Lee smiled. “I understand.”
“Generally though, I think the whole of physics related to cloaking technology is really fascinating. I’ve been fortunate enough to have worked on research all along the electromagnetic spectrum, including infrared and visible light. How about yourself?”
Lee shrugged and took an appropriate air of humility.
“I have to confess that much of the work you do at your level, Mr. Xiang, is a little over my head. I will say that I did complete my master’s in physics at NYU and specialized in Maxwell’s equations at school. So, most of my contributions within Magus have been in work directly related to Maxwell’s equations.”
“Ahhh, yes. I really like Maxwell’s equations as well,” Xiang said, smiling. “Such a nice connection between old—even ancient—physics and the new.”
Lee smiled broadly.
“I definitely agree with that, Dr. Wu.”
The two of them fell into silence for a few moments. Xiang seemed to briefly lose himself in thought. His eyelids closed a bit so that he almost appeared tired. “I still can’t help but think that I’ve seen you before.”
“Well, in addition to my duties as an analyst, I’ve also been working as a Help Sponsor within the portal. Maybe you’ve seen me in the portal?”
Xiang’s eyes flew open. “Oh yes! I remember now. Yes, I have seen you in the portal. The ‘thought cathedral’.”
“Yes… ‘cogitatio cathedral’,” Lee said.
They fell silent again for a moment before one of the men in Xiang’s cohort stepped back into the hallway. “The next presentation is beginning. Do you want me to save you a seat?”
“Yes, please do.” Xiang turned toward Lee. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Ms. Lee. I’ve been having an awful time tracking down info on certain fabrication techniques for our cloaking devices. Maybe I’ll catch you in the portal if I need some assistance.”
Lee smiled. “Certainly, Dr. Wu. I’d be more than happy to help.”
New York City
Tuesday, January 13, 12:47 p.m. EST
A self-conscious smile played itself slowly across the face of Rochelle Honeycutt as she pulled her black Saab into a small parking lot owned by her Manhattan apartment complex. She sat briefly with the engine off, having turned the interior light on in the darkness in order to check her look in the rear view mirror. She sat there for a few moments, thinking back on her date, from which she’d just returned. She’d been surprised they’d shared a relatively wry and, sometimes even crass, sense of humor. It had taken her date, a restaurateur from the American Midwest, by surprise more so than herself. If he’d been exposed to the average Brit, she thought, it wouldn’t have come as such a shock to him. He’d had a good sense of humor about it, and they’d had a good laugh over dinner at an upscale restaurant in Manhattan.
Honeycutt had graduated with a doctorate in physics with honors from Oxford University prior to moving to New York after graduation to work for an obscure Wall Street firm located outside of the Wall Street establishment by the name of Brooklyn Venture Capital. More specifically, she’d been working at a private lab owned by the CEO of Brooklyn Capital Management, Charlie Monroe.
The mirror reflected the face of a woman who was the daughter of a blond haired British man and her mother, an African immigrant who’d spent most of her life in London. The face she saw in the mirror was thin with high cheekbones. Her smooth skin was pale brown and her hair, inherited from her mother, was Afro-textured and cropped closely to her head. It was naturally dark brown in color, but she’d bleached it blond. The character lines around her eyes and mouth reflected her thirty-three years of age.
Honeycutt grabbed her purse and exited the Saab, sliding through the darkness toward the ground-level entrance to her apartment building. Once inside, she climbed a flight of stairs and opened the door to her second floor apartment, the interior awash with black shadows that hid the dominant white color of her carpeting and furniture.
Honeycutt laid her winter coat on an armchair and, navigating the darkness, flipped on a small radio lying on the floor next to the fireplace. The DJ’s voice permeated softly through the apartment:
“This is your favorite radio personality Pathos Peregrine, the hype hipster, the ruler of rhyme, back to rescue you one more time from the daily grind on the Daily Grind.”
She stopped in front of a mirror on her way into the kitchen, using the dim light from the radio to unbutton her dress shirt as the thump and whine of drums and guitar respectively echoed softly through the apartment. The DJ continued:
“We’re going to take some time away from the politics of the day and ease you into bedtime with a few lovely lullabies.”
