The Thought Cathedral

by Nathan Williams

  Some were images of walking the filthy streets of Guangzhou, just off the shores of the South China Sea, as a boy in rags and shredded sandals. Other images forced upon him the foul stench as he wiped clean the squat latrines in the orphanage. The hunger in the boys’ emaciated faces for food had been outweighed only by their hunger for a place to call home. In yet another instance, he sat shivering in a cold drizzle under a make-shift metal roof in a filthy Guangzhou alley, using the knife in his wretched, trembling fingers to butcher a rat as Honghui, his only friend and fellow orphan, struggled to light a small fire to cook it with.

  Occasionally there was an image of a time they were cleaning themselves along the banks of the Pearl River running through Guangzhou. It was the most difficult time of his life, a time of drifting and hopelessness. The pale blue irises in Honghui’s eyes, forever gilded with quiet desperation. Those eyes, shimmering in the moonlight, were completely drowned by the surly black river water behind him, yet somehow still floating. Where are you now, Honghui? Are you still alive?

  The honking of a horn outside forced him out of his melancholy reminiscing. He rose to clean up and ready himself for bed. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.

  New York City

  Friday, January 16, 3:21 p.m. EST

  “We’re monitoring the logs at Brooklyn Ventures. We’ve got phone taps on seventeen people including eight scientists engaged in work directly related to Project Magus at Brooklyn Venture Capital and at a number of academic and professional institutions spread out across the U.S.,” said a measured voice. “This includes physical surveillance on four of them.”

  Special Agent in Charge Milt Reardon again regarded the owner of the voice, head of the New York FBI’s Criminal Investigation Division, John Rose. Rose was also his boss, though he was seven years his junior and had no prior military experience.

  “We’re getting assistance from our European counterparts as well,” Rose continued. “Scotland Yard’s providing further surveillance on two researchers, one at Oxford and one at Imperial College London. We’re continuing to work with authorities elsewhere in Europe and Asia as well.”

  Reardon caught a distorted glimpse of himself in the polished shine of an ornate, tin container. He grasped the intricately designed handle and tipped it over a steaming cup of coffee. Cool white cream slipped out of the container, turning his coffee into a chocolate brown color.

  Self-consciously, Reardon again glimpsed his reflection, rubbing an old scar running along his neck. Simple as that and the dark and damp of the jungle slipped easily into his mind: exotic leaves brushing his face, the metallic weight of his weapon, the smell of spices cooking and body odor, the ever-present fear of hidden gooks or landmines, and venomous snakes. Though he was becoming further removed from Vietnam over time, the searing images never left his mind.

  “Do we have any direct evidence yet of theft from Brooklyn?” asked a deep, feminine voice.

  The feminine voice, accented with a distinct southern drawl, was that of Agent Pernetta Walker. A black woman who’d risen from humble means, she’d begun her career patrolling the streets of Atlanta during the 1980s, a time when Atlanta was in the throes of dealing with the city’s status as a major cocaine distribution hub.

  Rose shook his head in the negative.

  “Nothing direct yet. At least, no proof of theft. As you know, we have a team of FBI and Brooklyn Venture technicians monitoring the situation. No alarms yet. However, the CIA seems certain there’s something going on. They have a major lead coming out of Beijing.” Rose paused for a moment before continuing. “The reason I’ve called this meeting, however, is to let you know there have been three abductions of Brooklyn Venture personnel within the past few hours.”

  Rose paused again to let the statement sink in. He pulled three manila envelopes from his briefcase and handed copies of each file to each agent.

  The third set of files slid in front of the fourth participant in the meeting, Agent Benedict Cardenas.

  Reardon had bonded well with Cardenas as soon as they’d met. Cardenas was also ex-army, having served as a Green Beret in Asia and, subsequently, in the Middle East as a CIA security officer.

