The quantum solution, p.15
The Quantum Solution, page 15
That wasn’t going to happen with Zahra, that much she knew for certain.
23
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
When Rodion was eight years old his mother, on the phone with her sister, asked him to pour a bit of oil into a frying pan that had begun to smoke. As children will, Rodion, convinced he had a better idea, filled a glass with water from the tap and poured some into the pan. The inevitable result was scalded forearms and a scolding from his mother.
He had cause to recall this incident when he saw Kata step out of her armored SUV and cross to meet him and Korokova as they, crouching down to keep themselves safe from the rotors, scooted across the airport tarmac. Standing up beyond the slowing rotors’ reach, Korokova stood stock-still. With Rodion at her side, she gave Kata the death stare that would have wilted almost anyone else. Not Kata, however, who was used to giving back as good as she got. In fact, she delighted in it. It was only one of the traits of hers that struck terror into the hearts of those who sought to dismiss or oppose her.
Like those sizzling drops of water, spattering him just before they turned to steam, the animus between Kata and Korokova pulled Rodion in and burned him. He tried to step away but found his boot soles mired to the tarmac, as if the ground itself had been reduced to tar by the ferocious heat scorching the air between them. He found himself blinking several times, as if otherwise all the moisture in his eyes would evaporate.
Korokova spoke first, each word forced out like raw meat through a grinder. “What are you doing here?”
She did not even do Kata the courtesy of addressing her either by her rank or by her name. This won’t end well, Rodion thought. Was it his imagination or had Kata not blinked, even with the wind whipped up by the now almost still rotors? Was that even possible? he asked himself.
“I am here, Major Korokova, to update Rodion on his status.”
Rodion looked stunned. “My status? Have I done something wrong?”
“Not at all.” Kata studiously kept her eyes on Rodion, but her superb peripheral vision had marked out Major Korokova like a second-unit film camera. “I’m afraid Directorate O has been disbanded.”
“W-what?” Rodion stammered. “How? Why?”
But it was Major Korokova who answered. “I see”—she addressed Kata—“that you’ve met Colonel Ferranov.” She could not conceal the smirk, though it was quickly gone.
Rodion shook his head. “Who?” He was asking Major Korokova, not Kata.
“The colonel has been summoned to FSB by the Sovereign,” Korokova said matter-of-factly. “He is the man I report to.”
Well, there’s something, Kata thought, though it was like pulling a tooth out of the fire—the only thing left after Ferranov immolated her career. Such an artifact was small but might turn out to be precious.
Rodion turned to Kata. “But what am I to do now? I feel like a man without a country.”
“Don’t worry, Rodion,” Kata told him, “I’ll find a place for you.”
“Not in Ludovico Ferranov’s new order.” The major’s sneer was back, this time lasting longer. “You can’t help him, Ms. Hemakova. You can’t even help yourself.”
Rodion took a breath. “All right, then. I’ll find my own way. I’ve done it before, I can—”
“You can’t,” Major Korokova said with the absolute authority of the new victor. “The service is no longer what it once was.”
“When, what—?”
“You will become part of my staff, Rodion.” The sneer turned into a smile. Kata had seen that kind of smile before, seen it used by seductresses and serial killers. And she ought to know. She was both.
“You can’t do that.” She put a goodly amount of aggression into her voice.
“Who’s to stop me?” Korokova said. “You?” Her laugh sounded like someone pulverizing broken glass into concrete. “I don’t think so.”
“Regulations,” Kata said, knowing this argument was weak at best. “Rodion is FSB. You’re GRU. That isn’t—”
“What? Allowed?” Major Korokova’s eyes were bright as shooting stars. She was already drunk on her victory, Kata saw. “That was last week. In the here and now Colonel Ferranov can do anything he wants. So can I.” She turned away from Kata, gripped Rodion’s biceps. “You’re mine now, Rodion. That my poaching you burns Ms. Hemakova’s ass is the cherry on top of my sundae.”