As she slid the third button loose, her concentration became distracted by a flicker of movement behind her. She froze in terror. Staring back at her through the mirror was the silhouette of a man. Through the dim, pale light she could make out only the outlines of the man’s features: dark hair and thin, dark eyebrows which, dancing above a gaunt face, accentuated his Asian eyes. The DJ’s voice echoed softly in the background:
“Let Bobbi John carry you out of this reality with an out-of-this-world jam, a new ballad called Midnight Run. I’ll let Bobbi take you away now…”
Terrified, Honeycutt turned to face the man. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“It’s not important who I am,” the man said in English as he stepped toward her, his voice barely audible over the radio. He mumbled something softly in Chinese and three more men dressed in black materialized from behind him.
No. No. No. No. This can’t happen.
The men were coming toward her now. With a sudden burst of energy, she sprinted forward toward the man who’d appeared in the mirror. She didn’t make it that far, as the other men closed in on her. She fought desperately in the apartment, landing two hard punches on two different men and a few kicks before they finally overcame her with brute strength. She struggled, kicking and screaming, as the men bound and gagged her and forcibly hauled her back out into the parking lot, where an SUV sat idling. She was thrown into the SUV and the door locked shut before the vehicle slid into the Manhattan traffic.
New York City
Wednesday, January 14, 11:17 a.m. EST
Virtual Lyn Lee stood in one of the domed, four-sided Help Desk kiosks within the Magus section of the portal. Her Sponsor status, as well as her contract employee status with the FBI, gave her permissions she hadn’t enjoyed previously. Taking advantage of this, she’d pulled up a list of the portal’s logs, which gave her access to a variety of employee IDs and IP addresses. The purpose was to give her an idea of which employees were accessing specific sites. The letters and numerals glowed green within a grid that appeared to float in front of her.
She wore a thin pair of gloves with embedded sensors, allowing her to rearrange the letters and numbers by sliding them up and down and left and right across the grid. With her focus on her analysis of the logs, she failed to notice an avatar that had materialized in front of the kiosk. She remained unaware of its presence until a dialogue bubble popped up above the avatar.
DO I KNOW YOU?
The silhouette was a male design, however, rather than the typical business suit, it was filled in with what appeared as a semi-transparent black film, flickering in an odd way. The background bled through the silhouette intermittently, the effect similar to the play of light when looking at an object through extreme heat, the image distorting the portal background.
Whoever the individual behind this avatar, he or she would’ve been unaware that the employee ID number was accessible to Lee, appearing in red numerals below the avatar. Lee inputted this number into a grid cell and pressed a LOOKUP function. A name popped into the grid:
WU, XIANG emp#1005409
Lee typed in her response:
PROBLEMATIC. I DON’T SEE A PROFILE IMAGE.
Xiang: THIS IS WU XIANG. WE MET AT THE OPTICS CONFERENCE LAST WEEK.
Lee: I R
EMEMBER. I HOPE THE REST OF THE CONFERENCE WAS PRODUCTIVE.
Xiang: VERY PRODUCTIVE.
Lee: EXCELLENT. HOW CAN I ASSIST YOU TODAY?
Xiang: I’M LOOKING FOR SOME CORRESPONDENCE RELATED TO PLASMONICS FROM DR. RICHARD NIELSEN FROM PROJECT TAURUS.
Lee: DO YOU HAVE THE CHAPTER, SUB-CHAPTER, DATE?
Xiang: CHAPTER 12, SUB-CHAPTER D. NOT SURE ABOUT THE DATE.
Lee clenched her fingers into fists, placing them in front of her as though gripping the handlebars of a bicycle. She signaled the computer by “knocking” them, bringing her fists together, smashing the right side of her left fist into the left side of her right fist. She then extended her wrists outward from her center in a horizontal line in front of her as though sliding them across a horizontal bar. A glowing bluish-green bar appeared in front of virtual Lyn Lee within the portal. Lee pinched the air below the middle of the bar. A hook, the same glowing green color as the rod, appeared and Lee, motioning downward with her hand, pulled a large papyrus sheet down from the bar as though pulling down a window shade.