  Rose continued: “The abducted include Benjamin Halberstom, Rochelle Honeycutt, and Jonas Craig. I’m not going to go into too much detail on these individuals just now as their bios are included in the folders. You can read up on them on your own. I’ll just say that Halberstom and Honeycutt are both physicists working within Brooklyn Venture’s Project Magus, a major project involving cloaking technology for the military. Craig is working in a separate project, Project Faraday. My understanding of the Faraday research is that it involves the harnessing of electromagnetism into weaponry.

  “The research is all classified and the Brooklyn people are tight lipped about it to say the least. That’s all I could get out of them. But we need to follow up on each of these as soon as possible. I want each of you to take one and follow up today. Please forward any leads and observations to my in-box by tomorrow morning. I’m meeting with the Lorren and he’s going to want some information. I’ll keep all of you up to date on any new developments. I need each of you ready to act if this thing continues to escalate.”

  Rose gathered the papers he’d placed in front of him for reference and began placing them into his briefcase.

  “I’ll let you guys figure out who you want to choose to follow up with. I have another meeting in ten minutes and I need to get going.”

  The three agents waited as Rose slipped out of the small conference room, the door clicking softly behind him.

  “Either of you two have any preferences?” Reardon asked.

  The group fell into silence as they shuffled through the bios for a few moments.

  “I see Halberstom and Honeycutt both live in Manhattan. I’d prefer Honeycutt if that’s okay with you gentlemen,” Walker said.

  “What say you?” Reardon asked Cardenas.

  “I’m familiar with Brooklyn,” Cardenas said. “I’ll take Mr. Craig.”

  “It’s agreed then,” Reardon said. “I’ll take Halberstom.”

  “Perfecto,” Cardenas said. “Do we want to meet up sometime this evening to discuss?”

  The three of them agreed to stay in touch and meet back at headquarters if they were available that evening. Reardon followed the other veteran agents silently out of the room

  New York City

  Friday, January 16, 11:26 p.m. EST

  Rochelle Honeycutt sat on a thinly carpeted floor with her back against one of four walls in a small, windowless room. The room was furnished with a bed large enough for a single person. The only other features were some cabinets and shelving on the wall opposite her, the same wall where the doorway into the room was located.

  She had only an estimate as to how long she’d been in the room. At this point, it had been several hours. After she’d been forced into the SUV, they’d cuffed and blindfolded her during the drive so she’d been unable to see anything. After the SUV had finally stopped, they’d guided her, still blindfolded, out of the van and across a flat space to the place she was at now.

  Periodically, the guards slipped into her room with some food and water. Upon the first couple of arrivals, she’d barraged them with questions, but the guards unfailingly ignored her pleas for information, slipping silently into the room just long enough to deliver the food and water.

  So, she sat there on the floor as she had since her arrival, her legs bent at a forty-five-degree angle in front of her. She still wore the same clothes she’d been wearing when the attack had occurred in her apartment: a pair of beige dress pants, amber-brown dress boots, and a white dress shirt. She’d also worn a matching beige dress coat, but she’d removed it just prior to the attack. What wouldn’t I give to be back in my apartment, looking at that coat lying haphazardly on the sofa.

  Since her arrival, Honeycutt’s emotions had been all over the map, ranging from anger to hopeful optimism and everywher
e in between. She spent most of the time in a state of exhaustion and fatigue. A small napkin she’d been given was soaked with moisture from the silent stream of tears that continued to intermittently slip silently down her smooth cheeks. It was also stained black from her mascara, though there was no more mascara left as it had all washed away many hours ago.

  An endless stream of questions flooded her mind. Who are these people? Why did they choose me? The only thing that made sense and the only thing she kept coming back to was that they were holding her ransom for information from her employer Brooklyn Venture Capital. Virtually every project she’d worked on for the duration of her employment with Brooklyn was classified. She felt certain that the leadership of the company would do everything they could to get her back. They were powerful, connected people with a ton of resources. If anybody could find her, they could. Charlie Monroe will get me out of here. She allowed herself to feel hope again and to steel herself for a long wait.

