This book is a
work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the
author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by
Douglas E. Richards

Published by
Paragon Press, 2016

E-mail the author
at doug@san.rr.com

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Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author

Visit the
author’s website at www.douglaserichards.com

All rights
reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system.

First Edition

GAME

CHANGER

Douglas E.
Richards

PART 1

Revenge

“In each of us there is another
whom we do not know.”

—Carl Jung,
Swiss psychiatrist and founder of analytical psychology

“Our unconscious brains steer our
behavior. But how do our brains come to be the way they are? Why are there
differences between us? To answer this we need to look one level deeper to how
our brains get built. And that begins with our genes. The genes you come to the
table with can have an enormous influence on your behavior. Consider this:
about half of the population carries a particular set of genes. And if you have
these genes your chances of committing a violent crime go up by eight hundred
and eighty-two percent! The overwhelming majority of prisoners carry these
genes, as does almost everyone on death row. So we can’t presume that everyone
is coming to the table equally equipped in terms of drives and behaviors.

“By the way, we summarize this
set of genes as the Y chromosome. If you’re a carrier, we call you a male.”

—David Eagleman,
Neuroscientist, Baylor College of Medicine

1

Kevin Quinn straightened the shimmering lapels of his black
tux and gazed in revulsion and hatred toward the man who was dying, thirty feet
or so away from him.

Quinn noted that while the man had but minutes left to live,
he appeared unshaken. In command. Totally at ease.

Of course he did.

He was the most charming president since Bill Clinton.
Smooth, warm, friendly. Like the highest functioning psychopaths everywhere, he
could fake sincerity with absolute brilliance, plan spontaneity down to the
millimeter.

And he was in the center of throngs of adoring millionaires
and billionaires, who were almost sexually aroused to be mingling with someone
with more power and prestige than themselves. Titans of entertainment and industry,
each wanting favors, and access, and the opportunity to hobnob with the most
powerful man on Earth.

A man who would finish dying, right in front of them, in a
matter of minutes.

They couldn’t see that it was happening, of course. For very
good reason. Because Kevin Quinn hadn’t begun killing him yet.

Quinn took a deep breath and adjusted the receiver in his
ear that was picking up every word the president said. Every smug, misleading,
charming, manipulative word uttered by Matthew Davinroy, President of the
United States, and one of the most despicable monsters who had ever lived.

The mansion they were in, one of many in the wealthy
municipality of Princeton, New Jersey, was situated on some of the most
tranquil and scenic land on the East Coast, and encompassed thirteen thousand
square feet of opulence. Chandeliers, Greek statues, fountains, marble, and
fine oil paintings. Filled with men and women in the most expensive attire and
wearing the most expensive jewelry.

An eclectic mix of aromas fought for dominance within the
manor. Expensive perfumes and aftershaves clashed with the smell of caviar and
other high-end hors d’oeuvres, continually sent around by a catering staff whose
membership had been modified on this particular night. Most were seasoned
waiters who had been part of the staff for years. These men and woman were in
awe of the proceedings and would have paid for the privilege of being in a room
with the president and numerous accomplished and famous others, even to do
nothing but empty their bedpans.

But one was a Secret Service agent, wearing the same outfit
as the other caterers, who had drawn a short straw, and who tried to accept being
relegated to the president’s personal order-taker and waiter with as much good
humor as he could manage.

The buzz of conversation from dozens of small groups around
the vast living room, with enough square footage to rival a small home, was ever-present,
along with the clinking of cocktail glasses and crystal goblets containing fine
wine and champagne.

President Davinroy was at his most charming, as he always
was at these fundraising events, making sure no partygoer would regret the
massive amounts of money they had donated to be there. A gala such as this
being held on a Sunday night was unusual, but was dictated by the president’s
schedule. Most of those in attendance would have skipped their mother’s funeral
to be there, so this wasn’t a hardship.

The president was currently surrounded by six men and women he
had blessed with his presence, and would continue to bless for five or ten
minutes before moving on to work the room further. Each group he joined waited
patiently for their turn, and in each he held court like a queen bee in the
center of a frenzy of sycophantic drones.

Just hearing Davinroy’s syrupy voice made Quinn sick to his
stomach. He clenched his fists and fought to weather the rage that stabbed at his
insides.

With a monumental effort of will, he managed to calm himself
once again. He had to be relaxed and unemotional. Dispassionate. A president
hadn’t been successfully assassinated since Kennedy, and there was a reason for
this. It wasn’t an easy task.

He approached Jeffrey Gallup, who was standing as casually
as he could near the bar, scanning the room at all times for possible threats.
Quinn nodded at him. “I’m going to switch assignments with you for the next
hour or so,” he said. “You man the outside front, and I’ll handle the bar.”

Gallup shot him a disapproving look, which Quinn knew he had
earned. He should have called in the switch while still outside. By walking in
and basically touching Gallup on the shoulder, like he was a tag-team wrestler
and not a bodyguard, he had left the outside front of the mansion unwatched for
several minutes. Since Quinn was the man’s superior, Gallup didn’t say what was
on his mind. Instead, he walked briskly to the door and out to take up his new
post.

Quinn could feel the eyes of any number of partygoers lingering
on him with great interest, which was common, and many didn’t even bother to look
away and pretend they weren’t staring when he turned in their direction. When
one was in direct proximity to the president, there were two facets to the
experience that were irresistible. One was the opportunity to see and interact
with the president, First Lady, and other celebrities. And the other was the
opportunity to pick out and watch the swarm of trusty Secret Service agents,
square-jawed, clean-cut Dudley Do-Right types straight out of central casting, who
tried to blend in but who had no real hope of doing so.

For many women, sleeping with a Secret Service agent on the
president’s detail was a trophy that carried as much prestige as bagging the
head of a mythical creature did for Hercules, and for years an endless stream
of beautiful women threw themselves at him like confetti at a wedding.

His eyes moistened briefly as he thought of the one woman
remarkable enough to have immunized him from any temptation those trying to bed
him might have posed. A woman who had stolen his heart and his mind, making the
thought of sex with the most beautiful and acrobatic of women seem bland and
pointless by comparison. Nicole. The woman who had become his wife.

President Davinroy was standing beside his own wife, Anne, quite
a celebrity in her own right, as was typical of First Ladies throughout history.
She was wearing a glimmering emerald-green gown and looked to be enjoying
herself. Was even she aware of what a monster she had married? Quinn thought it
was impossible that she didn’t suspect. But also impossible that she did.

Quinn forced himself to pretend to do his job, scanning the
crowd for a possible assassin. And he found one, but only for an instant, when
his own reflection materialized in a facet of a stunning crystal chandelier,
and disappeared just as quickly. He was six-one, with short black hair and
striking blue eyes, and he had been told he had a warm and inviting smile,
although it had been so many days since he had displayed any lighthearted
emotions that he wasn’t sure he was still capable of them.

Finally, fifteen minutes after Quinn had assumed duty at the
bar, the president ordered a drink from Special Agent Dan Oakland, who was
wearing the same black vest and bow tie worn by the legitimate catering staff. Oakland
worked his way through a number of groupings of partygoers and to the bar,
where he delivered the order to the bartender, nodded at Quinn, and then
shuffled off into the center of the crowd. He would hold his position there
until Quinn indicated that he had blessed the cocktail and it was time to
deliver it back to the president.

Davinroy had ordered something called a Portuguese Nectar Vector, a recent addition to the canon of alcoholic
beverages with which Quinn was not familiar. The bartender mixed the drink and filled
a cocktail glass under Quinn’s watchful eye, and then, as he had been
instructed, poured the excess into a separate glass, placing both on a tray and
handing it to the Secret Service agent.

Quinn took a healthy drink from the bright blue liquid in
the second glass, something that wasn’t an absolute requirement, or deterrent,
but which many agents preferred to do as an added precaution. After this was
complete, while the bartender busied himself preparing the cocktails ordered by
those currently encircling Davinroy, Quinn dropped an almost invisible tablet
into the blue liquid in the first glass, which instantly dissolved, releasing
its payload of cyanide into Davinroy’s drink.

Live by the sword, die
by the sword, you psychopathic asshole, thought Quinn triumphantly. There was
no more fitting way for this abomination to die. Poetic justice.

Quinn nodded at the bartender and waited the few minutes it
took the man to finish mixing a colorful collection of cocktails in glasses of
various sizes, including one with a paper umbrella emerging, which he added to
the tray that held Davinroy’s beverage.

Quinn motioned Dan Oakland over to pick up the tray as hatred
began to consume him once again, growing as ravenously as a magic beanstalk.

Quinn had used a new form of cyanide that was a thousand
times more potent than any of its predecessors. Within seconds of the
president’s first sip, he would experience seizures, followed quickly by
cardiac arrest and death.

Quinn only had one regret. While Davinroy’s death would be
painful, it would not be painful enough.
And it would come far too quickly.

But this could not be helped.

As the agent carried the tray back toward the president,
Quinn did something that he knew was a minor miracle.

He remembered.

2

There was a time—five short weeks earlier, to be exact—that
Quinn had had relatively positive feelings toward Matthew Davinroy. True, their
politics could not be further apart, but Quinn had thought the current
president was as good a man as any politician ever was. Self-serving and narcissistic,
sure, but peel away the glad-handing, the lies, and the unfair attacks on
fellow politicians, and Quinn felt certain that deep down, despite his
misguided policies, Davinroy was well meaning and wanted the best for his
country.

But this had all changed, profoundly, five weeks earlier, as had Quinn’s life. His world had
been shattered, destroyed, by a man with no conscience or remorse.

The Davinroy family had owned a retreat in the Catskill
Mountains for generations, a little over a hundred miles from Manhattan. For
two weeks every summer since the president had taken office five years earlier,
the resort was closed down, at least to paying customers, and it became the
exclusive vacation destination for Davinroy and hundreds of guests, free of charge.

Like salmon drawn irresistibly to their spawning grounds,
like Bush Senior to Kennebunkport, Bush Junior to his Texas ranch, and Barack
Obama to Martha’s Vineyard, Matthew Davinroy returned to the Catskill Mountains
each and every year, like clockwork.

Naturally, the Secret Service came along, but twice as many
as were needed. Each special agent was on duty for half of the stay, and for
the other half was free to enjoy the resort as a guest.

Prior to this scheduled vacation, the president had invited
all in attendance to bring their spouses for some R & R, a magnanimous
gesture sure to earn him the undying thanks and loyalty of all involved. He had
insisted that Quinn bring Nicole along, since she warranted an invitation on
two accounts. Not only was she the wife of a man prepared to give his life to
protect Davinroy’s, she was also one of the president’s most valued and trusted
civilian advisors. In fact, Quinn had first met her during one of her frequent
visits to the White House, and they had fallen in love soon thereafter.

Nicole was perfect,
and Quinn considered himself the luckiest man alive. She wasn’t classically
beautiful, but her joyous personality was infectious and she brightened every
room she entered like a living supernova. She was bright, funny, and full of
life. Fun loving and adventurous, with an innate kindness and compassion that
was unparalleled. He had quickly become so fiercely in love with this woman
that at times it almost scared him.

And they were expecting their first child! A baby girl.
Nicole was eight months pregnant, and Quinn was giddy over the prospect of
starting a family with a woman who would be as amazing a mother as she was a
wife—and this from a man who had never had an interest in marriage or children.

Quinn had seized upon the opportunity to have one last vacation
with Nicole before their first child—whom they would name Hailey—made her grand
entrance. So they had taken Davinroy up on his offer, but only after Quinn had
made sure there was a hospital with a maternity ward close enough to the resort
to suit their needs should tiny Hailey decide to arrive early.

Nestled inside the nearly six thousand square miles that comprised the
Catskill Mountains, Davinroy’s lodge was ideal. The accommodations were
spacious and modern, but blended in with the surroundings. Guests were
surrounded by old-growth forest and had access to a private lake on-site. In
addition to boating, fishing, horseback riding, and hiking, recreational
options included downhill skiing and zip-lining, just a short excursion
away—not that either of these last two activities would be on the agenda for a
woman deep into her last trimester, but there would still be plenty of fun to
be had.

Nicole had seemed more anxious about the trip than excited,
but Quinn decided this was understandable given her circumstances. Once they
were there, he was certain they would have a wonderful time.

But on the very first night, the vacation Quinn was so
certain would be a dream became twisted into the ultimate nightmare. This was the night that his cell phone had issued a
piercing alarm, impossible to ignore.

Yet he had ignored
it.

Sleep had somehow managed to cling to him and seal him
inside like an impenetrable coating of shrink-wrap.

When Nicole had become pregnant, he had gotten her an
elegant gold bracelet with sensors and an emergency electronic beacon hidden
inside. If she pressed the bracelet in a certain way it would broadcast an
alarm to his phone, along with her location. If she ever fainted or lost
consciousness, not unheard of for a pregnant woman to do, the sensors would
somehow know she wasn’t simply sleeping and his phone would also sound the
alarm. She felt silly wearing such a device, but he had teased her that she
shouldn’t have married a Secret Service agent if she was troubled by a man with
protective instincts.

But now that her personal alarm had been triggered, this
same man was failing to respond. Only the knowledge that Nicole needed him
urgently—buried deep within his sleeping brain—had finally managed to unleash
enough adrenaline for him to shake off his unnaturally deep, coma-like slumber,
and this only after the alarm had blared for a full ten minutes.

Where was she? And what had caused her to sound the alarm?

His panic grew by the second, so much so that it became a
struggle for him to even breathe. His imagination ran wild. Even the thought of
her in jeopardy was unbearable, tying his stomach into knots.

What happened next was a nightmare without end, so
earth-shatteringly awful that even though he could only reconstruct bits and
pieces of the horror, these memories, spotty and incomplete, were utterly devastating.

He had stumbled through dense areas of trees and undergrowth
for almost a mile, to a location deep in the woods, far from any hiking or
recreational routes. There was a structure hidden within a thicket of trees and
brush, the appearance and size of which he couldn’t recall.

As Quinn moved toward the structure, which his phone
indicated now housed his wife, a scream of pain suddenly escaped from inside
and pierced the darkness.

His heart leaped to his throat.

The scream had to have come from Nicole.

The door was locked, but somehow he gained entry. How, he
couldn’t recall. He remembered being outside in a panic, and then being inside, but he had no recollection of
the transition between these two realities. And despite the massive quantities
of adrenaline coursing through his veins and his prolonged journey there, he
still felt sluggish, still unable to fully remove the yoke of sleep.

The rest of his memories were jumbled together in a haze,
evoking little clarity but immense rage and horror. He had flashes of the
President of the United States delivering several savage blows to his wife’s
skull with a wrought iron fireplace poker. He had images of her hazel eyes, filled
with anguish and horror, suddenly rolling up into her head, their light
extinguished, never again to sparkle brightly in a dazzling display of intelligence
and optimism. And images of his wife’s lifeless body collapsing onto the bed
she had been standing beside, her hands and ankles cuffed together.

All of this had happened in an instant, but the memory of
it, although fuzzy, seemed eternal. Quinn had screamed and rushed forward, even
before he had fully processed the absolute horror of this impossible scene,
intent on killing Davinroy with his bare hands, but instead he crashed to the
ground, face-first.

Davinroy had set a perimeter of nearly invisible trip wires,
one of which Quinn had practically sprinted into. The next thing he could
remember was being seated on a sturdy wooden chair, his ankles and wrists
locked to it with plastic ties, and the chair itself strapped to a heavy bed
frame.

The President of the United States stood before him with a
powerful stun gun in his right hand. Quinn’s body throbbed painfully from head
to toe, and he had no doubt he had absorbed an unholy blast of electricity. His
senses were far from a hundred percent, but it was safe to assume he had
temporarily lost consciousness when his head had hit the floor, and Davinroy
had then used his gun to light him up like a Las Vegas billboard, causing
further disorientation and tenderizing every muscle in his body.

Nicole was now lifeless in front of him, a fate shared by
his unborn daughter still locked in his wife’s womb.

It couldn’t be.
This beautiful, wonderful woman could not be gone. The child within her could
not have been snuffed out just days before her birth. It wasn’t possible.

Nicole’s face was covered in ugly welts and dark purple
bruises, and both of her eyes were black and puffy, her nose broken. She had
taken a beating even before her head had been staved in by a monster, and there
were what appeared to be burns on her neck and arms, along with other signs of
traumatic injury his mind wouldn’t allow himself to fully process.

She had been so brutally tortured her death was almost a
mercy.

Quinn felt as though his brain were bursting into flame, his
entire being raging against the horror of what he had lost, the extraordinary, incandescent
woman that Davinroy had taken from both him and the world.

“I am so sorry
about this,” said the president, with the same level of concern he might have
shown had Quinn’s invitation to the White House Christmas party been lost in
the mail. “But Nicole did bring it on herself. She didn’t leave me any choice.”

Quinn didn’t remember his exact response, but he was sure
shouting and cursing and threatening were involved. Davinroy shot him again
with the powerful stun gun.

When he stopped convulsing, the president began again. “I
like you, Special Agent Quinn. You’re one of my favorites. So I’m going to take
the time to explain things to you. Not that this will end up mattering, but I
will anyway. But I need you to not interrupt, and to show some civility, and we
can avoid discharging any more electricity into you. Okay?”

Quinn was unable to respond, his paralyzed body having not
yet recovered.

“First, let me say that I thought the world of your wife.
You know that. Her loss is truly tragic.”

He said it as though he had nothing whatsoever to do with
this loss.

“I’m going to kill
you,” croaked Quinn, the words coming out as a whisper.

His eyes flashed over the lifeless form of his wife. He held
them there for just a moment, as though somehow she would stir. Somehow he
would learn that this was a big mistake. Somehow divine magic would breathe
life into her and she would become reanimated while he looked on. But there
would be no magic on this night, divine or otherwise.

Quinn forced himself to look away as tears began streaming
down his face.

“So here is what happened,” said Davinroy conversationally.
“Nicole stumbled onto some . . . indiscretions . . . from my past that were
better left buried. Long story about what aroused her suspicions, but it involved
considerable bad luck and some clever deductions on her part. Fortunately, I’m
a very careful man, and I learned of her activities.”

“What are you talking
about?” spat Quinn as the effects of the stun gun began to diminish.

“Turns out I have a need to inflict pain,” said Davinroy
with a shrug. “Not sure why, but I was born that way. As a kid, indulging these
urges on small animals was enough to get my head right, but there were a few
times I took this to the next level.”

“You mean with humans?”

“Right. I know these urges are . . . problematic. Not
exactly something voters would seek out in a president. So I keep them hidden
and deny myself as much as I can. But I did have some youthful indiscretions
that my family’s fortune enabled me to, um . . . pave over.” He sighed. “These
instances were regrettable, but I control myself much better nowadays. I’ve
pretty much been a Boy Scout since becoming president.” He glanced at Nicole’s
body on the bed nearby and raised his eyebrows. “Well . . . for the most
part.”

Tears were still falling from Quinn’s eyes, but these words
sent him once again into a berserker rage. He threw his body toward Davinroy to
strangle the life from him, ignoring the plastic straps that carved bright-red
grooves into his wrists and ankles, and disregarding protests from his
shoulders that they were close to dislocation.

Davinroy calmly shot him again. This time recovery took even
longer, and Quinn was now too weak to even feel rage. But feelings of anguish
and loss were able to thrive in the absence of more hostile emotions, and his
suffering was more intense than ever.

Davinroy’s horrific behavior was impossible, surreal, but
maybe not to the extent that Quinn had first thought. Professional politicians
all pretended to be saints, but their ranks were enriched with those who were
ruthless and without a conscience. The incidence of deviant behavior among
politicians was far higher than average, and scions of rich and powerful
families really could get away with atrocities that would earn the average
citizen a life sentence in prison.

Michael Jackson had almost certainly molested numerous boys,
but his fortune had protected him from any real consequences. Senator Ted
Kennedy had driven his car off a bridge on the island of Chappaquiddick,
leaving a young woman in the passenger’s seat to drown, returning to his hotel
and not reporting the incident for over nine hours, yet he remained a senator
and never served a single day in jail. Additional examples abounded.
Revelations of hidden, deviant behavior in prominent people were legion.

“So Nicole was beginning to unravel some of my past I didn’t
want unraveled,” continued Davinroy calmly. “Your wife was a regular Nancy
Drew. As brilliant a detective as she was an advisor.”

Quinn’s thoughts and emotions had become muddled and
disjointed. Not only had the light of his life been brutally murdered before
his eyes, he had been repeatedly dosed with electricity and almost certainly
drugged. But even though he knew he would soon be dead, something within him
needed to know why. Needed to know how. Needed to understand the true nature of
the evil that had destroyed him and the woman he had held so dear.

“Where are we?” he managed to whisper. “How did you slip
your protection?”

“I’ll explain everything, but I need to know how you found
us, since I made sure to destroy your wife’s phone.”

Quinn told him. What did it matter at this point?

Davinroy glanced over at the bracelet on Nicole’s lifeless
wrist and nodded. “Nice precaution,” he said approvingly. “But even so, there’s
no way you should be here. I dosed you with enough drug to put down an elephant
for the night.” He shook his head. “You must have unique genetics that make you
more resistant than average.”

“Are you going to answer my questions?” said Quinn.

“Certainly,” said Davinroy. “About ten years ago, I had
contractors build tunnels under several of the rooms out here, accessible from
ingeniously hidden entrances inside closets. My room has one, which allows me
to easily escape my gilded cage and get some privacy. Your room is also
accessible from one of these tunnels. They all feed together and lead to
various destinations, including where we are now.

“I drugged you and
your wife at dinner,” continued the president. “Easy to do. A dose designed to
kick in after you had already fallen asleep. You Secret Service types are great
at making sure that I’m not drugged,
but you do tend to get sloppy when it comes to your own drinks. Nicole’s dose
was small, so I could rouse her when I needed her.”

“So you came in through your tunnel and kidnapped her out of
our room?”

“Exactly. She had become too suspicious to ever agree to
meet with me one-on-one in a secluded location like this one. Bringing her here
took some work, but I prepare well. I have golf carts and other equipment in
the tunnels, which I make excellent use of whenever I’m here.”

“What kind of use?”

“Mostly sexual. I pay high-end hookers big
money—anonymously—to come to one of the rooms here with a tunnel entrance. I
then appear and lead them underground to this location. Which you can see
contains a bed. This allows me to indulge my craving, to finally engage in what
you might call . . . rough sex. I’m
only truly satisfied when the woman I’m with is terrified and in pain. I don’t
expect you to have any sympathy for me, but if you knew how much I suffer from
suppressing these urges, I think you would. I’m the leader of the free world,
with all the pressure this brings, and I’m forced to largely deny myself a
primal need that is critical to my well-being. I battle against this fierce
compulsion for months on end, until the pressure becomes unbearable. I only
satisfy these urges the minimum amount required to keep my head on straight, so
I can do the people’s business.”

“Keep your head on straight?”
barked Quinn in absolute revulsion. “By killing helpless women?”

“I don’t kill
them,” said the president, as though offended. “I’m not a monster. I do hurt
them pretty badly, but nothing they don’t recover from. And I pay them
extremely well.”

“Impossible. One of them would come forward, even if you are the most powerful man on Earth.”

Davinroy smiled broadly. “Except they don’t know what
happened to them. America spends countless billions conducting secret research
in Black laboratories across the country. In one of these labs, our best and
brightest are perfecting a drug that causes total, absolute,
take-it-to-the-bank, it-is-never-coming-back, memory loss. At the moment
they’ve managed to create a pill that will wipe away the past twelve to eighteen
hours of a person’s life.

“I made sure to get a supply of these pills a few years
back. So when I’m done with these escorts, I just deposit them a good distance
away from here and feed them a pill and a sedative. No harm, no foul. They
don’t remember coming to my resort or their encounter with me. Not the trauma,
the fear, or the infliction of pain, although it takes them a while to heal.
They just know that their personal wealth has grown considerably. To be honest,
if I could give them a choice, I’d bet most of them would be glad to take a
beating for the kind of money I provide.”

Quinn hadn’t thought he could be any more horrified than he
already was, but he had been mistaken. This man was a psychopathic monster in
every way. How could such an abomination even exist, let alone masquerade as a
human being? Davinroy looked as though he expected a humanitarian medal for
improving the finances of the prostitutes he beat nearly to death, and killing
Nicole and their unborn daughter hadn’t troubled him in the slightest.

The idea that a monster like Matthew Davinroy could even exist was unthinkable, let alone rise to
the presidency of the United States.

And the greatest irony of all was
that Davinroy was a man who spoke out against torture in any form, all the
while getting a sexual thrill from doing this with his own bare hands. He
spouted nothing but pacifism, withdrawal, and peace. This had been Quinn’s
point of contention with the man. He was a modern-day Neville Chamberlain, the
British prime minister who had famously sought appeasement with Adolf Hitler.

Davinroy’s hands-off approach, his
failure to engage anywhere in the world, under any circumstances, left vacuums
that bad actors around the globe were only too happy to fill. Bad actors like
China, Korea, Russia, and Iran. And especially terror groups like ISIS, who
gladly announced their intention to commit genocide and establish a global
caliphate, a worldwide Islamic government.

So Davinroy painted himself as a pacifist, when all the
while he was capable of torturing and murdering a helpless woman without even flinching. This man—utterly ruthless,
without conscience or remorse—had frequently cited Mahatma Gandhi as being his
biggest inspiration, portraying himself as the exact opposite of what he really
was. Here was a wolf pretending to be as peace loving as the sheep he was busy
slaughtering.

But Quinn realized all of this made a macabre sense, after
all. Perhaps Davinroy’s refusal to truly engage against global terrorism, his
call for civil rights for those who would butcher women and children, was just
professional courtesy. He was just standing up for his fellow psychopaths.

If he derived sexual satisfaction from beating helpless
women, perhaps he also derived satisfaction from seeing the world burn, the
direct outcome of his lack of leadership and strength, but perhaps his goal all
along.

“So did you rape
Nicole as well?” asked Quinn, needing to know but dreading the answer, unaware
that his eyes were still filling with tears.

Davinroy’s lip turned up in disgust. “I find pregnant women
repulsive,” he replied. “And I don’t rape.
I pay handsomely for consensual sex. But the thing with your wife had nothing
to do with sex. I had to find out exactly what she knew. Who she had told.
Where she kept her evidence. So I tortured her for the information, killing two
birds with one stone. Despite the lack of sex, I got to indulge a compulsion
while getting the information I required. The good news is that it turns out
she had kept her suspicions all to herself.”

“You are the sickest piece of shit who ever lived!” spat
Quinn. “And I know you’re lying! There’s no way Nicole wouldn’t have told me
about this. So what’s really going on?”

Davinroy shook his head. “I was surprised she kept it from
you myself, but she made a convincing case. And I put her under enough duress
to be sure she was telling the truth. You’ve sworn to protect me. She didn’t
want to put you in an awkward or compromising position. And she couldn’t really
bring herself to believe that she was right about me. She hoped she was
misreading the evidence. She came here searching for more. To really make a
case against me, she knew the proof had to be overwhelming.”

This logic was more believable than Quinn had expected. The
idea of the president being a sadistic monster was extraordinary, unbelievable.
And extraordinary claims required extraordinary evidence, especially when they
were made against a man this powerful, this slippery.

“She didn’t tell you what she was up to,” continued
Davinroy, “or anyone else. I have access to an advanced Artificial Intelligence
program. Before I came here, I fed it comprehensive information about my
indiscretions, along with Nicole’s known activities during the past few weeks,
and the activities of others, including you. It concluded she was operating
alone, with greater than ninety-five percent confidence. And tonight I made
certain this was true. I forced her to give up the password to her computer
account where she kept her evidence. And I verified everything she told me.”

He paused. “My interrogation technique was flawless. I guess
torture really can lead to good information, after all. Although, I have to
admit, once I began,” he added, looking almost amused, “I got a little carried
away.”

Davinroy shrugged. “But my intent was to kill her tonight
anyway. I had no choice. Erasing one day of memories wouldn’t do the trick,
since she’d been working on this for weeks. I really wish this wasn’t
necessary,” he said with a sigh. “Disposing of her body is going to be very
inconvenient for me. And she really was a good advisor.”

At that instant, all the hatred and rage Quinn had been
bottling up hit critical mass and exploded into a nuclear inferno. “I’m going to kill you if it’s the last
thing I ever do!” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Even if you kill me
first, this won’t help you. Because I promise you, I will find a way back from
the grave. And I will make you suffer!”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” said Davinroy, shaking his head
in amusement.

Quinn’s despair had become so great he now longed for death.
Every second he remained alive was sheer agony, every instant knowing the
wonderful woman he had married was lost to the world forever pure torture. “So
kill me already, you psychopathic asshole!” he demanded. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Davinroy paused for several long seconds to let total
silence once again descend on the room. “I wouldn’t think of killing you,” he replied finally. “I told you, you’re one
of my favorite special agents. Also, as I’ve said, I’m truly sorry it has come
to this. Truly sorry about your wife. Besides, both of you disappearing would just complicate things for me.”

A thoughtful expression came over the president’s face. “So
here’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’m going to use my memory erasure drug
on you. Make you forget you ever saw any of this. Forget we ever had this
conversation. I’m going to shock you one last time, and when you’re
incapacitated, I’m going to feed you another sleeping pill, and a memory loss
pill. Then I’m going to wipe the data from your wife’s tracking bracelet,
disable it, and dispose of her body. I’ll leave some torn clothing in the woods
for searchers to find, but they will never learn what became of her, what
terrible tragedy befell her. Maybe she wandered off. Maybe she was abducted.
It’ll be quite the mystery.”

Quinn just stared straight ahead, numb, his tears finally having
stopped, perhaps because he had depleted his entire reservoir. All he could do
was glare at the president in defeat, a caged lion about to die of starvation,
desperate to attack any limb that wandered too close to the bars but too weak
to do so.

“And here’s the best part,” said Davinroy. “I’ll have
actually done you a favor. Because of this drug, I won’t have to kill you. When
you awaken, you won’t remember your recent past, but you’ll feel awful. After
everything I’ve put you through tonight, for good reason. For what it’s worth,
I’ll be tired and sore also. Even with golf carts and powered gurneys, getting
your carcass back to your room will take a lot of effort. A lot of effort.”

Davinroy leaned in to take a closer look at Quinn, who now
appeared comatose, just to make sure his prisoner was still alive.

Satisfied that he was, the president continued. “Granted, in
addition to your soreness, the whole wife-missing thing is bound to ruin your
day. But here is the good news,” he added with a good-natured grin that was so
out of place, so wrong, that even in
Quinn’s nearly catatonic state he felt the chill of pure, unadulterated evil.
“You’ll be able to keep your job. You won’t be traumatized like you obviously
are now by what happened, since you won’t remember a lick of it. And I’ll be
there for you. I’ll pull out all the stops to find Nicole. I’ll be helpful and
understanding. A shoulder to cry on. You’ll end up being grateful for my
support, and feeling more loyal to me than ever.”

At this moment, Kevin Quinn, now encased inside an autistic
shell, stopped believing in the existence of God.

“And even though you don’t see it now,” continued the
president, “this really is for the best. Believe me, my bitch of a wife is
arriving tomorrow, and I’m dreading just the thought of it. After a few years
of marriage, you’d have grown so sick of Nicole you’d have wanted to kill her
yourself. But now you’ll be able to play the field again.” He frowned. “And
infants are a real pain in the ass. To be honest, I’ve helped you dodge two bullets here.”

With this said, Matthew Davinroy, leader of the free world,
pointed his stun gun one last time at Kevin Quinn’s chest and pulled the
trigger.

3

For almost five weeks Davinroy’s plan had worked exactly as
he had suggested it would.

