even imagine . . . ”
Jake lowered his eyes and fought once again to compose himself.
“You had to learn if he was holding a bluff all the way to the end,” said Kolke. “And now you know. He was. The important thing is that we’re within twenty-four hours of bringing down the most dangerous person on the planet. You’ll be saving millions
of lives.”
Jake nodded but didn’t look any better.
“Colonel, you’ve just proven once again that you’re the right man for this job,” continued Kolke. “Rosenblatt wasn’t the only one being tested. If killing a single innocent girl to save millions—or even just pretending to do so—eats at your soul, you’re the right man. If you can do something like this and it doesn’t tear you apart, then you’re the last person who should wield the kind of power that comes with this job.”
Jake looked away, alone with his thoughts for almost a minute. Finally, he took a deep breath, put his hand on the arm of his second in command, and said, “Thanks, John. This helps.” In reality it hadn’t helped much, but Jake knew it would have to be enough. He had a job to do.
“Now that you’ve cracked Rosenblatt,” said Kolke, “do you still want four men surveiling his family?”
“No. That’s overkill. Recall Perez and Ferguson. Tell the other two we don’t expect trouble, but to be cautious since there won’t be any backup for them to call in. And that if anything suspicious happens, don’t hesitate to use the satellites.”
“I’ll tell them.”
Jake nodded and turned to the small monitor. Rosenblatt had sobbed himself dry. His head was still down on the table and he was whimpering softly. “He’s shattered,” said Jake. “But I think he’s reached the point where he can make himself understood. I’d better go back in and get the information we need.”
“What’s the plan once you do?”
“He’s just an innocent pawn. Once we kill Miller and imprison Desh and the others in the core council, we just have to make sure none of the peripheral players have access to her treatment. She’s the only one capable of developing it from scratch. Once she’s dead the threat is over. We’ll hold him until we’ve taken her out, and then we can let him and the others go back to their lives. We can keep them under surveillance for a few years, just to be sure. . .”
He stepped out of the minivan, but turned back to face John Kolke before he left. “I’d love to tell him the truth the moment he gives Kira Miller up. Tell him his little girl is fine. That it was all just a computer generated illusion.” He sighed. “But I can’t, of course. Not until we’re sure we’ve got Miller. Just in case we still need leverage on him.” A pained look crossed his face.
“Keep in mind how many lives you’re about to save,” said Kolke once again. “The country needs you.”
“Yeah,” said Jake in disgust. “I’m a fucking hero.”
He moved away from the minivan as its door slid quietly shut behind him. When he reached the steel shed, he took a deep breath, gathered himself, put a stern expression on his face, and opened the door.
Where are you, Kira Miller?
He was just seconds away from—finally—finding out.
4
Dr. Anton van Hutten, full professor in Stanford’s department of applied mathematics and theoretical physics, stepped lightly onto the steep escalator, moving to one side of the grooved silver steps to let those in more of a hurry rush down unobstructed. He had a broad cherubic face, thinning hair that was turning white, and black-framed Harry Potter glasses that contrasted with his hair and light complexion. Several men and one woman formed a rough semicircle fifteen feet from the bottom, each holding up a sign with a name on it. He walked over to one of them, a man wearing tan slacks and an Oxford knit shirt who had an air of self-assurance and competence.
“Dr. van Hutten?” asked the man as he approached, lowering the sign on which van Hutten’s name was written.
The professor nodded.
“Welcome to Denver. Did you check a bag?”
Van Hutten shook his head. “I’ve only brought myself, I’m afraid.”
The driver nodded and motioned for him to follow. Van Hutten knew they were proceeding to the vehicle that would transport him to the somewhat mysterious Center for Research Excellence, abbreviated CREX, a think tank nearby.
Van Hutten had received a call two weeks earlier from a woman who introduced herself as Devon—no last name given. She was affiliated with CREX, a think tank near Denver, she explained, and wanted to sign him up as a consultant. Was he available for a full day in two weeks time?
He wasn’t sure, he had told her. He had several important meetings in the morning and early afternoon on the day she had suggested.
But Devon had assured him they’d be happy to host him from five in the afternoon until nine at night. While normally they would ask him to fly commercial, in this case they would schedule a chartered flight so he could return home that night. And when she described the pay—one thousand dollars an hour—van Hutten quickly decided that her proposal would work just fine.
