The quantum solution, p.18
The Quantum Solution, page 18
“Sure, but they haven’t got nearly as far as—” He turned to look at her.
She was sick at heart. A silence as big as the villa enclosed them, thick with suspicion. “So then you are the only one.” She pointed. “If as you say these anomalies that killed Thompson are the time crystals themselves, they have been weaponized.” Her eyes searched his. “Talk to me, Marsden. For the love of God, tell me this wasn’t you.”
28
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
No one said a word. Petrov risked a glance at Kusnetsov, as if to say, Do you have any idea what’s going on? Kusnetsov should have been amused by the other’s clear discomfort, but for some reason he wasn’t.
All at once the Sovereign started talking about his last hunting expedition, the gray wolf he had tracked on horseback for a day and a half until cornering it and shooting it through the heart. “That’s a difficult shot. Not very many hunters can manage it.” He looked from Petrov to Kusnetsov and back again. What was he looking for? Kusnetsov asked himself. Affirmation? Appreciation? Applause? “You can’t shoot an animal through the head, it’s disrespectful,” he went on. “Never forget the animal is a worthy enemy. Also”—here he laughed, a raw, metallic noise more like a gunshot than anything that should be coming out of a human being’s mouth—“a headshot will ruin the trophy. The head is meant for display, a testament to one’s prowess.” He spread his stubby-fingered hands. “And of course one’s prowess is the entire raison d’être of the exercise.”
He sat back, crossed one ankle over his opposite knee. “You know, when I was asked to come to Moscow from St. Petersburg, where I grew up and trained day and night, it was to join the government in the Kremlin under the auspices of a president who understood nothing about the Russian people. Curious, no?” He shook out a cigarette from a pack he kept hidden in his breast pocket, lit it, inhaled. He never smoked in public.
“Here in Moscow,” he continued in a haze of bluish smoke, “I spent some months observing, keeping my mouth shut. I saw what others inside the Kremlin—especially this president—did not. We—the people of Russia—had had enough of democracy. We didn’t know what to do with it and so it failed. Miserably.” His cigarette, Turkish in origin, produced a sharp, acidic odor that permeated the carriage in less than a minute. As if he hadn’t already marked his territory, Kusnetsov thought.
“Russia does not want or need democracy. The people have experienced for themselves the chaos, the decadence democracy breeds. They have universally rejected dermokratia—shit-ocracy. Our citizens have lived under an autocracy for longer than they can remember. Their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers all lived, worked, procreated, and died under regimes that tightened the screws on choice. They like that now, they’re used to it, comfortable with it.”
He inhaled, held the smoke as if searching for the way forward, didn’t continue until his lungs soaked up all the nicotine the tobacco had to offer. “Like fools, we sat back, allowed NATO to expand its influence, we twiddled our thumbs when Belgrade was bombed, we turned a blind eye on the American incursions into Libya and Iraq. So here we are now with democracy squatting on our doorstep in Ukraine, in Poland, in territory that not so long ago belonged to the Soviet Union before we were downsized by the world to the Russian Federation.”
“Indeed, Sovereign,” Petrov intervened. “However, it’s incumbent upon me to point out that we have taken control of the Crimea, infiltrated western Ukraine. We have successfully exported our illiberal ideologies to the West—the British National Party, Greece’s Golden Dawn, France’s National Rally, Hungary’s Jobbik movement.” Here Petrov was obliged to take a breath, as the beginning of his interruption had spilled out in a rush. Kusnetsov closed his eyes, anticipating the inevitable consequence. But Petrov was either unaware of the danger or desperate enough to ignore it. “But our greatest triumph was wooing the right wing of America’s Republican Party,” he continued. “Of course they followed their newfound savior. I mean to say their chief ideologist has been quoted as saying, ‘Ukraine’s not even a country.’” He spread his hands. “I mean to say we could not have put it better ourselves.”
