“Good thinking,” said Kira.
“If we’re lucky they’ll decide to take their reactor and call it a night.”
Desh glanced at Kira’s worried but dazzling face and could tell her mind was racing. “Hold on a second,” she said. She tapped the screen of Ross’s phone three times and held it to her ear.
The call was quickly answered and a young woman’s voice came over the phone. “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“There’s a huge fire at Advanced Physics International on Industrial Parkway!” she blurted hysterically. “Send fire trucks right away! And an ambulance. There’s a man here with a gunshot wound to the stomach. Hurry!” she finished, ending the connection.
Desh nodded in admiration. “Well done,” he said, stacking a loose pile of facial tissue on the floor near the desk. He didn’t have matches, but he had been trained to improvise with whatever was at hand. He removed the cover from the back of his cell phone, popped out its thin, wafer sized battery, and scraped the plastic away from the positive and negative leads on one edge with his pocket knife. He then laid the blade across both leads, creating a short that shot sparks into the stack of tissue. An ember was born almost immediately, and seconds later he had nursed it into a flame. He carefully fed it sheets of loose paper and in less than a minute the flames were licking up the sides of the wooden desk.
Finally, Desh tossed the cell phone battery into the adolescent fire and retreated to the door. The outer part of the battery quickly melted away to unleash the lithium inside, which was violently combustible and erupted the fire to double its size.
The light from this office bonfire was more than welcome, but the heat was already becoming intense. Even so, within five minutes he needed this entire section of offices to become a raging blaze; a wall of fire reaching up to the ceiling.
Desh used the penlight to verify the hall was still clear and then hefted Metzger back into position slumped across his neck and shoulders.
“We need to help it spread,” he said to Kira, and then rolled up some paper and held it against the edge of the fire. When it took, he moved rapidly to an office two doors down, seemingly oblivious to the weight he was carrying, and tossed the makeshift torch onto a pile of stapled papers on the desk. Kira took his lead and did the same to an office two doors down in the opposite direction.
They waited almost five minutes as the fire leaped from one office to another, growing exponentially at a staggering rate.
“Let’s go,” said Desh finally, heading toward the building’s entrance. “We’ll stay close to the fire and keep it at our backs. Night vision will be useless and we won’t have to worry about attacks from behind. But stay alert to everything in front of us,” he cautioned.
The building was becoming ever hotter as the blaze continued to double in size every minute or so. The bigger it got the faster it spread, and they found they had to keep farther and farther ahead of the invisible wall of unbearable heat that extended outward from the raging wall of flames. Worse, air quality was quickly deteriorating, and every lungful of air seemed to have a lower oxygen content, and a higher smoke and soot content, than the one before. They began coughing.
Desh made a command decision. The fire was giving off enough light now that they could leave it a much greater distance behind them. It was time to go for broke. He communicated his thoughts to Kira and covered the remaining thirty-five yards to the main lobby at a slow jog.
They arrived about twelve minutes after they had started the fire and took cover behind an oversized marble reception desk, crouching low to avoid being seen. Desh lowered Metzger to the floor and considered their options.
If a merc or two were still manning the entrance, their night vision would now be useless, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t spot Desh and Kira the old fashioned way. It just meant that both sides would now be able to see, taking away a huge advantage from the mercs but still leaving them with superior weaponry and a far superior tactical position.
Desh’s eyes swept the periphery of the lobby, calculating possible approaches. Finally he peered cautiously around the reception desk, wondering if he would be greeted by immediate gunfire.
His eyes widened in excitement. Firemen were streaming into the building, pulling on oxygen masks as they did so. And there was no sign of armed mercenaries. If any had been guarding the door, they appeared to be gone. Tension poured from Desh’s body.
He shot Kira an expression of relief and motioned for her to take a look. She did so and blew out a long, grateful breath, while Desh pressed two fingers against the carotid artery in Metzger’s neck.
A horrified look came over his face.
Metzger hadn’t made it. They had been just a few minutes away from getting him to an ambulance. But they had been too late.
As hardened as Desh was, he reeled from the loss. For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe, as though he had been sucker punched in the gut. His reaction told Kira everything she needed to know. A tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her face.
Desh forced his mind back from the depths of despair. They weren’t out of the woods yet. He would have to mourn the loss of his friend another time. He and Kira had a long night ahead of them. They couldn’t afford to be questioned and would need to slip away while everyone was distracted.
Desh lifted his friend so the fire wouldn’t take his body, and he and Kira headed toward the entrance. While it was possible the assault team was still in Metzger’s lab surrounded by flame, Desh was nearly certain that they had escaped.
But who were they? Where had they gotten their information? And what was their ultimate objective? He had absolutely no idea.
All he knew for sure was that Kira and their group were no longer off the grid. That they had been caught with their pants down by a lethal and exceedingly capable adversary. And that this unknown adversary was almost certain to strike at them again.
PART ONE
“Internet servers worldwide would fill a small city, and the K (the world’s most powerful supercomputer) sucks up enough electricity to power 10,000 homes. The incredibly efficient brain sucks up less electricity than a dim lightbulb and fits nicely inside our head. The human genome, which grows our body and directs us through years of complex life, requires less data than a laptop operating system.”