  New York City

  Friday, January 16, 6:55 p.m. EST

  The watch display on Lee’s phone showed 6:55 p.m. as she pulled open the front entrance to Xi Chang’s Cafe, a casual but up-scale diner located near to downtown Brooklyn. The daughter of business owners, the value of being on time had long been ingrained in her.

  Lee counted to pi, a little past three, to check her appearance in the reflection of the cafe’s front door. She’d thrown on a black cotton blouse over a conservative black halter top and put up her hair with a crystal hair clip, a small but noticeable change from her more formal work attire. A pair of black dress slacks and black low-heeled shoes completed the ensemble.

  The hostess, after confirming a Dr. Wu Xiang had already arrived, ushered her through a din of patrons and waitresses to a small table at the center of the little cafe.

  Seeing her arrival, Xiang rose from his chair to greet her, his lithe figure clothed smartly in black non-pleated polyester dress pants, white dress shirt, black dress coat, and a pair of polished black oxford dress shoes. He was no longer wearing glasses as he had been at the convention. As she neared, Xiang extended his hand in greeting.

  “Hello,” Xiang offered, his voice even, smooth. “Thank you for coming this evening.”

  Lee extended her arm, cuffing Xiang’s hand briefly with her fingers, not allowing a full handshake.

  “Thanks for inviting me.”

  Xiang’s face, which had given him a very youthful appearance from afar, aged a bit as Lee studied the detail. The nearness revealed shadows in telling places: a crease above the bridge of his nose, shadows under his eyes, deepening wrinkles on his forehead. His smile, however, lightened these shadows, while simultaneously darkening a set of creases at the ends of his eyes, encouraging a quick laugh or even something a bit more mischievous. Wryly mischievous.

  “Please, have a seat,” Xiang said.

  Lee slid easily onto the cushioned seat as the hostess informed them of the daily dinner special. She took their drink orders: a lightly sweetened tea for Xiang, a water for Lee.

  She felt Xiang studying her. She followed his eyes as he traced her collarbone to her neck, proceeding up her neck to her face and lips, until he met her gaze.

  “It’s good seeing you again,” Xiang said.

  “—and you, as well,” Lee said.

  Xiang smirked and bowed slightly. “What happened to your hand?”

  Lee glanced reflexively down at her hand, which she’d wrapped with a skin-colored bandage.

  “It’s just a bruise.”

  Xiang was leaning forward, his curiosity piqued.

  “How did it happen?”

  “A sparring session.”

  “Sparring session? For what sport?”

  “Martial arts. Tae kwon do.”

  An approving smile spread across Xiang’s face. “Ah, impressive,” Xiang said. “Have you been practicing long?”

  “Quite a while. For, I guess, seven or eight years now.”

  Xiang threw his hands up in front of him in a gesture of feigned surprise. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  Lee smiled. “It’s okay. It takes a lot for me to go into attack mode. I think you’ll be just fine. What about you? Do you participate in the martial arts?”

  “A little bit of judo. Not consistently. To stay in shape, I swim a lot.”

  “Sounds good. Swimming is awesome for you.”

  “I enjoy it. Easy on the joints, you know?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, thanks for coming tonight. To be honest, I was surprised you agreed to come.”

  Lee felt herself blush a bit.

  “I…I was surprised you took that risk. On company-owned systems—”

  Xiang was clearly nonplussed at her observation.

  “Yes, I took a risk—”

  “But, that’s okay,” Lee said. “A small risk like that…it’s not a bad thing. Don’t feel badly about it. And, besides, I did accept didn’t I?”

  “Thank you,” he said, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Yes, you did accept.”

  This seemed to relax him a little.

  “What did you think of the conference? Did you find it worth your time?” Lee asked.

  “Very much so, yes. The information I collected from you in the portal was an extension of much of the information I gained from the conference.”

  “What sort of information was it, may I ask?”