The rattling of the train carriages over the rails seemed to gain in power and significance in the ensuing silence. Kusnetsov opened his eyes. Ostensibly he looked at Petrov, but he carefully kept the Sovereign’s expression in the corner of his vision.
“An ideologist,” the Sovereign said in sepulchral tones, “is of course useful as a stooge, but this one is also a farceur. A buffoon. Not as useful as you seem to think, Bohdan Sergeyevich.” He stubbed out the butt in an oversized ashtray beside his right elbow. “What you have seen fit to remind us of—” He swiveled his head to look at Kusnetsov. “Did you need reminding, Darko Vladimirovich?”
“Indeed not, Sovereign,” Kusnetsov said forcefully without a hint of obeisance, which the Sovereign would interpret as weakness. “These facts are well-known to every person in the FSB.”
In lieu of a smile the Sovereign showed his canines. “As well they should be, Darko Vladimirovich. As well they should.” His gaze returned to Petrov with the heaviness of lead. “Despite these well-known inroads, Bohdan Sergeyevich, despite so many Americans finding an affinity with ‘the strong hand’ of governing, the Russian Federation and I in particular are in disgrace. A disgrace that must be remedied. I have inculcated the concept of Russian exceptionalism in our own people. I have turned our ideology outward. Now the time has arrived for the final step in the new Russian expansion. Today is the day that we begin to take back what was once ours. Today is the day we begin to make Russia great again.”
As if the Sovereign had timed his discourse to the second, the train slowed and the platform of the third and last station appeared, a blurred string of columns, beyond the sliding doors’ windows.
“Ah, so here we are,” the Sovereign said as the train drifted to a halt. “At last.”
The doors opened and Petrov leapt from his chair to greet his commander, General Mikail Maximovich Sidorov, first deputy director of the GRU.
“Now that we’re all here,” the Sovereign said, “we can begin.”
Kusnetsov sat up straighter in his chair; he and the Sovereign were the only ones still seated. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach that no amount of deep breathing could unravel. In fact, it seemed to grow.
The doors behind Sidorov had not closed; the train remained at rest in the station, as if having fallen into a brief slumber. He glimpsed the trainman walking down the platform, heading for the rear car, which would, Kusnetsov presumed, become the first carriage when the train reversed its course. Then once again all was peaceful on the deserted platform.
The Sovereign switched from one buttock to another on his seat.
“Bohdan Sergeyevich, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong…”
Vot der’mo, Kusnetsov thought. Oh, shit. Here we go.
“… but isn’t it your job to oversee all GRU agents within the Moscow region.”
Petrov nodded. “This is known, Sovereign.”
“Of course it is, Bohdan Sergeyevich. And isn’t it your job to ensure no defectors and enemy infiltrators are ever at large within your jurisdiction.
“Furthermore, isn’t it your job to specifically see to it that these enemy infiltrators and defectors are caught, interrogated, and executed.”
“Ah, without doubt, sir.”
It was not a good sign when the Sovereign kept using your name virtually every time he spoke; it was akin to him delivering a sentence.
“Bohdan Sergeyevich, it has come to my attention that one Marius Ionescu has gone missing.” The Sovereign cocked his head. It had the same effect as the cocking of a pistol. “Is this correct?”
Kusnetsov saw Petrov swallow before he said in a rather strangled voice, “Unfortunately—”
The Sovereign held up a hand, at which everyone else, not just Petrov, froze. “Explain your lapse of judgment, of reason, of the first protocol of vigilance. Have you any idea who exfiltrated this Marius Ionescu? No? Do you know how he was exfiltrated? No? Do you have any idea where this traitor is? No? Inside the Federation? Outside? Anything at all?”
Petrov’s face looked drained of color. His shoulders slumped. He appeared not to have the strength to say “No” once more.
The Sovereign sighed. Looked past Petrov to his first deputy director of the GRU. “Mikail Maximovich, your opinion, yes?”
