The quantum solution, p.5
The Quantum Solution, page 5
“As it happens,” Evan said, “they were telling the truth.” But only, she thought, if you substituted “payment for a murder” for “inheritance.”
“I think those are the young women I seek. Do you know their names?”
“They never introduced themselves. Part of the rudeness of the younger generation. All the old standards have been washed away.” The goldsmith shrugged. “Now. I don’t see how I can be of further—”
“They would have been looking to buy a good quantity of ether.”
Hamit’s eyes opened wide. “Ether, you say.”
Evan nodded.
He did not have to gesture again for the girl to pour them more tea. The sweets remained arrayed on their plate, untouched. Evan was full up with tea. What she longed for was a lamb tagine and the flatbread to scoop up the fragrant stew. Failing that, an iced vodka would do. I’ve been hanging out with Russians for too long, she thought wryly.
“Well,” he said, after taking a sip of tea and putting down his glass, “that puts an entirely different spin on the matter.”
Evan cocked her head. “How so?”
“Ether must be imported, you see. Also, it is hardly a common item.” He tapped an exquisitely manicured nail against the tabletop. It sounded like a maestro’s metronome.
“But you know about it. Ether.”
“I? Apart from working gold and precious stones I know nothing.” He gave a sly smile. “It’s my customers who know just about everything.”
“Not by pillow talk, yes?”
He gave a silent laugh, something she’d never seen before. “This room we’re in, it’s like a confessional. Only better. The judgment of God or Allah is far from here. There is only me. And they trust me, my customers. Here as I design the exquisite jewelry they will display on their fingers, wrists, around their necks they tell me their deepest frustrations, fears, desires, wishes.”
“And you provide the solutions.”
“Ah, no, sister of Rakel. I am but a goldsmith.”
“Hardly humble.”
He spread his hands. “What would be the point.” It wasn’t a question. “No, I merely suggest someone who may provide a solution.”
Evan found herself liking this man. He was both smart and clever. Better, he was confident in his own abilities. He also knew his limits, which precluded arrogance, a weakness she could not stomach but upon which she could prey.
Evan took one of the sweet treats, popped it into her mouth, enjoyed the taste of ground almonds and honey. “And so.” She licked powdered sugar from her fingertips. “To ether.”
A certain darkness seemed to come over Hamit, clouds across the sun. “Only one man—one man in all of Istanbul. The Syrian.”
“An importer-exporter.”
“After a fashion.” Hamit made a face. “Abd-El-Kader is that.” He took a gulp of his tea as to wash a bitter taste from his mouth. “Here he is known as Örümcek.”
“The Spider.”
Hamit nodded. “The spinner of webs.” When he set his glass down, his hand was not altogether steady. “Abd-El-Kader smuggles Syrian refugees into Turkey.”
Evan felt an uncomfortable prickling at the nape of her neck. “For a price.”
“No, you don’t understand. These Syrians—these refugees—have no money. They are barely hanging onto their lives.”
“So then…”
“He makes of them indentured slaves. Ten years of their lives they give up to him in exchange for the promise of leaving the war behind. They think of Turkey as the promised land. This is what the emissaries of Örümcek tell them. They believe, of course they do. Desperation makes them perfect marks. They sign a document and then here they are in Istanbul. Put to work. What pitiful wages they receive go to him.”
“Then how do they live?”
“Abd-El-Kader provides for them, after a fashion. Stores them in old, abandoned warehouses his company has bought up for next to nothing. He crowds them in. Like the cattle cars of the Nazis on their way to the camps. They die like flies in there. What matter to him? There are always more coming, like a tide, endlessly lapping at the Golden Horn.”
Hamit’s eyes had grown markedly darker. They alit upon Evan’s face like the gaze of a crow. Intelligent. Inscrutable. “This is the man you must confront if you are to find the young women you seek.” He cocked his head. “Finding them is this important?”
The insidious sickly sweet stench of ether. “It is.”