But two days earlier flashes of memory had begun returning
to Kevin Quinn.

At first Quinn thought his mind was playing tricks on him. That
his grief had caused him to imagine things, or perhaps these were images and
thoughts from recent nightmares, stubbornly persistent attempts by his mind to
find a villain behind what had happened.

But why the President of the United States? Even for a
nightmare, casting Matthew Davinroy as some impossibly evil caricature of a
psychopath was beyond preposterous.

But soon the memories crystallized further. And while his
recollections were still spotty, and remembered images were hazy and unrefined,
the words Davinroy had spoken while
Quinn had been tied to a chair came back to him with great clarity. And when he
finally recalled Davinroy’s discussion of the memory erasure drug he was about
to be given, which explained the fuzziness and the gaps in his recollections, he
had no doubt that the fragmentary images coming back to him were
representations of reality rather than dreamscapes.

It was impossible that Davinroy could have been so
calculating, so evil.

It was also undeniably true.

But the president had made a mistake. The memory erasure drug
wasn’t as foolproof as he had been led to believe. Or perhaps there was
something unique in Quinn’s genetics, after all, something that allowed him to
fight off sedatives and memory
agents. He investigated this possibility online, and sure enough, there were
tiny genetic differences known to cause a small percentage of the population to
metabolize drugs at different speeds, and sometimes in different ways, than the
broader population.

As Quinn’s memory returned, his mind burned once again with
hatred, and he was consumed with but one mission in life: revenge. Justice
would be served. He would carry out his threat or die trying.

It had required heroic effort on his part to keep the
loathing he felt for the president from his face as he worked near the man the
past few days. And an even greater effort to not go off half-cocked, to hold
off on his attempt until he had the best chance of success.

But this fundraiser in Princeton was perfect. He would drug
Davinroy the way he had been drugged.

The way she had
been drugged.

Davinroy’s scheme should have worked. Even now, much of what
happened was lost to Quinn forever, or hazy and unformed, like the fleeting
images of Davinroy striking his wife with a poker, and of her limp and lifeless
body. But perhaps this was a mercy. Perhaps this loss of clarity wasn’t due to
the memory drugs at all, but instead was his psyche’s way of sparing him
further agony.

But the fact that he now remembered much of the incident
quite well was nothing short of a miracle.

And the part he remembered most vividly of all was that he
had sworn not to rest, not even in his grave, until he had personally escorted
Matthew Davinroy into the bowels of hell.

And this was a promise he was now seconds away from keeping.

4

Quinn had considered going to the press, telling them what
had happened, but had decided against it.

Davinroy was just too smooth, and too careful.

Ironically, politicians could be taken down by just the hint
of a politically incorrect statement, but otherwise could get away with murder,
literally, and a president, sitting atop the food chain, was the ultimate
example of this. A president had too many connections, too many powerful friends,
with too much to lose if he were taken down. The reputation of the United
States itself would take too big a hit. The entire country would close ranks to
protect him.

Any evidence found would be hidden from view or erased. Even
if it wasn’t, it would only be circumstantial. It would be Quinn’s word against
the president’s. He was making the same calculations Nicole had made before
him.

And Quinn’s accusations would
seem absurd. A grieving husband, losing his wife and child at the president’s
retreat in mysterious circumstances, accusing the president, so charismatic and
charming, of the inconceivable atrocity of torturing and killing a trusted
advisor.

And even if Quinn were able to prove it, which he thought
highly unlikely, he had promised Davinroy death,
and no lesser sentence would do. Davinroy had taken everything from him.

Quinn watched Dan Oakland making his way back to the group
the president was in with mounting anticipation. Oakland handed each guest
their cocktail of choice, including Davinroy. When the president was holding
his drink and Oakland was receding into the crowd once again, Quinn allowed
himself to feel a single moment of elation.

Nothing would ever bring Nicole back, true, but no one had
ever needed to be erased from existence more than Matthew Davinroy.

“This is the new sensation I was telling you about, Anne,”
said Davinroy, nodding at his wife, his every word continuing to come through
Quinn’s earpiece with great clarity.

Davinroy elevated his right hand, drink included, until it
was level with the First Lady’s eyes. Others in the group looked on with great interest.
“What would you call that color?” asked the president. “Electric neon blue?”

“Wow. That’s a tough one,” said the First Lady. “I can’t even
decide if the color is appealing,” she added with a charming smile, “or just freaky.”

The president grinned. “It is unusual, no denying that,” he
said. “But that’s one of the things I like about it. But, of course, you don’t
choose a cocktail based on its color. It happens to also be incredibly tasty,
but in a way that is so unique I can’t describe it.”

“I’ve had these myself, Mr. President,” said Jessica
Pospisil, president of Sony Pictures. “And I couldn’t agree more.” She shook
her head. “Although I wish they would have chosen a more grown-up name for it
than Portuguese Nectar Vector,” she added in amusement.

“I can’t argue with that,” said the president with a warm
smile. He turned to his wife once again. “Give this a try,” he said. “If you
like it as much as I think you will, it’s yours. I can get another.”

Quinn’s stomach clenched as he listened to this exchange and
he suddenly felt light-headed.

Impossible!

How could this be? No one’s luck could be this good.

But even as he thought this he knew he was wrong. Adolf Hitler
had survived some fourteen assassination attempts over eleven years, as lucky
as he was evil.

Perhaps the most evil men in the world truly had made a pact
with the Devil. How else to explain it?

Quinn rushed closer to his target and maneuvered until he
found a gap in the human fence surrounding the president, giving him a narrow
but clear line of sight to both Davinroy and his wife. Everything seemed to
move in slow motion now as a dozen thoughts and calculations rushed across his
mind at once.

The First Lady was innocent. He couldn’t just let her die.
And if she did, the Secret Service would seal up the house, and he would be the
chief suspect. Even if he was not found responsible he would never be fully trusted
again, ensuring he would never get a second chance. Davinroy would remain
unscathed.

Quinn drew his weapon even before he knew he had come to a
definitive decision, now only ten feet away from the first couple and their
sycophants, and shot the drink from Anne Davinroy’s hand just as she was
raising it to her lips.

Quinn’s shot was perfect.
The sound of the gun being fired, of shattered glass, and of several screams
seemed to all occur at the same instant. A shard of glass drove into the First
Lady’s hand, causing bright red fingers of blood to emerge, but Quinn didn’t
pause long enough to see it. The instant the glass shattered he changed his aim
and fired once more, this time at the president, but after the first shot the
president had jerked backwards, and the round barely grazed his arm.

Secret Service agents materialized from out of nowhere and
tackled Davinroy like he was an NFL running back just inches from the end zone,
covering him with their bodies. The First Lady received the same treatment
beside him.

Quinn cursed loudly, knowing that a second shot would be
useless. Moving like a predatory cat he snatched a woman nearby. In one smooth
motion he spun her in front of him so she became a human shield and held his gun
to her head.

The room burst into total bedlam.

Quinn backed up hurriedly into a nearby wall so he could
only be approached from one direction, dragging his newfound friend with him. He
had spent many years thinking on his feet, becoming expert at the tactical evaluation
of rooms, people, and situations after a single glance, instantly assessing threats,
weaknesses, and opportunities.

“Stop or she dies!” shouted Quinn at the top of his lungs, reacting
from pure instinct, only aware of what he had said after hearing these words
and discovering, to his surprise, that they had come from his own mouth.

Suddenly everyone in the room seemed to freeze, as though
they had all stopped screaming, or calling out, or even breathing, and all eyes
turned to him. Several of his fellow special agents had their weapons drawn and
pointed at him, and had it not been for the helpless woman he now held hostage
he would be dead already.

“I have no interest in harming this woman,” yelled Quinn.
“Or anyone else.”

Still holding the gun with his right hand, he removed a cell
phone from his pocket with his left, and held it out so it was easily seen.
“I’m going to release this woman now,” he said. “But know that I’m not wearing
my bulletproof vest. Instead, I’m wearing a vest made of shaped C4. Enough to
vaporize this house twice over. This phone triggers it to blow, and I’ve set up
a dead man’s switch,” he explained, displaying improvisational skills that were
surpassing even his own high expectations of himself. “This phone contains
motion sensors. If it falls from my hand, the sensors will know it, and the
explosives will be triggered automatically.”

The Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential
Protection  Division, Cris Coffey, had
been one of the agents who had tackled Davinroy, and now stood facing Quinn,
with the president still on the ground and shielded by other agents behind him.

Coffey hesitated, and Quinn could tell he was trying to
decide if the bomb was a bluff. Quinn guessed that the fact he had released the
woman after making his threat, pushing her away from him, would be the deciding
factor. Coffey would calculate that Quinn would never give up his hostage, his
only hope of survival, unless his threat was real.

Other agents in the room glanced back and forth between
Quinn and their boss, alert for whatever might happen next.

“Try to move Davinroy out of here and I’ll trigger the C4!” barked
Quinn with a snarl, and the way he uttered the president’s name, the hatred and
disdain and zealotry in his voice and in his expression, left no doubt that he
meant it. “Don’t test me, Cris!”

Coffey looked deeply into Quinn’s eyes one last time and
came to a decision. “Okay, we won’t move him,” he said quickly, striving to
keep his voice as calm and soothing as he could. “But come on, Kevin. Let’s not
do anything rash. Let’s talk this out.”

“I need David Garza,” said Quinn, nodding at a tall,
youthful man to his left, looking dapper in a black tux and red cummerbund. “Now!”

Garza, a billionaire technology entrepreneur who owned the
mansion they were in, took a step backwards, and the aura of command and
authority he typically projected was shattered, replaced by one of primal fear.

Coffey held up his palm to Garza, indicating he should remain
silent, and then turned to Quinn. “Why do you need him?” he asked.

“To lead me to his garage and give me the keys to one of his
cars. I’ll get the hell out of here and he’ll remain unharmed. You have my
word.”

“You know I can’t authorize that.”

Quinn held out his phone toward Coffey and waved it menacingly.
“What I know is that if this doesn’t
happen within thirty seconds, I’m going to blow the C4. He either does what I
say, or everyone dies, including him.”

Quinn glared at the man who had been his boss until just
seconds earlier. A man he couldn’t have liked or respected more. “To be honest,”
he continued, “I almost hope Garza doesn’t
cooperate. I’ll regret the collateral damage. But at least I’ll die knowing I’m
taking Davinroy down with me!” he added savagely, the words spit from his mouth
like a poison. “I have nothing left to lose.”

Quinn had considered surrendering and doing his best to
convince others of the truth, but had decided against this course almost
immediately. He knew that escape would offer him a better chance to see justice
done. Although, when it came to effecting an escape, and staying at large once
he did, he hadn’t done himself any favors.

His single-mindedness of purpose had left a glaring blind
spot in his preparations. He didn’t care if he lived or died after he took out
Davinroy, so he hadn’t planned on running. If he was ultimately caught, so be
it.

But he should have planned out what he would do if his
one-man operation went sideways, like it had. His rage had poisoned him to such
an extent that it never occurred to him he might fail, an oversight that was criminally negligent. Of course he might fail. There were too
many variables, too many moving parts, and too many eyes on the president to be
certain his plan would work.

Now all he had were his wits, a gun, two hundred dollars in
cash, and a small electronic device, technically illegal, that some agents
carried like a rabbit’s foot to help them break into cars if this ever proved
necessary. This last would be most helpful of all, but its presence was just
dumb luck rather than foresight, carried from force of habit alone.

He had also been lucky to have thought of the C4 bluff so
quickly. He refused to hurt innocent parties, and this bluff seemed the best
way to accomplish this end, as well as the best way to ensure he left the
mansion with the same number of holes in his body that he had upon entering.

Now that he would be hunted and no longer with the Secret
Service, killing the president would be all but impossible, but where there was
life, there was hope. And if he retained his freedom, maybe he could find
enough evidence, after all, for the world to know what this man really was. As
long as he had breath in his body he would use it to try to bring this
psychopath down.

“What’s going on Kevin?” said Coffey. “Why are you doing
this?”

“Because Matthew Davinroy needs to die!” he hissed. “Because
five weeks ago, he tortured and killed my wife! Leaving my unborn child to die
horribly within her! That’s why!” he
screamed, foaming at the mouth. “Davinroy, you sick abomination, your drug
failed, and I remember. You won’t get away with what you did to Nicole. I’ll
make sure the world knows what you’ve done—who you are.”

Quinn turned back to Coffey. “No more explaining! I need David
Garza and a pair of car keys. Now!”
he thundered.

Davinroy and his wife were still on the ground behind Coffey
and a wall of other agents, but the president spoke for the first time,
whispering so that only Coffey could hear, having no idea that Quinn had
arranged for his earpiece to receive the president’s every word. “For God’s
sake, Cris, let him leave. He’s dangerous and unstable. And utterly
delusional.”

“And then some,” Coffey whispered back.

Quinn’s boss quickly turned to face David Garza. “Mr. Garza,
I’m afraid I need to ask you to do what he says. We don’t have any other
choice.”

“Damn right you don’t!” shouted Quinn.

Garza took a deep breath, looking distinctly ill. He nodded
at Quinn. “Follow me,” he managed to croak out, motioning in the opposite
direction. “The garage is this way.”

“Everyone needs to clear a path!” shouted Quinn. “Anyone
gets within ten feet of me and I detonate! Anyone follows us to the garage, I
detonate! Understood?”

In answer, any number of guests who were between Quinn and
Garza, and between Garza and the route to his garage, moved rapidly to either
side, a human reenactment of Moses’s parting of the Red Sea.

Quinn turned to his former boss one last time. “Cris, I
don’t want anyone hurt,” he said almost pleadingly. “So don’t let anyone follow
me when I leave this place. I contingency-planned the shit out of this,” he added,
knowing that only his incompetence had prevented this bluff from being true. “I
have an escape route ready to go, and it’s heavily booby trapped.”

Quinn thought this would work, would buy him time. After
all, once he left, the president and First Lady were safe, which was Coffey’s
only concern. A hot pursuit of a man they knew was highly skilled, and one they
believed to be insane, could be dangerous, not only for the agents involved but
innocent bystanders along the way. Besides, Coffey was sure to think that with
all of the resources at his disposal Quinn would be apprehended in record time,
without need of a high-speed chase. Within fifteen minutes the military might
of the entire nation would be blanketing Princeton like a swarm of locusts.

Quinn had watched Coffey’s face during his exchange with the
president, and he had seen his absolute certainty that Quinn had gone mad. He was
shocked to see that Coffey didn’t believe his accusations against the president
were worth considering for even an instant, under any circumstances.

This showed Quinn exactly what he would be up against. Coffey
knew him well, and knew he would never make such an accusation if it wasn’t
true. And Coffey was as open-minded to wild possibilities as anyone he had ever
met.

And yet Quinn was certain the man had put zero credence into
what he had said.

Garza led Quinn and
his imaginary C4 vest and detonator into the garage without incident. More a
showroom than garage, the structure was cleaner and more sparkling than some of
the finest kitchens, and was immense, currently housing ten vehicles without
fear of any crowding.

Quinn knew very little about elite cars, but he guessed each
pristine model he saw had horsepower that approached infinity and a price tag
to match. His eyes ran over a number of stunning sports cars but slowed when he
came to the three sedans in the garage, a Porsche, a Jaguar, and a Maserati.
This last, a model called the Quattroporte, was of particular interest.

“Give me the keys to the Maserati!” he demanded.

The Quattroporte was magnificent, but its beige color and
understated grille made it the least conspicuous choice. The other cars were so
flamboyant that any one of them would have stood out like a siren in a library.

After Garza gave him the keys, Quinn also demanded the
billionaire hand over the cash in his wallet, which totaled six hundred and
twenty dollars.

Finally, less than five minutes after his attempt on the
president, Quinn left Garza and his home behind, hurtling forward in a car that
felt more like a rocket ship. He slowed only for the few seconds it took to
destroy his phone and fling it from the window before resuming at a speed that
exceeded reckless by at least twenty miles per hour.

As Quinn sped off into the night he forced himself to remain
calm and focused. No room for emotion if he was to have any chance of
accomplishing his mission.

First he had to find a way to survive. Easier said than
done, even for an hour or two, let alone days and weeks. Then he had to find a
way to gather evidence.

Quinn would leave the president’s distant past alone—for
now. Instead, he would focus on the prostitutes he had beaten. They might not
remember what had happened, but it would be a start. Davinroy was bound to have
made at least one mistake that Quinn could use to snare him.

So Coffey didn’t believe a word he said about the great
Matthew Davinroy. Didn’t believe the president could possibly have done what he
had done.

No matter, thought
Quinn. Soon the world would know what a sick, murderous abomination the
president really was. Coffey’s skepticism would only make him more determined, more single-minded in his goal.

As if this were even possible.

5

Quinn knew if he was still in the
Maserati in twenty minutes, thirty at the very outside, he was a dead man. And
this time frame would be accelerated if he remained a sitting duck among the
farms and open landscape of Princeton. He needed a much better haystack to get
lost within.

He sorted through a number of
options, reaching a decision in seconds. There may have been better choices but
he didn’t have the time to search for them.

What he did now have was a destination—Trenton—twelve
miles distant. He hurtled toward this city at speeds that would have launched most
cars into space, but the Quattroporte somehow managed to hug the road like a constricting
python.

Given the light traffic, had he adhered
to speed limits, stop signs, and red lights, the trip would have taken twenty minutes.
Kevin Quinn did it in nine.

Trenton, the capital of New
Jersey, was urban and ghettoized, which was ideal for his needs. Although it
was nearing ten o’clock on a Sunday night there were still small pockets of
human activity. He had driven by the occasional group of two or more
gangbangers, young males selling drugs or patrolling streets they felt they
owned. There were almost forty thousand street gangs in the United States with
well over a million active members, not including almost three hundred thousand
in prison.

Trenton had long been fertile
ground for both the Bloods and the Latin Kings, although a Guatemalan gang,
aptly named GTO, for Guatemalans Taking
Over, had come to challenge the Kings’ dominance.

Like cockroaches, gangbangers preferred
to come out at night.

Quinn found an isolated alleyway
only four blocks from the Trenton Transit Center, a fancy name for an un-fancy
train station, and parked. He exited the car and confirmed that, as expected,
the alley was free from any street cameras.

Keenly aware that seconds
mattered, he tore at his tux like it was on fire, stripping down to his boxer
shorts and white cotton undershirt—which clung snugly to his biceps, delts, and
abdomen, showing off a level of fitness even beyond that which was required for
the job. Finally, he gathered up his bulletproof vest, shoes, and the various
pieces of his tux, and tossed them into the trunk of Garza’s car.

With this complete, Quinn drove the
Maserati ten yards forward, so most of it was still hidden in the alley but
enough of the front hood peeked out to be seen from more heavily trafficked
areas. He left the car door open, the key fob in a cupholder, and rushed to an
alley a few blocks away, where he predicted he could get the drop on three
gangbangers he had spotted from his car, if he was fast enough and they hadn’t
changed course. He kept his right hand, which held his gun, tucked inside his
boxers, against his outer leg.

For the first night of June, the
air was surprisingly cool against his skin, but rapid movement heated him up to
just above a comfortable temperature. The faint stench of puke and rotting
garbage wafted into his nostrils periodically as he moved toward his
destination.

The streets were mostly dark.
Lights provided by the city were often vandalized to keep them this way, and
street cameras used to see who was destroying the lights were typically
targeted for destruction as well.

The darkness was punctuated only
by stars, moonlight, and dim lighting from the occasional bar or tattoo parlor
still open. Steel, concrete, and rust were the common themes, and graffiti and
gang signs were everywhere, impossible to miss, even given the restricted
visibility. Quinn could only imagine how much graffiti could be seen in the
daytime.

Two helicopters streaked by, far
above him, and he nodded to himself. About fourteen minutes had passed since he
had left Garza’s mansion. He had no doubt that additional helicopters were
converging on Princeton from all sides and his photograph was now on the phones
and tablet computers of every law enforcement agent in the country.

Wearing nothing but boxer shorts
and socks, each sock pressing a wad of bills against one ankle, Quinn made it
to his destination in time to surveil the group he was after. He circled around
behind them with practiced stealth.

The group had three members, all
Hispanic, heavily tattooed, and wearing gaudy gold chains and earrings. The
tallest one was about Quinn’s height and weight, although, like the others, his
clothing was baggy and loose-fitting. The shortest wore a black baseball cap,
backwards, while the third, midway in height between the other two and also ten
pounds overweight, wore a gold bandana.

The colors gold and black were a
common theme in their attire, the identifying colors of the Latin Kings. All
three displayed these colors proudly, not exactly going out on a limb to become
trendsetters in gangbang fashion.

Quinn closed the remaining
distance to his three targets in a rush, silent as a tomb.

“Don’t move!” he hissed when he
was five feet behind them, his gun extended.

All three jumped, unable to
believe they could have been surprised so completely.

The shortest of the three
recovered from the shock the most quickly. “Hey, chill out, ese!” he said, still facing away from
Quinn. “You a cop? ’Cause we ’aint done nothing.”

“Raise your hands and turn
around,” said Quinn firmly. “Now!”

All three did as instructed.

“What the fuck!” said the short gangbanger,
who must have been the alpha in this group, when he saw that the man holding
them at gunpoint was not wearing outer clothing or shoes. “You loco, or what? Make
a move against us, underwear man, and
you buying nothing but trouble.”

Quinn almost smiled at the
threat. He forced them into a nearby alley to maximize privacy. He then had
them place a variety of weapons on the pavement and kick them away under his
watchful eye.

Quinn nodded at the tallest
member of the group. “I need your clothing and shoes,” he said, keenly aware of
the passage of time. He then turned toward their leader, who, at about five-seven,
was six inches shorter than Quinn. “And I need your baseball hat.”

The alpha opened his mouth to
respond but Quinn launched a preemptive strike. “Not a single word!” he
demanded. “From now on, you speak when I tell
you to speak. If you do what I say, you’ll earn some money for your troubles. You
hesitate to do what I say and I’ll shoot all three of you in the head and take
whatever clothing I want from your rotting corpses. Your choice.”

“Slow down, ese; what’s—”

“Shut up!” said Quinn, making a
show of pointing a gun between the alpha’s eyes. “You!” he barked at the tallest
gangbanger. “Start undressing! Now! Ten. Nine. Eight . . .”

The leader of the group stared
hard at Quinn, trying to take his measure. But he saw nothing but a resolve and
composure that was unnerving. Quinn carried himself with an overwhelming aura
of competence, as though he was military trained, had seen combat before, and had
dealt death on more than one occasion. And it wasn’t easy to exude this level
of confidence, of menace, while standing
in a dark alley wearing nothing but plaid boxer shorts.

Quinn’s voice was matter of fact
and unwavering. “Five. Four . . .

“Do it!” said the leader to his
tall comrade, who didn’t need to be told twice, moving instantly to begin
undressing before the countdown reached zero.

Quinn ordered all three
gangbangers to hug the pavement, facedown, while he donned his newfound
clothing, which reeked of marijuana and sweat. He managed to dress quickly,
despite having to maintain his vigilance and an extended gun. When he finished,
he pulled the wads of money from both socks and shoved them into his new front
pocket, but not before peeling off a hundred-dollar bill and dropping it on the
pavement near the leader’s head.

“One last thing,” said Quinn, pulling
the brim of his newly acquired baseball cap down to just above his eyes, “and
then our business here is done.”

Quinn needed an errand boy, and
the choice was obvious. The short one was the leader and might try to do
something stupid if he was pushed too far, afraid of losing status. The tall one
was now without clothing.

But the middle one was like something
out of Goldilocks and the Three Bears:
just right. Quinn ordered this one to rise from the pavement, handed him a
hundred, and told him to enter the train station a few blocks away and buy a
one-way ticket to Grand Central Station in New York.

“In case you haven’t guessed,” said
Quinn, “I’m a wanted man. I’m hotter than the center of the sun, with nothing
to lose. So try anything cute and your friends die. I’d rather not kill them
and attract a swarm of cops, but I’ll do what I have to do.” He paused. “On the
other hand, come back with my train ticket and all three of you leave unharmed.
You have five minutes! Go!”

Quinn watched his errand boy
rush off, wondering what choice he would make.

Less than five minutes later
this question was answered when Quinn’s Goldilocks gangbanger returned, sweaty
and out of breath, but carrying a train ticket in his grubby hand.

Quinn had him join his friends
facedown on the pavement once again, and explained that if they didn’t move or
speak for several minutes they could go in peace. Then he vanished back into
the alley without a sound, wondering how long they would lie there before
realizing he had left. If they did have the guts to consider retaliation, they’d
be looking for him in the train station, somewhere he had no intention of
being.

6

Quinn retraced his steps back to
where he had left Garza’s car, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction when
he saw that it was gone. With any luck, whoever took it would be breaking the
sound barrier to get the vehicle as far away from Trenton as possible. Not that
it would matter. Before too long they would find themselves at the center of a
scene straight out of a war movie, no matter where they took it.

But regardless of any shell
games Quinn might play, any feints he might orchestrate, it wouldn’t be too
long before the trio of punks he had just left would be discovered and
interrogated. They wouldn’t be inclined to help authorities, no matter what,
but given the right threats or inducements they would describe what had
happened. Tell those hunting for Quinn that he had been after clothing and a train
ticket to Grand Central, from where countless numbers of trains departed hourly
for countless destinations.

And those hunting for him would buy
it, at least for a while, being forced to run down blind alleys and broaden
their search parameters extensively.

Quinn carefully made his way
three blocks to the other side of the train station, to a six story parking garage
called Trenton Park and Ride, as
though he had parked there and was making his way purposely toward his car. It
was getting late, but trains would still be departing for several hours to
come, so there were occasional cars both entering and leaving the structure.

Quinn passed an SUV parked in an
area of the garage that offered a good view of most of two entire levels, and
crouched beside it so he couldn’t be readily seen. Five minutes later, after he
watched two cars park and their owners exit the facility, a third new entrant proved
to be the charm. A blue 2023 Ford Fusion. A young man in his late twenties had emerged,
yanking a heavy black suitcase from the trunk.

Bingo. This man was what he wanted. Someone who would undoubtedly
be staying at his destination for an extended period of time, while his car
remained safely in the parking structure.

Quinn reached into his pocket
and removed the device he had habitually carried while on duty but had never
used, a silver disk about the size and shape of an Oreo cookie. The device was
able to remotely intercept and clone signals from key fobs, now used in
virtually all cars to unlock doors and start engines.

Quinn had activated his cloning device
while the Ford was being parked, and a quick glance at an indicator light revealed
that it had intercepted the data it needed.

The Fusion’s owner began to
wheel his suitcase toward the elevator and was soon out of sight. Once he was
gone, Quinn quickly made his way to the Ford. Sure enough, his device worked
like a charm, unlocking the Ford and signaling the car to start when he pressed
on the ignition button.

Perfect. He now had transportation.
With any luck, no one would know the car had been stolen for at least a few
days.

He eyed the Ford’s eight-inch interactive
panel display and almost drooled. While he still didn’t have a phone, at least
he now had a way to surf the Web. He wouldn’t have guessed he would miss this
capability so profoundly, so quickly, but given he was on the run and in
constant need of good information, the Internet was a more critical resource
than ever before.

With the help of the Web, he mapped
out a strategy in minutes. First, he would drive to Allentown, Pennsylvania,
seventy-five miles distant, stopping in King of Prussia along the way to rob a
television repair store he had identified there. Since the shop held mostly
used and broken televisions, he guessed it had minimal security, which he could
easily defeat. He would then take what he needed—four television remotes, a
nine-volt battery, some wire, a roll of duct tape, and a small knife—and be on
his way.

Once on the outskirts of
Allentown he would search for a deserted but strategically located piece of
land on which to park, and then sleep in his car. The longer he remained at
large the more territory those after him would be forced to cover, resulting in
larger gaps in their net.

He had been caught unprepared, with
no contingency plan—an unforgivable sin—but he was reasonably satisfied with the
progress he had made.

In the morning, he would plan
ways to stay ahead of the pack, and then plot out his strategy for bringing
Matt Davinroy to his knees.

7

Professor Rachel A. Howard sat
at the edge of the desk with her legs dangling down, her beige flats not even
close to reaching the floor of the small classroom. A heavy glass bottle of Snapple
peach tea, flash-chilled just minutes earlier in her minus thirty-seven degree
freezer, was open and waiting beside her, with a silver tablet computer on her
lap.

Dressed in faded jeans and a light
red cotton T-shirt, cut below the waist, Rachel Howard was eminently
approachable and almost always cheerful, and as informal as she was brilliant.
Anyone who had an encounter with her outside of Harvard University, who didn’t
know who she was, might think she was a homemaker, or a travel agent, or a
caring, friendly social worker.

When Rachel was at a grocery
store, movie, or social gathering, her appearance, style, vocabulary, and
demeanor could not have been less intimidating, and none could possibly guess
that this woman possessed a legendary intellect, was widely considered the
foremost neuroscientist in the world, and was rumored to be on a short list for
a future Nobel Prize for the groundbreaking papers she seemed to publish with
astounding regularity.

In academia, business, or for
that matter any human endeavor, there were two ways to get ahead. One was to
know how to play the game, become skilled at sucking up to the right people,
projecting the right image, playing politics, and manipulating others.
Unfortunately, many of those practicing these dark arts were not highly
competent in their actual jobs, and could excel only by being ruthless and
unethical, stabbing colleagues in the back, poisoning their reputations for
personal gain, and taking credit for the work and ideas of others.

The second way to get ahead was
to be so gifted, so talented, it didn’t matter how well or poorly you played
politics. You could dress like a slob, be boorish or intimidating, fail to show
up for mandatory cocktail parties, or even be a total asshole. Or, as was the
case with Rachel Howard, you could exhibit the opposite spectrum of behavior.
You could be friendly, gracious, and unassuming. You could go out of your way
to bestow credit wherever it was deserved.

If you were not extraordinarily
talented, these traits would get you liked, but not promoted, especially when
swimming in shark-filled waters. Nice guys—or gals in this case—finished last.

Unless your competence was so
great that nothing could hide it, no politicking, backstabbing, or idea theft
could diminish it. Results, when they were stellar enough, could trump almost
all other considerations.

There was an old joke her
father, a businessman, had told her. A regional sales manager rushes into the
office of the president of the company. “One of my salesmen just said that you
should go jump in a lake,” he reports to the president. “I assume you want me
to fire him immediately.”

“What an absolute jerk!” says
the president. “This is intolerable. Just out of curiosity,” he adds, “how are
his sales numbers?”

“He’s the top salesman in the
region. Has been for the entire year.”

The president of the company
nods. “On second thought,” he says, making his way out of his office, “don’t
fire him.”

“Okay,” says the subordinate in
confusion. “But where are you going?”

“I’m going to find a lake to
jump into,” he replies happily.

Rachel smiled at this memory as
the first of her students wandered into the classroom, followed within minutes
by five others. All six wore casual clothing that took a cue from her well-known
style, or lack thereof: jeans, yoga pants, and the like, and each had eyes that
shined from the fires of an extraordinary intellect within. The Neuroscience
program at Harvard was unequaled, and the graduate school had its pick of the
most brilliant undergrads from around the world.

She studied the students in the
class with great interest as they entered, since she was only tangentially
familiar with any of them. Each sat in the front row, in uncomfortable wooden seats
with large desk surfaces attached, a mere six or seven feet away from her.
Several lowered steaming cups of coffee onto the desks, along with tablet
computers and notepads. Given it was eight in the morning on a Monday the
coffee and bleary eyes were not surprising, although Rachel habitually stuck
with her Snapple, which delivered its own dose of caffeine.

Once seated, the students gazed
at her with expressions she could only describe as awestruck, a description she was reluctant to use due to her innate
humility.