Lee tapped on the scroll, now suspended in front of her, in order to prompt it that she was about to type. Tapping again at the top of the papyrus, a search bar appeared. Lee typed in PROJECT TAURUS and a kaleidoscope of text, photos, and motion images materialized on the papyrus. She typed a 12, pressed ENTER and then the letter D, and pressed ENTER again.
Lee: IT WAS DR. NIELSEN OF HELSINKI UNIVERSITY?
Xiang: YES.
Lee: WHAT SPECIFICALLY ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?
Xiang: ATTACHMENT TO AN EMAIL DATED 08/25/2011.
Lee used the tactile functions of the gloves to scroll through the papyrus and completed another search within Chapter 12 and Sub-Chapter D. Finally, the email and accompanying attachment appeared on the papyrus, the attachment consisting of a long series of dense calculations, mostly incomprehensible to her. She double-checked the color coding the company used to determine level of access and verified Xiang was cleared to receive the material.
Lee: WHAT’S IN THE EMAIL?
Xiang: THE USUAL. NOUNS, VERBS, AN ADJECTIVE OR TWO.
Lee: EH?
Xiang: JOKING. SORRY.
An unexpected sense of humor, Lee thought.
Lee: HA! FUNNY. AND MAYBE A GREEK SYMBOL OR TWO. I THINK
I FOUND IT.
Lee executed another pinching motion with her right hand, causing virtual Lee to grasp a copy of the email and attachment, both of which appeared to peel off of the papyrus. She extended her virtual hand with the copies to Xiang’s avatar. As Xiang’s avatar absorbed it, a small bar materialized, displaying the percentage of transfer. When it reached one hundred percent, virtual Lee again prompted the papyrus by double-tapping it. This caused the papyrus to disappear.
Xiang: THANK YOU FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE.
Lee: NO PROBLEM. THAT’S WHAT I’M HERE FOR.
Lee waited for Xiang’s avatar to leave, but it stood frozen in place.
Xiang: DO YOU LIKE NEW YORK?
Lee frowned. Odd question.
Lee: OF COURSE.
Xiang: I HAVE RESERVATION-FREE ACCESS TO SHANGHAI EMPORIUM. EXCELLENT VIEWS OF MANHATTAN. CARE TO MEET FOR DINNER SOMETIME?
Lee was taken aback. This is a surprise. Shanghai Emporium was exclusive. It was a place U.S. and Chinese diplomats met for dinner. This wasn’t something Lee would ever normally agree to, particularly on company systems. But this was a unique situation.
Lee: MAYBE SOMEPLACE A LITTLE MORE LOW-KEY.
For king and country, Lee thought.
Xiang: HOW ABOUT XI CHANG’S CAFE IN DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN. FRIDAY NIGHT 7 PM.
Lee: OKAY. SEE YOU THEN.
Xiang: GREAT. SEE YOU.
Lee removed the fish net shirt and the gloves and hung them back on the wall. She’d accepted the FBI’s request to acquaint herself with Xiang, but the last thing she’d expected was to be asked out on a date, especially this soon. For king and country.
New York City
Thursday, January 15, 8:14 a.m. EST
Dr. Jonas Craig pulled his polyester running jacket over a long sleeved T-shirt and did the same with a pair of running pants, pulling them over a pair of shorts. Still standing in the foyer next to the front door of his small, two-bedroom apartment on Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn Heights, New York, he slid his running shoes on. Lastly, he fastened a black bandana over his head to keep the sweat and hair out of his eyes while he ran. He slid a pair of headphones into his ears, pressing the ON button on the portable radio attached to his arm. The voice filtered through the speakers into his ear drums:
“…very cold today in the New York metro area, but sunny and no breeze. Pathos Peregrine here coming at you once again, fresh as snow. New York snow maybe, but snow nonetheless (laughs). Just doing my part once again to maintain the order, keeping our national consciousness originating from the masses from where it must continue to come. Doing my part as the glue holding us together as we each create our own realities…”
Jonas slipped out of the apartment, into the cold air, and began his route westbound on Pierrepont. The smooth voice in his ear continued unabated:
“Melky Somora, who’s been molten hot, is up next. His hit single, Mean Streets, has rapidly climbed both the U.S. and U.K. sales charts. Here’s Somora now, for your listening pleasure.”