“Is your life, then, so unimportant to you? Rakel, your sister, will wail and tear her hair at your funeral.”
The hairs on her arms stirred. “I will manage,” Evan said.
He continued to stare at her, as if taking the final measure of her, as if she were a new piece of jewelry he was designing. Then he gave a quick nod, gave her an address in Karaköy. “An extremely run-down area of the city.” He pushed away his empty glass. “Altogether fitting, as you will discover to your grief.”
6
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The interior of the Defense Threat Reaction Agency looked like a mausoleum, if said mausoleum was clad in ferroconcrete blocks instead of Carrara marble. In any case, the white color was almost the same. Interesting, Ben thought, that Connerly wasn’t taking him to his own lair.
Ben lost count of the number of checkpoints he was required to negotiate—his cell phone, keys, wristwatch, metal credit cards, and pocketknife were all confiscated at the first one—until he and Connerly arrived at the elevator bank at the rear of a lobby that appeared to be as big as a football field. As it turned out, the elevator bank wasn’t Connerly’s objective at all, for they turned left just before it, went past two unsightly columns where a warehouse-size elevator gaped open, waiting for them. Connerly swiped his key card, the doors slid soundlessly shut. They went down instead of up, three floors, Ben judged, though the elevator’s descent was elephantine in its pace.
When the doors opened, they stepped out into a corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction. There were few branches and no corners that Ben could discern. The constant hum of very large engines and exhaust fans filled the air.
“It’s as if we’re inside an enormous beehive,” Ben said.
“Wasps,” Connerly replied without turning his head. “They’re all wasps here.”
It didn’t sound like a joke. It seemed clear that Connerly didn’t have a sense of humor, Ben thought. But then humor for most of these government types was as vestigial as an appendix. He also noted Connerly’s use of “they” when he might have been expected to say “we.” Ben filed that bit of data away.
Connerly turned smartly to his right, marching down the corridor at an unexpectedly fast clip. He was like a horse that scents the finish line. Ben wondered who or what was lashing his withers. He did not ask Connerly where they were going, and for once Connerly was silent as the tomb.
The corridor was odd on many levels. It was rounded at its top, as in a tunnel. The source of the lighting was mysterious, and oddest of all, there did not appear to be many doors, just blank walls, as if the spaces beyond were as vast as the lobby above their heads.
At length, Connerly stopped before a door on their left. It was as oversized as the entrance for an emperor. It was steel-clad. It reminded Ben of a door to a bank vault. Connerly used his key card, but that wasn’t enough. He stood still as stone as the reader recognized the unique design of his retina.
At once, the door swung open of its own accord on well-oiled hinges the size of Ben’s forearm. Inside the doorway stood a man Ben recognized but had never met. George Wilson, the head of the Defense Threat Reaction Agency, into whose bailiwick Connerly had taken him. He was small, dark, intense, bookish. His eyes were a pale blue, set wide apart. He sported a prow of a nose. If his chin were any more pointed it could be used as a weapon.
During the introductions, brief as they were, he grasped Ben’s hand, enfolded it with long, white fingers, knuckles the size of dice. And he held onto Ben’s hand, trapping it, Ben would say later to Isobel, while with laser eyes he appeared to be looking through skin, fascia, and muscle searching for Ben’s bones.
At first, Ben thought to pull his hand away as if from a faulty light switch, but then he reconsidered. Let him acquiesce to this silent interrogation, or rather let Wilson believe that. And Ben’s smile was so warm, so genuine that at length Wilson had no choice but to let him go, stand aside so that he and Connerly could enter the inner sanctum. It seemed odd to Ben that Connerly was being used as nothing more than a messenger boy, tasked with bringing Ben to what appeared to be Wilson’s fortress of solitude.
The lighting was soft here, the insistent whirr in the corridor muted if not banished altogether. The room was generously proportioned and, to Ben’s surprise, furnished neither as an office nor a lab. With its oversized leather furniture, burlwood side tables, shaded lamps, it looked like a men’s club somewhere in London. All that was missing was a fireplace and just above it a mounted stag head on the wall. There was also a highly polished mahogany table with a baize top where, Ben imagined, a group might play Texas Hold’em beneath the green-glass lamps, swathed in aromatic cigar smoke.