The class consisted of Sanjeev
Shaw from New Delhi, India; Michele Bodenheimer from Dobbs Ferry, New York;
Sherry Dixon from Owensboro, Kentucky; Greg Feldman from Cincinnati, Ohio; Deb
Sorensen from Basel, Switzerland; and Eyal Regev from Tel Aviv, Israel.

She had done her homework on the
group before they had arrived, and the average age was twenty-four, although
Deb Sorensen was only twenty, having graduated from college at the age of
eighteen, and Eyal Regev was the oldest at thirty-one, only two years younger
than Rachel herself. Regev was new to Harvard, having just transferred in from
the grad program at Johns Hopkins. Half of the students were male and half were
female, which was unusual, as most of her previous classes had been all female,
or predominantly so.

No surprise there. She was an expert
in all facets of neuroscience, especially learning, and knew that women had
been outpacing men academically for some time, and the gap was only widening.
This was a growing crisis that had received far less attention than it
deserved. The disparity began in grade school, where it was increasingly
difficult to get boys to read.

Research showed that boys lagged
significantly behind girls across all school ages on standardized reading tests—in
all fifty states. And America was not alone. In 2001, the Department of
Education had conducted a massive study on fourth grade reading in forty-five
countries, and the results were breathtaking: girls outscored boys in reading
literacy in all forty-five.

These stats had quickly translated
into college admissions, where over sixty percent of US college degrees were
now awarded to women, as well as a majority of advanced degrees, and women now
outnumbered men in graduate school by almost one and a half to one.

Many factors were involved. Boys
were often socialized to believe that sports and other physical activities were
more masculine than quiet reading. And the world was increasingly brimming with
distractions: computer games, cell phones, social media, endless video
entertainment, and the like, which seemed to have a slightly stronger
gravitational pull for boys than girls, although both genders were becoming
addicted in ever-growing numbers.

But all of this aside, boys were
almost twice as likely as girls to have a reading disability like dyslexia, and
brain architecture did differ between the sexes, with MRI scanning showing that
the language centers in girls’ brains, on average, developed faster than in
boys.

Rachel considered the three male
students in the class. In past generations they probably would have been
considered geeky and might have struggled to find female companionship, but males
on campus were now so rare she was sure they had no trouble keeping their dance
cards full. Another of the endless examples of how transformative the last
thirty years had been, frequently in strange and unexpected ways.

Now that the students had all
settled in, Professor Rachel Howard, chair of the Harvard neuroscience
department, still perched at the edge of a large desk, cleared her throat and
began.

“Welcome to the summer session
of Neuroscience eight twenty, Advanced
Applications. I’ve been told this is considered one of the most difficult graduate
courses at all of Harvard. I won’t lie to you,” she added with a smile, “it is.
But I’ve also been told by many former students they believed it to be the most
important course they ever took.”

She paused. “While the material
will be challenging, I’d also like to make this course as fun and stimulating
as possible. So nothing you say will be regarded as stupid, silly, or misguided.
And I welcome questions and interruptions and an open dialog at all times. If
you have something to say, don’t hesitate to jump right in.”

She went on to explain that she would be teaching the
course, but would have several of her collaborators at nearby MIT give guest
lectures, who tended to be better at marrying her neurobiological discoveries
with computer and electronic advances, robotics, and engineering related
technology, helping to turn her theories into real world solutions.

“In this class, we’re going to dive very deep into the
material,” she said, and then with just the hint of a smile, added, “Very deep.”

Several students looked down nervously and others swallowed
hard, visibly trying not to panic, wondering if this course would finally be a
hurdle they were unable to overcome. Each had set every curve in high school
and college, but now that they were together at Harvard they had finally risen
to the point where everyone was as smart and hardworking as they were. Some
more so. Finding themselves in a group whose members were all at their own
rarified level was as scary as it was
stimulating.

“Your knowledge of
the neurological and biochemical structure of the brain will be tested
greatly,” continued the professor, “as will your knowledge of computers,
genetically engineered synaptic modifying agents, and techniques for taking
advantage of brain plasticity.”

There was a pause, and Eyal Regev, the Israeli, jumped in,
apparently taking her previous invitation to do so at any time at face value.
“Professor Howard,” he began, and was immediately stopped by a head shaking in
front of him.

“Please, everyone, call me Rachel.”

She knew they had heard this was her preference, but no graduate
student yet had dared assume this was the case and use the familiar before
being given explicit permission, out of respect for her and a certain awe at
her reputation. Einstein’s graduate students wouldn’t have addressed him as Albert without being asked, even if a
gun were pointed at their heads.

Regev nodded. He looked
distinctly Mediterranean, with rugged, masculine features and jet-black hair. He
had an accent, but it wasn’t pronounced.

“Sure, um . . . Rachel,” he
began again, trying this name out for size and still clearly uncomfortable with
it. “My name is Eyal,” he added, pronouncing it A-yall. “Is it true that if someone distinguishes themselves in
this class, you offer to hire them on as a post-doc once they’ve earned their
PhD?”

“It is. I’ve done this twice in
the past four years. One student joined my lab and one declined, taking a
position in a lab at Stanford instead.”

“The one who declined obviously
wasn’t as bright as you thought,” said Eyal Regev with an impish grin, his
brown eyes sparkling.

Rachel laughed. Just because she
knew he was sucking up for all he was worth didn’t mean it wasn’t working. And
Regev had begun his question by introducing himself, reminding her that she had
forgotten to let the students do so, which she quickly rectified.

When each had the chance to say
their names along with a few words about themselves, Rachel took a breath and
continued with her introduction to the course. “So now that I’ve explained how
deep we’re going to go,” she said, “literally to the subatomic level in some
cases, I plan to do just the opposite with the first two sessions. I’d like to
pull all the way back to thirty thousand feet, and examine the entire field.
Examine the big picture problems we hope to solve. And not just what we can do, but what we should do. What are the possibilities? The issues? The ethics? Since
we’ll soon find ourselves neck deep in the trees, I think it’s fitting we
consider the forest before we begin.”

The grad students appeared both
relieved and intrigued. The first few sessions, at least, were going to be survivable.

“So I don’t need to tell anyone
in this room that we’re in the right place at the right time. Neuroscience has
long been considered mankind’s next great frontier, the next big thing. The span
from 1990 to 2000 was formally declared the
decade of the brain by the White House. But this was only the beginning, as
we are well aware. Since then, computing, medicine, genetic engineering, and
brain scanning and modeling have seen exponential growth, giving us more
optimism than ever.

“Most of you are so young you
take these advances for granted. You don’t fully appreciate just how far we’ve
come, and how quickly, and how near we are to the achievement of miraculous
things. Neuroscience is at a tipping point. You will enter this field in a
transformative period, the likes of which may never be seen again.

“You’re all aware of the power
of exponential growth. Start with a penny and double your money every day, and
in thirty-nine days you’ll have over two billion dollars. But the first day
your wealth only increases by a single penny, an amount that’s beneath notice.”

She raised her eyebrows. “On the
thirty-ninth day, however, your
wealth will increase from one billion to two billion dollars. Now that is a change impossible to miss. So,
like a hockey stick, the graph of exponential growth barely rises from the
ground for some time, but when it reaches the beginning of the handle, watch out, because you suddenly get an
explosive rise that is nearly vertical.”

She shook her head and allowed a
flicker of a smile to cross her face. “Most of you, on the inside, are rolling
your eyes, because you’ve known how exponential growth works since you were in
diapers. But knowing and having an intuitive feel are two different things. And
exponential growth will sneak up on you. Despite having seen this pattern over
and over, scientists are still surprised by its effect. Many still have trouble
taking the leap of faith that problems that seem insurmountable today will become
trivial in the blink of an eye.

“When the first cell phones were
practically the size of a car, who’d have foreseen modern smartphones, capable
of marvels not even dreamt of just years before they came to rule the world?
When Jobs and Wozniac built their first Apple computer in a garage, who could
have foreseen the monumental leaps in processing power, speed, storage, and the
like? The first decoding of the billions of DNA base pairs in the human genome
took over a decade, at a cost of more
than three billion dollars. A mere twenty years later, I can get my entire
genome sequenced in a day, for less
money than it takes to buy a new pair of shoes.

“This is happening in
neuroscience before our very eyes. We’re halfway up the handle of that hockey
stick, and we’ll make it all the way up from here so quickly it will surprise
the most optimistic among us.

“So I want to go back to the
point at which the coming revolution left the ice, so to speak, and began
climbing straight up the handle of the hockey stick, about a decade ago. Have
any of you heard the name Francis Collins?”

Deb Sorensen nodded. “You mean
the former director of the NIH?”

“Exactly. Anyone know what he
did before this?”

“Didn’t he also lead the Human
Genome Project?” said Michele Bodenheimer. “The one you just spoke about.”

“Excellent,” said Rachel. “That
is correct. So Collins had seen the breathtaking pace of innovation before.”

The professor lifted the tablet
that had been resting on her lap and slid her fingers across it. “I thought it
might be useful to read to you something he posted in 2014, when the BRAIN
initiative was first announced.”

She looked down at the screen
and began to read:

Some
have called it America’s next moonshot. Indeed, like the historic effort that
culminated with the first moon landing in 1969, the Brain Research through
Advancing Innovative Neurotechnologies (BRAIN) Initiative is a bold,
ambitious endeavor that will require the energy of thousands of our nation’s
most creative minds working together over the long haul.

Our goal? To produce the first dynamic
view of the human brain in action, revealing how its roughly eighty-six billion
neurons and its trillions of connections interact in real time. This new view
will revolutionize our understanding of how we think, feel, learn, remember,
and move, transforming efforts to help the more than one billion people
worldwide who suffer from autism, depression, schizophrenia, epilepsy,
traumatic brain injury, Parkinson’s disease, Alzheimer’s disease, and other
devastating brain disorders.

When on May 25, 1961, President
Kennedy announced plans to go to the moon by the end of the decade, most
Americans (not to mention space scientists!) were stunned because much of the
technology needed to achieve a moonshot didn’t yet exist. Likewise, medical
research today faces a wide gap between our current technologies for studying
the brain and what will be needed to realize BRAIN’s ambitious goals.

Rachel stopped reading and faced
her class once again. “There’s more, but I won’t go on. I just wanted to give
you a flavor of where things were a decade or so ago, when many of you were in
high school or even middle school. Collins goes on to detail this technology
gap. But, as all of you know, ninety percent of the first draft of the brain is
already done. And, as usual, it is way ahead of schedule, and has defied every
expectation. When it is fully completed, and then modeled in our best
computers, the power this will give us to understand the innermost workings of
the human brain will be unprecedented.
We will have a unique ability to explore ourselves, learn what makes us tick.
Even with an incomplete, raw version, recent breakthroughs being made have been
extraordinary. As this data grows hand in hand with advances in biotech and
computer science, there is very little we won’t soon be able to achieve.”

Rachel Howard had been at the
forefront of the field for some time, and the passion and certainty with which
she delivered these words was electrifying.

After a long pause, giving her
inspirational words time to marinate, she continued. “So let’s go. Let’s begin
a big-picture discussion of such things as finding the cure for Alzheimer’s. A
huge and tragic disease affecting more and more of us as we extend the
lifespan, and as the percentage of us who are elderly continues to increase.
Let’s explore findings with respect to the brain and spirituality, begging a
discussion of how religion, evolution, and neurochemistry might fit together.
Let’s take a panoramic look at addiction research; pros, cons, issues, and
ethics. And we’ll want to save a good thirty minutes to discuss one of my favorite
topics: research into the human sex drive, which colors every aspect of our
behavior, actions, and civilization. I defy you to watch TV for ten minutes without
at least one sexual reference coming up, without seeing sex being used to sell
beer or hamburgers.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “And
for good reason,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Because a strong urge to
mate, to reproduce, is an absolute requirement for genes to be passed on. We
can be sure of only one thing: every one of our ancestors managed to find a
partner and mate, whatever that took. If not, we wouldn’t be here to talk about
it.

“And we’ll even ask the following
question,” she continued, “which is stronger, the survival instinct or the sex
drive? Not as obvious as it might seem at first blush. Just ask the males of
certain spider species, who offer themselves up as postcoital snacks to induce
females to mate with them.”

Rachel couldn’t help but smile
at the looks of horror on the faces of her three male students. “And we’ll go
on to discuss a half dozen other areas that neuroscience will soon have a
dramatic impact upon,” she continued. “But all of this will come later in this
session, or in the next. Because I’d like to begin with my two favorite topics.”
She paused for effect. “The first being the induction of memory loss.”

The professor took a drink from
her still-icy bottle of Snapple and continued. “Few would argue that restoring
memory to Alzheimer’s patients is a blessing. But we’ll soon be able to do the
opposite, as well: induce the loss of
memory. Easily. And with surgical precision. So what do you think about this?
Should we pursue this line of research? If so, for what purpose, and to what
end?

“And if not, how would we stop
it?”

***

Many miles away, a troubled man watched Rachel Howard’s lecture on a large
plasma monitor in fascination. She was electrifying.

The subject matter for her first two lectures was almost perfect for his
needs, allowing him to garner much of what he wanted to know. These discussions
would provide a window on how Rachel Howard thought about the field, what
advances she had contemplated, and her take on various moral and ethical
issues.

But he would also need to be careful. It would be dangerous to draw too many
conclusions on the basis of public lectures. Her stance on various issues could
be for the consumption of her students only, and not necessarily reflect her
true opinions.

Regardless, these two lectures would illuminate the kind of issues she had
pondered, her range of interests, and her recognition of what was critical and
what wasn’t. They would provide a framework for further analysis, further
interaction. They would jump-start the process, a lucky break considering that
time was of the essence.

The man turned his attention once more to the screen, where the chair of the
Harvard Neuroscience department was continuing her lecture. Even knowing it was
being taped, he didn’t want to miss a single word or facial expression.

8

Azim Jafari, Imam of Chicago’s Hamza mosque, had been in
America his entire life, but had long known he was going to strike a decisive
blow in the war against the West, particularly against the country of his
birth. He had spent years building a reputation that would make him above
suspicion, since despite any denials, Western Intelligence focused considerable
attention on mosques.

And while Jafari feigned outrage over this practice, it made
perfect sense. If you wanted honey, you focused on bees. Mosques had been meeting
places for radicalized Islamists historically, and any number of Imams had been
found to be terrorist leaders, or at the very least, terrorist sympathizers.

Although bees and honey was the wrong analogy, since his
plans had nothing to do with honey. Perhaps termites and acid would be the
better choice.

Some in the West had begun to question why so few peace-loving
Muslims had condemned their fundamentalist, radicalized brethren, and insisted
that until this happened, innocent Muslims had less reason to complain when
they were painted with this same brush.

One professional cable news guest who had been particularly
vocal about this over the years was a man named Abe Shapiro. He argued that TSA
agents and others were fools not to use profiling. That it was the height of
idiocy not to focus more on mosques and Muslims. This wasn’t bigotry, he would
argue, just common sense.

“I’m a short, fat Jewish guy,” Shapiro had famously remarked
on any number of occasions. “If scores of other short, fat Jewish guys flew
planes into buildings, shot up malls, and chanted death to America, I’d expect
to get closer scrutiny by the TSA. To fail to notice this pattern and keep a
closer eye on me, you’d have to have your head in the sand. But I wouldn’t
blame the TSA agents for this scrutiny. I’d blame all the fricking short, fat
Jewish guys trying to destroy civilization, who are making me look suspicious.
Radicalized Muslims are the least tolerant people on Earth—especially when it
comes to women, other religions, and other cultures—yet they cry the loudest at
any perceived intolerance on the part of the West. And we’re stupid enough to let
them put us on the defensive.”

Jafari had decided that these criticisms were an opportunity.
He would pretend to take them to heart. Pretend to give the public what so many
commentators suggested they were looking for. He would be a prominent Muslim, an
Imam, willing to publicly condemn
terrorism.

So he had made it a point to seek out cable news shows and
had soon become a common presence among talking heads. He became famous for
sermonizing that Islam needed to get its house in order, be more open-minded
and tolerant. He shared his enlightened view on television whenever he was
asked, winning praise from all quarters as a man of peace trying to effect
change.

And all the while he was doing this, he searched for the
perfect strategy, triggered at the perfect time, to cripple America, knowing
that he was now the last Imam, and Hamza the last mosque, that would ever come
under suspicion. He was so well known as a voice against radicalism that if he
walked into a café with a bomb strapped to his chest, the waiter would
cheerfully take his order and comment on the believability of his terrorist Halloween
costume.

But even so, he instituted security precautions as though he
were the most suspected Imam in the
world. No electronic communications that would ever suggest his hatred of his
country, or his love of ISIS and other such organizations. No public speeches
or sermons. He made sure his mosque was routinely swept for bugs.

And now, finally, his duplicity, his patience, would pay off.
Today was the day, and although it was now the crack of dawn on a Monday, he
had never felt more alive.

Azim Jafari gazed out over hundreds of his hand-picked
followers, from all over the country, who had made the trip to attend this
special prayer meeting. His own network of sleepers. Pious believers he had
carefully cultivated over many years, ready to become activated at his command.
And each ready to activate their own hand-picked cells of six to eight, a
multiplier effect that provided Jafari with an army of well over a thousand.

The inside of the mosque was magnificent, and the prayer
hall he and his followers inhabited was the most magnificent of all, containing
dozens of pairs of striking white pillars, accented with gold, leading up to a
glorious blue-and-jade dome. Unlike the sanctuaries of other religions, the
splendor of the architecture was not marred by the presence of pews or rows of
chairs.

Two of Jafari’s special congregants guarded the doors while he
readied himself to begin the proceedings. He was wearing his finest white robe,
and a white-and-red kufi, which could be described as either an enormous skullcap,
or a round, brimless hat, shaped like a birthday cake. His dark beard was
close-cropped, something that never failed to enrage him when he saw his face
in a mirror.

But as much as he wanted to grow his beard longer, to please
Allah, a beard that was neatly manicured was more pleasing to the mainstream, making
him even more of a darling to large swaths of the American population. Sacrificing
a full beard, painful though it was, was something he was willing to do for the
greater good.

A hush fell over the room as Jafari made it clear he was
ready to begin. He first led the assembly in prayer, humbled to be doing so for
these men in particular, who were as dedicated as he was to the final
elimination of infidels and the restoration of Islam to its deserved purity and
glory.

Once the prayers were completed, it was finally time for him
to get to the heart of the matter. Jafari drew in a deep, exhilarating breath,
thrilled by the knowledge that his time had finally come, and began. “All of
you are here today because you share in our righteous purpose,” he said. “To
bring the Great Satan to its knees. After considerable thought and preparation—considerable
prayer and meditation—I have arrived at a plan I believe will do just this. A
plan that will create maximum panic and havoc, with minimal operational needs.”
He smiled serenely. “And minimal risk of failure.”

Jafari cleared his throat and looked out over his flock, a
dense throng of humanity standing at attention before him, eager to learn what
part they would play in his grand plan. “I call my strategy, death by a thousand cuts. As the name
would imply, this isn’t about delivering a single killing blow to the organism.
This isn’t about sensational attacks, about spectacle. You don’t have to cut
off an elephant’s head to kill it. A thousand quick flicks with a razor blade will
do the trick. Each, alone, not nearly fatal, but the cumulative effect deadly, causing
far more trauma to the system than a single decisive blow ever could.”

Jafari had arrived at the name for his
operation from the form of torture and execution made famous by the Chinese,
practiced from the beginning of the tenth century until 1905, when it had been banned
by authorities. The Chinese had called it ling
chi, which translated either as death by a thousand cuts, the lingering
death, or slow slicing.

In ling chi, an executioner would
use a knife to methodically remove portions of the body over an extended period
of time, eventually resulting in death. According to lore, ling chi began when
the torturer, wielding an extremely sharp knife, put out the victim’s eyes,
rendering him incapable of seeing the remainder of the torture and ratcheting
up the psychological terror of the procedure.

Successive cuts removed any small
body part that just happened to be sticking out, be it an ear, nose, finger,
toe, tongue, or even testicle, followed by the removal of large chunks of flesh
from thighs and shoulders. The entire process was said to last three days, and
to total three thousand six hundred cuts, after which the butchered carcasses
were paraded for the public to see.

While this lore contained extreme exaggerations—exaggerations
historians and modern physicians had since corrected—there was no disagreement
over the basic idea behind the executions, nor the fact that they took place.
The debate centered on the question of how many mutilations, over what length
of time, a victim could endure and still remain alive.

The idea of felling the Great Satan in this manner was
irresistible to Jafari, and he relished the idea that his hand would be holding the scalpel. Yes, ISIS and others had
continued to entice individuals, largely through social media, into acts of
violence against America, often to great effect, but this was haphazard. Jafari’s
strategy would be smarter. It would be comprehensive and coordinated. And it
would be infinitely more damaging.

“Once I seized upon the idea of slicing up the beast,”
continued Jafari, “of crippling it, forcing it to stagger around, not knowing when
or where the next slice would be delivered, I put considerable effort into
perfecting each and every cut. Into ordering the cuts for maximum effectiveness.
At every turn I asked myself, which acts will cause the most destruction, the
most terror? Which acts will push the economy toward collapse? What acts will bleed
the beast the most efficiently?”

Jafari paused. “During our meeting this morning, I intend to
outline our first cut. Once this phase has been completed, I will outline the
next. And so on. In this way I can assess the success of each phase. I can
confirm that the next cuts I have planned will still be the most effective,
given the state of the beast.”

This was also a security precaution. Any follower who was
captured could only reveal a small portion of the plan. Jafari wouldn’t insult anyone
in attendance by suggesting they might provide operational details during an
interrogation, but weakness happened, even in men whose hearts were in the
right place. And stupidity happened. What if someone made a list that could be
discovered? Allowed themselves to get drunk and then bragged about the plan?

Caution was Jafari’s watchword. He would take no unnecessary
chances. They would see the beauty of his full plan, the grandeur, as it slowly
unfolded, like the rarest of roses revealing its beauty petal by petal.

He held out his hands, palms up, and his face glowed with an
inner peace and serenity. “So it is time to announce our first move. One that
could well cut the deepest of all.”

He paused for effect. “This will be a cut carved by the
lava-hot scalpel of fire,” he
proclaimed triumphantly.

9

Azim Jafari waited several long seconds before continuing, partly
for dramatic effect, but mostly because he wanted to soak in the palpable
electricity that had swept across the room, relish the heightened attentiveness
of all of those standing before him in the soaring prayer hall.

“I have witnessed for myself the horrible, unparalleled power of Allah’s fire,” he continued finally.
“And it is truly a power to behold. In 2007, I was living in San Diego, one of
the ten most populated cities in America. In October of that year, a wildfire
began to burn east of the city, heading due west. Embers from the first fire
started others, and these fires grew at an incredible rate. The carnage that
followed, the smoldering hell these fires created, was like something out of
the apocalypse.”

Jafari’s memory of this devastation had never diminished,
and he had bolstered these memories with statistics he had read afterward. He
would paint his loyal followers a picture of the potential of fire to wreak
terror and destruction that would be an inspiration to them.

“In a very short time,” he continued, “the walls of flame
were thousands of feet long, and up to eight stories tall. By the end of a
single week almost eight hundred square miles of Southern California were blackened.
Nearly a million residents were forced from their homes, the largest peacetime
movement of civilians in America since the civil war. Before the fire was
brought under control, more than three thousand structures were lost. Ash and
other particulates blanketed hundreds of square miles, like the aftermath of a nuclear war.”

Jafari paused to let this sink in, his voice now filled with
awe. “During the day, the darkened sky was eerie.
Unsettling to the depths of one’s soul,” he said, his prepared words now bordering
on the poetic. “There was a surreal, orange cast to it, as the sun largely
failed to penetrate the mass of particulates. Ash rained from the sky, turning
San Diego into a sinister, coal-black version of a shaken snowglobe. Backyard
pools turned from a serene blue to a sickly black as soot covered their
surfaces. Residents stayed indoors, or wore surgical masks when they needed to
venture outside.”

He shook his head grimly. “Unless you lived through it,” he continued,
“no description can do it justice. The psychological impact it had was
profound. There is no way to adequately convey the feelings of dread and
impending doom that gripped every last resident when their entire world was
covered in ash, and their sky was scorched and darkened.”

Jafari could tell he now had his audience completely
enthralled. “Seventeen people were consumed by the walls of flame, including
five firefighters. More than a hundred more suffered injuries, not including
dozens who were hospitalized due to respiratory distress. The economic impact of
the fires was measured in billions of dollars. Much of the region was shut down
for the entire week, including schools, universities, and businesses. Critical
roads and highways were closed, and tourists and conventioneers canceled their
visits. Power lines were damaged. Farms were ravaged, including more than three
thousand acres of avocado groves.

“Commerce ground to a halt. For the better
part of a week, one of the richest and most populous regions in the world was
brought to its knees. San Diego
suffered a devastating blow: physically,
economically, and psychologically.”

Jafari’s eyes were now alive with righteous
purpose. “Was a nuclear bomb needed to cause this mass destruction, this
unbridled terror?” he barked to a mesmerized crowd. “The answer is no! Were jumbo jets needed, to smash
into San Diego skyscrapers? Again, no! Did turning eight hundred square miles
of a heavily populated region into a wasteland
require expensive equipment, highly trained operatives, or complicated schemes?”
He shook his head vigorously. “A final
time, no!” he thundered.

The Imam paused, and now lowered his voice
to just above a whisper. “No, this was a catastrophe that could have been
brought about by a single child. A terror that could well be recreated with a
few lighters and twenty dollars worth of supplies.

“Only now,” continued Jafari, “the same fire would be even more devastating. Cities and suburbs across
America are growing denser every year. Homes are closer and closer together,
and civilization is encroaching more and more on the natural world. Back in 2007,
Southern California was the ultimate expression of this trend. But now this
situation is widespread. So our first slice into the body of The Great Satan will be a trial by fire.”

His voice rose to a
thunder once again and he held a fist out in front of him. “We will burn their
forests to the ground! Focusing on
those that straddle their densest population centers. And we won’t do this in
just one state, but in forty-eight!
We will turn this country into a living, fiery hell, a dark, smoldering ruin!”

The room broke out into cheers, which were
echoed and amplified by the magnificent dome above them as the Imam’s followers
were no longer able to contain their passion.

“Can you imagine it?” said Jafari when the prayer
hall had become quiet once again. “Thousands and thousands of square miles
across the entire continental United States on fire. Firefighters spread so
thin they have no chance of success. A psychological, physical, and economic
catastrophe that will make the San Diego fire look like a paper cut.”

He leaned in toward the crowd and raised his
eyebrows. “But there’s more. Once firefighters have their hands full, it will
be time to start even more fires. But this time not in forests. This time in
buildings within the cities and dense neighborhoods themselves. The Great
Chicago Fire—which raged over this
very ground in 1871—started
when a single lantern was knocked
over. And it killed hundreds, and left a
hundred thousand more homeless. And this was in 1871! I know we can do far better now, in the
most populated cities in this country!”

The group once again broke out into cheers,
and Jafari allowed himself a beaming smile for the first time. After weeks of
this treatment, the United States would wish
it had been hit with a nuclear bomb.

“We will strike in just over a month,”
announced Jafari. “On July 4th.”

He paused to let the significance of this sink
in. “On this day, Americans like to barbecue. So be it. On this day, we will
barbecue Americans!” he shouted. “They
want fireworks? We will give them true
fireworks! They sing of rocket’s red glare, we will give them all the red glare
they can handle—and more. The day that heralded the birth of The Great Satan will
become the day that we begin to push it over the cliff to its eventual death!”

The cheers this time were deafening, and
Jafari soaked them in. The truth was, a July 4th start date was a hope, not a
certainty, and he could well change it, but he didn’t want to do anything to
rein in their enthusiasm right now. He needed to study weather forecasts for
the entire nation. Allah willing, the week surrounding July 4th would be dry
across the majority of the country. If it was rainy, he would have to delay the
strike until conditions were optimal.

But let them roar for a few minutes more
before he continued on to the less inspiring details of the operation. Before
he discussed possible changes to timing and how they would be notified of such.
Before he shared his research on the most ideal locations for the fires. The most
effective ways to start them, with the least manpower and materials. Cover an
array of operational issues, precautions, and detailed instructions of how to
proceed if caught. He had mapped out the implementation of this plan to
perfection, and he needed to share all of this now with his eager audience.

Then he
would set these sleepers loose.

And while America was burning to the ground,
he would be busy preparing his next cut.

And then the one after that.

10

Cris Coffey sat in
front of the historic Resolute desk in the Oval Office, for once not admiring
the eagle and other intricate carvings cut into the oak section facing him. He
was exhausted, ashamed, and anxious, dreading this meeting like the plague. An
attempt on the president’s life had been made—on his
watch. Worse yet, it had been made by one of his own men. It was a black eye
from which he would never recover. And now, more than eleven hours after the
attack, he had yet to apprehend Kevin Quinn.

The Oval Office had
famously served as the president’s personal office in the White House since the
days of Teddy Roosevelt. In fact, the West Wing, of which it was a part, had
been rumored to be the brainchild of Roosevelt’s wife, who felt the second
floor of the residence, which harbored both bedrooms and offices, should be
earmarked entirely as domestic space. So the West Wing was built to provide executive
offices. At the time it was slated to be a temporary solution, but it soon
became a permanent and indispensable addition to the president’s domain.

Along with the
magnificent desk, a gift from Queen Victoria in 1880, built from the timbers of
the decommissioned British Arctic exploratory vessel Resolute, the Oval Office contained three large windows and a
fireplace, along with four different exits. The east door opened to the Rose
Garden, the west to a private study and dining room, the northwest to a main
corridor in the West Wing, and the northeast to the office of the president’s
secretary.

Davinroy had motioned
Coffey in but had ignored him as he finished the last page of his daily
security briefing, which was delivered to his office by seven every morning. Once
he finished the last sentence he turned his full attention to his visitor, now
seated before him.

“Sorry to summon
you at the crack of dawn,” he began. “But under the circumstances . . .”  He let his voice trail away, leaving the
sentence unfinished.

“Of course, sir,” replied
Coffey. “And let me say that I can’t apologize enough for what happened last
night. It was a failure of epic proportions. I take full responsibility.”

Davinroy shook his
head graciously. “Not your fault, Cris,” he said. “Not anyone’s fault. Kevin
Quinn just became delusional from out of nowhere. I’m not a psychiatrist, but
there was no possible way for you to know that someone with this kind of access
would snap like he did.”

So far the
president was being understanding, but Coffey knew that this would change when
he learned what had really happened. Right now he thought Quinn had tried to
shoot him, and failed because of the quick actions of the Secret Service.

Coffey winced,
wishing he didn’t have to be the one to tell him otherwise. “We worked through
the night, sir,” he said. “My teams had two objectives. Capture Kevin. And try
to piece together what happened at Garza’s mansion.” He sighed. “You aren’t
going to like what you hear, sir, on either front.”

Davinroy’s eyes
narrowed. “Go on,” he said warily.

“I won’t go into
the details of our investigation, just the results. First, Kevin Quinn is still
at large. Second, we’ve become convinced he never intended to fire a gun, or to
allow himself to be exposed the way he did. Your drink,” continued Coffey, glancing
down at notes on his phone to make sure he got the name correct, “the Portuguese Nectar Vector, was poisoned. Kevin relieved the agent on bar detail, and instead of
ensuring your drink was clean, he slipped a mickey into it that would have
killed you within seconds of your first sip.”

A horrified
expression came over the president’s face and he swallowed hard.

