The quantum solution, p.6
The Quantum Solution, page 6
“The trouble is,” the general interrupted, “we don’t know quite what your relationship was.”
“It was like any other—”
“Come on, man.” Connerly’s voice overran Ben’s, and this time Reade did not wave him to silence. He had risen up, bending his torso toward Ben, knuckles pressed hard against the baize. “Don’t bullshit us. It’s too late for prevarication.”
“What he means,” the general said, “is that we have an exceedingly serious situation on our hands.”
“Some would say a full-blown crisis.” Connerly was staring hard at Ben.
A small silence ensued, which meant neither Reade nor Wilson disagreed.
Ben considered for a moment. His and Evan’s relationship with Thompson could scarcely be called an acquaintanceship. But with Thompson’s death the secret was null and void. “What Evan and I discovered three years ago is that Brady Thompson was a FSB asset.”
The silence was so absolute the general’s crunch on the last piece of toast sounded like a gunshot, the grinding of his teeth like pestle on mortar.
“The secretary of defense was a Russian mole.” Connerly seemed about to go apoplectic. He sat down suddenly and hard. His gaze skittered around the room like a cat on a hot tin roof, afraid to alight on anything for very long.
“That’s right,” Ben said. “But Evan and I found out. Instead of rumbling him we decided to turn him. He became our asset, a double agent, feeding the Russians factoids embedded with disinformation.”
The general’s eyes had narrowed again. “And you two took this action on your own?”
“At that time, General Aristides had oversight of my shop. He knew. We briefed him extensively. In the end, he became Thompson’s de facto handler. He was the only one we could trust.”
Reade ran a hand across his brow. “So to summarize, the secretary of defense, once a Russian asset, turned by you and the Ryder woman, was murdered forty hours ago.”
Wilson nodded. “That’s correct, General.”
“Wait, what?” Ben looked from one to the other. “Murdered? Who said anything about murder? You just told me he died of a massive heart attack.”
Wilson stood unnaturally still. “I said those were the preliminary findings.”
The general leaned forward. “Mr. Butler, this dog and pony show was necessary. In order to prepare you.”
“Prepare me?” Ben’s head was buzzing like a swarm of enraged wasps. “For what?”
The red dot on Wilson’s laser pointer began to move, and with a sense of deep foreboding there came into Ben’s mind a quote from Omar Khayyám he had learned as a child, “The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.” He felt as if what he was about to see he would never be able to unsee.
“You see here, here, and here,” Wilson was saying. “These dark areas. They look like tiny explosions, don’t they? And here and here are more—over a dozen to be precise.”
Ben’s heart was hammering in his chest. “What are you saying? What does this mean?”
“It means,” the general said, “that something of unknown origin attacked Brady Thompson’s mind, detonating in these areas George has just showed you.”
“The general has sugar-coated the cause of Thompson’s death,” Connerly said, his voice quite reasonable now. They had reached the point in the meeting where his expertise was not only welcome but required for guidance. He rose and came around the table, held out his hand until Wilson dropped the laser pointer into it, ceding the floor. “The fact of the matter is I am confident I know the origin of this attack,” he said. “The fact of the matter is I have been studying the so-called Havana syndrome that has been affecting our field agents and diplomats first in Cuba, hence its name, then in Moscow, Stockholm…”
“And most recently here in Washington,” the general said with the pursed lips of a man at last showing his distress.
“For some time, the prevailing wisdom has been some form of weaponized microwave emitter, principally because all the incidents occurred inside buildings. But the most recent incidents here in DC have been out in the open, which makes microwaves less likely.”
“So no one knows what’s caused these attacks on our people.” Wilson drew out a dossier from a briefcase on the floor beside him, opened it onto the tabletop. “In fact, the CIA doesn’t believe these are attacks at all. In their latest press briefing they claim—” Here he paused to read from the dossier. “—‘that it is unlikely to be the result of a worldwide campaign of attacks by a foreign power against US diplomats and spies.’ Blah, blah, blah.” His finger moved down the page. “Here’s another quote, this from a senior admin official: ‘findings of a CIA investigation have found that the majority of cases could probably be attributed to a preexisting medical condition, or environmental factors, or stress.’
“This is what the CIA has been saying from the get-go. They don’t want anyone thinking that these are enemy attacks. Too fucking scary.” Wilson turned over a page in the dossier. “Now here’s the kicker. It’s from a group of Cuban scientists. Don’t laugh, please.” He tapped a finger on the document in front of him like a professor calling a class to order. “In this one instance, we—meaning us chickens in the airtight coop—believe the Cubans were correct when they wrote, and I quote, ‘Havana syndrome theories violate the laws of physics.’”
“No one is interested in getting to the bottom of the naïvely named ‘Havana syndrome’ except us.” Connerly sniffed, his upper lip curled. “We know they are indeed attacks. And we now know the origin of the attacks—at least the newer ones, and possibly all of them.” The red dot moved from one tiny explosion in Thompson’s brain to another. When it landed on the last of them, he turned to Ben. “We recognized these as signature probabilities of our own experiments in weaponizing quantum states.”