“Inexcusable.” Sidorov’s voice was as stiff as a knife blade.
The Sovereign grunted, waved a hand. “Take hold of him, Mikail Maximovich. Take him to the open door.”
Sidorov’s eyes opened wide. “Sir?”
The Sovereign came halfway out of his seat. “Are you deaf as well as derelict, Comrade General. This is your man. This happened on your watch.”
Now Sidorov made the same mistake his subordinate had. “I will mete out his punishment by my own hands.”
“Oh, yes you will.” The Sovereign pointed. “Do as you are ordered.”
Even as Petrov shrank back, Sidorov took hold of him by the scruff of his neck, frog-marched him to the edge of the carriage. Quick as a snake Petrov twisted away. He was about to leap onto the platform when Kusnetsov sprang from his chair, grabbed his jacket from behind, hauled him back into the car.
“Ah, yes, my dear Darko Vladimirovich.” The Sovereign was standing now, took a step forward. “Bend him over. You know. Yes, like that. You understand.”
An instant later the door slammed shut on Petrov’s neck. He squawked like a chicken in the jaws of a fox. A lurch and the train began to move, the pillars whipping by faster and faster until, at the end of the station, the tunnel wall came up, smashing Petrov’s head and neck, flayed off his shoulders.
“The carpet,” the sovereign said, turning away, reseating himself. “Throw the body onto the carpet. Let him bleed out on it, not my teak floor.”
29
LA PALMA, CANARY ISLANDS
“Yes, I’ve been studying time crystals for a while now,” Marsden Tribe said. “And yes I have been experimenting with them. And yes it’s occurred to me that their unique ability to defy entropy would make the possibility of weaponizing them irresistible—to some people.”
Evan eyed him with more than a little uncertainty. “But not you.”
“Not me.”
They had returned to the dining room and he had picked up eating his shrimp as if nothing untoward had happened. There were three shrimp left on his plate—three out of six. He always ate six shrimp, no more, no less. She thought he chewed every mouthful a certain number of times but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t going to be caught staring at his mouth.
“I don’t believe you.” When he made no reply, she said, “I saw the look on your face the moment the first image came up on the monitor. You knew precisely what you were looking at—the attack and what caused Thompson’s death.”
“If I hadn’t,” he said, wiping his lips, “I wouldn’t be worthy of owning a quantum computing company, let alone Parachute.” He pushed his plate away. “Look, I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“Which is?” He knew how to nettle her.
“No matter what I say or even if I deny I was behind Thompson’s murder you won’t believe me.”
“Did you murder him.”
“No.”
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
He unwrapped a Snickers—his dessert of choice—and took a bite, chewing slowly. “Even so, there remains an ember of doubt in your mind that—”
“There isn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me, Evan,” he said sternly. “If this ember is not snuffed out, it will poison our relationship.” His eyes were cool, unblinking. “And believe me when I tell you that before that happens I’ll tear up our contract and boot you out the door.”
“Charming.” But her tone wavered. “Okay, there is something.”
“Tell me.” He looked abruptly alert and she knew she had his full attention.
“What I can’t get my head around is if you’re so far ahead of everyone else in quantum theory and experiments how this new weapon couldn’t come from Parachute.”
“I had the same thought.”
Was he lying? Telling the truth?
“I’m already looking into it.”
An anodyne answer that could mean something or nothing at all.
She thought long and hard, feeling they had come up against a brick wall without any way over or around it. There certainly was no way through it. After a time, feeling confused and defeated, she said, “So what do you propose?”
“Nothing tonight. It’s too late. But tomorrow morning I’ll take you to meet someone who may be able to convince you that I’m telling the truth.”
“That seems unlikely.”
He smiled. “Everything about me is unlikely, don’t you agree?”
She didn’t feel like giving an inch. On the other hand, she was damned if she was going to act like a petulant teenager. “I can’t argue with that.”