In fact, there was a figure seated at the head of the table, farthest from where Ben was standing, smoking a Churchill Imperial. Blue smoke drifted languidly from his half-open mouth.
“Benjamin Butler,” the figure said. “Come on over.”
Now that he shifted in his chair Ben could see that he was in uniform. Closer to, Ben could see the shoulder boards: four stars. He entered the fragrant haze, saw a square-jawed man with small, keen eyes, a Roman nose, a generous mouth with the plush lips of a woman. Face was lined, wind- and sunburned. A man not one to sit behind his desk in the Pentagon. Out with his men, despite his exalted rank.
“Benjamin Butler,” Wilson said, “meet General Philip Johnstone Reade.”
“General,” Ben said, “I don’t know whether to shake your hand or salute.” The eyes, staring up at Ben, crinkled at the outer corners. Reade held out his hand. Stepping up, Ben shook the four-star’s hand, which was heavy, callused, and dry.
“How about a cigar.” A command, not a question. Reade pushed over a wooden humidor laminated with lacquered tobacco leaves, watched as Ben opened it, extracted a cigar, and lit it with a heavy brass Zippo.
When it was going, the general, eyes on his cigar, rolled it in his fingers, inhaling the scent it was giving off. Several moments later, a young woman, long of leg with dark gleaming hair, entered from a door Ben had not noticed. She was carrying a tray. She was not in a uniform of any sort, he noted.
She glided to a halt beside the general’s left elbow, set down a plate and a cup and saucer. She wore a little black skirt that looked like nothing but must have cost four figures, a sleeveless oyster-colored silk shirt. In other words, not an outfit that the usual E-5 or E-6 could afford. She had long, slightly upturned eyes, wide lips, and high cheekbones. Her arms were toned, her shoulders broad as any swimmer’s.
“Dry toast and tea, Mr. Butler,” Reade said. “Special diet. Nothing you would be interested in, of course. So do tell Daisy what you’d like to eat?”
Daisy? Ben thought. Why not Daisy Mae while we’re at it? He felt like he’d tumbled down the rabbit hole. Briefly, he turned, saw Wilson grin at him like a totem before fixing his eyes on Daisy. Connerly looked as if he was trying his damnedest not to say what he very much wanted to say. No matter. His eyes said it all.
With a chill down his spine, Ben turned back to the general, who had already taken an enormous bite out of the top slice of toast and was chewing it contemplatively.
“Snap to it, man. We don’t have all day.”
Ben, smiling, took his time addressing the young woman. “I’ll have an egg cream, Daisy.”
The general’s jaws halted in midchew. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s an egg cream?”
“Special diet,” Ben said without a hint of irony. After toiling under the weight of the federal government for years, he suddenly felt free as a bird in flight. He didn’t have to answer to these people, did not even have to be civil to them. He would because that was the sort of person he was. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit of fun along the way.
The general’s eyes seemed to narrow even more, like slits in a castle wall behind which stood soldiers armed to the teeth.
“Vanilla or chocolate?” Daisy asked, unfazed by her master’s consternation. Clearly, she knew what an egg cream was.
“Chocolate, Daisy.” Ben’s smile was relaxed, amused even. “Thank you.”
The smile was returned before Daisy made her silent exit. Wilson’s avid gaze followed her all the way. Connerly seemed not to have noticed her at all. He came and sat at the table, across from where Ben sat. His choice of chairs appeared deliberate. Wilson followed him to the table only once Daisy had passed through the doorway from which she had come.
The general began to chew again, frowning so deeply the horizontal lines across his forehead turned into fissures.
“Well,” the general said, struggling to recover, “now that we’re all seated and geared up…”
“Except for my egg cream.”