  “The information that you retrieved for me in the portal?”

  Lee nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s very complex mathematics. Very complex. I can’t put into words how subtly remarkable it is. These researchers—”

  Xiang took a sip of ice water.

  “These researchers developed a whole new mathematics in order to arrive at this physics. It’s just very exquisite. It’s mathematics that’s distantly related to the Maxwell equations, actually, but probably several iterations of discovery above and beyond.”

  “Wow. It sounds really impressive,” Lee said. “I know that some of the experiments they were working on while I was fully participating were groundbreaking. It sounds like they’ve continued to extend it.”

  “It’s been—” Xiang struggled momentarily. “I can’t think of the English word.”

  “Breathtaking?” Lee offered.

  “Yes, breathtaking,” Xiang repeated, a wry smile creeping across his face. “I guess that’s the cliché in the West about scientific breakthroughs. They have to be ‘breathtaking’.”

  Lee smiled.

  “Unfortunately, I’m sure you must understand that this information is also classified and I cannot discuss it in detail.”

  “Of course, I understand,” Lee said. “Everything at Brooklyn Ventures, it seems, is classified.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Your English is very good. Did you grow up in the States?”

  Xiang’s response was interrupted as the waitress arrived to take their orders. When they finished ordering, Xiang continued.

  “No, I grew up in China in Shanghai. But I’ve been in the States for twelve years now.”

  “You came to the U.S. to pursue your education?”

  “Precisely,” Xiang said. “I came here at twenty-four years of age to start my doctorate program at Cal-Berkeley.”

  “Where did you do your undergraduate and master’s level?”

  “I did both at Shanghai University. Applied at a number of universities overseas in both the U.S. and Europe.”

  “How did you end up at Berkeley?”

  “For a number of reasons, I preferred to come to the States, if possible. One of my professors at Shanghai knew a professor teaching at Cal-Berkeley. I liked Cal-Berkeley’s reputation and its location.”

  Xiang let his voice trail off briefly as he seemed to pause in order to orchestrate his comments appropriately. He’d cuffed both hands on the table in front of him, rhythmically massaging his right hand with his left thumb. “I also wanted to try the warmer climate.” />
  Xiang spoke in a smooth, even tone that Lee thought attractive to listen to. His words, except in an occasional struggle with an English word, were thought out and precise.

  “What about you,” Xiang said. “Where did you go to school?”

  “I did both my undergraduate and graduate at NYU.”

  “You grew up in New York City?” Xiang asked.

  “Yes, I went to high school here in Manhattan and then to NYU.”

  Xiang rocked back in his chair a bit, scratching his chin with his thumb. He closed his eyes a trace, making him appear almost sleepy. “How did you come to be interested in science, particularly physics?”

  Lee exhaled deeply, pausing to formulate an answer. A complicated question.

  “I’ve just always been interested in nature,” Lee said. “I think, looking back, it was the simple things.”

  “The simple things,” Xiang repeated. “How do you mean?”

  “When I was a child, my father used to take me sailing on the Hudson River. He owns an old sail boat my grandfather purchased here in New York after he arrived in New York from Shanghai in 1956. It has an equally old magnetic compass. As a child, it fascinated me no end how it was affected to such an extent by the Earth’s magnetic field. It was just the—” Lee struggled to find the right word. “—the way it was affected so deliberately by a force unseen. So perfectly affected. The needle was always back to the exact same place. It was like watching the answer to some sort of cosmic mathematical problem fall into place before my eyes. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, it does,” Xiang replied. “Einstein was similarly affected by a compass as a child.”

  Lee smiled. “That’s right, yes. Einstein said that the inevitable northward swing of the compass dial revealed a deeply hidden force at play in nature. I guess it had a similar effect upon me.”

  “Did you know that the magnetic compass was first invented by the Chinese? They used lodestones, a naturally magnetized metal that would align itself along the earth’s poles. A Chinese sailor was the first to use the compass as a navigational aid.”