Kata watched them walk off with the gimlet eyes of the wary. She spat on the tarmac, hit the spot in which Korokova had been standing. Then she turned on her heel, climbed into her armored SUV, and slammed the door shut behind her.
“Home,” she told the driver. But where exactly was home? she wondered.
24
LA PALMA, CANARY ISLANDS
Evan existed now solely in her memories. These were all good memories—of her childhood days with Bobbi before their split occurred, of her vacation in Southeast Asia with Lyudmila, of her saving Bobbi’s two children, bringing them to their grandparents in Germany, the birth parents Evan herself had just met thanks to the intervention of Lyudmila, her time with them, the utter peace it provided. She lived in these memories; she felt safe in them. Nothing could touch her, and since she had already been grievously harmed no more of it could come to her. Nestled in her memories, she was rocked to sleep over and over again.
But inevitably she rose, as she must. No matter how much she wished to cocoon herself inside that peace, consciousness and with it the real world returned unheralded and unmissed. As she awoke to her pain she expected to see the face of the PA—she could not recall her name—Tribe had spoken of just before she lost consciousness in the Syrian Abd-El-Kader’s Istanbul warehouse. Instead it was Marsden Tribe himself whose face hovered over her. She tried to speak but it was as if her tongue were plastered to the roof of her mouth. To her chagrin, she was able to produce only soft grunting noises. Never mind; Tribe seemed to know what she wanted. A moment later he was holding a rose-colored plastic glass of water with a bendy paper straw. Scooping one hand behind her head, he lifted it up, maneuvering the straw between her chapped lips. He did not have to tell her to sip slowly but he did anyway, a soft smile on his lips.
The water felt like velvet sliding down her throat. She choked and at once Tribe removed the straw from her mouth. She wanted to thank him, wanted to ask where she was, how long she had been unconscious, how the hell he’d known where she was, and why he had forced Abd-El-Kader to sell Alila International out, because surely he hadn’t wanted to. Just to save her?
All of these questions swam in her head like fish around a reef, but before she could utter one word pain sliced through her, making her wince.
“Now,” Tribe said to someone out of her limited field of vision. “Again.”
She felt a needle slip into the meat of her upper arm. A warmth suffused her, and she sank again into the deep.
* * *
Mouth raw and sticky, Evan arose once again into consciousness and, with a ragged breath, sat up. Tribe was still there. Or perhaps there again. She had no idea how long she’d once again been unconscious. Dizzy, she said nothing for several moments. To Tribe’s credit he said nothing either, merely placed several pillows behind her back and head. So she wasn’t in a hospital; he’d just have to push a button and that part of the bed would raise her from her recumbent position.
“Perhaps some tea?” he asked, clearly expecting her to be able to answer.
When she did, her voice sounded strange to her, as if it were being produced by someone else’s larynx. “Do I look as bad as I feel?”
His laugh was soft and liquid. He offered her the cup of tea, which she took, swallowing the warm, sweet liquid with a sigh.
“You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?” he said after a time.
“Lovely.” She took another swallow of tea, looked at him, said, “Talk to me.”
As usual he knew precisely what she wanted. “You’re in Santa Cruz de La Palma. Canary Islands. I flew you here on my plane. Dr. Werner, my PA, maneuvered your right arm back into your shoulder socket, treated the rat bites and various other cuts and abrasions. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do anything about the deep bruises—they’ll have to heal on their own.” He regarded her speculatively. “About that one, just below your sternum, it’s big and deep.”
“The result of my breaking the zip tie binding my wrists.”
He stared at her, then whistled softly. “You’re going to have to teach me that trick. Once you’re feeling better,” he added hastily.
“I’ve been out for how long?”
“Almost forty hours. You were in bad shape,” he added unnecessarily. Although maybe it was for himself he’d voiced that, she thought. He needed things crystal clear in his mind and in the minds of the people he spoke with.