His route would take him north for a few blocks, across the East River on the Brooklyn Bridge, along a circuitous route around Manhattan, and then back across the bridge.
Jonas started into his run as soon as he made it onto the street, as the guttural, viral strains of a bass guitar and the steady beat of the drums filled his ears.
Forty-five minutes later, Craig had crossed back into Brooklyn from Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge, now exhausted from the trek. It feels like mean streets this evening, Jonas thought, Somora’s tune still echoing in his head.
With his headset on, he hadn’t noticed two men in casual winter clothing and holding two-way communication radios that he’d passed by two blocks previously. He rounded a corner onto a back alleyway that he used as a shortcut. A new song, ‘The Disappeared’, had just begun playing when he became aware of physical pressure on both his left and right side and felt himself being lifted off of his feet. Two men had a hold on him, forcing him into an idling van parked in the alleyway. He was thrown into the cargo bay of the van, and the door locked. He’d gotten the radio turned off just in time to hear the engine catch, as the van slowly backed into the road and then gathered speed as it drove swiftly away.
Chapter 4
New York City
Thursday, January 15, 11:46 p.m. EST
Zhixin Ziu sat in the dark silence of his small flat, his long legs extending out in front of him, right leg crossed over the left. The room was dark except for the light from a street lamp streaming in through two windows, one behind him and the other in the wall to his left. He sat on an old black leather sofa that had been positioned by his handlers to face the southeast corner of the tiny apartment. They had also placed a small television set in the corner on a small stand that was currently turned off, as it had been since it had been installed. Ziu sat in silence as he did most nights, listening to the quiet thrum of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen. The only other sounds were the occasional honking or smattering of voices from the traffic outside his door.
To the right of the television, situated halfway along the wall, rested a polished tin antique sculpture of a Chinese imperial soldier mounted on horseback. The sculpture, approximately four and a half feet in height including the base, was the only item he possessed that was of any value to him. It had been a gift from the Chinese government for his service in the military and, later, in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The soldier on horseback, dressed in imperial robes and armor, was holding a shield in its left hand. The smooth, polished shield shone in the dim light.
Ziu glanced at the soldier’s shield, as he’d done many times previously, which was again reflect
ing an image of himself as he sat on the sofa. He took a deep breath and exhaled, a stream of cigarette smoke exiting his nostrils. In the reflection, he could see himself reach over the armrest on the sofa with his right arm, stamp out the cigarette on a small ashtray resting atop a small end table, and grab another cigarette as well as his silver lighter. He gently lit the cigarette, placing the lighter back on the end table.
The gentle curve in the silver shield along its finely carved edges accentuated the length of his legs relative to his torso. Within the distorted image, his legs stretched out to the edge of the bottom of the shield to an extent where his bare feet were nowhere to be seen. This contrasted starkly against the white tank top he wore, which stood out, silhouetted against the ashen backdrop of the couch and the ebony blackness of the opposite wall. Conversely, his black jeans, which fit loosely against his thin torso, seemed to blend in with the blackness of the couch, making it appear as though his legs had disappeared altogether.
Also observable, but in less detail, were the slender but sharp features of his face. He had black facial hair below his nose, which he kept curled in an upside down U in the style of a Fu Manchu. Additionally, his thin straight eyebrows, which slanted downward toward his thin nose, sloped parallel with his furious brown eyes.
A beam of light cast a rectangular swath of light along the wall above the statue. As he rested, images flooded his mind. They included images that were more recent, as well as those that were, seemingly, from a previous life. They were images from a time prior to the day he’d entered the Chinese military at the age of sixteen. He found, as he sat wholly immersed in the darkness, that he began to melt into it and, conversely, the images in his head seemed to project themselves onto the rectangular light in front of him.
The Thought Cathedral Page 5