At once, Reade’s gaze snapped to Wilson, then to Connerly and back again. “You clowns failed to tell me Mr. Butler was a smart-ass.” He grunted. “I don’t like smart-asses.” Pushing his chair away with the backs of his thighs, he arose the way a volcano pushes through the crust of the earth, with vigor, heat, and menace.
It was at that moment Daisy chose as if by magic to emerge through the door with Ben’s egg cream. All eyes were fixed on her this time as she moved to Ben’s left elbow, set down the tall old-time fountain service glass filled to the brim. Needless to say, she hadn’t spilled a drop.
“Here you go, sir.” She had set the glass in front of Ben. “I trust it’s to your satisfaction.”
“No doubt,” Ben said. “No doubt.”
When she had taken her leave, General Reade cleared his throat. “On the other hand, I’ve studied your record, which is exemplary.”
“Thank you, General.”
“You’ve accomplished a great deal in service … a great deal.” He cleared his throat again, then spread his hands wide. “Mr. Butler, this all may seem like some kind of wonky circus to you, but I assure you the men around this table are deadly serious.”
Ben savored his egg cream, wiping his upper lip of foam after each sip. “Much as I enjoy this treat, General, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me what I’m doing here.”
“I’ll fucking tell you.” Connerly, cheeks spotted red, raised his voice as he made to stand up. But Reade’s bladelike hand stilled both his voice and his motion. He subsided back into his chair, but his cheeks were still aflame.
“To your point, Mr. Butler.” The general pressed a button hidden by the baize covering. A large print hanging on the wall behind him rose noiselessly, revealing a flat-screen. At which point the general pressed a second button and the screen lit up. It showed MRI images of three human brains, or possibly, on Ben’s closer inspection, three different views of one brain.
“This,” General Reade said, “is why you have been brought here.” He nodded toward Wilson. “George, since this falls under your bailiwick, why don’t you start us off.” Again, a command rather than a query.
Wilson rose, a small laser pointer in his hand, which he aimed at the images. A red dot appeared on the left-hand image. It moved to the center image, and on to the right-hand image as he spoke. “What we’re looking at here are three images of the human brain.” The pointer clicked and clicked again. “But not just any human brain, Butler. This is the brain of Brady Thompson, Unites States secretary of defense. At least he was, until forty or so hours ago.”
“You sure got these results quickly.” Ben could not keep the skepticism out of his voice.
“Need engenders speed,” Wilson said. “Believe me, this is the emmis. You are indeed looking at Brady Thompson’s brain.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Connerly said, clearly disgusted.
The general blew smoke rings, the hint of a smile finding the corners of his mouth as he watched Ben with a circumspect gaze. To Ben’s way of thinking, he sported the expression a father has for a son who had proven his brilliance among his peers.
Connerly had gone rigid. “Tell him already.” He was near to shouting. His entire neck was lobster red.
The general’s head swung slowly as a monastic lantern, his gaze baleful. “Hey, Mr. Connerly, you are entirely out of order. Do you understand? No, I doubt you do. Asking that we start with the dog’s ass instead of with its head is neither logical nor wise.”
“I’m a mathematician at heart,” Connerly said, but in an altogether more muted tone. He couldn’t get his gaze to meet the general’s, instead examining the green baize in front of him. “I look for equations which I then solve. I must take a straight line to the solution. Anything else is anathema to me.”
“We are dealing with a human being here, Mr. Connerly,” the general said, “not a string of numbers.” He pointed. “You’d do well to remember that.”
That final admonishment seemed to shut Connerly up, at least for the moment. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze looking inward, perhaps at the face of the punishment just meted out to him.
Reade gestured. “Continue, George.”
Wilson nodded. “Okay, so listen, Butler, our initial assessment was that Thompson died of a massive heart attack. The initial autopsy appeared to confirm that. His heart just about exploded.” Here he stopped, seemed to go off on a tangent. “For the record, Ben, we know you and Evan Ryder were acquainted with Brady Thompson and—”