“What?” Ben jumped up, his body gone rigid. “That’s crazy.”
“Why would you say that?” Wilson pushed out his lips. “The only thing we know of that doesn’t obey the laws of physics is quantum states.”
“Granted,” Connerly continued, “we still know next to nothing about quantum states. But that handhold is enough for us to ID these.” The red dot flickered over the spots in Brady Thompson’s brain.
There was that grin on Wilson’s face again, sardonic, knowing. “There is only one person whose expertise in quantum computers is advanced enough to make this happen, Butler, and that’s your boss, Marsden Tribe.”
Ben felt a lurch, as if it were his heart that was registering the ground opening up beneath his feet. Wilson’s grin expanded as he kept his gaze locked on Ben. “Now there’s the face I was looking for,” he crowed.
7
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Abd-El-Kader’s headquarters was in Karaköy, south of Galata, a large warehouse on the waterfront. To its right was a cheap-eats restaurant called Donkey Kong. Istanbul was a big city; though Evan possessed at least a passing acquaintance with most neighborhoods, this one between the Atatürk and Galata bridges was an area unknown to her.
The Syrian’s company was called Alila International, its name emblazoned in red across the front of the dilapidated façade of the warehouse. But below it, the brickwork was covered with a rainbow scrum of graffiti.
It was around nine in the morning. Someone at Donkey Kong was sweeping the pavement, kicking around the plastic chairs as if angry with them. She paused, touched her new passport and documentation. Lyudmila wasn’t the only agent who had contacts in this city. Late yesterday afternoon Evan had visited Dr. Enamiy, a dentist whose instruction academy used the indigent as guinea pigs for young would-be dentists. It was never pleasant to be in the large workroom where his cadre of students practiced on people who had nowhere else to go to alleviate their pain. Lots of pulled teeth, lots of blood, the reek of decayed dentin and infected gums.
Like most businesspeople in Istanbul, Enamiy was as venal as he was clever. Never have one profession when you can have two, the modern Turkish saying went. Enamiy’s side hustle was forging documents for those in need and with sufficient cash—half down, half upon completion. Evan had used him several times before and had never had cause to complain. His workmanship was impeccable. He forged any and all documents desired, even the new ones that used holography and were supposed to be forge-proof. “For me nothing is impossible,” Enamiy liked to say. And always backed up that boast with the goods. He handed her a sheet of paper on which were typed out names in two columns. The one on the left contained given names, the one on the right family names.
“Take your pick,” he said as soon as he had taken a series of portrait photos of her. He was already getting to work.
“When opting for an alias in the field pick a name without ethnicity,” one of her instructors at Langley had told her. “One that’s easily forgotten. And don’t get cute—no Jane Smith or anything of the sort.”
Amanda Schneider, regional director of Ruhr Trading Partners, complete with passport and documentation, stood in the shadows across the road from Abd-El-Kader’s warehouse. It seemed a wholly unprepossessing building, clearly having seen better days, but of course that was the point. Like her, Abd-El-Kader had no desire to call attention to himself.
Apart from the restaurant’s street sweeper and the new-model dark blue Mercedes sedan parked up the street around which loitered a man in a shiny black suit, smoking furiously, the street appeared deserted. Amanda Schneider was quite certain it was not. She felt observed the moment she stepped out of the shadows and into the slanted sunlight reflected off the water.
Ignoring whatever was moving in her immediate surroundings, she strode purposefully toward the warehouse without looking to the right or left. The entrance was on the building’s right side. She opened the human-size door, stepped crisply into the interior. She was immediately hit with the assertive aromas of Assam tea, cinnamon, and stone. Judged by the shabby exterior, the inside was shocking: oiled teak floors, black granite counters, the intricately patterned walls of a Mandarin’s palace. There was no resemblance to a warehouse whatsoever. Curbing her surprise, she crossed to the closest counter. Around her men, and several women, went about their mysterious tasks laden with briefcases, armloads of files, trays holding pyramids of square lacquered boxes. It was from these boxes the scent of the freshly dried tea escaped like a prisoner on parole.
It did not take long for her to realize that the laborers, of which there were many, were all Syrians, whereas the people behind the counters were invariably Turks. She approached a heavyset man with a long curved mustache and a dour countenance. His dark eyes flicked over her incuriously before he went back to whatever he was doing before she showed up.
“I’m here to see Abd-El-Kader,” she said in Turkish.
“Is that so,” the man answered in a voice lacking in affect.
“I have an appointment.”
He did not move.
She spread her credentials on the countertop for him to see. Though the man glanced at them cursorily, his glowering expression did not change.
“Please do me the courtesy of letting Abd-El-Kader know that I have arrived.” She smiled. “And right on time, I might say. As I was instructed.”
She placed her business card on the countertop, pushing it toward him.
The man plucked it up, glanced at it, then looked at her as if he were taking a long, lingering pull at a glass of raki. He grunted, then, shrugging, picked up the receiver on an internal line, spoke softly for several minutes as his eyes roved over her credentials. He nodded, spoke one word in reply, put down the receiver.
“Please be good enough to wait.” His tone had softened like taffy in the sun.