Coffey remained
silent as Davinroy digested the full implications of what he had been told. As
Davinroy remembered the events of the previous night, his expression became
even more horrified. “Shit!” he said,
his eyes widening. “And I gave it to Anne
to try.”

“That’s right, Mr.
President. We believe this is what precipitated Kevin’s actions. He revealed
himself so he could shoot the drink from your wife’s hand, sir.”

“Thank God,”
whispered the president.

“How is the First Lady, sir, if I may ask?”

Davinroy seemed
lost in thought for several long seconds. Finally, he shook his head, as if to
clear it, and stared at Coffey as though trying to reconstruct what he had just
said. “How is Anne?” he mumbled.

“Yes, sir.”

Davinroy sighed. “Given
what you’ve just told me, it’s a miracle she’s still alive. So I guess she’s
doing well. She was gashed by the glass when it exploded. And she was terrified
when the shots rang out and we were tackled. Not to mention being horrified after that.”

“Horrified, sir?”

“Yes. Kevin Quinn
accused me of an unspeakable atrocity. And even though there is no truth to what
he said, no wife should have to listen to something like that. It was very upsetting.”

Coffey frowned. He
hadn’t really thought about this, but it made perfect sense. An accusation this
appalling, despite being false, would leave a foul taste in anyone’s mouth. “I
understand, sir.”

Davinroy now looked
as though he was sick to his stomach. “I should be dead,” he whispered. “It was
only dumb luck that saved me.” He stared off into space for several long
seconds, pondering what might have been—what should
have been.

Coffey braced
himself for the tirade sure to come his way. He deserved it. He had been incompetent.
How could he have allowed this to happen? Instead of being heroic, as it might
have appeared after the first shot rang out, Coffey and the rest of his detail
had been criminally negligent. The president should be incensed. He or his wife could have died. And even if
there had been no way to see this coming, Coffey couldn’t blame the president
in the slightest for condemning him, reacting emotionally, viscerally.

Instead, Davinroy’s
composure returned. “Any idea what pushed Kevin over the edge?” he asked, his
expression now thoughtful.

Coffey was shocked by
the president’s equanimity. “None,” he replied. “We’ve interviewed any number
of people who worked with him recently, and none of them thought his behavior
was out of the ordinary in any way. Two months ago he had a standard psych
evaluation and passed with flying colors. This makes no sense to me at all. I
have a meeting with a top psychiatrist later this morning. There may be a deep-seated
reason Kevin came up with the particular delusion he did once he snapped.
Perhaps he disagrees with your policies, and his mind turned you into the
ultimate villain to justify killing you. I’ll be interested in what the shrink
says about this.”

“Me too,” said
Davinroy. “Make sure you send me a report on the meeting.”

“I will, sir. But even before my consult with the expert, it
seems to me that Kevin must have snapped very recently, or he would have come
after you earlier.”

Davinroy nodded. “I
agree,” he said. Then, deciding to change gears, he added, “I read a summary of
Kevin’s file when he was first assigned here, but can you refresh my memory?”

“Certainly.” Coffey
paused for a moment, organizing his thoughts. “Kevin Quinn was a soccer and
track star in high school. A tremendous athlete. He earned a black belt by the
age of sixteen.”

“In which
discipline?”

The Special Agent
thought hard for a few moments but finally shook his head. “I can’t recall
offhand. But I can find out for you in just a few seconds.”

“No need,” said
Davinroy. “Go on.”

“With respect to
academics, he was diagnosed with ADHD, and while very bright, was a poor
student. Couldn’t sit still. Poor study habits. So he did ROTC in college and
went right into the military. Served with distinction in a number of active
theaters, including Syria, Iran, and Yemen—if I’m remembering correctly.”

Coffey was tempted
to call up Quinn’s file on his phone, but decided that even if Quinn had served
in Somalia instead of Yemen, this was close enough. And Coffey was absolutely
certain he knew the precise details of the rest of Quinn’s background.

“During this time
he demonstrated an ability to suss out danger, think on his feet, assess complex
situations, that was considered extraordinary. He possessed excellent
operational awareness. He saved his fellow soldiers from springing traps during
a number of missions. And when things did go south, his grasp of situational
tactics, his quick thinking, and his leadership earned him very high marks. He
was brave, bright, and motivated. He became an expert marksman and an expert
with explosives. Ultimately, he earned two purple hearts and a number of other
medals.”

“Impressive,” said
Davinroy.

“Very,” said Coffey. “And I’m not
even doing his military record justice. Anyway, because of his proven skills,
he was heavily recruited by the Secret Service. On paper, he was the perfect Special
Agent. And it turned out that this was true in the field as well. After some
lesser assignments with us, he was assigned to protect visiting heads of state.
Less than a year later, he had distinguished himself so much he was put in
charge of the protective detail for Awad Zahir, when Zahir came to New York to
speak at the UN.”

Coffey was sure the president could appreciate the trust the Secret Service
had shown in Quinn by assigning him to protect this monster. As president of Syria, his
invitation to speak at the UN had been highly controversial, drawing outrage
and protests, and making Zahir a target of the highest order.

“I remember from
here,” said Davinroy. “That was only three years ago, during my first term.
Kevin managed to sniff out a plot against Zahir, even though he personally
despised the man, and took a bullet in the arm while protecting him.”

Coffey nodded. “As
you know, his involvement was never made public. We didn’t want to turn Kevin Quinn
into a pariah. When it came to Zahir, he would have been broadly reviled for
doing the job he swore to do. I hired him for your personal detail as soon as
he fully recovered.”

“Good choice. I’d
forgotten that Kevin was the agent involved.”

“He turned out to be my best man,” said Coffey. “Until now,
that is,” he added miserably, sickened that this man had somehow become broken.

One had to be exceptional to land a job protecting the president,
especially after some of the Secret Service scandals that had erupted during
the Obama administration, but Quinn was elite, even among this group. “In fact,”
admitted Coffey, “I planned to nominate him to be my successor when I decided
to move on. He’s that good.”

Davinroy sighed. “This
is tragic,” he said. “It really is. On many levels. Kevin Quinn was an
honorable man. A heroic man. He didn’t deserve this. And now that he’s cracked
completely, who knows who he might end up hurting? He’s expert with weapons and
explosives. He could kill hundreds if he put his mind to it. Thousands.”

The president shook
his head. “And if he kills anyone, in addition to the tragedy of loss of life, this
will be political poison for me, and for the Secret Service.”

Coffey managed not
to show his distaste at this last. He supposed that a politician couldn’t help
but see everything—including a mass murder, if it were to happen—through the lens of politics,
but it was still disgusting. Which is why the popularity of politicians across
the board had never been lower.

“You could be right,” said Coffey. “Kevin could cut a swath
of bodies across the country. He has the skills, and he’s smart, creative, and
disciplined. And he also knows the moves the team hunting him will be making.”

Coffey blew out a long breath. “But I’m betting he doesn’t
hurt anyone. Think about this: he was willing to risk his plan, and risk his
own life, to save the First Lady. Remember, before he shot at you, he made sure
she didn’t take a drink.”

The president nodded slowly. “Good point. So this suggests
he still values life. That his delusions, and the violent intentions stemming
from his delusions, are centered squarely on me.”

“Yes, sir. That is
my thinking.”

Davinroy leaned
back in thought. “Maybe,” he said finally. “But we can’t know what’s in his
mind. So far the delusions are of a personal nature. But what if this
changes? We can’t
really rely on logic here. Insane people play by their own set of rules. Yes,
he risked everything to prevent Anne from being killed. But we can’t be sure he
won’t change his colors tomorrow and go on a killing spree, targeting puppies
and toddlers. So proceed with absolute caution. Don’t corner him in public.
Don’t poke the bear. And make sure the trap is ironclad before you spring it on
him.”

Coffey nodded.
“Yes, sir.”

“So you haven’t
found him yet. Do you think you’re closing in?”

“I wish I could
answer yes. But I can’t. I was hoping
that his psychological condition would affect his decision-making. But
apparently not. He appears to be the talented man we’ve all come to know. He
arranged to have Garza’s car stolen, to keep us busy for a while. Near as we
can tell now, he made his way to Trenton and then Grand Central Station. From
there he could have gone anywhere. But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he never
went anywhere near Grand Central Station. This could just be a ruse. He could be
holed up anywhere. Or on the move anywhere. He could pick a forest and live off
the land for months if he chose to, letting us spin ourselves into exhaustion
out in civilization trying to find him.”

Davinroy’s eyes
narrowed, and he looked decidedly angry for the first time. “You’ll just have to
up your game, Cris!” he said sharply. “I don’t want to hear excuses! He’s very
good. You’re going to have to be better!”

“Understood, sir.”

The president
glared at him for several seconds before finally relenting. “How goes the media
strategy I outlined last night?” he asked.

“We invoked
national security with the guests. We think the story is contained, at least
for another day or two, but there is no way to be sure.”

“Not good enough!
If it does leak—which it will—you need to implore the media to sit on it. Once
it breaks, no story will be bigger. You’ll need to argue that a media circus would
have an unpredictable effect on Kevin Quinn. It could well set him off further.
Not to mention spooking people who might be in the path of a highly trained,
psychotic killer.”

“And we’d find
ourselves drowning in false sightings.”

“Right,” said
Davinroy. “Make that point also. Just be sure to make it crystal clear to all
involved that media silence will give you a freer hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do see why I
want to keep this under wraps until we capture Quinn, right? This way we can
unveil what happened at the same time we tie it up with a ribbon.”

“Understood,” said
Coffey. “But no matter what, Mr. President,” he added, “you can rest assured
that we will not let Kevin Quinn get anywhere near you. We have to assume that
his goal hasn’t changed. That if he can find a way to get to you, he’ll try
again.”

Coffey shook his
head and his eyes burned with absolute resolve. “But I don’t care how good he
is. He won’t get his chance. This time we’ve been forewarned. We won’t be
sloppy again.”

“I know you won’t, Cris,” said the president. “But this one
is personal, for obvious reasons. So I want daily updates. And I’d like to get
more color on your manhunt. You can start by telling me why you think Kevin
fled to Grand Central Station.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cris Coffey.

11

Professor Rachel Howard watched the wheels turn in the heads of her six
graduate students as they considered her question: should scientists pursue research
intent on erasing memory rather than restoring it?

She calmly took another swig of peach tea and readied herself for a
stimulating discussion. This part of the course never failed to be fun and
interesting, and often surprising, as she forced these students to flex mental
muscles they rarely used, since they were typically far more experienced, and
adept, at wrestling with the precision of science than they were with the
imprecision of behavior and ethics.

She always began the proceedings by addressing the subject of memory
erasure, which never failed to get a lively discussion going. As usual, the
students looked appalled at the prospect. Each had dreamed of being the hero
who found the absolute cure for Alzheimer’s, not of doing just the
opposite.

“This is a pretty scary thought,”
said Sanjeev Shaw, finally putting a voice to what they all were thinking.

Shaw’s fellow students nodded their agreement.

“Scary, maybe,” said Eyal Regev after a few seconds of silence had passed.
“But isn’t it also unstoppable? Isn’t that what transformative technologies are
all about? They’re disruptive. And they can be used positively or negatively,
for both good and ill.”

Rachel nodded, impressed. “Well said,” she replied. “When technology is
expensive, and limited, it’s easy to ensure it doesn’t get into the wrong
hands, that it isn’t used for the wrong purposes. Genetic engineering once
required multimillion dollar labs and was more of an art than a science.
Computers were once bigger than houses. When this was the case, abuse was
virtually nonexistent. A current example is the large hadron collider. We
certainly don’t have to worry about one of these being misused, simply because
there is only one of these.”

The professor leaned forward, still seated on the edge of her desk. “But
once technology becomes widespread, inexpensive, commonplace, policing it
becomes impossible. At that point society has to find ways to adapt to all
facets of the technology, good and bad.”

She paused. “So maybe it’s time for the good guys to get ahead of the curve.
When scientists were perfecting the computer, they never imagined that others
would invent computer viruses, or that their new invention would one day be
susceptible to hacking. They never guessed the computer would one day be
exploited to steal money and identities, organize hate-groups, or sabotage
centrifuges.

“But we’ve been through enough transformative technology revolutions now to
know better. We don’t have the luxury of pretending bad actors won’t find a way
to exploit new technologies. We can’t stick our heads in the sand when it comes
to future viruses, as it were. So while all of you, no doubt, are intent on
inventing the computer, I’d urge you to at least consider pursuing research
intended to counter the computer
viruses sure to arise. Someone needs to do this. And if we’re ahead of the
curve this time, perhaps we can minimize the damage. This will be a recurring
theme during this and the next session, as we go one by one through the broad domains
that neuroscience will be able to impact in a profound way. We’ll look at both the
limitless promise of our coming capabilities, and their potential to cause us great
peril.”

Rachel hopped off the side of the desk and to her feet, standing in front of
her class now for the first time. “So is it ever
ethical to induce amnesia?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Sherry Dixon without hesitation. “After traumatic events. The
memories of these events can be debilitating. Their precise excision could be a
cure for these people.”

“While it’s less clear,” added
Deb Sorensen, “those suffering from various phobias might also benefit from
precision removal of certain memories.”

“Both excellent points,” said
Rachel, knowing that research had been ongoing to accomplish both of these
goals for many years, but not wanting to sidetrack the discussion.

“It’s almost too bad there are positive benefits from this research,” said
Greg Feldman. “Because this gives bad actors an excuse to pursue the
technology.”

Regev shook his head. “That may be true,” he said, “but like the professor mentioned,
when research tools become as cheap and accessible as neuroscience tools are
about to become, bad actors won’t need an excuse, or permission, to work on
whatever they want.”

“Yes, but like the professor also pointed out,” said Shaw, “this should give
other scientists the motivation to counter this threat. To work on detecting
when such memory loss drugs or techniques have been used against a person’s
will.”

Regev looked unimpressed. “Maybe,” he said. “But while knowing that this has
happened is great,” he pointed out, “it won’t restore the memories that have
been erased.”

Rachel was quite pleased. She could practically feel the juices flowing in
this group of students now, and these sessions would serve their purpose—get
the next generation of neuroscientists out of their comfort zone. Get them to
think holistically about what they were doing, and the implications, both good
and bad.

“Eyal is correct,” she said. “But so what? This just means there is another
great research project waiting out there. The restoration of memories after they’ve been erased. A one-two
punch. Detect when this technology has been used illegally, without permission,
and then restore the victim’s memories when it has. Why not? Computer
scientists are able to restore data from hard drives that have been wiped.”

“Or better still,” said Regev, “find a way for the brain to block such
attempts. A prophylactic drug that immunizes people against malicious memory
attacks.”

Rachel nodded at the Israeli. “Outstanding,” she said in delight. “That
would be even better.”

“On the other hand,” said Sherry Dixon, “I watch a lot of thrillers, and
being able to permanently delete memory would save lives in certain
circumstances. Suppose you’re a villain, and someone stumbles on your plan, or
your actual crime. Today, you’d have to kill them to keep them quiet. But if
memory erasure were perfected, you could just surgically remove the offending
memories, and no one would be the wiser.”

Rachel grinned. “Okay, then. An upside that would only help a few people, in
very specific circumstances, but an upside nonetheless. So no need to kill the
guy informing on you, who is about to go into the witness protection program.
Just make him forget what he knows.”

Eyal Regev put on a pained expression. “No offense, Professor How—Rachel,”
he said in amusement, “but you should stick with your day job. You’d make a
lousy criminal kingpin. I mean, the guy was going to rat you out. So you’d
still have to kill him.” He flashed an impish smile. “You know, to send a
message.”

Rachel laughed out loud. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Eyal,” she
said, raising her eyebrows.

The class discussed induced
memory loss for another ten minutes or so when Rachel decided to move on.

“Let’s turn to another
application that is near and dear to my heart,” she began. “Learning. Are all
of you familiar with the movie The Matrix?”

The movie was dated, but also
somewhat iconic, and Rachel found that most of the time it was known to all of
her students. She soon learned that this class was no exception.

“In my view,” said Rachel, “the
most extraordinary line in the entire movie was, ‘I know kung fu.’ Remember that one? They zap knowledge of multiple
martial arts straight into the character Neo’s brain. One second he doesn’t
know how to fight,” she continued, “and the next he’s a black belt in just about
every fighting discipline ever devised. Just like loading a program into a
computer. Keanu Reeves, who plays Neo, says this line in equal parts shock and
delight, as he realizes the knowledge of decades of intense training has just
appeared magically in his mind.”

“So I’m guessing your second
favorite scene was on the roof with the helicopter?” said Regev.

“Good guess,” she said
appreciatively. “It is indeed. For those of you who don’t remember it, Trinity
and Neo are on a roof after being attacked. Neo sees a military helicopter that
is parked there. He turns to Trinity and says, ‘Can you fly that thing?’ And
Trinity’s  answer? Not yes or no, as we
might expect, but simply, ‘Not yet.’”

Rachel paused to give her class
time to bring the memory of this scene to the surface. “I mean, it’s the perfect response,” she said
enthusiastically. “Because Trinity immediately has this knowledge zapped into
her brain. Less than a minute later she’s an elite pilot, and away they go.”

“It was truly an awesome scene,”
agreed Feldman, and the other five students nodded their heartfelt agreement.

“At first blush, it’s not
difficult to argue that this would be about the coolest capability ever,” said Rachel, almost glowing. “And
what if you didn’t need to be in a matrix or have a jack in your skull? What if
you could find less invasive ways to pull this off? But with the same end
result: instant education. And not just education, not just superficial
knowledge, but deep knowledge. Expertise.”

She paused, telling herself she needed
to throttle back on her enthusiasm to ensure an unbiased conversation. This was
more difficult than she realized, as she had been working toward the goal of
instant education for many years. And while she didn’t advertise this research,
and had yet to publish most of her findings, there were a number of colleagues
who knew what she was trying to do, and it wouldn’t surprise her if one or more
of these students were aware, as well.

“Some progress toward this goal
has already been made,” she noted. “Enough to be fairly sure this will someday
be achievable, especially now that the full map of the brain is becoming
available. With luck, we’ll be able to pull this off in five to fifteen years. So
what are your thoughts about this?” she asked, with just the hint of a smile.

“It would be incredible!” said
Sanjeev Shah in awe, and beside him, Sherry Dixon nodded her enthusiastic
agreement. “The entire population of the world could be highly educated.
Illiteracy would be wiped from the map.”

“So does everyone agree that this
would be a good thing?” asked the professor.

There was an immediate and
unanimous chorus of agreement.

“Okay,” said Rachel. “But there
must be a downside, right? I mean, everything
has a downside. Even a pool of the richest milk chocolate can be used to drown
someone.”

This example brought smiles to
the faces of several students.

“Let me start us off with one
possibility,” said the professor. “I read a science fiction story when I was a
kid. One that was many decades old even then. The Earth had been traveling
through a vast region of space that, unbeknownst to us, contained some kind of
invisible electromagnetic dampening field. One day the solar system and Earth
finally move beyond this great cloud, and every man, woman, and child became brilliant
overnight. Beyond brilliant. Everyone
could educate themselves as fast as they could speed read. But one effect of
this was that no one was willing to do menial labor. Factories stopped working.
So if what I call Matrix Learning
were perfected, isn’t this one possible downside?”

“Yes,” said Michele, “but this
would only be temporary. Society would adjust. All of these knowledgeable people
would come up with ways to eliminate menial jobs. They could create a
paradise.”

Rachel nodded. “I tend to agree,
but it’s something to tuck into the backs of our minds. So any other downsides?
Is this instant education fair? You spend decades of your life, thousands and
thousands of hours, struggling to cram a world-class knowledge of neuroscience
into your brains. During grad school, while your friends are at the beach,
you’re doing all-nighter after all-nighter. Later, you work your ass off
keeping up with the latest experimental literature, slaving endless hours in
the lab.”

She paused. “And then Matrix
Learning is invented, and a day later, the guy who spent the last decade
getting high and playing video games can have your same knowledge. Effortlessly.
Is that fair?”

This question brought deep
frowns all around.

“Yeah, that would kind of suck,”
said Greg Feldman.

“So in some ways,” said Regev,
“it would be in the best interest of those who are now highly educated to
prevent this technology from happening. To protect their turf, their
advantage.”

“And the multibillion dollar
educational system would become extinct overnight,” added Sherry Dixon. “Hundreds
of thousands of teachers across America would be out of work. The university
system, down the drain.”

“Maybe not,” said Rachel. “At
least not at the grade school and high school level. Maybe you’d want to limit
this technology to those who are eighteen and older. Maybe you’d want to leave
the current grade school and high school educational system intact. Why?
Because people still need to learn how to learn. If they don’t know how to learn
for themselves, they won’t be able to wield the knowledge that is zapped into
their heads, adapt it for other applications, expand on this knowledge.”

Rachel paused to let this sink
in. “We have calculators that can do long division, but we still force our kids
to do it the hard way. Why? So they understand the concepts behind the results.
So they have the proper background for further studies.”

Regev shook his head. “I hate to
always be the skeptic,” he said, “but banning this technology for minors will
only work if you can detect when this Matrix Learning has been done. Or if
preventative measures are put in place. A molecular chastity belt for the mind,
that advertises when it’s been violated. If not, kids will take the short cut.
They can’t use a calculator in class because a teacher would see it. But if
they could have high school chemistry implanted into their minds, a teacher
would never know it. Cheating would become rampant, and not just among kids.
Many parents would be actively involved, willing to do anything to help their
kids get ahead.”

“Interesting point,” said
Rachel, pleased by the thoughtfulness of the discussion. “I tend to agree with
you. So if society does agree with my point, that Matrix Learning should have
restrictions, an ability to detect when someone has been the recipient of this
technology will prove to be important. So cheaters can be caught. And even if
we force minors to learn how to learn, I’d probably be in favor of using this at
an early age, just once. To implant knowledge of how to read. To help even the
playing field between boys and girls.”

Several of the graduate students
nodded thoughtfully.

“But moving on,” said Rachel, “there
can be no denying that Matrix Learning will cause social upheaval, at minimum.
It’s too profound a capability not to.” She raised her eyebrows. “So do any
other thorny issues come to mind?”

“Yes,” said Deb Sorensen. “Those
who prepare the Matrix Learning programs get to play God. So who decides what’s in the programs? Who chooses the content of the educational
package that gets, um . . . uploaded?”

“Great point, Deb,” said the
professor. “That would definitely be an issue. Who controls the information
people are being infused with? Who decides what gets learned? When you learn
the old-fashioned way, you can seek out information, try to ferret out both
sides of an argument. But now, if this technology were to see widespread use,
everyone would have more or less the same knowledge of a field. It’s been said
that history is told by the victors. So you get your history course zapped into
your brain. Now you know what someone else wants you to know. But is it the
truth?”

“Totalitarian regimes have
always tried to control knowledge, control information,” said Eyal Regev. “And
even though the Internet has made that very difficult to do, kids in these
countries still get indoctrinated into the regime’s ideology at a young age.
Matrix Learning, as you called it, would make this even easier.

“On the other hand,” continued
the swarthy Israeli, “an open society could make multiple versions of a history
available. People could choose to download one of them, or, for a broader
perspective, all of them. Just like we can choose which books to read, choosing
from among those we know take conflicting positions. If there are multiple
schools of thought in any field, you could get them all, and decide for
yourself.”

“This technology could also
revolutionize the practice of democracy,” noted Feldman. “The average American citizen
is profoundly uninformed when it comes to politics, which makes them
susceptible to lies, and to charm. But now both parties in an election could
have voters upload comprehensive and complex position papers, which almost no
one takes the time to read today. They could then decide for themselves which side they agree with.”

Rachel smiled. “Very good,” she
said. “As Mr. Regev pointed out earlier, certain technology advances are such
big leaps forward they are disruptive. In good and bad ways. In my opinion,
there are few advances that would be as disruptive as Matrix Learning would be.
I think you’ll find that the more you think about a world in which this is
possible, the more you realize there is almost no aspect of civilization that
this wouldn’t impact.”

She paused. “Let me return to
the current educational system for a moment. Sherry, you pointed out that the
university system would go down the drain. What do you think the primary impact
of this would be?”

“Economic,” said Sherry Dixon
without hesitation. “College is a multibillion dollar industry.”

“Maybe,” said Rachel, “but I
don’t think so. The professors will be busy organizing the knowledge for the
Matrix Learning downloads. They’ll be okay. And while they won’t be giving
lectures, they’ll have more time to push back the frontiers of knowledge. In my
view, if college were to become extinct, what would be lost is the maturing
process that students undergo over four years, the social skills they hone
there. Having to find a way to manage psychotic roommates and the freshman dorm
insane asylum. Learning how to study when there are preferred social options,
and when surrounded by chaos. No amount of Matrix Learning can teach maturity,
or how to navigate complex social situations. These can only be gained through
experience.”

“Which brings up other Matrix
Learning deficiencies,” said Feldman. “What about creativity? Genius? Artistry?
Knowledge alone doesn’t give you higher intelligence, or magically turn you
into a Rembrandt.”

“Excellent,” said Rachel. “There
is that. But perhaps a more important consideration is this: Can knowledge
without wisdom be a danger? Knowledge without experience? Knowledge won too
easily?”

Rachel was about to continue
when she happened to glance at a large round clock on the wall, and winced.
“Wow, it appears our time was up about five minutes ago,” she said. “Time flies
when you’re having fun. Usually, we get into several other topics during the
first session, which means the discussion this time was particularly good.”

The professor sighed. “And there
is one additional aspect of Matrix Learning I wanted to discuss. I guess we’ll
just have to get to that next time.”

She frowned. The discussion of
the human sex drive was one of her favorites, and they would now have to go
through it much faster than she would have liked. Oh well. She was confident
she would find a way to make it work.

“Great session, everybody,” she
concluded. “See you on Thursday.”

***

The man watching Rachel Howard
and her class on a large plasma monitor leaned back in his chair and pondered
all that he had heard. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.

He was greatly disappointed that
the class had ended when it did. He was eager to learn what else she might
discuss, but now he would have to wait until Thursday.

If he was willing. Every minute
counted, and they would have to make their move soon, ready or not.

Time was running out.

And there was much that needed
to be done.

12

Kevin Quinn remained asleep in
the Ford Fusion longer than he had expected, but he was untroubled by this upon
awakening. In the wee hours of the morning he had found an unpopulated stretch
of geography fifteen miles beyond the outskirts of Allentown and had driven randomly
for hours, literally choosing Robert Frost’s road less traveled whenever he came to a fork.

Eventually he found himself
driving up a large, wooded hill, on a secluded dirt road long forgotten by
civilization, which ultimately led to an old, abandoned shack. He couldn’t have
asked for a more ideal location.

He had parked behind the shack,
confident that he could get the sleep he so desperately needed without
interruption. In fact, he suspected he could remain here for months, if not
years, with little fear of being seen by human eyes.

So perhaps he had overslept, but
there was certainly no urgency for him to leave. A needle hiding in a secluded,
forgotten location was far safer than one traveling through the haystack of
civilization, no matter how large this haystack might be. Besides, it had been
a tough, long night, and he had needed to hit the reset button. Men who were
sleep deprived made mistakes. He had already made one the night before, by not
being properly prepared.

He couldn’t afford to make
another.

He was stretched out on the backseat
of the car and cautiously rose to a sitting position, pausing as his eyes
reached window level to take in his surroundings and ensure no one was in the
vicinity. Satisfied, he exited his temporary bedroom and relieved the pressure
on his bladder before returning to the back of the car to begin work on his
most important project.

On the stretch of seat next to
him, he carefully laid out the materials he had stolen from the TV repair shop the
night before: a knife, four television remote controls, wire, duct tape, and a
nine-volt battery.

Slowly, methodically, he used
the tip of the knife to punch four tiny, evenly spaced holes in the front of the
black baseball cap he had taken from a gangbanger in Trenton, just above the
brim. He then dismantled the remotes, removed the BB-sized glass bulbs at their
tips, and poked them through the holes. Finally, he wired the bulbs up to the nine-volt
battery, which he taped securely to the inner brim of the hat, invisible when
the hat was being worn.

He studied his handiwork,
satisfied with the finished product. The tiny bulbs were almost undetectable, which
had been his goal.

The rudiments of facial
recognition software hadn’t changed much in decades, and there remained several
ways to beat these systems. Wearing a mask would do it, of course, but then
you’d have to walk around in public with a mask,
not an ideal way of warding off unwanted attention. And wearing a standard hat,
a beard, or changing a hair style was useless. Facial recognition systems
weren’t troubled in the least by any of these measures.

What was effective in the battle against these algorithms was to avoid symmetry,
and to obscure the area around one’s eyes. A system of makeup and hairstyling
had been developed many years earlier to accomplish this task, called CV Dazzle. The name borrowed from a
technique used in World War I, also called Dazzle,
whereby warships were painted with cubist designs, not to provide camouflage,
but because these designs made it harder for the enemy to determine a ship’s
size, speed, and heading.

It was all about breaking up
symmetry and visual continuity, which CV Dazzle did to a human face through the
use of avant-garde hairstyling and makeup, strategically obscuring or modifying
facial features that the recognition programs required. But this technique largely
suffered from the same problem as a mask. If Quinn were to apply dark makeup to
one of his cheeks, like a football player smearing black grease under his eyes,
he would be anything but discreet.

Fooling facial recognition was
not enough. You also had to do so while not sticking out like a neon sign.

Fortunately, cameras had more sensitive
vision than humans, and this sensitivity could be used against them. Infrared
LEDs could blind a camera, without registering in the visual cortex of a human
being in any way. So Quinn had acquired a ball cap the night before so he could
turn it into a facial recognition deterrent device.

Later he would purchase
sunglasses, choosing a pair with the biggest frame he could find, which even by
itself could defeat the efforts of lesser algorithms to recognize him. Combined
with a hat fitted with tiny bulbs from TV remotes, which would cloak his face
with camera-blinding infrared light, he would be able to operate freely.

In addition to the glasses, he
would purchase a few changes of clothing that would make him look heavier than
he was, platform shoes, hair dye, and black ink for selfie faux tattoos. Within
a few hours he would be unrecognizable to both cameras and pursuers, and would
have an ideal place in which to hole up for however long he needed.

He would secure his nest, and
then he would carefully, methodically, begin planning how to destroy the President
of the United States.

13

Avi Wortzman sighed loudly as
the holographic presence of America’s Secretary of Homeland Security, Greg Henry,
vanished from his office. Henry had ended the vid-meet abruptly, even rudely, but
Wortzman could hardly blame him. He would have done the same.

Wortzman was only forty-one years
old, but at times like this—when crisis situations forced brutally complex, brutally
consequential decisions upon him—he felt twice this age. And such times had recently
begun to appear with frightening regularity.

Wortzman had distinguished himself
in the military, and being an adrenaline junkie in his younger years had joined
up with the special forces unit, Shayetet 13, the Israel Defense
Forces’ equivalent of the Navy Seals. From here he had graduated to Israel’s
most secret and fabled special operations unit, Kidon, Hebrew for bayonet. This group was known—at least according
to an almost urban-legend mythology that had sprung up around the world—for its
unequaled ability to infiltrate hostile countries and murder Israel’s enemies,
while barely disturbing a single blade of grass or molecule of air, leaving no
trace of the op behind.

Wortzman had then served in various
Intelligence capacities before finally landing in his current office, on the
third floor of a famous complex in Tel Aviv. There were four Hebrew letters on
the wall next to his door that read Ramsad,
an abbreviation for Rosh ha-Mossad.

A rare non-Hebrew speaker—aware
that the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah,
meant head of the year—might realize that
Rosh ha-Mossad meant head of the Mossad. But
without knowledge of this title, none would guess that Avi Wortzman held this
position. There was absolutely nothing imposing about this man, or his office.

