The quantum solution, p.11
The Quantum Solution, page 11
“Before jumping into the deep end of the pool I’d like a little more information.”
“You have a list?”
Not the general, not Wilson. Margo asking. The two men looked on silently. It dawned on Ben that Reade hadn’t gone for his beloved cigars the entire time he had been in the room. A disorienting sensation was rising up from the pit of his stomach.
“Like why was Wes Connerly here? This isn’t his pitch at all.”
A slow smile spread over her face. Her pink lips parted to show a row of small white teeth that appeared very sharp indeed.
“Wes was read in—”
“And just what the hell is the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency anyway?” Ben demanded, talking over her. “It sounds like administration-speak—a bunch of words thrown together signifying nothing.” He said all this to Margo because it was Margo who had queried him. But it was also because he was getting the distinct impression that Margo or Daisy or whatever her real name was was more than an aide to General Reade, more than a courier for this ad hoc group, more than a chauffeur. She was all of them and none of them. She was dead center of the general’s cabal, the instigator and the motivator while the general went smugly on, certain that he was in charge when, in fact, he hadn’t a clue.
“Wes Connerly is not of import to you—or to us, really,” she said, calm as a reptile basking in sunlight.
Then what was he doing here? he was going to ask. But in the next moment there was no need. He knew. Connerly was set up as a sacrifice, someone on whom Ben could take out his anger and disappointment at what they had told him about his current boss, leaving them animus-free. He had been wrong—cleverly misdirected. Connerly wasn’t the hard man. He was facing the hard man now.
“I suppose you’ve worked it out by now,” she said.
“Most of it,” Ben acknowledged. “Everything but who you really are.”
She smiled her toothsome smile, and in that moment, when her personas—Daisy, Margo—slipped, she was terrifying.
15
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
At precisely 4:45 in the afternoon, Kata presented herself at the Russian State Library on Vozdvizhenka Street. She was precisely fifteen minutes early for her prescribed rendezvous with Comrade Director Stanislav Budimirovich Baev, head of SVR. He was her old boss and she knew him well, knew he was in a perilous cold war with her current boss, Minister Darko Vladimirovich Kusnetsov, head of FSB. She was walking a delicate tightrope high above FSB headquarters, keeping her promise to Baev to inform him of any overtly antagonistic moves against him from above.
She crossed to the literature section, removed a volume of War and Peace, stepped to a table, turned on the goosenecked lamp, sat down and opened the novel. She started reading. “Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself!”
She was well versed in all the Russian writers but enjoyed Tolstoy the most. The original Russian was so much more emotive than the dry English translation.
At precisely 4:50 P.M. she looked up, her gaze quartering the room, her security-minded training urging her to look for any anomalies, no matter how small, in the daily workings of the library. Finding none, she returned to Tolstoy, but this time the words scarcely registered.
Her memory raced backward. Had it only been five years ago that she had been ushered into Baev’s care? Baev, who always had her do personal, off-the-grid wet work for him. Her easy expertise had delighted him at first, but as she rose through the ranks of SVR and was poached by Minister Kusnetsov she had a suspicion that Baev had gradually come to fear her. He was desperate to hold onto her, thus this latest in a long line of clandestine meetings. Plus, she had always suspected that he was in love with her, was angered when she did not respond to either intimidation or blandishments. She steadfastly remained an enigma to him, which was just how she liked it.
As for Baev himself, it was one minute past five with no sign of him. He was as prompt as any Russian, especially those within the clandestine services, who’d had punctuality hammered into them from the very first day they were recruited into service.
“Heavens! what a virulent attack!” replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face.
Having read these lines three times without them registering, Kata closed the novel, returned it to its place on the proper shelf, and, striding across the floor, exited the library. It was precisely 5:16 and Baev wasn’t coming.
* * *
Slushy snow was falling as she made her way back to her office. Once inside the building, it was immediately apparent to her that something had changed while she’d been gone. There was always the stink of male sweat, of anxiety, an underlying hint of fear, but this evening it seemed to her these odors were amped up. Instead of heading for her office she made a hard left, went up a floor to Baev’s quarters. She was surprised to see the cubicles of Baev’s assistants manned by people she did not know, in uniforms, no less—black with gold trim and sigils on the upper sleeves and the shoulder boards, a design unknown to her. They were busy, speaking softly but urgently into wireless headsets. When she asked them if the comrade director was in they made no reply.
Passing them by, she stepped into Baev’s corner office and stopped dead. Not only was Baev not present, but all of his possessions had been removed as if they’d never existed. Never one for neatness, his office had always been somewhat of a mess. Not now. What items had replaced Baev’s things were neatly placed on the swept-clean desk. A brand-new open laptop and a perfectly ordered pile of dossiers to its left had pride of place. Apart from the old desk lamp that had come with the office, nothing was as it once was.