One thousand dollars an hour.
And if he would spend the late afternoon and evening at their facility, they would guarantee a minimum of ten thousand dollars.
A limo would pick him up from his home and drive him to the airport for his flight to Denver International. All they asked was that he sign an ironclad confidentiality agreement, which included a provision that he not disclose how much he was being paid.
He wasn’t sure if he could believe it, but the next day he received an express package with a five thousand dollar advance.
Intellectual rewards appealed to him far more than financial ones, but ten thousand dollars for a day was ten thousand dollars for a day. Besides, he was intrigued. What could they possibly want from him that would warrant that kind of money? It wasn’t as if he kept any of his research confidential. If they wanted access to his work they could read his scholarly papers in one of several journals.
He had tried to get the woman to tell him what the consulting engagement would entail, but she had only assured him he wouldn’t need to prepare and he was the right man for the job. When he had asked for the center’s address, he had been told not to worry: that a driver would meet him at the airport and make sure he was taken the rest of the way to the facility in comfort.
A quick Internet search revealed a very professional webpage that spoke of the think tank’s mission—to extend the boundaries of human knowledge—and the large endowment it had received from anonymous donors. Other than this, there was not a single mention of CREX anywhere else online. Hard to imagine a think tank with such a professional website and money to burn wasn’t mentioned somewhere. If he’d Googled the name of the kid who bagged his groceries he’d probably get a dozen hits. In addition, the website didn’t have a “contact us” page, nor could an address be found anywhere.
Curioser and curioser.
He had considered backing out, but decided this would be an overreaction. It was no crime if a think tank backed by anonymous donors wanted to keep a low profile, and he was certain there were any number of perfectly legitimate reasons for wanting to do so.
His mind returned to the present, where the driver was leading him through a busy parking lot. The man stopped beside a silver industrial van, with no windows on the sides or back and no descriptors of any kind stenciled on. Van Hutten might have expected their facility to be depicted on the van, or at the very least the words, “Center for Research Excellence,” but once again they had decided to keep a low profile. At least they were consistent.
The driver opened the side doors. “Do you need a hand up, sir?” he asked.
Van Hutten hesitated. He liked the idea of being able to see where he was going, and the back of the van was a self-contained compartment that offered no means to do so. He opened his mouth to ask if he could sit in the passenger seat in front when he noticed it was unavailable—several large computer monitors had been carefully placed on the seat and floor. He frowned. “No, I can make it,” he said. “I’m not that old yet,” he added with a forced smile as he stepped into the van.
It was beautifully appointed, as luxurious and elegant as the inside of a high-end limousine, except more spacious. The ride was smooth and remarkably noiseless. Thirty minutes later the van wound up inside a small, undergro
und parking lot and the driver led him through a door into what looked to be a newly built and very modern office building.
As he entered he was immediately met by a three person welcoming party. The first of these was a bear of a man who towered over all the others. He had long wavy hair and a bushy brown beard, and must have weighed three hundred pounds—although he was far from obese, just a land mass of his own. “Matt Griffin,” he said, sticking out a massive paw that looked capable of grinding van Hutten’s hand to paste, but which was soft and gentle as they shook. “It is a rare privilege and honor, sir,” added the human mountain, his voice as erudite and proper as the stodgiest Harvard professor.
“Thank you,” replied van Hutten as the man next to Griffin stuck out his hand. He was the oldest of the welcoming committee. His features were angular, his hair and mustache neatly trimmed, and he had a distinct military bearing about him, much like the driver.
“Jim Connelly,” said the older man as they shook hands. “Welcome to our facility.”
“Glad to be here.”
For the first time van Hutten turned his attention to the lone woman in the group, who had been partially hidden behind the gentle giant calling himself Matt Griffin, and his breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning. She flashed him a dazzling, sincere smile that added even further to her appeal. Just standing there, doing nothing, she had a force of personality, a radiance, that was magnetic. His eyes decided they were quite content to rest on her for long periods of time and would not be easily coaxed to move on.
“Thank you so much for coming, Dr. van Hutten,” she said as she shook his hand, her hand and wrist delicate but strong.
“Please . . . everyone. Anton is fine.”
“Anton it is,” said the woman for them all. “Welcome to The Center for Research Excellence. I assume you recognize my voice.”
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