At least not on the surface.

But there were enemies of the Jewish
state who had died, or had seen their best plans laid to waste, for underestimating
this unassuming man.

Mossad was the Hebrew word for Institute, short for HaMossad leModiʿin uleTafkidim Meyuchadim,
which translated as the “Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.”

Since Avi Wortzman had taken over
the reins of the Mossad five years earlier, he had saved Israel from certain
destruction on more than one occasion, and had even saved the US from suffering
a number of devastating blows, although Wortzman made certain that his
assistance in these instances remained undiscovered.

But now, after strengthening the Institute
in ways unimaginable to his predecessors, the spear he had forged and sharpened
so brilliantly now threatened the stability of everything he had built. He had
made a series of moves that had seemed flawless, that would leave the greatest
chess grandmasters in awe, but it was collapsing in on him, backfiring.

Perhaps God had a sense of humor,
or was punishing him for the hubris of believing he had finally gained the
upper hand on his enemies, that there was no crisis he couldn’t overcome.

Which is perhaps why he had never
felt so weary, so ancient. Why the thick, black hair that had so proudly served
him during harrowing special operations missions had recently abandoned ship, leaving
his head as bald as a light bulb. And why he now took blood pressure medication
on a regular basis.

He had thought the heavy lifting
was all but over, but the weight of the world had returned to his shoulders with
a vengeance, more crushing than ever before.

As the head of Mossad, he was the caretaker
of an entire country, an entire people.
The stress was backbreaking, the demands incomprehensible, even to those
commanding other such agencies around the world.

Because no country was a greater
underdog, at least on paper, than the biblical land of milk and honey. The fact
that Israel still even existed was a
miracle of biblical proportions, surrounded as it was by a sea of hostile
countries—many whose leaders publicly avowed to annihilate the tiny island of
democracy and march any remaining Jews into the sea, to finish the job that
Hitler had started, even while denying the holocaust had ever happened.

It might have been accurate to
compare Israel’s survival to the story of David and Goliath, but only if David
had been pitted against a hundred
Goliaths.

The country Wortzman was
responsible for defending was so minuscule that almost five hundred Israels could fit inside the United States, and Israel’s
entire population was greatly exceeded by the population of North Carolina alone.

Israel bordered Syria, Jordan,
Egypt, and Lebanon, four countries that collectively outnumbered the Jewish
state fifteen to one. And while these four countries were all next-door
neighbors—just in case their hatred
of Israel wasn’t virulent enough—the neighbors just down the block included
such tolerant and open-minded peace lovers as Iraq, Iran, Somalia, Yemen,
Sudan, Kuwait, Libya, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.

One of Wortzman’s predecessors,
Meir Dagan, who had headed the Mossad for eight years, from 2002 until 2010,
had hung a framed black-and-white photo of his grandfather on his office wall.
The man was shown surrounded by jeering Nazis who would shoot him minutes later,
along with thousands of other Jews in Lokov, Ukraine. The photo was taken by a non-Jewish
neighbor of the victim, at the request of the proud Nazi butchers.

Dagan would tell visitors that he displayed this photo, not just to remind
himself of history, of what was at stake, but to remind him to take the threats
of those who vowed to destroy the Jews with utter sobriety, and that the
barbarism inside the human soul could be unleashed far more easily than any
modern, civilized citizen of the world could truly comprehend.

In 1961, the Yale psychologist Stanley Milgram demonstrated experimentally
what had been demonstrated in the real world all too often throughout history: that
human beings were pliable, and could easily be goaded into acts of great
cruelty by those they considered to be in authority.

The famous Milgram study asked volunteers to shock unseen subjects, behind a
wall, for a pretend memory experiment, whenever the pretend subjects failed to
remember a word pair from a list, with the intensity of the shock increasing
with every wrong answer. If at any time a volunteer wanted to stop the
experiment, stop pressing a button they believed was delivering electricity and
agony to test subjects, they were given a verbal prod by the man they had been
told was in charge. First they were simply told to please continue. If they later wanted to halt, they were told,
the experiment requires that you continue.
After this, it is absolutely essential
that you continue, and
finally, you have no other
choice; you must go on.

Despite actors on the other side of
the wall screaming in agony, complaining of a heart condition, and begging for
the experiment to be stopped, fully sixty-five percent of the volunteers could
be encouraged to advance all the way to the highest level of electric shock. A
result that had stunned the world. And
a result that had since been verified by so many researchers, in so many
countries, it had become indisputable.

The only part of this result that
had stunned Avi Wortzman was that anyone had been surprised. It seemed to him that
even a cursory glance at human history, filled with butchery, war, slavery, and
genocide, would make this result utterly predictable.

So Wortzman had followed Dagan’s
lead. Behind his sturdy oak desk, Wortzman had hung a painting he had
commissioned, depicting, not just the holocaust, but numerous other instances
in which the Jewish people were persecuted throughout history. Since the
religion had become the first to believe in a single, abstract god, rather than
idols, its adherents had faced a never-ending barrage of hatred and violence.

While Christianity was able to
quickly win the battle for monotheistic souls, rather than show good will
toward the religion their savior had practiced, European Christian populations throughout
the centuries had held all Jews
responsible for the death of Christ. They had spread accusations that Jews routinely
kidnapped and murdered Christian children, so their blood could be used in religious
rituals. When the Black Death wiped out more than half the population of Europe
in the fourteenth century, it was no surprise that Jews were blamed, and untold
thousands were put to death, many burned alive.

This virulent anti-Semitism had
erupted decade after decade, century after century, resulting in multiple pogroms,
forced conversions, expulsions, and mass murders. France, Germany, Italy, England,
Russia: none were immune from this hatred.

So Wortzman had hung a painting, a
montage, depicting any number of these atrocities, with the words, “Never Again!”
spelled in black wooden Hebrew letters attached to the wall above it. But he
had not stopped there.

Wortzman was well aware that while
his power as the head of Mossad was immense, so was his responsibility, and
that the ethics of almost every decision he made had become hideously complex.
So, while he hung the words, Never Again! above his montage, below it he hung a
silver frame containing a famous quote. A quote written by, of all people, Friedrich
Nietzsche, the German philosopher many mistakenly believed to be the godfather
of Nazism and Fascism. Nietzsche had strongly and unambiguously denounced both
nationalism and anti-Semitism, but after his death in 1900, his sister had
reworked his unpublished writings to comport with her own beliefs, bastardizing
many of his views.

Wortzman displayed Nietzsche’s words
to remind him of the need to cling to his own humanity as tightly as he could,
despite the temptations to do otherwise. He turned toward them now, re-reading
them as he had done on so many occasions.

Battle
not with monsters,

Lest
ye become a monster.

And
if you gaze into the abyss,

The
abyss gazes back into you.

Wortzman blew out a heavy sigh. Battle not with monsters. The problem,
of course, was that he had no choice but to do this. In fact, battling with monsters could well have been
his job description. And as much as he strived to heed Nietzsche’s warning
about the likely consequences, he wondered how many people would think he had long
since crossed this line, had long since become a monster in his own right.

The Mossad leader was torn from his
reverie as Yaron Hurwitz burst through the door, breathless. “I’m too late,
aren’t I?” he said in Hebrew after taking a single glance at his boss.

Wortzman motioned for him to sit
down but didn’t reply.

“You already supplied the intel to
Greg Henry, didn’t you?” said Hurwitz as he pulled a chair close to Wortzman’s desk.

Hurwitz’s official title was deputy
director, but most in the Institute thought of him simply as Wortzman’s
indispensable right hand. Like his boss, Hurwitz had come up through the
military and intelligence ranks, but his expertise was long on signal,
electronic, and computer intelligence, and short on work in the field.

Wortzman nodded. “I insisted on an emergency
vid-meet with Henry the second after I alerted you. Got off the call five
minutes ago.”

Hurwitz whistled, calculating that
the entire call couldn’t have lasted for more than three or four minutes. “That
was one efficient vid-meet,” he said.

He shook his head in disapproval.
“I wish you would have waited just a little longer until I could get here. I
could have been a sounding board. Two heads are better than one—even when one
of those heads is yours.”

“I had no choice. Nothing you could
have said would have changed my decision. We would just have wasted precious
minutes. What would you have me do, say nothing about Jafari’s plans and then
watch while America burned to the ground a few weeks or months later?”

“Of course not. We had to stop
this. But we could have delayed just a bit to make sure our friends in DHS got
the intel through anonymous channels. Hard to pretend the intel didn’t come
directly from us when, you know, the intel came directly from us.” Hurwitz
frowned deeply. “Or we could have kept track of everyone in Jafari’s meeting
and taken them out ourselves in the days to come.”

Wortzman shook his head, unable to
believe what he had just heard. He wasn’t the only one being affected by lethal
doses of stress. “Jafari had hundreds
of men in that mosque,” he said. “And we’re so shorthanded, we could recruit a
thousand agents and still be understaffed. The last thing we need to do is try
to assassinate hundreds of zealots in the States, especially when the US
authorities believe they’re innocent.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Hurwitz dourly,
but then quickly broke out into a broad grin. “I have to admit, that may be the
dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

“Just proves that you’re human,
Yaron. Given everything that’s going on, we’re both under a lot of pressure.”

“So what about my first thought?” pressed
Hurwitz. “Why wouldn’t you route the intel so it came in their door anonymously?”

“No time. My guess is Jafari’s
meeting will only last another few hours, if that. Even for us, this would
leave little time to green-light a neutralization plan. And the US is a much larger,
slower animal.” He shrugged. “Look at it this way, by coming out of the closet
on this, they’ll owe us one.”

Hurwitz rolled his eyes at his
boss’s last statement. “Yeah, the pressure is definitely getting to us.”

This time it was Wortzman’s turn to smile at his own
stupidity. It had been a feeble attempt at finding a silver lining. And a
misguided one. The Mossad already seemed far too competent for its own good,
which is why they had long since perfected means to feed intel to the Americans
in ways that were either anonymous, or made it appear the Americans themselves
had discovered it.

The Mossad had already raised far too many eyebrows, had pulled
far too many rabbits out of the hat. By showing their hand here, they were sure
to attract additional unwanted attention, and further arouse the suspicions of
the Americans.

The relationship between Israel and the US,
and their respective Intelligence services, was complicated at the best of
times. And these weren’t the best of times. So a better description of the
relationship would be treacherously
complicated.

Yes, the two countries were strong allies,
but US agencies had taken endless heat for their unwillingness to share
intelligence, sources, and methods with their own sister departments. And the
seventeen intelligence gathering agencies in the US were closer to each other
than mere allies, they were appendages of the very same organism. If sister
agencies refused to share with each other, Israel could hardly be blamed for
its own reluctance to do so.

“Given how severely depleted our
resources are right now,” noted Hurwitz, “it’s lucky Jafari decided to trigger
his sleeper cells when he did.”

“Very,” agreed Wortzman. “I was
just about to redeploy our meager remaining assets.” He paused. “Were you able
to listen to any of his Thousand Cuts speech on the way over here?”

“Yes. I’ll want to run some
computer simulations on his fire strategy, but my instincts tell me Jafari is
on to something, and that such an attack would be devastating. Nice to get this
Ben-Zonah removed from the board,” he
said, using an Arabic epithet that translated into son of a whore. “Even if we did have to show our hand.”

Hurwitz frowned. “Speaking of
which, what exactly did you tell Greg Henry?”

“I just gave him a few sentence
introduction to the crisis and then fed him the video feed from the Chicago
mosque, backed up to when Jafari was describing his death-by-fire plan. I told Henry
the footage was courtesy of an agent we had on the inside.”

“Did he ask how the hell we managed
to place an agent there while he was busy pulling on his schlong?”

“No, he was in too big of a hurry.
But he will, you’d better believe it.
Just as soon as this situation has been handled. And he’ll be asking why we’re
fielding agents on US soil without their knowledge. We have to come up with a plausible
story.”

Wortzman paused. “I told him not to
factor our man into his planning, by the way. That he had an escape route
mapped out, and would be gone before they took any action.”

“After they’ve taken out Jafari,
they’ll be wondering how our man could vanish so completely.”

Avi Wortzman nodded. “I guess we’ll
just have to be at our most creative.”

His second-in-command blew out a
long, tired breath. “Ma nishtanah halailah
hazeh?” he mumbled under his breath, tilting his head toward the ceiling as
if beseeching an overly demanding deity. This was a well-known passage from the
Passover service that translated roughly into, Why is this night different from all other nights?

Wortzman squinted in confusion. “I
didn’t quite catch that.”

“Of course we’ll have to outdo ourselves on this one, Avi,” he
replied with a weary shrug. “What else is new?”

14

Kevin Quinn gently placed the
black baseball cap he had augmented on the passenger’s seat of the Ford and
exited the vehicle once again. He would soon make a trip into town for disguise
and supplies, but he first needed to recon the shack and his surroundings.

The shack was made of wood slats
that had seen much better decades, and the coloration of the mottled structure
varied from gray to brown to rust, all displeasing to the eye. The entire
structure was about twice the size of a three-car garage, and was bereft of
windows or openings of any kind, save for a dingy door that was splintered
around the periphery and hung slightly ajar.

Quinn took a deep breath and
entered, propping the door open for better illumination.

The inside of the shack made the
outside look like Buckingham Palace.

It smelled of decay, mold, and
dirt. The floorboards were eaten away by insects and weather, and several of
the slats were broken or had gaps to the ground a foot below. Quinn had hoped
there might be something useful inside, but his hope was quickly dashed as he
glanced around. The roof had several gaping holes and the morning sunshine left
a mottling of light and dark.

A rusted-out bed frame rested
against the corner of the structure, and a torn, moldy mattress that looked
like it had been to hell and back could be found nearby. Other than this, and
the encroachment of weeds and vegetation in several places, nothing remained.

Quinn refused to conjecture as
to why the structure had been built in the first place, and by whom. It could
have been a staging area for a hunter, a place for a would-be Unabomber to
write his demented manifesto, or a butcher shop used by a long-ago mass
murderer. This didn’t matter now.

The important thing was that
with a concerted effort, Quinn wouldn’t have too much trouble fixing it up
enough to suit his needs. The structure would keep wildlife out, and with some
makeshift repairs, the roof could be made to keep weather out as well. He could
get an inflatable mattress and a battery-powered camping refrigerator, which he
could recharge using both solar power and the Ford’s battery.

He would wait a suitable length
of time and then he would take his first step. He would contact police and hospitals
in the vicinity of Davinroy’s resort, seeking reports of battered women with no
memory of how they came to be this way. Once he identified a few, he would meet
with them, reconstruct events as much as possible, and show that these
mysterious beatings all took place when Davinroy was nearby.

After that he would make a trip
to Davinroy’s resort and find his tunnel system, including entrances inside several
of the rooms, which must have been exquisitely well hidden for them to remain
undiscovered this long. He would expose this system of passageways and describe
to the media how the president had used them to beat up prostitutes, and to
torture and kill the love of his life.

He had little doubt that Davinroy
would find a way to slime out of these accusations yet again, to issue creative
explanations for the tunnel system, and contend that when he had confided their
existence to Quinn, it had fueled his growing psychosis. But even so, the revelation
of this subterranean maze and battered prostitutes would infuriate Davinroy and
raise suspicions. And some would dig deeper, possibly making additional
discoveries or raising additional questions for the president to answer.

And Quinn would keep digging. If
Nicole had found exposed threads, he would also. No matter how microscopic they
were, he would pull at them relentlessly until Davinroy’s ball of deceit and
atrocity was completely unraveled.

And he would have all the time
he needed up here on horrid-shack hill.
Or maybe horrid-shack mountain, since
he was either on a very large hill, or a very small mountain. There were only two
paved roads that led anywhere near this location, and only one road, unpaved,
that led to the summit. The best off-road vehicles might make the trip, but not
without difficulty, and not without advertising their presence.

There was an expanse of un-forested
ground at the summit, all to the north side of the shed, but the terrain was strewn
with enough large rocks, fallen tree branches, and thick vegetation to make landing
a helo right next to the shed impossible. A sneak attack on foot might take him
by surprise, but once he added a few cameras and sensors at strategic locations,
this, too, would become impossible.

An assault force could rappel
from helos, but Quinn could always escape into the woods on the south side,
which the shack abutted, if this were to occur. Later today he would set up
some booby traps around his perimeter, and steal an all-terrain motorcycle,
which he would hide nearby in the woods. He would then plot out a foolproof
escape route in the unlikely event the authorities ever did come for him here.

He had neglected to plan for
failure at the Garza fundraiser, but he was proud of the moves he had made
since. As long as he remained careful, he could use this mountain, and this
shack, as his base of operations for months
if he had to, without anyone being the wiser.

A floorboard creaked behind him,
causing his heart to jump to his throat.

He wheeled around, raising his gun
as he did so, but he was too late. Two men were behind him, both with guns already
extended in his direction.

“Don’t move!” commanded the taller
of the two. “Drop the gun! Hands in the air!”

Quinn did as instructed.

On second thought, he decided, it
was possible that his assessment of how long he could remain here without being
discovered was just a trifle too
optimistic.

15

“Erge,” said DHS Secretary Greg
Henry the moment he ended the connection with Wortzman, panic in his voice. “I
need you to set up a priority alpha
vid-meet immediately. Attendees are
me, President Davinroy, and Deputy Secretary O’Malley. Get Davinroy first, and
don’t wait for O’Malley.”

“Working to establish vid-meet
now,” replied his digital assistant, Erge, whose soothing, feminine voice wouldn’t
have changed in cadence one iota if the room were on fire.

Less than three minutes later holographic
images of two men appeared in front of Greg Henry, almost flawlessly rendered,
so much so that only a prolonged study would reveal that they weren’t actually
in the room. The software displayed a small text window that hovered just
beside each man’s right shoulder, indicating the identity of each and that they
were both actually seated in the Oval Office of the White House.
Simultaneously, Henry’s holographic image had joined them there. In this way, vid-meet technology ensured that each side
experienced the meeting as though it were taking place at their own location.

The appearance of Cris Coffey next
to the president took Henry by surprise, but just for a moment. Given that
Henry and other high-ranking members of the intelligence community had been
notified of the attempted assassination the previous night, the presence of the
head of Davinroy’s security detail made sense.

Henry knew it was bad form not to ask
how the president was faring after the attack, but he had no time to spare—had
possibly run out of time already.

“What is this about?” demanded
Davinroy.

Henry glanced suggestively at
Coffey. “This is for your ears only,” he said, as a holographic version of his
second-in-command, Matthew O’Malley, popped into existence in the offices of
both Henry and the president, while a display window beside O’Malley’s head indicated
that he was actually at Fort Bragg, where he had gone to meet with a general.

“Nonsense,” said the president,
giving the slightest nod to acknowledge the newcomer who had just teleported
into his presence. “Cris is cleared to hear whatever you have to say.” He  shrugged. “Since he happens to be here with me,
he can lend his considerable expertise to the proceedings.”

Henry had no time to argue. Besides, Cris Coffey just might
add perspective, at that. He had come up through the shadowy world of Black
Ops, rising to the very highest levels. Not only was Coffey still revered in
this world, he continued to consult with many of his old colleagues, keeping
his fingers in many Black Ops pies and retaining considerable clout.

Henry could only imagine what Coffey had seen and done, and
the power he had once wielded. He was considered to be exceedingly smart and
skilled. But he had become jaded, had begun to burn out, and had been looking
for an exit door.

The previous Secretary of Homeland, Kristen Brennan, had
worked with Coffey early in her career—Coffey had saved her life, in fact—and she
had seized on the opportunity to bring him on to head up Davinroy’s security detail.
The Secret Service, once under the province of Treasury, was now part of DHS, so
Greg Henry was technically Coffey’s boss. Given all of this, even if Henry had
time for it, making a compelling argument to exclude Coffey from the
proceedings would not be easy, and he decided against it.

“We have an ongoing situation in
the Hamza mosque in Chicago,” said Henry, his eyes locked onto the president’s,
which the vid-meet software would ensure was the case in the Oval Office as
well. “While I was waiting for you to join the vid-meet,” he added, “I
activated a strike team and instructed them to get to an isolated staging area
a few minutes helo flight from the mosque. They’ll wait there for my orders.”

“The name of that mosque rings a
bell,” said Davinroy.

Henry drew in a deep breath and
nodded. “I’m not surprised. It’s led by an Imam who you know well,” he said,
not relishing giving the president the bad news. “Azim Jafari.”

President Davinroy had cited this
Imam on several occasions, singing his praises for being a devout Muslim with
the courage to speak out against extremism, to preach for tolerance and peace between
peoples and nations. Two years earlier he had even invited Jafari to be his
guest at a State of the Union Address, asking Jafari to rise as he thanked him for
being such a fine representative of the peace-loving religion of Islam.

Talk about rubbing salt into the
president’s wound. Kevin Quinn, a trusted special agent, had just tried to kill
him, and now Henry had to tell the man that his favorite Imam was an extremist,
after all. Not a good twelve hours for President Davinroy when it came to
betrayals.

“Jafari is about to unleash
hundreds of sleepers, even as we speak,” explained Henry, “on a coordinated mission
to . . .” he paused, searching for the best, quickest way to get his point
across. “Well, to basically burn down this country. Each sleeper will recruit
others, and together will set forests ablaze, and then cities, using a variety
of fire accelerants. I have footage of Jafari inside the mosque ordering this
attack, but there’s no time for you to see it now.”

“You’re certain there is no
mistake?” said the president in disbelief. “That Jafari is directly behind this
plot?”

“I am, sir.”

“Shit!” thundered Davinroy. “God damnit!” The president was angrier than
Henry could ever remember. “How is it that you had Jafari under surveillance, and you didn’t notify me? Are you an
idiot, Greg! You know I’ve used him as a positive example. You don’t think I’d
want to know he was under suspicion?”

“He wasn’t,” said Henry, swallowing
hard. “The tip and the footage came to us courtesy of our friends in Israel. Wortzman
at Mossad.”

“How the hell did they get it?” snapped the president.

I
only wish I knew, thought Henry. Aloud he said, “With all due respect, sir,
we need to make some immediate decisions. I can give you a more comprehensive
briefing later.”

“And you trust this intel
absolutely?”

Henry thought about this for a
brief moment. “I do, sir. Mossad intel tends to be . . .” he paused. What? The
best in the business? Flawless? “Extremely sound, sir,” he finished.

Henry knew that this was an
understatement. The Mossad was magic. Precise, thorough, and as far as he could
tell, never wrong. How could they be so damn good? Their intel was uncanny.

It was also embarrassing.

The US Intelligence Community
consisted of seventeen separate agencies, employing over two hundred thousand
operatives. Including the many Black projects and agencies, the total
intelligence budget was nearing eighty billion dollars a year, although not
even Henry knew the exact figure. No one really did, since the government
routinely used accounting practices that would get corporate CEOs thrown in jail.

Almost thirteen hundred government
organizations and two thousand private companies were tasked with intelligence,
operating from over ten thousand locations spread across the country, and well
over a million Americans held top-secret security clearances. In Washington and
surrounding areas alone, thirty-three building complexes for top-secret work
had been constructed since 2001, occupying seventeen million square feet—three
times that of the biggest office complex in the world: the Pentagon.

And yet tiny Israel, fly-speck
Mossad, using less than one percent of these resources, routinely ate the lunch
of the gargantuan US intelligence apparatus. Henry had gone mad trying to
figure out how they were doing it. Their reputation had always been impeccable,
but for many years now they had upped their game even further.

Rumor had it that they had somehow
derailed the Iranian nuclear program, which had proceeded apace, despite a
nuclear agreement with the US that the entire world knew would not be honored. DHS
suspected that Israel had somehow dismantled the North Korean program as well,
before the psychotic Korean leader could do any damage, although there was no
concrete evidence to that effect.

Part of the Mossad’s success was
that it was lean and efficient, while the US system was bloated, redundant, and
uncoordinated. More didn’t always mean better, sometimes it just meant more
complicated, more bureaucratic, and more prone to paralysis. Vast incompetence
could hide out within the US system without ever being weeded out. Not so in the
Mossad.

And Israeli intelligence had to be
nearly perfect. Mossad had to work smarter, with more creativity, and to think
outside of the box. Because Israel depended on this agency to ensure its very
survival.

When you’re an eight-hundred-pound
gorilla you don’t have to be smart or well trained. But when you’re an eighty-pound
weakling, surrounded by
eight-hundred-pound gorillas, the three pound mass between your ears had to be
used to its fullest—and then some.

The Mossad was also blessed with
top drawer civilian resources to draw upon. Israel had long been a science and
technology mecca, harboring the second highest concentration of hi-tech
companies in the world, behind only Silicon Valley. These companies were
founded and driven by talented members of a population with the highest
percentage of PhDs, MDs, scientists, engineers, and technicians on the planet.

Davinroy was now seething. Clearly,
the fact that the intel had come from Israel had poured salt in his wounds. Or
maybe acid. “Recommendations?” he barked.

“I recommend breaching the mosque with
gas,” said Henry. “Knocking them out and then mopping up.”

“Jesus Christ, Greg!” snapped the
president. “You want to assault a mosque? Yeah, that will do wonders for our
country’s relationship with Muslims.”

“I’m aware of the optics,” said
Henry. “But there are too many of them, in too heavily populated of an area, to
let them disperse. They’re radicalized and unpredictable, which makes them too
dangerous to take any chances with.”

“I agree with Greg,” offered Cris
Coffey. “It’s the only way.”

“And the probability of success?”
said the president.

“Very high,” replied Henry. “The assault
team I scrambled is already preparing for such a breach, awaiting my final
order. They’re studying the video the Israelis provided and holographic
blueprints of the mosque right now. These are my best men, with our most
advanced equipment.”

“Okay, do it,” said the president
dourly, his expression conveying just how little he wanted to make this decision.

“I suggest we clear a perimeter
around the mosque first,” said Deputy Secretary O’Malley. “Just in case.”

“I agree,” said Henry. “See to it,”
he instructed his second-in-command. “Order the breach. Give the team a green-light
the moment a six-block radius has been cleared. Be sure they come up with some
reasonable excuse for the evacuation. Gas leak, imminent meteor strike,
something. Just make sure the exodus is done quietly and doesn’t tip off the jihadists.”

“Roger that,” said O’Malley,
blinking out of existence to attend to these details.

Once O’Malley had vanished, the
president also dismissed Cris Coffey, leaving him alone with Greg Henry.

“As if an assault on a mosque isn’t
bad enough,” said Davinroy the moment Coffey had exited the room, “Jafari’s
involvement makes this an even bigger nightmare. If it gets out that he was the
ringleader, it will convince the haters out there to mistrust Islam even more.
We can’t have that.”

Henry had worked with Davinroy too
long not to be able to read between the lines. The man only cared about himself
and politics. What he meant was, if it got out that Jafari was the ringleader,
he, Davinroy, would look like a gullible idiot. That is what he couldn’t tolerate.

“It’s an unfortunate turn of events,”
said Henry. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Maybe,” said Davinroy. “Maybe not.
No one would have to know of Jafari’s
involvement. We could bottle up all details, citing national security. And we
could announce that the terrorists chose this mosque because of Jafari’s heroic
stance, and kidnapped him so he was forced to be in attendance. Out of hatred
for him and what he stood for.”

Henry was unable to hide the look
of disgust that flashed across his face. Presidents of old had distorted events
in this manner before, but this practice was getting more audacious and
commonplace with each subsequent administration. Truth and reality had come to
mean very little when compared to political correctness and political
expediency.

“Do you have a problem with this,
Greg?” demanded the president. “You do understand that there are times when you
have to hide the truth for the greater good. Which is why we don’t tell the
public about all the terrorist threats we stop. If they knew about some of the
disasters we’ve narrowly averted, and how often new threats emerge, no one in
America would be able to sleep at night. In this case, why sour the country’s
relations with Muslims any further? Enlightened people know that Islam is a
religion of peace. Is the truth worth hate crimes breaking out? Does it matter
who is responsible, as long as we stop the attack? What if telling the truth
about one man results in the eventual deaths of hundreds, as misunderstandings
between religions grow?”

Henry said nothing. He had heard these
arguments before. Sometimes history had to be whitewashed. Sometimes the public
had to be protected from the truth, like a small child whose dog had passed
away. Better to invent the fiction of sending Spot off to a farm where he could
be happy and run free, rather than introducing the concept of death to a
four-year-old.

But was this the proper analogy?
Were American citizens little more than sheltered children? Sometimes it did
seem that way.

But in Henry’s opinion, the more
clear-eyed the public was about the true nature of a threat, the better. Davinroy
would argue, had argued, that only
key power players in government and the military needed to be clear-eyed. That
as long as the chess masters knew the endgame, why scare the pawns
unnecessarily, even if they did tend to be on the front lines.

“It doesn’t matter what I think of
this,” said Henry. “Because it won’t work. Jafari and his followers will be
proud of this attempt. They’ll all want to be sure he gets credit for it. No
way they’ll let us rewrite history so Jafari is a victim rather than a
mastermind.”

Davinroy frowned deeply and tilted
his head. “It would work if there were no survivors,” he said after several
long seconds of thought.

“What?”

“No survivors means our narrative
could be whatever we chose it to be,” replied Davinroy. “The knockout gas
you’re planning to use,” he continued. “Is it flammable?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Make sure it is. Jihadists tend to embrace their own deaths. If we
try to take them alive, but they happen to light a match in the midst of a
flammable cloud of gas, there is nothing we can do about that. Correct?”

Henry’s mouth had dropped open but
he didn’t respond.

“We just have to be sure to stay
ahead of the story. To make it clear that we tried to take them peacefully, and
were careful not to do any damage to the mosque. That it was their choice to martyr themselves.” The
president shrugged. “They planned to burn down the entire country. The least we
can do is let them burn down one mosque.”

“Are you ordering me to kill them
all, sir?” asked Henry.

“Of course not!” said Davinroy,
pretending to be offended. “How can you even ask that? That would be an unlawful
order. All I want you to do is make it clear to your team leader to choose a
knockout gas that is highly flammable. And that if the extremists inside decide
to martyr themselves for their cause, to literally go out in a blaze of glory .
. .” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, just let your man know that we think this
would definitely be the best outcome for all concerned.”

16

The two men holding Kevin Quinn at gunpoint stepped
forward from the darkness, having stationed themselves in a corner of the shed
not illuminated by the door or the gap in the ceiling. Quinn’s eyes flickered
across every inch of them as they fully emerged into the light, like Sherlock
Holmes desperately searching for an obscure clue with which to seize an
advantage.

How had he been found? It just wasn’t possible. He was certain he had covered his tracks.

Both men were fit and had assumed a stance indicating
they were highly trained. But they were both dressed in short-sleeved knit
shirts, and the shorter, thicker one, about five-eleven, had a small diamond in
each of his earlobes, and long hair tied back into a ponytail. If these visual
clues weren’t enough, seconds had gone by since Quinn had raised his hands and
they had yet to identify themselves as Secret Service, FBI, police, or any
other authority, which they were required to do if they were legitimate.

And he didn’t hear further commotion outside of the
shack, or the whip of helicopter blades. For a target as high-value as he now
was, enough armed men to field a football team should be charging toward them
right now, as a backup to the two men who had entered the shack.

“Hold out your hands, wrists together,” barked the
taller man as his partner approached with
white plastic zip-tie handcuffs.

Quinn calculated his chances of survival if he attacked
before his hands were bound, and didn’t like the result. He was very good, but
it didn’t take a mathematician to know his chances would be one in twenty, at
best. And it was important to factor into the equation that they wanted him to
remain alive, at least for a while. Had they wanted him dead, he’d be dead
already.