That included the man standing with his back to her, staring out one of the windows behind the desk. His hands were clasped behind his back. He had a military bearing, though his hair was not cut short but shot up from his skull as if terrified of what lay within. He wore the same black uniform with gold trim as the officers outside. His, though, sported different sigils. A rank designator? That was Kata’s best guess, anyway.
Before she could ask after Baev, the man said, “How may we help you?”
The two of them were the only occupants of Baev’s office. Was he speaking in the imperial “we”? Really?
As she was pondering this he turned around, astonishing her. Was it her imagination or was he actually sporting Vladimir Lenin’s mustache and goatee, Leon Trotsky’s round small-lensed spectacles and hairstyle? Kata opened her mouth to say something, almost immediately closed it.
“Kata Romanovna Hemakova.” His voice was a deep basso that resounded off the walls, which had been repainted the vibrant color of a fresh egg yolk. The color more or less matched the gold trim of his jacket.
She finally found her voice. “And you are?”
“We imagine you are looking for Comrade Director Baev.” His eyes, beady, oil-slick dark, were close together, like Trotsky’s.
She said nothing. Why confirm the obvious.
“He was your former superior, was he not?” No answer required, she knew. “So have you come here to reminisce, perhaps talk over old times, have a bit of a knees-up as the British say.” His smile was as thin as the hair on a nonagenarian’s head. “Or was it on business that you have arrived here. Business between you and the comrade director.”
He was going to force her to say it, she knew that much. “Where is Comrade Director Baev?”
“Away,” the man said.
“When will he return?” But the complete occupation of Baev’s office was answer enough. She felt as if she were in an elevator whose cables had been cut. Free-falling.
“No one knows where he is, least of all us. So when—if—he will return is an unanswerable question.”
“I’m sure if you did know you wouldn’t tell me.”
He shrugged, as if to say, Why would we? Who are you to know anything of import?
“Who are you taking orders from?”
An eerie smile split his face. “The same person who reassigned Comrade Director Baev to … parts unknown.”
Kata took a step toward him. She didn’t know whether that was a smart move, but she was done playing this jackass’s game. “You mean Minister Kusnetsov.”
He spread his hands. The gesture gave him the look of a mockingly pious bishop.
“What about Baev’s family?”
“Do you mean his wife and children, or his mistress du jour?”
“Is it your contention—” She took another step toward him. “—that you disapprove of mistresses?”
She was almost in his face, where she wanted to be. She needed to establish control of this conversation, to allow her mind time to assess the radical change that had been made. She needed to quell the anxiety growing inside her.
Again he shrugged. “Not our department.”
She made a show of looking him up and down. “No, I suppose not.” She tried for a smile, nearly made it. “Exactly what is your department?”
“Currently we are the director of SVR. Our rank is colonel.” A military man.
“Currently,” she repeated. “Does that mean you will be moving on soon?”
“Everything changes, Ms. Hemakova,” he said. “Except, of course, the Sovereign.”
“Of course.” Did he even register the mocking tone in her voice?
“Now you will step back to the correct eight-foot distance.” The darkening of his voice was noticeable.
“You can’t order me around,” she retorted. “I work for Minister Kusnetsov.”
“You don’t. As of this moment Directorate O no longer exists.” His eyes seemed to spark through the lenses of his spectacles. “You work for us now. Ludovico Ferranov.”
“What, no patronymic?”
“Not for the likes of you, Ms. Hemakova.”
Despite her best efforts her cheeks were burning. “Seriously? As soon as I speak with Minister Kusnetsov—”
“We wouldn’t waste our time. The minister is in talks with the Sovereign. At the Kremlin. You cannot see him, he will not take your call.” He nodded to the cell phone she had pulled out. “Try it. You’ll see. He is currently incommunicado.” He made a brusque gesture. “Now step back,” he ordered, “or suffer the consequences.”
Kata had no choice but to obey. She stepped back to mark precisely eight feet from the colonel.
Ferranov went behind his desk, sat, opened the top file. “Dismissed,” he said without looking at her.
As she was at the door, his voice froze her. “Ms. Hemakova.”
She turned back.
“You will keep your nose out of Directorate KV’s affairs. Is that clear.”
“It is, sir.” Fury mixed with the anxiety of having the rug metaphorically pulled out from under her. She no longer had her friendship with Baev, no longer had the aegis of Kusnetsov to protect her. She was alone, exposed, at the mercy of this strange robotic cipher.
As she was about to turn away, he raised his arm. “Oh, one other thing, Ms. Hemakova.”
He paused, forcing her to say, “Yes?”
At last his oil-dark eyes lifted to hers. “A word to the unwise. If we were you”—here he shuddered—actually shuddered—“we would disassociate ourselves from our lesbian lover.”
Fury took her fully. A red mist rising.
16
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
“There is a fly in the ointment.”
“A fly,” Ben said.
Daisy—in his head she was still Daisy—nodded. “Yes.”
“In the ointment.”
“A spanner in the works, if you prefer.”
They were alone in the sublevel conference room, both the general and Wilson having bid them adieu.