She upped the wattage of her smile. “Teşekkür ederim.” Thank you.
* * *
Ten minutes later she was stepping off an elegant elevator the size of a freight car run by a wizened woman in traditional Turkish clothes. Immediately, two men in black suits identical to the man guarding the Mercedes up the block stopped her, ran a portable metal detector over her, had her open her purse. While one of them rummaged through it the other stood back, sneering at her.
Unlike on the ground floor there were no Turks here, only Syrians, perhaps even members of Örümcek’s, the Spider’s, extended family. Following this security search she was escorted down a short hallway paneled in Syrian chestnut. It had a peculiarly low ceiling. Anyone six feet or over would have had to stoop.
At the end of the hallway were a set of double doors, also made of chestnut, with three horizontal brass bands affixed to the wood with iron studs. One of her escorts knocked on the right-hand door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it. He stood aside for the regional director of Ruhr to walk through.
She entered alone. The door closed softly behind her. She stood on the edge of what might have been a soccer pitch—long and wide with a ceiling so high she could not clearly make out its design. Light flooded in through windows through which the water could be seen, filling now with boats, ferries, barges, and pleasure craft of all sizes. Below, glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, most filled with books, others with what seemed to be artifacts unearthed from ancient Middle Eastern ruins. Without looking more closely she couldn’t be sure, but she suspected they were all part of past Syrian cultures.
At first she thought she was alone, but gradually she made out a mammoth desk at the far end of the room and a man sitting behind it. She began the trek across the expanse, clearing her mind of expectation: mind/no mind. Learned from her martial arts master.
Örümcek, the Spider, was a bulldog of a man, perhaps forty or so. He sat behind the desk the way a judge sits behind his bank, but unlike a judge he jumped up as she approached, came around his desk, and beckoned, “Come, come, Ms. Schneider. Please.”
When they had exchanged traditional Muslim greetings, he held up her card. Perhaps this was the reason for the delay in her appointment time.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“You needed time to vet me.” Of course he had. Deep backup for her legend was part of the complete package Enamiy provided. On Google search and phone calls, she was Amanda Schneider, just as her credentials claimed.
He smiled. “Nothing personal, Ms. Schneider.” He lifted a hand. “Standard operating procedure. I have never done business with Ruhr Trading Partners.”
“That’s quite all right,” she assured him.
He swept a hand out, indicating a chair. “Please.”
She sat, one leg crossed over the other knee. Her hands folded in her lap. He called for tea.
“Now, tell me why you have arrived at my doorstep?” He had small eyes, perfectly black. His oiled hair was thick and lush, combed back from his wide forehead. He had small, almost round ears, a nose with the large nostrils of an animal, and rather feminine lips, like rose petals. He wore a dark suit, like his minions, but this one was clearly made-to-measure, of very fine cashmere.
“My company is an old and well-respected one,” she began. “Electrical machinery and equipment is our specialty.”
He stepped to the window nearest him, looked out at the harbor, hands clasped behind his back. The sky was bright, the sun already too hot for this time of the year.
“Arming the Nazis in the forties, I have no doubt.”
She was expecting this. Syrians, and Syrian Turks, had no love for Nazis, or for Russians for that matter, whose spy networks all but took over Istanbul in those same midforties. “We survived,” she said in a neutral tone.
“And thrived, I am given to understand.” He turned back to her. “Is this what you want me to buy, electrical machinery and equipment.”
“Ah, no.” The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “You already have your resources for those things.”
“Indeed we do,” he said. And then, taking an entirely different tack, “You speak Levantine Syrian like a native.”
“I spent time in Damascus. I had a very good teacher.”
“And an even better ear.” He tapped his right ear with his forefinger. “The best linguistic teacher in the world will fail if the student does not have the ear for languages.”
“Ruhr has branched out since the forties,” she said, in an attempt to get them back on track. “Electronic—”
He spoke over her, as if to cut short the time he was wasting on her. “For electronics we also have our resources.”
“Branching out, I said. Abd-El-Kader, I’m here to sell you chemicals.”
The door opened behind her, light footsteps across the floor.
“Ah, our tea has arrived. Just in time, eh?” He smiled. “What kind of chemicals are you speaking of?”
“Potassium, bromides, resins high in urushiol for lacquers.”
“I know what urushiol is.”
“Of course you do. My apologies.” She could hear the glasses on the tray rattling, the sense of someone approaching just to her left, the unusual scent of myrrh.
The Syrian waved a hand. “Continue with your list, if you would be so kind.”
“Surely.” She nodded. “Ethylene, propylene, sulfuric acid, nitrogen, sodium hydroxide.”
“The big five,” he said.
“And, of course, ether.”
His eyebrows raised. “Ether?”
“Yes, I have it on good authority that you can use regular shipments of ether.”
“That’s her.” A female voice from over her left shoulder.
Her head whipped around. She had just enough time to recognize one of the young women from the hammam before something entered her upper arm. An unnatural warmth swarmed into her and she saw the young woman as she had in the baths, through a shimmering scrim of steam, before it all lost focus. Her head fell forward, someone grabbed her under the arms, but that must have been somewhere miles away.