Quinn offered no resistance as the short, powerfully
built assailant slipped the plastic strips around his wrists and zipped them
tight. Seconds later the man made a chain of linked zip-ties and bound Quinn’s ankles,
leaving enough play in between for him to take short steps, so he could waddle
forward like a duck. The man also relieved Quinn of his gun and the small
electronic device that cloned key fobs, his expression making it clear he knew
exactly what it was, and shoved both into his pocket.

Finally, he backed away, made a show of looking Quinn
up and down to take in the clothing he had stolen in Trenton, and shook his
head. “The Secret Service’s dress code is really slipping,” he said with a
smirk. “Or have they begun hiring gangbangers?”

“How did you find me?” said Quinn, lowering his
outstretched arms to a resting position in front of him.

The taller man shrugged. Unlike his partner, he was
clean-cut and impeccably groomed. “We didn’t,” he replied pleasantly. “The man
who hired us told us where to find you and how to make our approach, and we
took it from there.”

Quinn’s agile mind dissected this information from
every angle, knowing his survival might depend on how quickly he could make
sense of what was happening.

“No interest in knowing who we are?” asked the man who
had bound Quinn, his gun now extended once again. “Would’ve thought that would
be your first question.”

Quinn shook his head dismissively. “Would you have
told me?”

“Not a chance. But I thought you’d ask.”

“No need. You’re both American, military trained. But
just as clearly, no longer in the military. Your partner didn’t say your boss told you where to find me, or your CO. He said the man who hired us. So I’m guessing you two are freelance. Probably
began work at a PMC. Until recently, that is, when you decided to go even more freelance.”

Quinn could tell from the glances they exchanged that he
had scored a direct hit. Private Military Corporations, or PMCs, were organizations
of mercenary soldiers who performed ops in numerous countries engaged in hostilities,
most often at the behest of the US government. These businesses had grown so
quickly over the past two decades that their membership now dwarfed that of the
entire US military.

“So what PMC were you with?” continued Quinn.
“Probably one of the best. Blackwater? Kroll? Sandline?” he guessed. “You
worked at one of these for a time and then got an illegitimate offer you
couldn’t refuse.” He shook his head in disgust. “And here you are,” he added in
contempt, “like trained dogs.”

“Really?” said the pony-tailed mercenary, shaking his
head in amusement. “You’re giving us
the Boy Scout speech? You think your attempt to assassinate the President of the
United States gives you the moral high
ground?”

Quinn ignored him. “So the question isn’t who you are.
The question is: who do you work for? And more importantly, what do you want
with me?”

“Nice analysis, Agent Quinn,” said the clean-cut merc.
“You’re even sharper than I thought you’d be. As to who we work for, I can’t
tell you. As to what they want with you, all I can tell you is that our
instructions are to capture you and babysit until our employer gets here.” He
shrugged. “Apparently, he’s eager to meet you.”

“Why?” asked Quinn reflexively, knowing he wouldn’t
get an answer.

What was going on? How had he been found so
easily? And what could anyone want with him now? Why capture and hold the most
wanted man in America if you had no interest in bringing him to justice?

Quinn’s ability to imagine plots and ambushes others
might have hatched was nearly unequaled, but he couldn’t come up with a single
idea of what this might be about. He considered that Davinroy was behind it,
but ruled this out immediately. After all, if this were the case, Quinn would
be dead already.

Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble
and expense to capture and hold him. And no matter how good they were, they
were taking quite a risk getting anywhere near someone as scorching hot as he
now was.

While Quinn was deep in thought, the tall mercenary had
been busily manipulating his phone, ignoring Quinn’s question as expected. “I
just notified our employer that you are safely in our hands,” he announced.

“How soon until he arrives?” asked Quinn.

“We were told we might have to babysit you for two or
three days,” answered the taller merc, who seemed to be the one in charge. “It
all depends on when he can get here.”

“Why not take me to him?”

The man laughed. “Good one, Agent Quinn. This must be
your version of an idiot test. Okay, I’ll play. Because he can move about
freely, and you can’t. See, he didn’t just try to assassinate President Matthew
Davinroy.”

After a short pause, the mercenary’s grin turned into
a frown. “Speaking of which,” he said to his partner, who still had his
gun trained on Quinn,
despite his captive’s state of immobility, “now that he’s secured, we need
to take precautions so we aren’t surprised by a group trying to arrest him.”

He ordered Quinn to sit cross-legged
on the filthy, eroding wooden slats that passed for the shack’s floor. The
zip-ties binding Quinn’s legs left just enough freedom of motion for him to
comply with this demand, albeit with some difficulty. In this position, the two
mercenaries could turn their backs on him for several seconds if they wanted
without fear of attack.

The mercenary in charge ordered his
phone to call up public domain satellite imagery and display a topographical
map of the area, centered on their current GPS coordinates and extending out for
four miles in every direction. He set the phone on the floor and it began projecting
a red, holographic map, as instructed, about five feet on a side.

Both mercenaries walked around the
floating 3-D image of the elevated ground they were now on, giving it careful
study. After several minutes of this the man in charge turned to his partner and
said, “I’ll watch Quinn. You put up cameras and sensor alarms here, here, and
here,” he instructed.

These would cover the dirt road that
snaked up to the summit they were on, along with the two paved arteries that led
to the dirt road. He then chose six other locations for the placement of surveillance
devices, giving the two men visibility on all likely ground assaults.

Quinn noted with interest that they
had set up the surveillance exactly the way he was planning to do once he had
obtained the proper supplies.

“I’ll need three or four hours to
get everything installed,” said the stocky mercenary.

“Understood.”

“So what if the people hunting for
him do close in before our guy gets here? What then?”

“If that happens, our orders are to
kill him,” responded his partner, looking down at Quinn and shooting him an apologetic
look. “And then to get the hell out of here. Sorry, Quinn. But our employer
must not want you that bad.”

He smiled. “On the other hand, if
you’re half as good as I think you are, these precautions are just a formality.
No one will find you. And my employer tells me that, at least at the moment, no
one looking for you has the faintest idea where you are.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed in thought.
Who could possibly be behind this? Who could find him with seemingly effortless
efficiency while at the same time having insight into the efforts of the
multitudes now hunting for him? This was perhaps the most impenetrable mystery
he had ever encountered.

The stocky mercenary left the shack
to carry out his surveillance mission while his partner killed the map and
retrieved his phone. He then spent several minutes absorbed by his electronic
companion, leaving Quinn alone with his thoughts.

“I need to make a short trip
outside,” said Quinn, breaking the long silence. “Nature calls.”

The mercenary hesitated.

“If you don’t mind watching me
pee,” said Quinn, “I don’t mind peeing while you hold a gun on me.”

Without waiting for permission,
Quinn uncrossed his legs and managed to rise to a standing position. He nodded
toward the zip-ties around his ankles. “Or are you worried I’ll sprint away from
you? I’m pretty sure I can reach speeds of a tenth of a mile an hour, maybe
more.”

“After you,” said the man with the
gun, gesturing toward the open door.

Quinn began to waddle forward. As
he reached the point closest to his captor, he pretended to trip. The mercenary
instinctively moved forward to try to catch him and Quinn acted, launching
himself at his adversary with all of his might. Both men crashed to the floor,
barely missing the jagged edge of a broken floorboard. The merc recovered and
rose to a standing position while Quinn flailed at the man’s arms, scratching
and clawing for all he was worth.

The mercenary was an experienced
soldier and made sure to keep his gun beyond the reach of his bound prisoner,
who was no match for him in his restrained state. He shoved Quinn back to the
floor, kicking him savagely several times in the side and chest.

“What are you thinking?” he demanded.

Quinn groaned in pain and rolled
onto his back.

“You had no chance!” continued the
mercenary in contempt. “For someone who’s supposed to have elite skills, you’re
a major disappointment. This is the best you can do? Embarrass yourself by
trying to scratch me like a pathetic little
girl?”

Quinn pushed himself to a seated
position. “I didn’t try to scratch
you,” he said calmly. “I did scratch
you. Notice that you’re bleeding.”

The man looked down at several millimeter-thin
red lines on his left arm, where Quinn had just managed to break the skin with
his nails. He shook his head and laughed. “Well, in that case,” he said
sarcastically, “I stand corrected. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am,” replied Quinn. “Very. I don’t know what you know about
last night, but I never planned to use a gun on Davinroy. I tried to poison him first.” He raised his
eyebrows. “I slipped an ultra-pure form of cyanide into his drink. Had the
bastard actually taken a sip, he would have died a million times over. I knew
this would leave just the faintest traces of cyanide on my fingertips and under
my nails, but I figured I’d have plenty of time to scrub it away afterward.”

The merc’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Turns out I never did get the
chance to wash up,” continued Quinn. “Go figure. And while this trace residual
amount isn’t enough to be deadly if ingested, I managed to deposit it directly
into your bloodstream. My guess is
that you now have between two and five hours before paralysis and heart failure
set in.”

Quinn glared at the merc with a
feral intensity. “But sorry my attack was such a disappointment to you,” he said
icily.

17

The tall mercenary stood at a
boundary of light and darkness in the dingy structure and glanced down at the
scratches on his arm once again, and then back at his prisoner, studying him.
His panic of a moment before had given way to a calm resolve. “You’re
bluffing,” he said.

Quinn laughed. “Sure I am.”

“You tried to shoot the president. Even my sources know that much. This poisoning
fiction is just the product of a desperate mind.”

“Keep telling yourself that if it
makes you feel better. But if you want to live, cut me loose now. The guy I got
the poison from told me about a simple antidote. But one you won’t find by
searching online. If we leave now, we could be at a drug store in an hour, and
I can give you what you need with time to spare.”

“Just cut you loose?” said the merc
in amusement. “I suppose you’ll want your gun back too?”

Quinn smiled. “As a matter of fact,
yes. And I’ll want your weapons as
well. You’ll be driving, while I hold a gun on you.”

“You have balls the size of Texas, Agent
Quinn, I’ll give you that. But I won’t be surrendering. Instead, how about I just
shoot you between the eyes right now and be done with this idiocy?”

“You won’t do that,” said Quinn,
shaking his head. “Because you know that if I’m telling the truth, killing me
is the same as killing yourself. And if I’m lying, you piss off your employer
and lose a big payday.”

“I’m sure as hell not going to
surrender to you.”

“Yes you are. Because if you do, I
promise you’ll survive. I’ll escape, yes, but I’ll leave you poison-free,
unharmed, and alive. And you’ve studied my background. You know I’m a man of my
word. I have my . . . issues . . . with Matthew Davinroy, but you know if I
tell you I’ll leave you unmolested, you can believe it.”

The mercenary remained silent for an
extended period as he wrestled with conflicting thoughts. “You’ve played this
brilliantly, Agent Quinn,” he said finally. “But the book on you says you’re as
creative as they come. Few men could manufacture an elaborate bluff like this
on the fly, and make it seem so compelling. But you could. You tried to shoot
Davinroy, plain and simple. So I choose to ignore your little gambit and to continue
with my original plan, as though this never happened.”

Quinn cursed inwardly. He couldn’t
have sold his bluff any harder. The cyanide tablet he had dropped into
Davinroy’s drink had been coated with a substance that ensured no trace amounts
of the poison would be left on his fingers or nails, a substance that would
only dissolve and release its payload when it came into contact with large
amounts of liquid. He would never have been sloppy enough to let the poison contact
his skin. And there were no antidotes to this cyanide, secret or otherwise. But
he really thought the merc would buy it.

Quinn did have one card left to
play, however. “Your employer seems to know everything,” he said. “So check
with him. If he vouches for what I’m telling you, maybe you’ll see reason. You
know,” he added with an insincere smile, “before your heart stops.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“Absolutely,” said Quinn. He nodded
at the merc’s phone. “Go ahead. Check it out. The life you save just might be
your own.”

The merc frowned and began
composing a text message to his employer, being sure not to reveal the quagmire
he had gotten himself into. You said
Quinn would be rational, he typed. But
he’s ranting about trying to poison Davinroy, when it’s clear he tried to shoot
him. If he’s delusional, I need to know it. Any intel to support this poison claim?

“Okay, Agent Quinn,” said the merc
after hitting the send button. “We’ll play it your way. Why not? We’ll know any
minute.”

“I already know,” snapped Quinn, with far more confidence than he
felt.

While Cris Coffey had discovered by
now that he had tried to poison the president, he was sure Coffey would limit
this information to a handful of people. The chances that this mystery employer
would be in the know were so close to zero as to be meaningless. On the other
hand, the chances that he would know exactly where to find Quinn were pretty
small also. If he did somehow know about the poisoning, this would be more than
a little scary.

The merc’s phone chimed, indicating
he had received a reply to his text, the burst of sound such a stark contrast
to the deep silence that had preceded it that it seemed to fill the entire
small enclosure. Quinn’s captor looked down.  I can
confirm Quinn tried to poison Davinroy before any guns came out, read the
text. He used a highly potent version of
cyanide. On another topic, I may arrive as early as tomorrow. I’ll keep you
posted.

Quinn didn’t need to be told that
the man’s employer had confirmed his poisoning claim. Even in the dim light
Quinn could see the mercenary whiten as he read the message. He looked as
though he might vomit, and his gaze immediately returned to the scratches on
his arm once again, almost against his will.

Quinn felt a surge of relief. He
didn’t have time to dwell on what this accurate intel implied about the reach
of his hidden adversary, but he would consider it at length the first chance he
had.

“Seems you weren’t bluffing after
all,” said the man. He paused for a moment in thought. “But I won’t be
surrendering,” he added with a sudden dark intensity, his jaw tightening in
resolve. “Instead, you’re going to
tell me how to make the antidote. If not, I’ll take out your left kneecap. Then
your right. Then I’ll use my knife to chop off your fingers, one at a time. You
get the idea.”

Quinn moved his left leg closer to
his captor, and gestured toward his kneecap with his head. “Fire away,” he said
calmly. “Just know that if you harm me in any way, there’s no coming back. You start
down that path and I promise you, we both die. No amount of torture will get
you that antidote. But if you surrender, we both live. It’s as simple as that.”

The two men locked eyes in a staring
contest that seemed to last for ages, but in the end, the mercenary folded, as
Quinn knew he ultimately would. A few minutes later the tables had been turned.
The mercenary cut the zip-ties that were binding Quinn and surrendered his
phone and weapons.

When this transfer was completed,
Quinn blew out a deep breath. “We’d better get moving,” he said, receiving no
argument on this point.

He followed the mercenary to his
car, a sleek 2022 Tesla, which explained why Quinn hadn’t heard it. Battery-powered
cars were far more stealthy than their gasoline exploding brethren, and the two
mercs had left the car and walked the last thirty yards to the shed on foot.

Quinn knew the men who had come for
him were experienced and professional. They would be well prepared, most likely
harboring a veritable arsenal in the trunk of the Tesla.

“Before we get you . . .
detoxified,” said Quinn, “I need you to fetch a tranq gun from your goodie bag.”

The merc wasted no time. He popped
the car’s trunk and rummaged through a large gray rucksack, stuffed to the
gills with weapons and supplies, finding a tranquilizer gun almost immediately.
He tossed it to Quinn. “Let’s get moving already,” he said, glancing anxiously at
his arm.

Quinn pocketed the tranquilizer gun
and extended the lethal one his prisoner had given him. “About that,” he began.
“The truth is, we can stay right here. You were right. I was bluffing.”

The man screamed a curse at Quinn
while his face turned a beet red.

“You aren’t looking on the bright
side,” said Quinn. “You’re perfectly fine. No danger of not getting an antidote
in time. Now, I did promise to leave you alive and unharmed,” he added. “And I
will leave you alive. The unharmed
part, however, will depend on how much you cooperate.”

The man glared at him but said
nothing

“Who do you work for?” demanded
Quinn

The man studied the gun pointed at
him and then stared once again into Quinn’s eyes, taking his measure. He must
have decided that Quinn wasn’t bluffing this time, because his bitter
expression was replaced by one of resignation. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve
never met him, and I know nothing about him. He contacted us, wired good faith
money into our accounts, and we began working for him. About a month ago.”

“Come on. You can do better than
that.”

“You can threaten me, or torture
me, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. You really think a guy this good,
this connected, is going to tell me who he is?”

Quinn decided that the man made an excellent
point.

“We talk over the phone and text each
other,” continued the mercenary, “but that’s it. Thirty minutes before he
arrived he was going to have us tie you down and move out. Get started on our
next assignment. So he could arrive unseen by us. No one gets to know who he
is.”

“Except me,” said Quinn.

“Right.”

“Which means he had no intention of
leaving me alive after he got whatever it is he wanted.”

“Probably not,” acknowledged the
mercenary.

Quinn reached into his pocket with
his left hand and removed the phone he had taken from his new prisoner. It was
a custom model, sure to be completely untraceable. “Is he in here?”

“Yes. Under the name 302. That’s
what he told us to call him.”

“And you have no idea what this is
about?”

“None at all. Find you, hold you.
That’s all.”

For some reason, Quinn believed him.
“What’s he sound like?” he asked.

“His voice is average. Not deep or
high-pitched. His English is good, but he has a Russian accent.”

Now this was a valuable piece of intel. Assuming it was true. Around
the turn of the century, Russia had become largely innocuous, but many years
later Vladimir Putin had thrust Russia back onto the world stage with a
vengeance. He and other Russian leaders had been making moves to help the
country fully regain its former glory ever since. This was likely a very
important piece to a puzzle Quinn was unable to even begin to solve.

Quinn was about to end the
interview when one last question occurred to him. “You mentioned your boss
wanted you to move on to your next assignment just before he arrived here,” he
said. “What next assignment?”

The merc hesitated.

“Are you really going to hold out
now?” said Quinn. “Answer me on this and we’re done. You get out of this
without a scratch.” He glanced at the man’s arm and couldn’t help but smile.
“Well, without another scratch,” he
amended.

The man sighed heavily.  “Okay. Why not?” he said. “When you go through
my phone you’ll find it anyway. We were told to take out a woman in the Boston
area. Rachel Howard.”

“Who is she?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t begun
planning. Her photo and bio are on my phone. And instructions from 302. All I
know is that he wants her to stop being alive.”

Quinn was satisfied with this
answer. “Thank you,” he said, removing the dart gun from his left pocket.
Without saying another word he shot the mercenary in the leg, and watched as he
crumpled to the dirt, unconscious.

18

Quinn stood over the unconscious
mercenary’s head and pulled him by his armpits toward the back of the Tesla. He
would hide him in the trunk so he’d be out of sight of his partner, whom Quinn
would ambush and put into dreamland as well when he returned from his mission.

As Quinn crossed a border between
brown dirt and green grass he noticed a tiny shimmer on the man’s shoulder,
which happened to be just a foot away from Quinn’s face as he dragged the man’s
body. He leaned closer, but the shimmer disappeared. He was about to write it
off as a figment of his imagination when some sixth sense of his insisted that
he not. His intuition had served him well, and he had learned not to ignore it.

He studied the mercenary’s right
shoulder from several angles, and when he hit one that showed the shoulder
against a multicolored background, the image of a housefly came vaguely into
focus.

What
in the world? thought Quinn. A fly that could blend in with its
surroundings? What, a fly with chameleon DNA mixed in?

But even as he thought this the fly
suddenly became visible from all angles, as though it knew he was suspicious of
it and had decided to appear more ordinary.

Quinn was left with only one conclusion: it must be
mechanical. But as he studied it further, it began to rub its tiny legs
together, and even though it was missing a wing, he realized that no forgery
could possibly be this perfect. And yet, as absurd, as ridiculous a supposition
as this was, he was convinced he was right.

It must be the ultimate Micro Air Vehicle, abbreviated as
MAV. Drones of all kinds now filled the skies, recreational and otherwise, and
the military variety had gotten smaller and smaller over many years. But as far
as he knew, no one had come close to creating a perfect, working mechanical
fly.

Until now, perhaps.

Which would explain so much. What advantages would someone
gain if they could become a fly on the wall—literally?

Intelligence gathering would be revolutionized. The MAV that
Quinn was staring at now could be camouflaged, made almost invisible. And if
someone did happen to see it from just the right angle, they would only be
seeing a harmless housefly, easy to dismiss.

This fly must be beaming Quinn’s location to an interested
party, or even video and audio. He guessed it had begun its mission at Garza’s
mansion, at the fundraiser. Why not? Spying on the president perhaps? When
Quinn had made his move against Davinroy, its operator had sent it on a new
mission: stick to Quinn. Like glue.

Or like a fly.

It could have been clinging to his back while he nearly
broke the sound barrier in Garza’s Maserati, saving battery power and wear and
tear on its wings. The Russian—302—must have sent it. That’s how he knew where
to find Quinn, and even the best time and way for his hired guns to approach
him. And also how he knew Quinn had tried to use poison on the president. He
must have sent another drone to be a fly on Cris Coffey’s wall.

The MAV could have become damaged when he had dived into the
mercenary and they had grappled in the shack, which might explain how it had
ended up on the merc’s shoulder. Or else its operator had decided to move it
there for a better vantage point, and it had later become damaged all the same.

Which explained why it wasn’t trying to fly away now.

What the hell had he gotten himself into? And if this device
had been perfected by the Russians,
the US could be in a world of hurt. This had suddenly become bigger than
Matthew Davinroy. Quinn may have tried to eliminate the president, but he was
still a patriot. He still loved his country, despite the monster currently at
its helm.

So his mission parameters had expanded. He now had two
impossible missions. Kill the president. And find the Russian who was calling himself
302.

19

Quinn lowered the mercenary to the ground, keeping his eyes
locked on the housefly that wasn’t a housefly. When it had possessed both of
its wings, he wondered if it had been as agile as a real fly.

A fly’s range of vision and reflexes were too great for most
people to have any chance of catching one. Bring a hand down from any position
above the fly, with almost any speed, and it would deftly escape the trap
racing toward it.

But he had learned as a boy how to catch one. Every time.
How to kill one with his hands. Every time.

First, wait until the fly had landed on a roughly level
surface. Once this happened, killing it was as simple as carefully planting
both hands on either side of it, knife-edged on the surface, with palms facing
each other. Center the fly between the hands and then slide them together as
quickly as possible, ending in a clap. A fly would always try to escape upward,
but it could only make it halfway up the giant wall of hands closing in on it
before being smashed in between.

Catching one worked the same way. Plant one hand to the side
of the fly and slide it toward the target as fast as possible, closing the hand
the moment it was reached. Quinn had done this countless times as a boy, a feat
that never failed to impress other kids.

Unfortunately, the drone’s position on the merc’s shoulder
didn’t give Quinn enough runway for this maneuver. Even so, given the damage
the fly had suffered, he had high hopes that a less strategically sound grab would
prove doable.

Quinn launched his right hand at the fly like his life
depended on it. The tiny MAV made an attempt to launch itself into the air,
even with a single wing, but Quinn was able to snatch it up, keeping his hand
in a tight fist so it couldn’t escape.

At least for the moment. He didn’t want to hold it for long,
in case it had some tricks up its sleeve, like an ability to bore through soft
flesh.

Quinn popped the trunk of the Tesla and emptied his pockets
as quickly as he could. There must be something in the car or his pockets he
could use to cage the drone. He considered pressing it into the magazine of a
gun, like it was a round. Might work, but it wasn’t ideal.

His eyes lit up like fireworks when he spied a tiny canister
attached to the Tesla’s key fob. It was a steel LED flashlight, bright blue, the
size of a woman’s pinky. It was perfect.
He managed to unscrew it with one hand and then dumped out the tiny battery
inside.

As a kid he had learned that shaking his fist for several
seconds, hard, would stun the fly inside, so he could let it go or transfer it
elsewhere, and it would act like a drunken sailor. He couldn’t make an artificial
fly dizzy, but he was willing to bet that he could temporarily disorient any
motion sensors inside.

He shook his right fist vigorously for almost fifteen
seconds and then opened his hand, quickly funneling the fly into the tiny steel
container. Success. He hastily
screwed the lid closed and held the tiny blue canister up to his face.

The individual technologies inside this makeshift prison alone
must be worth billions. But the exact combination of these technologies that
had resulted in a fly drone of this sophistication would fetch a price that was
truly staggering.

Quinn thought for a few moments and then dialed the phone he
had taken, audio only. “Hello, Cris,” he said when the phone was answered. “We
need to talk.”

“Kevin?” said Cris Coffey in disbelief. “Is that you?”

“Is your line secure?”

“Of course,” replied Coffey.

Quinn could hear any number of people mulling about in the
background, but this noise was rapidly diminishing as his former boss was no
doubt rushing away from them, seeking privacy and quiet so he wouldn’t miss a
single word. Quinn knew he had Coffey’s full attention.

“You can try to trace this call,” said Quinn, “but trust me,
you’ll be wasting your time.”

“Why did you call, Kevin?”

“What do you know about micro drones? MAVs? Specifically, the
quest to make one that could pass for a housefly? One so perfect, so real, it
could fool other flies?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Answer me, Cris. How well-informed are you about this tech?”

“Very,” said Coffey. “You know I spent a long time in Black
Ops. A fly-drone was the holy grail. But we’re a decade away. It’s like AI, we
keep thinking we can do it, and it keeps being a harder problem than we
realize.”

“Why is that?” asked Quinn.

He knew Coffey would keep talking no matter what the subject.
He wouldn’t take Quinn’s word that the call was untraceable. And even if it
was, the longer Coffey could keep him on the line the more chance he might
learn something valuable, or talk him in.

“Well,” began Coffey, “you could control the broad movements
and behaviors of such a fly from a remote location. Theoretically. But to be
truly effective, it would need to be able to act autonomously, when cut off
from an operator. First, there is an operator time lag, even at the speed of
light, which creates more difficulty than you might imagine. And you can’t
avoid blockages or interruptions to a signal. So you’d want to program in a
destination and let the drone do its thing. So the operator can be passive for
the most part, and obtain input from multiple flies.”

“Makes sense,” said Quinn. “Go on.”

“Currently, even operator-dependent flies pose
insurmountable challenges. But autonomous ones are out of the question. Biological
systems are much more efficient than mechanical in many ways. Think about what
a fly can do, with a brain the size of a pinhead. It can process enough visual
information to choke a supercomputer, and it can take evasive action. It can
avoid obstacles and predators. It can find and metabolize food, allowing it to cover
great distances with no need for a battery or external power source. You get
the idea. As astonishing as our chips are now, constructing one with the
enormous computing power needed, but small enough to fit into a fly, can’t be
done.

“And don’t get me started on the battery power needed, the
mechanical challenges, and so on. To get it to move with the agility and
evasiveness of a real fly would be an extraordinary achievement, but even real
flies succumb to predators, so you’d want to do even better. A perfect fly
drone would seem to the uninformed to be much easier to perfect than many of
the miracles science has managed already, but it’s just the opposite.”

“So you’re telling me the US doesn’t have this technology
working?”

“Not a chance. I’m not sure of many things, but I am sure of
this.”

The certainty in Coffey’s voice and manner was enough to
convince Quinn that this was the truth, and it matched the more limited intel
he had heard through the grapevine. “Then we’ve got a big problem, Cris.”

“What are you talking
about?”

“Long story short, while running from you, I was captured by
two mercs. Ex-military. The man who hired them wanted to see me. I have no idea
why. I’m not sure about this, but I have reason to believe he’s a Russian.”

“A Russian?” repeated Coffey skeptically.

“I know. None of it makes sense. But something big is going
on. I have no idea how I play into it, but I do. And it gets even stranger. I managed
to escape. But I’ve since learned how they were able to find me. Whoever is
behind this has perfected a micro drone. A perfect copy of a housefly. The one
you say is impossible.”

“Kevin, I . . .”

“I know you don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. But if you
had this fly in your hands, could you get it analyzed by someone you trust?
Through back channels? I’d need you to keep this completely off the radar. Any
knowledge of it kept between you and this one other person. We have no idea who
knows what, even in our own government, so you’d have to make this the ultimate
secret.”

Coffey sighed loudly. “I could have it analyzed as you ask,
yes. But I’m sure you’re mistaken about what you think you’ve found.”

“I hope I am. But I have the fly, and I’m going to mail it
to you. Because as much as I want Davinroy dead, I still love my country. And
this is important. So prove me wrong about this drone. Or prove me right, and
then take it from there.”

“Sure, Kevin. Send me the fly. I’ll take a look.”

“Don’t patronize me!” screamed Quinn. “I know you and I know
your voice. You’re just humoring me. Like I’m a mental patient. Promise me
you’ll at least check it out, even if you’re sure I’m wrong. Promise me! I know
you’re a man of your word, Cris.”

“I will,” said Coffey. “I swear it.”

“Good,” said Quinn, satisfied. “I’ll send it.”

He planned to find a courier service in the area so his
ex-boss could get the canister in hours rather than days, but he couldn’t tell
him this, or Coffey would have every courier service in the region monitored.

“Whatever you think of me now,” added Quinn, “I’m still one
of the good guys. I have reason to want Davinroy dead, but I’m still loyal to
my country, and even to you.” He paused. “And you have to admit, this isn’t
exactly an ideal time for me to be calling and mailing you packages. I’ll contact
you later so you can let me know what you learn.”

“Kevin, why don’t you come in? Let’s talk this over in
person. You can be involved in the MAV study yourself.”

The tone in Coffey’s voice made Quinn’s blood begin to boil.
He still thought Quinn was crazy.

Quinn took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
How could he blame his former boss for thinking this of him? Of course he did. Coffey
thought he was mad when he had tried to take out the president, and this fly
business only added fuel to that fire.

“Cris, I respect you more than any person I’ve ever worked
with. Really. And I want nothing more than for us to be on the same side again.
So promise me one last thing. Promise me you’ll investigate Davinroy. He has a
system of tunnels under a number of rooms at the Catskill Mountain retreat. Find
them. Find evidence. Davinroy
is a monster. The tunnel system isn’t a smoking gun, but it’s a start. You have
to admit, if you find these secret tunnels, my story is starting to look at
least a little more credible.”

There was no response.

“Humor me, Cris,” implored Quinn. “What I told you about Nicole
is true. Look into it. Promise me you will.”

Coffey hesitated. “Kevin, I don’t
know the right way to proceed here. I don’t know how fragile you are. But I am
a man of my word, and I can’t make that promise.”

“Why not?”
thundered Quinn. “Davinroy is good, I get that! Persuasive! I know it seems
far-fetched that the president is the monster I paint him to be. But you’ve
known me for years! How can you be so
absolutely certain that my accusations aren’t true? How are you so convinced
that I’ve lost my mind?”

Coffey let out a long sigh. “Kevin,” he said, “I am truly
sorry. You are a very good man. But I know a hundred percent that Davinroy
didn’t torture and kill your wife.”

“How can you be so goddamned sure!” screamed Quinn.

There was a long pause. “Because you don’t have a wife,” replied Coffey grimly.
“You never did.”

The world spun around Quinn’s head like he was on a
rocket-propelled merry-go-round. He was suddenly weak and light-headed. “What?”
he whispered into the phone in horror. “What
are you talking about? You know I
had a wife. Nicole! And a daughter on the way.”

“I’m sorry, Kevin. You never married. There is no Nicole. And
you weren’t even at Davinroy’s
retreat this year. You were invited to be a guest instructor that week for the
Navy SEALS in Coronado, California. Google yourself and you’ll learn I’m right.
And then come in and get some help,” pleaded Coffey.

But Quinn didn’t reply. The phone slipped from his fingers
and he fell to his knees.

His world continued to spin around him at a furious pace,
and he fought back vomit.

PART 2

Omniscient

Omniscient: (adjective): possessed
of universal or complete knowledge

—MerriamWebster.com

“Yet misattributions in remembering are surprisingly
common. Sometimes we remember events that never happened, misattributing vivid
images that spring to mind to memories of past events that did not occur. At other
times we mistakenly take credit for a thought, when in reality we are recalling
it—without awareness—from something we read or heard. Misattribution can alter
our lives in strange and unexpected ways.”