—Mark Fischetti, Computers vs. Brains
Scientific American, November, 2011
1
Seth Rosenblatt paused on his way to the parking lot to take in his surroundings. No matter how many visits he made to this place, how many times he walked the tranquil, idyllic wooded grounds, he always felt awe-struck and privileged to be here, where giants had stood on the shoulders of other giants to see ever farther into the previously impenetrable secrets of nature. Here was a cloistered retreat that had welcomed and financed the likes of Albert Einstein, John von Neumann, Kurt Godel, Alan Turing, J. Robert Oppenheimer, and Freeman Dyson. For a physicist there was no more hallowed ground.
He soaked in the ambience of Princeton’s fabled Institute for Advanced Study one last time before walking to his rental car, wanting to put off leaving the grounds for as long as he could manage, especially since he was going straight to the airport for a brutal flight to Tokyo. He hated flying. He hated lines and pat downs and cramped seats with too little legroom for his lanky body. He hated stale, recycled, dehydrating airplane air. A trip from the East Coast to Japan, with a stop in California, seemed never-ending.
Just as he entered the nearly deserted lot where he had parked, a white minivan appeared out of nowhere and began hurtling toward him. Rosenblatt froze, waiting for the driver to see him and take corrective action. Precious seconds passed before he was finally able to comprehend the incomprehensible: the driver hadn’t just failed to see him for a brief moment; the driver had seen him and was intent on turning him into road kill.
His muscles tensed for action but he knew at a visceral level that it was too late: he couldn’t possibly remove
himself from the vehicle’s path in time. He closed his eyes and braced for the bone crushing impact.
Mercifully, the impact never came. At the last instant the minivan swerved sharply and screeched to a halt in front of him, its side doors only two feet from his face.
Rosenblatt’s profound terror transformed into pure rage, directed squarely at the asshole who had dared to scare him so intensely. “What in the hell are you doing?” he bellowed. “Are you crazy?”
While he was shouting the minivan’s side door began to glide open. As the sight of this pierced through his fog of rage, alarm bells blared in his head. Panicked, he began to spin around to face what he now guessed was there.
Before he could turn, his arm was seized in an iron grip. As Rosenblatt’s instincts had warned him, someone had stealthily—almost magically—maneuvered behind him. The man twisted Rosenblatt’s arm painfully behind his back and used the limb to propel him through the now open minivan door, where a partner was waiting to catch him as he spun inside.
As Rosenblatt struggled to grasp what was happening he felt the bite of a syringe as it was plunged into his leg, straight through his pants. He tried to make sense of the pain message coming from his thigh, but his thoughts were strangely disjointed, and by the time he realized he had been stabbed, and with what, his body went totally limp and a blanket of darkness rushed up to greet him.
“Well done,” the driver said to his two associates. And with that, he pulled out of the lot and drove calmly through the streets of Princeton, as though he were a senior citizen intent on nothing more than enjoying the scenery.
2
Seth Rosenblatt’s return to consciousness was sudden, but his eyes were still heavy and he only managed to open them halfway. Seated across a small metal table from him was the driver of the minivan, holding an empty syringe, which no doubt had been used to revive him. The man had the patient look of someone who was happy to give his prisoner time to fully regain his faculties and take stock of his situation and surroundings.
Both of Rosenblatt’s hands were cuffed to a steel chair that was affixed to the floor, and he was inside a small, windowless steel shed, a portable structure you might buy at Home Depot to put in your yard and store your rakes and lawnmowers. But this one was pristine. For all he knew it, and he, were still in a Home Depot.
He realized with a start that his watch and clothes had been removed, and he was now wearing a zippered one-piece gray jumpsuit. He tried to ignore his drug-induced lethargy and growing panic and focus. He had to concentrate.
A large dose of adrenaline hit his bloodstream and blasted the last bit of grogginess from his system, but he retained his slumped posture and nearly closed eyes to buy more time.
What was going on? He was the last person anyone would want to kidnap. Unless these men knew. But how? It couldn’t be. But even as he thought this he realized there was no other explanation for his abduction and the care, speed, and precision of his abductors.
How long had he been out? He had no way to tell for sure, but he didn’t think it had been long. The makeshift nature of the shed lent support to the thesis that whoever had grabbed him was in a hurry. The fact that they suspected or knew he had advanced technology imbedded in his clothing that could be used to send a distress signal was highly troubling. He had to also assume they knew he would be missed if he was out of touch for too long, which added further support to his hypothesis that little time had elapsed and he wasn’t very far from the Institute. They had also snatched him right before his long flight overseas, when he would be expected to be out of touch for as long as twenty-four hours. Coincidence? He doubted it.
He felt an odd throbbing in both ears and had an eerie suspicion that his every orifice had been probed, and every inch of his body, from his scalp to between his toes, had been checked and rechecked—for what, only his attackers knew.