“Ah.” His smile took on a sardonic edge. “At last a breakthrough.” He slapped his thighs, stood up. “Time to get you back to bed. You need your rest.”
“What I need more,” she said, rising, “is to have a talk with Inessa.”
Tribe frowned. “How do you know she’s here. I might have turned her over to—”
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you, Marsden.” She broke out her own sardonic smile. “She’s here. We both know it, so let’s cut to the chase.”
“You want to talk with her.”
“Yes.”
“Which means you want to interrogate her.”
She snapped her fingers. “Damn, you’re fast.”
“No.” The smile never left his face.
Her expression hardened. “Don’t tell me ‘No.’”
“I just did.”
She shook her head. “You can’t keep me from her.”
“It’s for your own—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Just don’t.” She watched him. They might have been circling each other at the showdown at the end of Once Upon a Time in the West. She could feel the tension between them, stretched to its limit. One way or the other something would have to give. “I’ll find her wherever you’ve stashed her here in the villa. You know I will. Sometime in the early hours of the morning—”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands, palms out. “In return you’ll please take that look off your face.”
“What look?”
“When I see that look of yours,” he said, “all I can think of is death.”
“Mission accomplished,” she said dryly.
* * *
Inessa was strapped to a hospital bed by her wrists and ankles just as if she were in the psych ward of a hospital. She was dressed in a much-washed T-shirt and a pair of men’s ragged shorts, clothes apparently given to her at the beginning of her incarceration.
“A one-size-fits-all villa, I see,” Evan said.
Tribe had stepped into the room in front of her, signaling to a man—presumably a guard—to step away from his post at the side of the bed. “I insist on anticipating all possibilities.”
“Good luck with that.” She watched Inessa glaring at her, silent as a panther.
The room looked to be more or less the same size as hers; it was also on the second floor, but in the opposite wing. But unlike hers the walls were a glaring limewashed white, unadorned with any paintings or photos. The furniture consisted of a single wooden slat-backed chair. Evan crossed to the window, which overlooked the narrow streets of Santa Cruz de la Palma. Without streetlights the alleys had grown eerie blotches of light from lamps in second-floor apartments. At this late hour all the shops were shuttered, dark. The streets were deserted.
When Evan turned from the window and walked back toward the bed, the guard took over her spot, his back against the window. He did not take his eyes off Inessa.
Evan looked down at the restrained woman. “I can’t talk to her like this.”
“She’s wild, nearly feral,” Tribe told her. “When we first got her here she almost pulled the arm out of the socket of one of my men. She’ll be restrained as long as she is in my villa.”
Evan stepped to the bed, put her hand on one of the straps. “I need her free.”
Tribe, following her, put a hand gently on her wrist. “Not a chance in hell.”
Evan, gesturing with her head, led him to the other side of the room, spoke to him with her back to the bed so even if Inessa could lip-read she wouldn’t know what Evan said. She did not want to take him outside; Inessa would rightly take it as a sign of weakness. “Marsden,” she whispered, “I’m not going to argue with you.”
He nodded. Good, he mouthed without making a sound.
“However, I will ask you one question: How many interrogations have you conducted?”
He glowered at her. “Is this a trick question?”
“Marsden, I know better than to try to trick you. So, no, it isn’t. Now I would appreciate an answer.”
He stared into her eyes for a long moment before he said, “I have never conducted an interrogation, no.”
“Right. Second question: Have I ever interfered with your work on quantum computing?”
He huffed. “Of course not. You don’t know anything about quantum computing.” He took a breath; his expression changed. He sighed. “Evan, you killed this woman’s twin. She’ll rip your throat out the first moment she can.”
“She’s certain to try.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“That’s an admirable sentiment, Marsden. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But now I want you to listen to what I’m about to say. Really listen. Can you do that?”
“Don’t condescend to me, Evan.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Just listen, okay? You’re correct, Inessa will try to kill me.” She took his gaze and held it steady. “That is the point.”