—Professor Daniel L. Schacter, Head of the Schacter
Memory Lab at Harvard University, and former chairman of the Harvard Psychology
Department

“Neuroscientists have taken advantage of these clues
to explore the strong links between imagination and memory, to demonstrate how
social factors influence our recollections, and to show how memory may actually
have evolved to predict the future rather than keep track of the past. There is
arguably little evolutionary advantage to being able to recall the past in
vivid detail; it is much more useful to be able to use past experience to
predict what comes next.”

—
Charles Fernyhough, Time Magazine,
March 20, 2013

“Most of what we do and think and feel is not under
our conscious control. The vast jungles of neurons operate their own programs.
The conscious you—the I that flickers to life when you wake up in the morning—is
the smallest bit of what’s transpiring in your brain. Although we are dependent
on the functioning of the brain for our inner lives, it runs its own show. Most
of its operations are above the security clearance of the conscious mind. The I
simply has no right of entry. Your consciousness is like a tiny stowaway on a
transatlantic steamship, taking credit for the journey without acknowledging
the massive engineering underfoot.

“Your most fundamental drives are stitched into the
fabric of your neural circuitry, and they are inaccessible to you. You find
certain things more attractive than others, and you don’t know why. Like your
enteric nervous system and your sense of attraction, almost the entirety of
your inner universe is foreign to you. The ideas that strike you, your thoughts
during a daydream, the bizarre content of your nightdreams—all of these are
served up to you from unseen intracranial caverns.”

—David Eagleman,
Incognito

20

Kevin Quinn loaded the merc’s
body into the trunk of the Tesla in a daze. He then managed to stumble back to the
shack with the large rucksack that contained the mercs’ cache of weaponry and
supplies.

He entered the structure and laid
on his back on the deteriorating gray floorboards in one dark corner,
struggling for some semblance of equilibrium. He closed his eyes, his mind
still reeling, struck by how fitting it was to be in a dark, rotting structure
contemplating his own mind, one that had suddenly taken on these same
characteristics.

If the second mercenary arrived
back from his mission a few hours early, Quinn would be toast, but he couldn’t
bring himself to care.

He had Googled himself on the
merc’s phone as Coffey had suggested and verified what his former boss had
said: he was listed as having been a
guest instructor for the SEALS in Coronado during the week of Davinroy’s retreat.
It was always possible the Web entries for this had been doctored, but why?

If Coffey had been right about this,
could the rest of his claims be true as well? Quinn was terrified by what an
examination of his past might reveal. Even the thought of exploring this
further sent a shiver down his spine.

But such an examination could
not be avoided, no matter how scared he was. He took a deep breath, closed his
eyes even tighter, and thought back to his first date with Nicole, their first
kiss. The first time they had made love.

His breath caught in his throat
as his worst fears were immediately realized: he was drawing an absolute blank.
He had a memory of what an extraordinary woman she had been, and how very much
he had loved her. But in the abstract. There were no specific memories to support these overarching ones.

Which was impossible. Yes, many
men weren’t good at remembering anniversaries and birthdays, or what their
spouse was wearing on their first date, but there wasn’t a one who didn’t
remember his first date with his future wife, or their first kiss.

And what about Hailey? He
thought back to the pregnancy. Nothing.

He tried to recall how they had
decided on the name Hailey. Again, nothing.

He had absolutely no
recollection of her conception. Of Nicole’s pregnancy. Nothing.

So everything Coffey had claimed
was true. He had never married. There was no Nicole, no Hailey. And no torture
and murder, even though the memory of both continued to be stubbornly
persistent, as much a part of him as his arm. He had been driven so
single-mindedly to revenge that, if not for Coffey, would he ever have realized
that the existence of his wife and daughter didn’t hold up to a more
comprehensive scrutiny?

Were any of his memories accurate?

Nothing could be as
disorienting, as devastating, as
learning that the most powerful, life-changing memories you’ve ever had were
unreal, imaginary. If you couldn’t trust a memory this profound, this visceral,
what could you trust?

He had been driven to desperation.
He had tried to kill an innocent man!

This new perspective explained
so much. How the president had managed to drug him so easily. How tunnel
entrances could be hidden inside closets for decades without a single guest, a
single rowdy kid, having discovered one.

This explained why his
recollections were so spotty. He could remember Davinroy’s horrific words with
almost photographic detail, every one of them scorched into his mind. But images were hazy, undefined. He couldn’t
recall the hidden structure in the Catskills he had stumbled upon, or how he
had managed to gain entry. And how could he have been inside long enough to see
the president delivering killing blows to his wife without moving to stop him
much sooner?

And while the president could be
many things, duplicitous, narcissistic, self-serving, and wrong-headed, it had
always seemed surreal to Quinn that he had transformed into such a caricature
of a psychopathic villain. The more he considered what he thought had happened,
the more flaws he found in the logic of the situation.

This also explained why no one
had given him the benefit of the doubt. Because he didn’t deserve it.

So how had this happened? It
could be that the memory erasure drug he remembered receiving was real, but
delivered by someone else in a different setting. Perhaps when he had thrown
off the effects his wires had gotten crossed, somehow converting a nightmare
starring an imaginary wife into an indelible memory.

Or he could be stark, raving,
mad? How would he know otherwise? In fact, how could he know anything? His entire sense of self was
shaken to his very core. Was his name really Kevin Quinn? Impossible to know.

He believed he was sane and that
his memories of everything but the torture and murder were accurate. But there
was no way to be certain. Sleepers believed their dreams were real until they
awoke. Schizophrenics had absolute belief in their delusions.

Quinn could well be psychotic,
imagining that he was in a shack, imagining a fly drone, imagining his recent
conversation with Coffey. He could be a late-stage Alzheimer’s patient, whose
brain had temporarily come to life to create random memories. His time on the
run and on this mountain seemed quite extensive, but experiments had shown
dreams could impart the illusion of duration, even when they were seconds long.
The mind played tricks on itself.

It was possible Quinn had come
into existence that very instant, but with a full set of memories. He couldn’t
know otherwise. Not for certain. This was a far-out conjecture made by
philosophers and re-explored by a stoner friend of his who was higher than Mt.
Everest at the time.

It was also possible that Quinn was
the only thing in existence, that everything else was just an illusion. Again, this
conjecture, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, could not be disproved.

Quinn might think there were billions
of other beings on Earth and that he had interacted with many thousands, but
what if this was all just his own overactive imagination? What if he was a god,
the only being in existence, and had constructed the entire universe in his own
mind to alleviate boredom?

Rene Descartes had famously
concluded that it was impossible to know for certain if the input coming in
through his senses, or anything he thought
he knew, was real. It could all be an illusion, and he would have no way of
knowing it. He then took this question one step further: could he even be
certain that he existed?

Descartes realized that the
answer to this question was yes. The
act of pondering if he existed or not, required
him to exist. This was, in fact, the only
thing he could be certain of.

Cogito ergo sum, he had famously written. I think, therefore I am. Or more accurately, I am thinking, therefore I must exist.

Quinn shook his head to clear it.
This thought process was getting him nowhere. His confidence about the nature
of his reality had been shattered to its core, but he had to find a piece of
wreckage and cling to it while the sea of confusion raged around him.

He removed the small blue canister
now containing a fly drone from his pocket. It could well be yet another
figment of his imagination. But even so, he decided he had to go forward under
the assumption that it truly existed. That the incident with Davinroy at the
retreat had not been real, but everything he had experienced since was. To
believe anything else would quickly lead to paralysis and madness.

It was time to quit reeling from
these profound revelations and get back to the business of living, of
surviving.

He rose from the floor and moved
to an illuminated section of the room. He took a careful inventory of the
contents of the gray rucksack he had taken from the trunk of the Tesla. It
contained everything his heart could possibly desire, except for his key fob
cloner, which he would retrieve as soon as he put the other mercenary down.

He ignored all doubts about his
grip on reality and thought about next moves for several minutes, replaying
everything that had happened in his mind. First, he decided, he had a duty to
warn the woman who was to be the next victim of the unseen puppet master. He
removed the phone he had taken from his captor and searched for the bio of
Rachel Howard. How did she play in?

“Who are you, Ms. Howard?” he
mumbled to himself, but a moment later he found her bio and added, “or should I
say, Professor Howard.”

He was stunned as he finished
reading her bio. Among other things, Rachel Howard was considered one of the
world’s foremost experts on the neurobiology of human memory. Incredible. This
couldn’t just be a coincidence. An expert in memory, just when he could use one
of these the most.

He had planned to contact her,
probably in person, and tell her what he knew, make sure she was as protected
as possible. But now his interest in meeting her was considerably more urgent.

He found the Russian’s
instructions to the two men, which were quite simple, and supported what his
prisoner had told him. Their orders were to go to Cambridge and kill Professor Rachel
Howard, esteemed chair of Harvard’s neuroscience department, as soon as their
boss was about to arrive to retrieve Quinn. They were also told they didn’t
need to worry about making it look like an accident. Finally, 302 had made it
clear that he didn’t have her under surveillance. Since she made no effort to
keep her whereabouts secret, and in fact published her daily schedule online, he was confident they could find
her on their own.

Quinn decided this must mean
that neither standard surveillance measures nor
fly drones were in play. This was a relief. The rucksack had contained
equipment designed to detect standard bugs and tracking devices, but his
instincts told him the fly technology would be invisible to such equipment. But
these fly drones would be expensive and likely a precious resource. Using one
to surveil the president and then deploying it to stick to Quinn—literally—was
one thing. Using one to surveil a sitting duck like Rachel Howard was another.

Quinn had listened to the car
radio during his drive here the night before. Since the story of his attack on
the president hadn’t broken, Davinroy must have decided to bury it so he could
tidy things up. Quinn suspected this would continue for another day or so, but
he would know for sure the moment he turned on the radio once again.

Regardless, his strategy was now
clear. He would wait here to ambush the second mercenary upon his return,
hitting him with a tranquilizer dart. Then he would zip-tie them each around
the trunk of a slender tree in the woods. They would survive, as promised, but
that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on them.

After this he would don his
trusty baseball cap, make a quick stop at a retail store to shore up his
disguise, and have a tiny steel canister couriered to Cris Coffey. Finally, he
would pay his respects to a certain neuroscience expert at Harvard University.
A woman with an impeccable reputation who had somehow managed to show up at the
top of a mercenary’s hit list.

21

ABC News

Up-to-the-Minute Report

Online Coverage of Breaking News
From Around the World

Monday, June 2

Chicago, Illinois: The storied Hamza mosque was burned to
the ground late this morning in what authorities believe to be a terrorist
attack, killing all of those inside. The current number of fatalities in the
attack is unknown, but authorities believe it could be over two hundred,
including the mosque’s Imam, Azim Jafari, an outspoken leader well known for
his criticism of Islamic extremism and his calls to end violence.

While authorities have only begun their investigation, a
spokesman for the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) issued a brief
statement, indicating that Jafari had been meeting with Muslims from around the
country who shared his vision of peace and tolerance. It is believed that one
or more extremists were able to infiltrate this gathering and set off a highly
combustible gas.

So far, no terrorist group has taken credit for this
massacre. The DHS spokesman had no knowledge of motive, but speculation is that
this was carried out by extremists to silence those in the Muslim community who
were critical of a radicalized interpretation of the religion, and who had the
courage to speak out against those they believed were trying to hijack an
otherwise peaceful faith.

While details of the events of this morning are still
emerging, it is believed that DHS was alerted to a possible terrorist attack on
the mosque, and was able to have the surrounding area evacuated before the fire
and explosion. A DHS team on-site was in the process of attempting to contact
the leader of this small group of terrorist infiltrators, to negotiate a
peaceful resolution, when the mosque mushroomed into flames.

President Davinroy could not be reached for immediate
comment, but his spokesman said he would be addressing the nation shortly. He
added that the president is heartbroken over this heinous act of extremism that
took so many good people, including Azim Jafari, a courageous man who died
defending his ideals. Although unconfirmed, there have been rumors that the
president will award Jafari a posthumous medal for his leadership and
contributions to peace.

Azim Jafari grew up in San Diego, California, having . . .

22

Once
Rachel Howard’s graduate class had concluded, ten minutes after its scheduled
end, she had spent the entire day working with Jason Balazs‎, one of the top professors in Harvard’s mathematics
department. She had been collaborating with him for weeks to refine an algorithm
that could make sense of billions of patterns of neuronal connections in the
brain, which explained why she was so burnt out and why her brain seemed to
hurt, even though she knew better than anyone that there were no pain receptors
in this all-important organ.

She had an excellent grasp of advanced mathematics,
but Balazs was so beyond her she had to strain to her limits to understand even
the rudiments of the mathematical models he was able to develop.

And she was starving. It wasn’t quite six thirty at night,
but while the muscles burned the highest quantity of all-purpose fuel, nothing
burned through glucose more prodigiously than the three-pound dynamo between
her ears, which had been running in fifth gear since late that morning.

She had ordered takeout from her favorite Thai restaurant,
Siam Nara, which was only minutes away from her small colonial home in Waltham,
Massachusetts.

Waltham was about seven miles west of Harvard’s main campus,
a distance that routinely took her between twenty-five and thirty minutes to
cover. She didn’t really mind the commute, and was thankful she was one of only
a few people to rate a parking space right outside the neuroscience building
that housed her office and labs.

Her home in Waltham was small, but after her divorce four years
earlier from Ron Williams they had sold the Cambridge residence, and she was a
woman of simple needs. The homes surrounding Cambridge had become ever more
pricey over the years, and she couldn’t justify buying a new one on a single salary.

She would have liked to blame her husband for their marital
difficulties, if it weren’t for the stubborn fact that it was all her fault. The
truth was that she was too involved with her work—far more so than he was.
Neuroscience was all-consuming to her, and she would rather be uncovering the
secrets of this realm than going to movies or parties, or doing any of the
myriad other activities that couples did together.

When she had decided she didn’t want to take time out for
motherhood, ignoring instincts screaming for her to reproduce, this was the
straw that broke the marriage’s back. Ron had wanted badly to be a father, and she
knew he would be remarkable in this role.

He had been a good man, and she had been a good woman, but
this didn’t always mean things were destined to work out. She had been
twenty-nine at the time, dazzling the neuroscience world with work heralded by
all as brilliant and paradigm-shifting, first as a post-doc and then for two
years as an associate professor.

She didn’t divorce her husband because she had grown to hate
him, but because she still loved him very much. Ron had been twenty-eight, and severing
their marriage when she did was the most merciful thing she could do, giving
him plenty of time to find and marry a partner who wanted kids as much as he
did.

Two years earlier, he had done just this. At the age of
thirty he had married a twenty-six year old, and she was currently pregnant
with their second child. Rachel couldn’t be happier for him.

Human beings were inscrutable things, and far less in
conscious control of their decisions and behavior than anyone realized. Freud
observed that many of his patients had no conscious knowledge of why they
behaved the way they did, leading him to compare consciousness to the tip of an
iceberg, with many of the true drivers of a person’s thoughts and behaviors
lurking below, hidden from even their own view.

And Freud, prophetic as he was, was only scratching the
surface of the profound reality of this analogy. Rachel had studied
neuroscience far too long and hard to spend unnecessary energy beating up on herself
or regretting the course her life had taken. Human beings behaved the way they
behaved, decided the way they decided, driven by an amalgam of genes and
impulses and evolution and instincts and drives and mysterious unconscious
controllers that fooled the conscience into believing it was in charge.

But Rachel Howard-Williams—now just Rachel Howard—knew
better. The illusion of free will was flawless, but her species had far less of
it than any would ever be able to truly accept.

Despite this unfortunate
course correction in her life, Rachel had a cheerful disposition by nature and had decided
she would likely remain single for the rest of her life, although she would
date when she could. After all, she knew better than anyone the psychological
importance of companionship, social bonds, touch, and sexual intimacy.

Rachel pulled into her favorite Thai restaurant and parked
her car, a black Acura that was a hybrid between an undersized SUV and an oversized
sedan. She was a regular at Siam Nara and was greeted warmly by several of the
staff when she entered, which she decided either represented a great extension
of her social web, or was pathetic and depressing, depending on the day she was
having.

A few minutes later she left with her prize, crab rangoon
and pad thai, which gave off a warmth and aroma that easily penetrated its
paper prison, ratcheting up her hunger even further. She drove a few blocks
before stopping at a red light, lost in thought, the radio on to provide
background noise.

There was a faint thumping sound from the back of the SUV,
behind the second row of beige leather seats. In a sedan, this is where the
trunk would have been, but in her sedan-SUV hybrid it was a flat platform that
served the same purpose, enclosed by a sleek hatchback.

She listened for a few seconds. There it was again, barely
loud enough to hear. It almost sounded like someone was gently punching the
soft leather back of one of the seats. She turned off the radio, intrigued and
alert, and studied the back of the car in her rearview mirror. What car
malfunction could possibly make this sound?

As she watched, a man’s head rose above the second row of
seats, the rest of his body still concealed behind them. Rachel gasped and jumped
so forcefully that her seatbelt automatically tightened up against her, pinning
her in place, before relaxing once again.

But her heart didn’t relax. After almost bursting through
her chest it was still pumping furiously at more than twice its normal rate,
and Rachel found that she could no longer breathe.

This intruder in her car was so out of her realm of
experience she couldn’t have been more terrified and disoriented had a school
of piranha fallen from the sky.

She had no idea how this man had gotten inside. And she had
no idea what he wanted.

But she had little doubt that her life was now in serious
danger.

23

Rachel wanted to spin around to confront the intruder but realized
she was paralyzed. Instead, she could only study the man in her rearview mirror.

She was certain she had never seen him before. Only part of
his head appeared above the row of seats, but from what she could see he was
clean-cut and looked professional, although he was wearing a black baseball hat
that seemed out of place somehow, as if he was trying too hard to look casual. A
pair of too-large sunglasses were folded up and tucked into his breast pocket.

The man studied her image in the mirror in return and nodded,
wearing an apologetic expression, perhaps trying to come across as unthreatening.

The intruder was handsome and controlled, and his eyes
showed an alertness and intelligence, which in her view was preferred to wild
eyes and a jumpy demeanor. Her instincts said he wasn’t insane. A ruthless
psychopath, possibly, but not crazy.

How could this man be in her car? She was certain she had locked
up when she had parked at Siam Nara. She hit a button to unlock her doors so
she would have the option of flight, but the locks clicked closed once again a
moment later. This trespasser must somehow have a remote to her car. How could
that be?

“I’m not going to hurt you, Professor,” said the man, attempting
to make his voice calm and reassuring. “Please don’t run. I’ve learned that
you’re in danger, and I’m here to help.”

Rachel tried to decide if she believed him, finding it hard
to think with her heart continuing to pound away in her ears. She was still terrified,
but the way her visitor had proceeded did give her reason to hope he was
sincere in not wishing her harm.

Most importantly, he hadn’t pulled a gun on her. He had also
tried to lessen the shock his sudden appearance would cause her. By thumping on
the back of the seat to get her attention first, he had ensured she was braced
as much as possible before he revealed himself, rather than jumping up like a
jack-in-the-box with no warning, which would have caused her to scream loudly
enough to shatter glass and would have probably turned her hair white.

He had also waited until she was stopped at a light, so no
matter how much his Houdini act had freaked her out there was no risk of an
accident. This was the act of a sane and rational mind, supporting her initial
impression. Hopefully.

“How did you get into my car?” she demanded. “Did you steal the
backup remote from my house?”

“No, I used an electronic device that cloned your key fob,”
the man replied. He nodded toward the road ahead. “The light has turned green, Professor.
Please drive. I’ll answer all of your questions, I promise you.”

Rachel pulled gingerly forward and began to pick up speed.

“Thank you,” said the stranger earnestly.

Rachel kept her eyes on the road and took the next right
turn, away from her house and toward the nearest police station, about three
miles away, which was now her destination.

“My name is Kevin,” continued the intruder. “Kevin Quinn. And
I really am here to help. I need you to believe me. I realize my . . . approach
makes me look like a bad guy. But I’m a highly trained American . . .
operative, and your life is in jeopardy.”

“An operative? You have to be kidding me. What is that supposed to mean? Like a spy?”

“Something like that.”

“This is crazy! You do know I’m a harmless egghead, right?
Not Bond, not Bourne—harmless egghead.”

“Take a right here,” said Quinn, gesturing at a wooden sign
that read St. Peter’s Episcopal Church
and a parking lot that was empty. “Pull behind the building,” he instructed,
“and kill the ignition.”

Rachel did as he asked.

“I’m going to join you in the front seat,” said Quinn. “Not
that riding around while kneeling in the back of your SUV isn’t totally normal,” he added wryly, “but being in
the passenger’s seat might raise fewer eyebrows. Not to mention making
conversation easier.”

The man continued to seem likable, but Rachel knew it could
all be an act.

“While I’m popping the hatch, please don’t try to run,” he
added. “I’m very fast, and I’d be forced to catch you—for your own good.”

Rachel thought about flight, but decided she wouldn’t have
much of a chance.

Quinn proceeded to join her in the front seat, carrying a
large gray rucksack that he placed on the floor before him, leaving barely
enough room for his feet.

“That’s better,” he said once he had belted in beside her,
placing the bag of Thai food on his lap.

She studied him further, and her instincts told her that she
wasn’t in danger. She had no idea if anything he said was true, but she sensed
he really didn’t wish her ill. And she knew better than anyone that her
instincts had a better chance of being accurate than her rational mind.

He lifted the bag of food and extended it toward her. “Go
ahead and eat before it gets cold. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“I’ll wait,” said Rachel.

“Why? I’ve already eaten, and you obviously haven’t. I
really didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.” He grinned. “Well, other than
popping out right after you bought it, and insisting that you not go home where
you were planning to eat it. Other than that.”

Rachel almost found herself smiling, but managed to maintain
a stern expression. She decided not to argue further. And she was starving.

“Are you a neuroscientist?” she asked after she had
swallowed her first bite.

“Not even close.”

Wow, she had been in the lab too long. Had she really taken
this intruder’s insistence that she eat her dinner as a sign he was familiar
with the Danziger study? She was truly losing it.

Years earlier, Shai Danziger had analyzed the rulings on
thousands of prisoners coming before parole boards, looking at which of them were
granted parole and which of them were not. After accounting for all other
factors she had found that it wasn’t age, looks, race, or nature of the crime
that was the best predictor of whether a prisoner would be granted parole. It
was the time of day of the hearing. If the hearing was just before lunch, when
the board members were hungry, prisoners had only a twenty percent chance of a
favorable outcome. If the hearing was just after
lunch, on the other hand, this rose dramatically, to sixty-five percent.

The judges were certain their states of hunger or satiety
had nothing to do with their purely rational, fact-based decisions, but the
data showed otherwise. It showed that this hidden influence was profound. Yet
another example of the consciousness being the last to know.

Rachel couldn’t believe she had overanalyzed things to this
degree. Of course this intruder wasn’t aware of the Danziger study. He still
might be trying to manipulate her, since everyone knew that people were
grumpier and less cooperative when they were starving, but it was more likely
he was just trying to be nice.

The man who claimed his name was Kevin Quinn listened to the
news on the car radio while Rachel wolfed down her food, and seemed to be
encouraged by what he heard. She was grateful he hadn’t attempted to make small
talk while she ate, which would have made the meal even more awkward.

She finished quickly, already feeling better.

“Do you prefer to be called Dr. Howard, or Professor
Howard?” asked Quinn while she was putting the last of the empty food
containers back into the paper bag.

“Just Rachel is fine,” she replied, not sure why she always
insisted on maintaining informality, regardless of the circumstances. Perhaps
in her formative years she had seen doctors and professors as old, stodgy
blowhards, or as intimidating elders.

Quinn was also surprised that she had offered up her first
name. “Okay . . . Rachel, please begin driving again,” he instructed. “Randomly.”
He shot her a sheepish smile. “Which means don’t continue on toward the police
station.”

She sighed. So much for that idea. “What made you think I
was headed there?”

“I mapped out its location before I hid in your car. You
were headed that way. I don’t blame you. It’s a smart move.” He made an
apologetic face. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to have to ask you
to toss your phone out of the window.”

“You can’t be serious?” she pleaded. “Please tell me this is
some kind of bad joke.”

Quinn winced. “All of your photos and data are in the
cloud,” he said. “And I’ll give you money for a new phone. When this is over,
you can just get a replacement and download your data—you won’t miss a beat.”

“But why?”

“I have a device that can check for bugs within a fifty-yard
radius. Your car is clean. But you can be tracked through your phone, so we
need to eliminate this as a possibility. While we’re driving, I’ll be checking
for a tail also.”

Rachel sensed that no amount of argument would dissuade him
from this course of action. Without another word she locked her phone and
handed it to him unhappily.

“Thank you,” he said as he sent the phone flying. “And I really
will pay for a replacement.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” said
Rachel as she pulled out onto the street. “You’ve said my life is in jeopardy. From
whom? And why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Tell you?” said
Rachel in disbelief. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Quinn studied her, as though trying to weigh her sincerity.

“Look, if you don’t know what this is about,” said Rachel, “then
why are you here? What makes you think I’m in danger in the first place?”

“I discovered that you’re at the top of a hit list. A list
made by a very dangerous man.”

This Quinn may have looked normal and seemed likable, but
even an inmate in an asylum could come up with a better answer than that. “And
you have no idea who this man is, or why he wants me dead?”

“None.”

“Whatever you think you’ve discovered, it must be some kind
of mistake.”

“No mistake. I learned about you after two mercenaries abducted
me. I was slated to eventually be killed myself, but I managed to turn the
tables. Turns out your bio was on their phones, and you were their next target.
Ordered by the man who hired them, a Russian. So this threat couldn’t be more
credible.”

Rachel barely avoided rolling her eyes, but Quinn picked up
on subtle body language clues, nonetheless, or perhaps even he knew that his
story was preposterous.

“I know how this sounds,” he said. “I’d have trouble
believing it myself if I were in your shoes. But this is what happened.” He
sighed, and there was something uncertain about his expression, despite these
words, that made Rachel wonder if he didn’t doubt his own sanity, at least a
little.

“Why did they abduct you?” she said. “Under what
circumstances? Who are you, really, and what is your background? You have to
give me something to go on.”

The intruder looked even more troubled. He paused in thought
for several long seconds. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know. But
before I’m completely honest with you, I want to have more of a dialog. I need
you to get comfortable that I don’t mean to hurt you. Because what I will tell
you is a little . . . tricky. Complex. So let’s begin by learning more about
you. First, are you telling me that you don’t even have a wild, far-fetched
idea as to why someone might want to kill you?”

“Not a single one,” she said emphatically. She thought about
this a little longer and shook her head. “I’m even nice to marketers who call
me during dinner to sell me aluminum siding.”

Quinn laughed. “Any chance you work on a secret government
team? Or consult for a Black Ops lab somewhere?”

“None,” said Rachel as she steered the Acura into the left
lane. “I’m just a harmless neuroscientist.”

“Okay, let’s start there. What is that? What do neuroscientists
do? Humor me. I have more than just academic interest. Something you tell me might
help me understand why you’re being targeted. After that, I have some questions
about memory. But first, tell me about neuroscience.”

She couldn’t see how a quick survey of her field would
help him determine why someone had it in for her, but she was prepared to humor
him for at least a little longer.

“You sure about this?” she asked. “Sure I won’t just
be boring you?”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” said Quinn with a
smile. “And between you and me, I could use a little boredom right now.” He raised
his eyebrows. “And how often will I have the chance to discuss a field with the
scientist who is widely regarded as the best the field has ever seen?”

“Well, if you
keep breaking into their cars and forcing them to drive around,” replied Rachel
Howard, smiling for the first time since Quinn had revealed himself, “I’d say
your chances were pretty good.”

24

Dmitri Kovonov expertly landed the white helicopter in a clearing
at the edge of a small mountain summit that mankind had forgotten. Kevin Quinn
had chosen well, he thought to himself.

He checked coordinates on his phone and exited the craft, a
2018 Robinson Turbine he had purchased just a week earlier when he had first
arrived in the States. He walked at a leisurely pace toward the shack he could
just make out in the distance, and then beyond, to the woods.

Kovonov missed being alone, and relished the opportunity
this stay in the United States was affording him. At his base of operations in
an industrial park in Switzerland—hiding in plain sight—he was now surrounded
by soldiers and scientists he had collected to his cause, many who worshiped
him like a god.

While there was comfort in being the queen bee at the center
of the hive, forcing anyone after his scalp to fight through a gauntlet of
warrior drones who would gladly sacrifice their lives to protect him, traveling
with a hive throughout the US wasn’t exactly the best way to avoid attracting
attention. And if he did decide he wanted one or more followers to join him on
one of his errands in the States, he could always have them meet him at any
location he chose.

But there was a greater efficiency in traveling alone, not
to mention that it took less mental energy not to have to interact with anyone
else for long stretches of time, even if only to bark orders at them.

Even with none of his team with him at the moment, his reach
remained formidable. He had established a network of mercenaries to work for
him in the States, which gave him all the resources he might need.

And while being alone was inarguably less safe for him, he
wasn’t worried. He could handle himself. Besides, he was at least three steps
ahead of anyone left who still opposed him, and these misguided souls would
either join him or be nullified as a threat soon enough. He was forced to
prioritize carefully and just hadn’t gotten around to converting or eliminating
all of his enemies just yet.

He was only one person, extraordinary though he might be,
and there was only so much even he
could accomplish in a given period of time. But it would all get done. One didn’t
dramatically change the world in a single day, although with his unprecedented
talents and capabilities the day of reckoning would arrive faster than anyone
would dare conceive.

Even as a scrawny nine-year-old boy growing up in the mean
streets of Moscow he had known he was destined for greatness, destined to
change the world. But even his prodigious genius, his unparalleled imagination,
was unable to conceive of just how profound this change would be.

Now, thirty years later, he
had grown into a tall, ruggedly handsome visionary with a classically Slavic
appearance: gray eyes, thin lips and eyebrows, and straight, ash brown hair.
And he possessed charisma and genius to spare.

He had already ensured his place in history. He would go
down as a man having a greater impact on civilization than Socrates, DaVinci, Newton,
or Einstein. But if he was successful in reaching his ambitious goals going
forward, he would soar even higher, accomplish even more. For many years,
despite his historic achievements, he had been held back from reaching his full
potential. By fear. By misguided empathy.

But no longer.

He had been soft and pathetic. But he had recently shed
these traits as completely as a snake shed its skin. To borrow a phrase from Christendom,
he had been blind, but now he could see. Everything. With incredible clarity.

He had had fantasies about what needed to be done, but he
had always held back. He had been a coward. Afraid to make the hard choices, caged
by a counterproductive set of ethics sewn into his psyche.

But now he understood. The ends really did justify the
means, no matter how devastating the means might be. Only the weak and unworthy
allowed themselves to be squeamish when the future of humanity was at stake.

He entered the thick woods and admired the beauty he found
there. The air was cool and fresh and he could hear the rustle of several small
animals rushing off through the undergrowth to get out of his way.

Always a good idea.

His immersion in the natural world was short-lived as he
came to his destination almost immediately. His two hired guns were each
hugging a tree, literally, five feet from each other, their wrists tied
together with plastic zip-ties and their mouths duct-taped shut. No doubt the
very same duct tape and zip-ties these men had brought with them, judging from
the empty trunk of the abandoned Tesla he had passed on his way here.

He had vetted these men himself, and both had come highly
recommended. But with their faces staring at a tree trunk and their arms
forming a circle around it, they looked like circus clowns.