“You don’t have to feel responsible,” she said as he took the empty cup from her.
“Oh, I don’t.” That smile of his was both dazzling and puzzling. There were a number of emotions, she had found, that were not in his vocabulary—guilt, remorse, fear, they were as alien to him as a sunrise on Mars. “It’s all part of doing business.” He frowned. “Tell me, what were you doing at Alila?”
“I was attacked the day before by two females—the sisters,” she said. “I was following up on a lead in order to find them.”
“One of the sisters almost killed you before you killed her.”
“They were Russian field agents.”
“SVR.”
Her eyes widened. How did he know that? “Actually, no. Their controller is GRU. A major by the name of Juliet Danilovna Korokova. I was trying to find them in order to get back to her.”
Tribe considered a moment. He was extremely astute, and she wondered what he had sensed in her. It wasn’t long before she found out. “This … mission you’re on. It sounds personal.”
“It’s always personal when someone tries to kill me.” When he stared at her, saying nothing, she shrugged. “Part of doing business.”
He shook his head, as if negating her words. “No, I mean it’s more deeply personal.”
She panicked for a moment, sure he knew about Lyudmila, which meant disaster. No one could know about her relationship with the Russian ex-Politburo member. No one would understand; they probably wouldn’t even give her a chance to explain, and even if they did they wouldn’t believe her. Her career would be finished. She’d be in permanent exile. Limbo, the worst place for a field agent to be—neither living nor dead.
Putting the cup aside, she turned her head. “I’d dearly like a breath of fresh air.”
He rose, crossed to the window, cranked the pane open. A soft breeze stirred the gauzy curtains, bringing with it the salty mineral smell of the ocean, the vague sounds of distant voices, a laugh. A dog barked. Through it all she heard the clatter of palm fronds. She closed her eyes. The sound reminded her of Southeast Asia, her time with Lyudmila, a time she had wished would never end.
“Were you alone when you were attacked?”
Her eyes popped open. Tribe was standing by her bedside. She looked up at him, hoping her frown appeared genuine. “What an odd question to ask.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a question.”
She sighed. Her body’s aches were gaining on her; she was a sprinter running out of energy. “Yes. I was alone.” She frowned again. “I’m curious how you found me.”
“Ah, well, that’s simple. Your contact—the dentist, Dr. Enamiy—he’s one of my informants. He told me you’d come in and what you’d talked about. I wasn’t going to let that go.”
She thought he was going to ask her again if she was alone, but once again he surprised her by saying, “Dr. Werner tells me you’ll be able to have dinner downstairs in my dining room. She’ll be in shortly to check on you and give you the details.”
He stepped to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to her. “Oh, by the way, the afternoon before I bought the Syrian’s business a private seaplane took off from Istanbul.”
Evan shrugged, which cost her, the pain in her shoulder lancing through her, squeezing her eyes shut for an instant.
“I know. It wouldn’t mean much,” he continued, “but the odd thing is that six hours later it landed in a cove here in Palma.” His eyes bored into her. “Something of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Without waiting for an answer he turned on his heel, opened the door, and left her alone in the room. At least, she thought with bitter irony, she had something to chew over besides the constellation of pains from her injuries.
* * *
It wasn’t long afterward that restlessness overcame Evan. She was unused to lying in bed for prolonged periods. Swinging her legs around, she dangled them off the bed, slid slowly to her feet. Her legs felt rubbery, and she held onto the wooden bedpost until the pain caught in her lungs subsided to a tolerable level. Looking around she saw a large square room stuccoed a pale yellow, with high ceilings, intricate crown moldings, and bas-relief cherubs dancing around a central chandelier, a fistful of crystal teardrops. An array of books on shelves filled one wall, a large painting of Palma another. A third wall was pierced by three large windows.