Rosenblatt fought to steady his still racing pulse. He was terrified to a depth he had never before experienced. He studied his abductor, the only other inhabitant of the shed, from the corner of one heavily lidded eye as the man continued to wait patiently for him to become fully alert. The steel structure was illuminated by two tall patio lamps that had been set up inside. The man seated across the table had a calm but intense air about him, a head of short black hair, and a lean, athletic build. Rosenblatt estimated he was in his late thirties.
Rosenblatt guessed his chances were less than even money to live out the day. These men were too professional. And they had let him see their faces.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes all the way for the first time. He shook his head as if to clear it. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
The driver tilted his head but did not respond.
“Look,” continued Rosenblatt anxiously, knowing he needed to pretend that he didn’t know what this was about. “You can have anything you want. I’ll give you my ATM code. Whatever you want,” he pleaded. “Just let me go and I promise to forget this ever happened.”
The slightest of smiles played out on the driver’s face. “That’s a very generous offer, Dr. Rosenblatt,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”
“How do you know my name?” demanded Rosenblatt, feigning surprise. “Who are you?”
The driver studied him dispassionately, as though he were an insect under a magnifying glass. “Call me Jake,” he replied at last. “I’m with the government—the military.” He shrugged. “Well, more like outside of the government. Congress and the president vaguely know of our existence, but they don’t want to know more. They can’t. Plausible deniability. I run a black-ops unit responsible for keeping our country safe from weapons of mass destruction. From threats so great I have a free hand to do whatever I have to do to stop them.”
“Weapons of mass destruction?” repeated Rosenblatt in disbelief. “Are you mad? You’re making a horrible mistake. Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not it.”
“I agree with you,” said the man who called himself Jake. “But you’re the key to finding who I’m looking for.” He paused. “Look, Dr. Rosenblatt, I’m a reasonable man. And I happen to think you’re an innocent caught up in something way over his head. So as long as you’re completely honest with me, we’re going to be good friends.” He spread his hands out in front of him, palms up. “But if you aren’t totally forthcoming, things can get uglier than I suspect you’re capable of even comprehending. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. You’re threatening to torture me.”
Jake sighed. “Not at all. I wouldn’t think of using physical torture. What I have in mind is worse. Far worse. Trust me, if you don’t tell me what I want to know you’ll wish in every fiber of your being that I had tortured you.” He shook his head and looked sincerely troubled. “Please don’t give me any reason to elaborate further. There’s already more than enough unpleasantness in the world.”
“This is crazy. The reason we have laws is to prevent mistakes like this from happening. To prevent innocent people from being terrorized by their own governments. Groups like yours, not answerable to anyone, abuse their power every time. It’s inevitable.”
“Don’t believe everything you see in the movies, Dr. Rosenblatt. Military units like mine have become the go-to villain in Hollywood, but we are answerable, just like every other agency. Someone has to watch the watchers, after all.”
“Like who?”
“Other black-ops groups review our actions on a routine basis. In the heat of battle, soldiers have to be able to make life and death decisions. They have a license to kill, and tragically, sometimes innocents become collateral damage. But their actions are reviewed, and if they exceed the rules of engagement, abuse their power, they are brought up on charges. The same goes for us. If I go off the reservation, if I kill innocents who aren’t clearly collateral damage, I’ll be judged and put in a military prison—or even executed.”
“And what happens when— ”
“Enough!
” said the black-ops agent in a clipped whisper that, while low in volume, was off the charts in intensity and so commanding it was impossible to ignore. “We’re not here to talk about me, or for me to justify my existence. I’ve told you more than I should have already.”
Jake reached down into his lap and revealed a sleek tablet computer. He used its outer case to prop it up on the table facing Rosenblatt. He slid his finger across the screen and a document appeared, the pages turning automatically every few seconds. Each page was crammed with exotic, multicolored geometric shapes that could only be generated by a computer and dense equations that to the layman looked like nothing more than Sanskrit written by pigeons.
The black-ops agent rubbed the back of his head absently as he studied his prisoner. “Recognize this?”
Rosenblatt shook his head.
“Really?” said Jake skeptically, raising his eyebrows. “Well, let me help you out. I’m told it’s a stunning advance in the mathematics and physics of the Calabi-Yau manifold. I had no idea what this was. But my science people tell me it’s a six-dimensional space that results when the ten dimensions of superstring theory are rolled up. This means nothing to me, of course, but I know it does to you. You sure you don’t recognize it?”
“Positive.”
“That’s interesting. Because we got this from your computer.”
Rosenblatt’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What?”
“You’re a far better physicist than you are actor,” said Jake, shaking his head in disappointment. “Now I wouldn’t know a Calabi-Yau manifold if one bit me in the ass. But the three world-renowned physicists we gave this to were salivating over it so much I’m surprised they didn’t collapse from dehydration. They’re stunned by it. They seem to believe this leapfrogs everything known about the mathematics and physics of this area. That it contains numerous breakthroughs—at least the stuff they’re capable of grasping, which is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m told they feel like primitives trying to grasp calculus.” He leaned closer to Rosenblatt. “What I’d really like to know, professor, is how you were able to do work this advanced.” He voice was soft but with a razor edge of intensity and menace. “I’m all ears.”
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