“However,” Daisy continued, “in this instance ‘a fly in the ointment’ is more apropos.”
In the ensuing silence, Ben felt compelled to say, “I need to stretch my legs. If you’d care to join me.”
“All right,” she said, almost reluctantly. But her eyes gave him another answer entirely.
They rose, crossed to the door, went down the hallway. He followed her as she made an abrupt turn to the left, down a dimly lit branch. She brought out a different card, and the door swung inward. He stepped in after her, found himself in the women’s bathroom.
She stopped in the middle of the room, turned on her heel to face him. “There’s only one security camera in here and I’ve fixed it.”
“They haven’t noticed?”
“I’ve interfered with the signal. There’s a constantly running tape of an empty bathroom.”
“That isn’t suspicious?”
Her smile was knife-edged. “I’m the only woman allowed down here and I notoriously have the bladder of a camel.”
The thing was, Ben thought, he needed to keep sizing her up, and every time he did so she became a different person, like a human chameleon. This included her personality.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Now that we’re alone kindly tell me why ‘fly in the ointment’ is more apropos of your problem.”
“Because, Ben, you are the fly and the ointment.”
“Please be clearer.”
“The general likes you. That’s highly unusual, unique, one might say. He doesn’t like anyone.”
“Even you?” he said, trying for playful.
“Especially me.”
He huffed. “I find that difficult to believe. I mean why would that be?”
“Reade’s afraid of me.”
Ben tried to take that in, failed, shook his head.
“Reade may like you, but I don’t trust you.”
“Hm, speaking of trust, Daisy or Margo or…” He let the rest of the sentence hang, because she’d already got the idea.
She dug a passport out of her jacket, handed it over. He opened it, saw her photo. Then he checked the bindings, the center crease, did not find it wanting. It was authentic.
He looked up at her. “So your name—your real name is Zahra. Zahra Planck.”
She nodded, took the passport back. “My mother is Iranian, my father was German. And, yes, Max Planck was my great-uncle.” She sighed. “Somehow my father had delusions of me becoming a writer, but instead I became a scientist. A physicist. A particle physicist, like my great-uncle, and for the past four years I’ve been specializing in quantum computing.” Her smile had now softened slightly. “That’s why the general is afraid of me. I’m heading up the government team, and even though Marsden Tribe is still a light-year ahead of us we’re making progress.”
“So now I see why I’m the fly,” Ben said. “You don’t trust me. But I’m also the ointment?”
“We need you,” Zahra said. “Urgently.”
“What you really mean is you need a conduit into Tribe’s quantum solutions.” He shrugged. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, since we’re using hoary phrases. I’m nowhere near his team of physicists.”
“That’s just it.” She stepped closer to him. “What Reade is asking you to do is absurd, impossible. But does he know that?” She gave a small laugh. “He and his so-called cabal are Ivory Tower dwellers. They sit in the center of an echo chamber. People tell them what they expect to hear. What I’m asking of you is eminently doable. What I need is proof of his culpability in Brady Thompson’s murder. You’re part of his security. You have a long and successful history of being in the field. You know how to get what I want.”
He turned away, stepped to the far wall. “This prison cell doesn’t even have a window.”
“Naturally. Too far underground.” But the penny had already dropped. “I know a place,” she said.
He turned back, grinning. “Lead on.”
* * *
“Like you,” Ben said, “I’m mixed race. American WASP father. Lebanese Jewish mother. They met in Beirut, where I was born.”
“A Levantine Jew,” Zahra said. “My goodness.”
He cocked his head. “Am I your first?”
She laughed. “Shall we order?”
They were sitting in a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Iranian. The owner-chef embraced her when they arrived. She introduced him to Ben as Babak. They were the only customers. Apparently they opened for just her; she’d called ahead while he was gathering the personal effects he’d surrendered to security. The place was just off Wilson Boulevard, in northeast Arlington. She must have been hungry. She ordered soups, salads, koobideh and soltani kabobs for both of them. A meat eater then, Ben thought, absorbing everything about her.
Babak told them he’d bring Iranian tea later; now something stronger to drink.
“So we’re both part Middle Eastern,” Zahra said.
“But you must have known that about me already.”
She sat back as drinks came, a bottle of Persian Empire Saggi Arak and two glasses. Babak poured them both half a glass, then retreated into the tiny kitchen accessed through a Heriz rug hung as a curtain. On the walls were paintings of Iranian origin, depicting the Persian cities of antiquity. Nothing of modern Iran, Ben noted.
“The general knows. Wilson as well.”
He already knew that as far as this situation was concerned Connerly had served his purpose; he had been dismissed from the loop. Maybe he knew nothing at all—at least the bare minimum, which did not include Ben’s ethnic background.
The food came all at once, which was no surprise to either of them. Babak, bless him, did not stay around for accolades but returned to his overheated cave. Zahra ate slowly and carefully, shearing off precise cubes of kabob with her knife, taking small bites between her teeth.