Slowly and carefully she moved toward the window Tribe had opened until she felt the breeze directly on her face. After glancing down at the street below the window, she closed her eyes momentarily, inhaling the soft air, the scents of an island in the Atlantic Ocean off a warm coast. She drank in the small sounds that drifted up to her, especially the cries, calls, and laughter of the children on the street, one running after another, trailing primary-colored kites behind them.
She opened her eyes and gazed out at the water, the top of the cliff face, the complex geometric pattern of the gray-blue rocks. Boats bobbed in the harbor, and farther out a regatta, sails billowing in the wind, passed by like the days and nights she had missed while unconscious.
At an insistent buzzing she turned. Her phone lay on the night table nearest her. She had not noticed it before. Tribe must have recovered it from the Syrian’s warehouse. There it lay, vibrating for all it was worth. She went to it on stiffened legs. Her muscles were tight, cried out to be used.
She saw that someone—Tribe?—had plugged it in; the battery was fully charged. The instant she opened the line she heard Ben’s voice, raised with urgency and anxiety.
“—the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours.”
In brief strokes, she told him what had transpired over the last two days, erasing Lyudmila from the recent past, so the attack in the Istanbul hammam was purely against her.
“Damn it, Evan. Every time—” Immediately the anxiety tightened his voice like the string of a drawn bow. He huffed. “Are you okay? And where the hell are you? Are you still in Istanbul?”
“I’m fine,” she said, not wanting to get into the nuts and bolts of her torture, not now anyway, not with the way Ben was talking. Something was up, something big, and she didn’t want to derail him with details that would only cause him greater anxiety.
“Can you just tell me where the hell you are? Are you still in danger?”
“You don’t sound yourself. Are you all right?”
“Just tell me where you are.” His voice was calmer, but strangely shaky, as if calming himself down was taking an effort.
“Ben—”
“Evan, just tell me. Please.”
“The Canary Islands. More specifically La Palma. Tribe’s villa, presumably. I’m still a little hazy on details. I’ve been out of commission for nearly two days.” She heard him heave a deep sigh. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m with Tribe now. I’m safe.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“What?” Her legs gave out. She sat on the edge of the bed, her muscles trembling uncontrollably with pain, fatigue. “What is going on?” Apparently Ben’s anxiety was communicable even over the phone.
He told her about Brady Thompson’s sudden death.
Her first thought was that the FSB had discovered they had turned Thompson, that he was feeding them disinformation, but when she voiced this to Ben, he said, “That’s what I thought. It’s what I still think. Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thompson was murdered in a very specific way, maybe Havana syndrome—”
“How? Havana syndrome doesn’t kill.”
“Correct. Something of a much higher order was used. A small group headed by General Philip Johnstone Reade is convinced someone has weaponized the—what d’you call them—qubits, the particles used in quantum computers.”
She felt a chill go through her, shivered, teeth chattering. “I don’t think that’s even possible. How could it be?”
“What we don’t know about qubits, about the quantum state itself, is legion. I think even your boy Tribe has just cracked the surface, but he’s gone a helluva lot deeper than anyone else.”
“Advances that anyone has admitted to, at any rate.” She let the “your boy Tribe” crack go for the moment. “Everyone lies, Ben, especially in our shadow world.”
“Well, one thing I can tell you for sure, this group—meaning us, the United States—doesn’t have the capability.”
“You’re accusing Tribe without any evidence.”
“Except his word that he’s light-years ahead of everyone else.”
“That’s not evidence of anything,” she retorted.
“You think not? Evan, try to be realistic.”
She sat up straight, though it cost her in pain. “What does that mean?”
“I just … I don’t want your relationship with him to cloud your professional—”
“So that’s what you meant when you called him ‘my boy.’” She was getting steamed despite herself. Or maybe it was just a reaction to her mounting anxiety, the thought that Marsden Tribe could be an accessory to murder. For what? An experiment on humans, the final trial in weaponization? She shuddered, eyes closed against the possibility.