“Hello, Captain Ridley,” said Kovonov with a sneer to the
taller of the two mercenaries, the man he had put in charge.

The Russian ripped the tape from Ridley’s mouth, not
bothering to warn him to tighten and curl his lips, although he noted absently
that Ridley’s lips were not torn and bleeding, so he must have remembered to do
so. “You want to tell me what happened here?”

Ridley turned his head to eye the newcomer, having to press
his right cheek into the tree trunk to do so. “I’ll save my report for 302.”

Kovonov shook his head in disgust. “I am 302, you idiot!”

Ridley swallowed hard, and his pony-tailed partner, RJ,
still silenced by duct tape, suddenly looked a bit pallid. Relief at the
arrival of a rescuer had turned to abject fear.

“You knew something was wrong when we failed to check in as
scheduled,” said Ridley. “But how did you know where we were in the woods? And
how did you know Quinn hadn’t staged an ambush?”

“I tracked your phones,” replied Kovonov simply.

Once Quinn had been captured he had stopped monitoring his
fly drone, and had put it into an autonomous, low-energy mode.  He was too busy for constant control and
monitoring, and had assumed the situation was well in hand, had assumed he
would retrieve it when he arrived. And now he wasn’t receiving a signal from it
at all.

When he had tracked Ridley’s phone he found it was over a
hundred miles away and on the move, while RJ’s phone had remained here near the
hand off coordinates, motionless. It didn’t take a detective to know that Quinn
had slipped the noose and taken Ridley’s phone. When RJ hadn’t answered Kovonov’s
attempted call, he had further assumed his two hired hands were both dead.

But he had been wrong. Quinn had been too soft to make what
he surely must have known was the right move. When being hunted, a scorched
earth approach was the only way. You didn’t send a player to the penalty box.
You destroyed him utterly.

Quinn was a fool.

“You tracked our phones?” repeated Ridley in disbelief.

“Am I going to have to say everything twice?”

“But that isn’t possible. These phones are absolutely untraceable.”

“I’m sure they are. To everyone but me.”

Anger flashed across Ridley’s face for just a moment.

“Unhappy that I didn’t tell you I could track you?” asked
Kovonov. “Feeling violated?”

“Not at all,” lied Ridley.

“Good thing I could, right? Otherwise you idiots would rot
out here. And I’d have lost Quinn. As it is, he’ll be as surprised that I can
track your phone as you were.”

Kovonov paused, and the icy smile he had been wearing vanished.
He shook his head in disgust. “So tell me how he managed to escape.”

Ridley did so without interruption. Kovonov couldn’t help
but be impressed. Bound hand and foot, outgunned, Quinn had escaped using his
fingernails and a bluff. What guile and resourcefulness. These were traits the
man was known for, but his failure to kill Davinroy and his refusal to kill the
two mercs was pathetic. A reminder of
how detestable the man really was.

“Look,” pleaded Ridley when he had finished his report, “tell
us where Quinn is and we’ll make this right. No charge. We’ll throw in the next
job free of charge as well,” he added, his voice as strained as if his life
were on the line, which he somehow sensed it was.

Ridley’s partner was unable to speak but nodded his head vigorously
up and down in agreement.

“That’s a very gracious offer,” said Kovonov
tiredly, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. It’s like telling a restaurant you
hate their food, and then having them offer your next meal free to make up for
it. If you aren’t satisfied with the food, more of it for free doesn’t help.
Surely you can appreciate my perspective.”

He calmly removed an H&K 9mm handgun from a holster
while Ridley pressed his cheek even harder into the bark of the tree to extend
his field of vision.

“Don’t do this,” whispered Ridley. “We’re pros. We screwed
up this time, but it won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t,” said Kovonov calmly, pulling the trigger
four times, drilling two holes in each of the mercenaries’ heads, carefully
choosing angles to spare any damage to the trees, which had done nothing wrong.

“You don’t deserve to be alive,” he mumbled to the now
deceased men as blood began running down their bodies and to the forest floor. “Quinn
should have killed you before I arrived.”

He wet his finger with each man’s blood in turn and used it
as a stylus, writing a large red F on each man’s cheek. F for failure. F for
fuck-up.

The Secret Service agent had indeed chosen his hideout well,
and Kovonov wondered how many months or years it might be until the remains of
these men were discovered, by that time nothing but polished white skeletons,
picked clean by nature.

Given Quinn’s current location, the man must be paying a
visit to Rachel Howard. It was the only conclusion possible. He hadn’t even
bothered to ask Ridley if Quinn had learned she was their next target, as the
answer was obvious.

Kovonov tilted his head in thought. Should he rethink his
strategy? Should he now try to take them both
alive?

Was using Rachel
Howard a better choice than killing her?

After all, her mind was a treasure. Not just for what she
knew, but what she had forgotten—for her rich experience. She was a proven genius
whose creativity was boundless. Putting a saddle on this thoroughbred was
tempting, no doubt about it. And she was attractive enough to screw, which was
always a plus in his book—not that he didn’t already have access to all the sex
he could ever want.

But once again, his intuition warned him this would be a
mistake. Better to just put her down, take her off the board. He continued to
have a strong sense that Rachel Howard would prove difficult to tame, and alive
she posed a danger to him like no other. Why take any chances?

He would need to scramble two other hired hands for the job,
but he had resources to spare. With Quinn in the picture, his new team would
need to proceed with caution, with a healthy respect for Quinn’s capabilities.

But given the element of surprise this shouldn’t be a
problem.

Quinn’s escape had been a setback, but a minor one in the
scheme of things. The truth was that he didn’t really need to acquire Quinn. Killing Rachel Howard was the more important
task, and even this was just a precaution. Even if she were never touched, his
plan would almost certainly succeed.

But he did hate loose ends, and why allow even the possibility
of a fly in the ointment? He could continue pursuing his plan without
interruption, while others focused on these minor inconveniences.

Kovonov thought for a moment longer, selected a contact from
his phone, and brought the device to his ear. One quick call and he could get his
ship precisely back on course.

25

Rachel was proud of her ability to summarize and simplify
her field, but she wondered how fast the intruder was on the uptake. And she
would just be scratching the surface, no matter what she did.

Einstein had famously said, “If you can’t explain it simply,
you don’t understand it well enough.” On the other hand, Einstein had never
suggested that the explanation of millions of pages of research produced over
more than a century could be done through a brief discussion in a moving car.

“Neuroscience is the study of the structure and function of
the nervous system and brain,” began the chair of Harvard’s neuroscience
department as she drove randomly through the streets of Waltham, Massachusetts.
“At least that’s the dictionary definition. But this doesn’t do it justice.
It’s really about understanding what makes us tick. What drives human beings?
What drives behavior? How much of our decision-making is based on emotion, and
how much on reason? Can we cure neurologic disease? Improve upon the human
condition? And what improvements should
we make, provided that we’re able?”

Rachel paused to let these questions sink in. “And even more
fundamentally,” she continued, “do we have a soul? Is consciousness divine,
special, miraculous? Or is consciousness something we might someday replicate
in every respect with the right bits of matter arranged in just the right way?”

Quinn raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?” he asked with genuine
interest. “Do we have a soul?”

“I’m not sure. On the face of it, it seems clear that
we don’t. That everything we are emerges from the physical properties of the
brain. Not that I’m suggesting this rules out the existence of a soul entirely,
mind you, just that it makes this a more difficult position to take. But what is absolutely clear is that damage to
different regions of the brain can cause dramatic and insanely specific changes
to your personality, behavior, abilities, and desires. Can change who you are.”

“But not everything
is changeable, right?”

“Just about,” said Rachel. “There are changes that can
impact whether you are aggressive or pacifistic, outgoing or introverted.
Changes that can cause a disregard for social norms, impulsive behavior,
hypersexuality, and increases in risky behavior. Changes in your level of spirituality,
or even the ability to name animals or hear music.”

“That does seem pretty comprehensive,” said Quinn.

“And we’re all aware of how dramatically our personalities
and perceptions can be altered by drugs and alcohol. And not just LSD and other
banned substances. Think of all the prescription drugs that change our
personalities and behaviors. Drugs used to treat psychosis, anxiety,
depression, hyperactivity and other conditions. All can change the you that your friends have come to know
and love.”

The light turned green and Rachel inched forward
before making a right turn. Given it was early evening on a Monday night, the
streets were as sparsely traveled as she would have expected.

She glanced at her passenger, and then chastised
herself for even momentarily thinking of him as a passenger rather than what he
was: a dangerous intruder. Even so, the man did appear to be genuinely
fascinated and eager to learn more.

“Let me give you a concrete example,” she continued. “It
involves a boring guy named Charles Whitman. Bank Teller and former Eagle
Scout. By all accounts he was a model citizen. But in 1966, this former Eagle
Scout climbed to the top of the University of Texas Tower in Austin and opened
fire. Before he was shot by police, he had killed thirteen people and wounded
thirty-three.”

She paused. “Not what one would expect from his
background, is it? Authorities found a suicide note in his home. In it, Whitman
said he had recently been having irrational and unusual thoughts. He requested
that an autopsy be performed on him to see if something had changed in his
brain.”

“Let me guess. It had.”

“Turns out he had a tumor pressing against a region of
the brain called the amygdala. This is an almond-shaped set of neurons involved
in emotional regulation, especially fear and aggression.”

Quinn nodded in understanding, but she wondered if he
was truly grasping both points she was trying to make. Not only that a change
to the physical brain could instantly transform a man from good to what was
traditionally called evil, but that the conscious mind was severely influenced
by, and seemingly powerless to stop, a region of the brain whose motivations
were hidden from it.

“I’ll give you a second example,” continued Rachel. “In
the early 2000s, a forty-year-old Virginia teacher suddenly became obsessed
with child pornography, and even tried to molest his eight-year-old
stepdaughter. Until this point he had been strictly interested in adult females.”

“Another tumor?” guessed Quinn uncertainly.

“Very good. That’s right. This time in his
orbitofrontal cortex. When the neurosurgeons removed it, the man’s sexual appetite
returned to normal.” She raised her eyebrows. “But six months later, the
pedophilic behavior returned.”

Quinn tilted his head in thought. “Had the tumor grown
back?” he asked.

Rachel was impressed despite herself. She had told
this story many times, and few had jumped to this conclusion, however obvious it
was in retrospect. “Yes. Exactly. They excised it once again, and once again
his interest in young girls disappeared.”

“Jesus,”
said Quinn. “That is so creepy. So specific a change in behavior.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow. I’d have to think about what these cases imply a
lot harder, but they do seem to make your point. Like you said, if we do have
free will, if we do have a soul, at the very least it can be subverted pretty
easily by physical changes to our brains.”

“Pretty sobering, isn’t it? And we think we’re in
control when much of the time we’re not. Unconscious subroutines, seared into
our brains, are calling a lot of the shots, and then we’re expert at taking
credit after the fact.”

“But you said you couldn’t rule out a soul. Given what
you’ve just told me, why can’t you? You’ve demonstrated that the you inside is totally dependent on the
physical state of your brain. So how can consciousness be divine, or miraculous? Seems like consciousness,
and the soul if you’d like, could be recreated by using wires and switches to
duplicate the exact functionality of the human brain.”

“Well said,” she replied, impressed with his grasp of the
material. If he ever got tired of abducting women, he should really consider a
career in neuroscience. “I can’t rule out divine consciousness because while
scientists think they’re zeroing in on what makes us tick, there are those who
argue there is far more to the system than meets the eye. Let me give you an
example involving a transistor radio.”

“Do they even make those anymore?” said Quinn.

Rachel smiled. “No, but it’s still a good example.”

She organized her thoughts. “Imagine you’re a Kalahari
Bushman who finds a radio,” she began. “As you’re messing around with it, sound
suddenly emerges from inside. Voices, music, intelligent conversation, all
streaming from this mysterious little box. If you’re a Bushman scientist, you’d
open the box and begin to study the insides. You might find that if you pull a
wire from its contact the voices stop, or maybe they get softer. You put it
back and the voices return to normal. Soon you’d discover what we’ve discovered about the brain, that a
huge number of changes to the wiring will have a major impact on what comes out
of the other end.”

“I’m with you so far,” said Quinn.

“Good. So what if someone asked you how these bright plastic wires are able
to produce music and voices? You wouldn’t know, but you’d be confident you were
getting close to understanding.”

Rachel shook her head vigorously. “But you aren’t. Nowhere near. Because you can’t
possibly imagine that what you’re hearing has nothing to do with the wires,
nothing to do even with the radio. You’d never even dream that this content is
generated by a transmission tower hundreds of miles away beaming out powerful
radio waves. If someone suggested this was the case, you’d be sure they were
insane. ‘It’s all about these invisible waves,’ they would tell you. ‘You can’t
see, taste, or feel them, but they’re racing through your body even now, fast
enough to circle the globe seven times in a single second. And these invisible waves are carrying the voices
and music, not the wires.’”

“When you say it that way,” said Quinn, “I’m not even sure
that I believe it.”

“Exactly. And the Bushman scientist lives in a world
with no technology whatsoever. He’d never be able to guess this truth in a
thousand lifetimes. He would never believe that while the radio’s wires need to
be configured just right to pick up the voices, the content of the voices has
absolutely nothing to do with the configuration of the wires.”

“Now that is
a fascinating analogy,” said Quinn.

“The moral of the story, of course, is that while many
of us believe that consciousness, the soul, and everything else resides in our neuronal
wiring, there could well be far more to it than we’re even capable of imagining.”

She let Quinn digest this for a moment and then said,
“But I brought up the soul just as an interesting side discussion. To really
give you a sense of what neuroscience has learned, I  should start at the beginning.”

“By all means,” said Quinn.

“Let’s compare human beings and
animals. Animals are born pretty much complete and ready to go, with instincts
and behavior already wired up in their brains. A baby zebra can run less than
an hour after birth. Many animal species don’t tend to their young at all,
they’re born with all the physical skills and behaviors they need to survive.”

Rachel paused. “In contrast,
human infants are as helpless as it’s possible to be. We’re born with our
brains largely unfinished. Which isn’t to say we aren’t prewired to some
extent.”

“How so?”

“Within minutes of birth a baby
knows to seek out a face. We’re prewired for language acquisition, math, fear
of heights, suckling, and so on. But instead of wiring up in the womb, babies
mostly wire up through exposure to their environment. Which makes us flexible,
versatile, able to readily learn new tricks. Instead of being hardwired, we’re
more like live-wired. Millions of new synapses form in an infant’s brain every
second.”

“Not sure I totally get how the
environment impacts this wiring,” said Quinn.

“Well, an easy example is
language. If you’re born in Japan, your brain gets wired up to understand
Japanese. In America, to understand English. You become better able to hear the
sounds of your language, and less able to hear the sounds of other languages.
Through time, a baby raised in Japan will no longer be able to hear the
difference between the sounds of R and L, since these sounds aren’t distinct in
the Japanese language.”

“I thought they just couldn’t
get their mouths to form these sounds.”

“That too. But they aren’t even
wired to hear them. Just like those
who are red-green colorblind can’t detect any difference between these two
colors.”

Rachel stopped at a red light
and turned to face the man sitting beside her. “But the point I’m trying to
make is that we’re born unfinished, to maximize versatility. You can’t teach an
animal to excel at tennis, play chess, do the backstroke, play a piano, touch
type, or solve a Rubik’s cube. For each of these skills, the human brain
creates unconscious subroutines. Burns the proper circuits into our brains. When
you have to do an activity consciously, you are slow and inefficient. Unconscious
subroutines programmed in are just the opposite, fast and efficient. But in many
cases, learned activities that become part of your unconscious wiring can no
longer be accessed by your conscious mind.”

She studied Quinn’s face for just
a moment longer before turning her attention back to the road. “You just spoke
of the process you use to make sounds in a language. If you were to try to consciously
move your lips and tongue to form each sound you make when you speak a
sentence, you’d find you couldn’t do it. Thankfully, the proper subroutines are
burned into your brain, freeing you up to concentrate on what you’re saying. But
go ahead. Without moving your lips or tongue, try to visualize the ballet of
movements your mouth would need to make to say the word, oblique. Or petulant. Or
any other word for that matter.”

“No need,” said Quinn. “If you
say I can’t do it, I believe you.”

“Conscious meddling with our
unconscious subroutines actually makes things worse, not better. When you’re
really great at a sport, for example, you perform better if you don’t
consciously think about what you’re doing.”

Quinn nodded. “Fascinating. When
a basketball player can’t miss a shot, or a tennis player is hitting every
line, the athlete is often said to be playing unconscious. I always thought this was just a figure of speech.”

Rachel smiled. “Not so much,” she said. “So our efficient
systems let our inefficient consciousness believe it’s always in control,” she
continued, “when the reverse is more often the case. The unconscious controls our
bodies and the random thoughts we have, and far more of our lives than we’d ever
imagine. I’ve studied the mind for many years and I still can’t truly believe
how little the conscious me controls
my thoughts and actions. That’s the genius of the unconscious. It helps us
survive, secretly running much of the show, but graciously letting us take most
of the credit. Take taste in women, for example. Some men are hopelessly
attracted to tall blondes. Some to women who are overweight. Some to big rear
ends, some to small. And some are even attracted to one-legged aborigines, for
all I know.”

Quinn laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“Most would agree that we don’t choose who we are attracted
to. This is somehow decided by brain circuitry that we can’t access. We don’t
consciously decide we’re going to have the hots for one-legged aborigines.”

Rachel was intent on keeping the discussion G-rated, but an
even more interesting example was the catalog of what certain people liked in
bed, an assortment of sexual preferences across the species that was
exceedingly varied and sometimes disturbing. This made the point also—people
often had no idea why they liked what they liked, why their bodies responded to
what they responded to—but she had decided that discussing unusual sexual
preferences with a stranger who had accosted her was a very bad idea.

“In 1965 a guy named Hess did an experiment,” she continued.
“He showed men various photos of women. But in half of the photos, he
artificially dilated their eyes, which is a biological sign of sexual arousal.
The men ranked women whose eyes were dilated as being more attractive than these
same women when their eyes were not. When
asked why, not one noticed this difference in the eyes, minor as it was. At
least not consciously. When asked specifically if their ratings were due to
levels of dilation, the men shrugged this off as being ridiculous. They weren’t
even aware that this was a sign of female arousal. Their unconscious not only
detected this difference, but managed to get their conscious to respond to it.
None had any idea that genetic programming stitched into their brains from the earliest
days of evolution was secretly dictating this response.”

“Doesn’t this imply that
intuition is a real thing, then?” asked Quinn. “My instincts, my intuition,
have saved my life on more than one occasion. But I was always under the
impression that scientists thought this was a load of garbage.”

“Just the opposite. Your
unconscious systems can be brilliant, far smarter and more observant than you
are. Like directing your mouth to form words, your unconscious understands body
language better than you do, for example. And it picks up on patterns faster
than you do. There are endless examples from real life and the lab.”

“This explains a lot,” said
Quinn. “So I might not be all that talented, but I’m lucky enough to have some
gifted subroutines helping me out behind the curtain.”

“Give your conscious some
credit. You’re smart enough to trust these subroutines. They aren’t always
right, of course, but more often than you would be. When you first appeared, I
had to decide what to do. I could run, scream for help, be defiant, cooperate,
and so on. And yes, I consciously thought through the logic of the different
actions. But what were my data points? Feelings? Intuition? My hidden mental
wiring tried to read your body language, estimate risks based on limited
information. If you asked me why I decided to cooperate, what could I tell you?
Could I lay out an algebraic equation? No, my inner self weighed all of the
options and came to a decision, which I immediately took credit for.”

“You made the right one,
Professor,” said Quinn. “I promise you.”

Rachel sighed. That remained to
be seen.

She noticed that Quinn was
scanning her mirrors whenever there was the slightest break in the
conversation, studying the cars behind them.

“All of this is not to say that
the conscious mind still doesn’t have a huge role,” she continued. “For one,
it’s there to handle surprises, the unexpected. Right now, my consciousness is
absorbed in our conversation. So I’m driving on autopilot, using subroutines
etched into my unconscious. But if a kid suddenly runs into the road in front
of me, my conscious mind will immediately take over, ignoring you completely.”
She paused. “And, of course, it sets goals and makes decisions.”

“But you’re saying that even
these goals and decisions are heavily influenced by the unconscious. Which we
can’t reach or influence.”

“Yes,” said Rachel, unable to
keep a smile from creeping across her face. Quinn made an excellent student.
“Think of your conscious as the mayor of a major city. An immense amount of
activity and politicking go on in the city, and you can’t possibly be aware of
the vast majority of it. The city mostly runs itself, although as mayor, you
take credit when things go smoothly and get blamed when they fall apart—although many times you have nothing
to do with either outcome. Your unconscious subsystems are what have been
called a team of rivals, each lobbying you in a different direction whenever
you have to make a decision, winner take all. But again, even when they drive
you to a behavior for reasons unknown to you, your conscious self will make up
a story to rationalize this behavior and take full credit for it.”

“What role do our emotions play
in all of this?” asked Quinn.

“They’re important drivers of
behavior also, with fear and love being obvious examples, causing us to drop
everything and attend to whatever caused these emotions. But there are people with
damage to their prefrontal cortex such that their emotions can no longer influence
their behavior. When this happens, the simplest decisions become difficult or
impossible for them. What to make for dinner? Which movie to see? Some days
they never leave the couch, almost entirely paralyzed, unable to decide on
anything. They feel overwhelmed by information they can’t seem to prioritize. They
often can’t make themselves care about one decision over another. So emotions
are a weighting system for our choices. To make a decision, we have to value
one choice over another.”

“You really are doing an amazing
job of this,” said Quinn. “Even under duress, your knowledge and passion really
shine through.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to take a pause right
now, though,” said Quinn. “Please drive home. I’m convinced no one is following
us, which is good. So now I’d like to check out your house, and make sure it’s
safe. But I need to focus all of my attention on watching for possible tails
until we arrive.”

“Sure,” said Rachel, pulling
into the left lane so she could take the next U-turn. Since she had been
traveling in random circles, they were only five or ten minutes from their
destination.

They drove in silence while
Quinn’s eyes bored holes in the Acura’s mirrors. When they neared her house, he
had her complete several concentric circles around the neighborhood before
declaring that the coast was clear.

“Outstanding,” he said. “No tail
and no stake out. I expected you to be safe and unwatched for another day or
so, but under the circumstances I wanted to be extra cautious.”

Rachel pulled the car into the
driveway and turned off the engine.

“I’d like to pick up where we
left off,” said Quinn. “And I promise you, I will explain everything. Soon.” He
paused. “But one last precaution. When we get inside, stay with me and don’t
say anything.” He nodded at the rucksack by his feet. “I just want to do a
quick scan. My understanding is that your house isn’t bugged, but better safe
than sorry.”

Rachel nodded, but couldn’t help
frowning. Because the truth was, this further display of paranoia was alarming.
The more cautious Quinn was, the more likely he was delusional and dangerous,
and the less safe she felt.

“Sure,” she said, swallowing
hard. “You can never be too careful.”

26

Quinn shoved his doctored hat
and oversized sunglasses into a side pocket of the rucksack and entered Rachel
Howard’s small home with the owner leading the way. Her research might be
leading edge, but the house was many decades old and the furnishings and decor were
anything but modern. On the other hand, they were tasteful and attractive. He
knew the joke in real estate was that a home was never cramped and old, it was cozy and quaint, but in the case of Rachel’s home these more complimentary adjectives
were accurate.

Quinn’s plan had been to build
rapport with the professor, and he knew that this was exactly what was
happening. She had turned out to be extraordinary, and not in the ways he had
expected. Of course she was brilliant, but he hadn’t counted on her charm, her
approachability. He had no idea that he would find her personality appealing,
that she could make neuroscience so damned fascinating.

He still needed to keep her
calm, to win her trust, knowing that even then it would take a miracle for her
to believe him when he finally told her his story. He imagined the conversation
they would soon have. Here is why you
should believe me when I tell you you’re on a hit list, he would say. Turns out I’m a Secret Service agent being hunted for trying to kill the
president. But I did have a good reason. You see, he tortured and killed a wife
I never had. In front of me. While we were both at a retreat I never attended.

Nothing alarming in that story.

He had been procrastinating, but
he knew he needed to share his side of the story with her soon, before it hit
the media. Once they set the narrative, she was even less likely to believe
what he told her.

Before admitting to having false
memories, Quinn intended to discuss the subject of memory in general with a
woman who was a world leading expert on this subject. Learn how often something
like this might happen. What could cause it. Was it always a sign of insanity,
or did this kind of memory malfunction sometimes occur in the sane?

He removed the small electronic
surveillance detection device from where he had left it on top of the weapons
and other equipment in the mercenaries’ bag and casually switched it on.

Quinn’s body visibly stiffened,
transforming from relaxed to tense in an instant. His eyes widened as he stared
at the device in his right hand.

“What’s wrong?” said Rachel anxiously.

He brought a finger briskly to
his lips, reminding her she was supposed to remain silent until he was finished.
Three bugs detected, he mouthed.

Quinn’s mind raced. How could
this be? He had seen the Russian’s instructions himself, and no bugs should
have been present. Had the mercs escaped already, or had 302 decided to change
gears and send in someone else while they had been babysitting him on the
mountain?

And even if he had decided to
accelerate the timetable, why the need for bugs? They wanted her dead, not a recording
of her singing in the shower.

Regardless of the answer to
these questions, they were in trouble. He had been seen with the professor the
moment they had entered, which meant a clock was ticking. They could have a day
before alarms were sounded and the walls closed in, or hostiles could be
converging on her home in minutes. It all depended on who was at the other end
of the bugs, and how closely they were being monitored.

He considered having Rachel
watch the outside for possible unwanted visitors while he removed the bugs, but
decided against it. If he let her that far out of his sight, she’d be a fool
not to run at this point, and she was anything but a fool.

He motioned for her to follow
him while he located the first bug, which jutted out just a few millimeters
from a spindle on the stairs that faced the front door. It had been painted white
to match the wood and cemented nearly flush with it, making it almost
impossible for a casual observer to detect. Quinn carved it free with a combat
knife while Rachel looked on in dismay. He pried the tiny device open with the
tip of the knife and then used the edge to sever three wires that were the
diameter of angel hair pasta.

Quinn handed the disabled device
to Rachel so she could see for herself that it was tiny, sophisticated, and
camouflaged. He took satisfaction from the play of emotions that ran across her
face, and a mind that was factoring in this new data at a furious pace. She had
humored him, but had never taken his warnings seriously. For the first time she
was beginning to appreciate that he might not be the most dangerous threat she
faced, after all.

Ironically, these bugs and what
they represented could be a godsend. Not only did their presence here imply
that Quinn really did still have a grip on reality—if one didn’t count his imaginary
wife—it gave him much-needed credibility with Rachel.

“Audio and video,” he
half-mouthed, half-whispered, placing his face inches from her ear. “Military
grade,” he finished, motioning her to follow him.

During the next several minutes
he found and disabled the remaining devices planted on the premises.

“Okay, we can talk now,” he announced
when he had killed the last bug. He shook his head. “I have to say, I’m at a
loss to explain this.”

“You did say someone was after
me, right?”

“Yes. But you weren’t supposed
to be under surveillance. Why bother? You advertise your whereabouts and you’re
as easy a target as it gets.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “Thanks,”
she muttered.

Quinn winced. Nothing like
reminding a woman who suddenly discovers her life really is on the line that
she’s a sitting duck.

“What now?” asked Rachel.

“We need to get the hell out of
here. But I need to think for a few seconds.”

The room fell silent. A moment
later something within Quinn caused the hairs to rise on the back of his neck.
Had he heard something? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t about to ignore
attempts by his unconscious to contact headquarters.

He rushed to the wide,
rectangular front window in the family room, which was completely obscured by a
pleated teal curtain. He pulled an edge of the curtain away and peered out.
Sure enough, a car was slowly approaching from the north.

Rachel had taken his lead and
was peering through the window on the other side when the car turned into her driveway
and parked beside the Acura. While darkness had fallen, there was sufficient
light inside the car for Quinn to see it contained only the driver, a handsome,
athletic-looking man with black hair and a dark complexion.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “I know
this guy,” she whispered in astonishment. “Just met him this morning in my
class. He’s an Israeli grad student named Eyal Regev. Very talented guy.”

Her initial relief that the
driver had turned out to be a student and not an assassin was short-lived as her
expression turned grim. “What are the chances this is just a coincidence?”

“Slim to none,” replied Quinn
ominously as a gun appeared in his hand, almost as if by magic. “And that might
be optimistic.”

27

Quinn made sure the opening in
the curtain they were peering through was even less conspicuous than before. “Any
reason for a student to track you down at home?” he asked hurriedly as the man
exited the car and shut the door loudly.

“No,” said Rachel. “But he
doesn’t have a gun or anything,” she noted hopefully as he walked casually
toward the door.

They both pulled their heads
back from the living room window as Regev rapped loudly on the front door, which
was in the next room over. Quinn caught Rachel’s eye and shook his head,
letting her know not to answer.

Quinn couldn’t imagine that this
man’s appearance minutes after they had arrived and disabled the bugs could be
random, despite the visit coming even sooner than he had expected. He had to
assume Regev was working for 302. But if he was here to kill Rachel, why such a
noisy approach? Why announce his presence?

If Quinn wasn’t with her, hadn’t
warned her, this would have worked. She’d be unclear why a student was visiting
her at home, but she’d invite him in, and he could dispatch her at his leisure.
He’d leave no witnesses and attract no undue attention.

But surely Regev must know the video
and audio feed had been disrupted, and had viewed the footage to see who was
responsible. Surely he now knew that a competent player was on the scene, and
Rachel would never fall for his obvious ruse.

Regev rapped sharply and
repeatedly on the door a second time, underscoring his clumsy approach. For the
Israeli to be proceeding this way he had to be a rank amateur.

Or a true professional, thought Quinn in alarm.

Regev was a decoy, he realized. He was being loud on purpose to distract them from
the real danger. Quinn could see it in his mind’s eye, a second man breaking in
through the back door, masking the noise by timing it to his partner’s raps on
the door.

Quinn tackled Rachel and drove
her to the carpeting even before the logic of this realization had fully played
out. She gasped in shock as he rolled off her body and came up firing, piercing
the chest of the man who was just then entering the room from the back end, a
moment before the intruder could squeeze off his own shot.

The instant Regev heard gunfire
he dropped the innocent visitor act and shot at the door lock. Quinn jumped to
his feet and ran into the next room, to the front door, staying out of the line
of fire and waiting for Regev to burst through.

Only this never happened. The
shots at the door were another decoy. Regev had doubled back to the front window.
He shattered the glass with a single bullet and dived through into the teal
curtain. He extricated himself from the fabric in record time and began to
raise a gun while Quinn rushed back into the living room.

Rachel was between Quinn and the
assassin, but Quinn was forced to risk a shot to have any chance of saving her
life. The shot streaked by the Harvard professor, missing her by less than an
inch, and hit Regev in the chest, leaving a red bloom on his shirt. The force
of the shot slammed the Israeli’s head into the hard window frame. Small shards
of glass cut his head and face as he tumbled backwards out of the window and fell
several feet onto a bed of tulips.

Despite the darkness outside,
Quinn was able to verify that the man wasn’t moving. He raced to the back of
the house with his gun at the ready. It appeared that the strike force had
consisted of only two men, whom Quinn had taken out, but it paid to be sure. He
made his way quickly but cautiously through the rest of the house and minutes
later was satisfied that they were clear, at least for now.

Rachel Howard was stunned. Tears
streamed down her face as she stared in horror at the dead body in her living
room, the first man Quinn had shot. Gorge rose in her throat but she was
paralyzed and unable to look away.

“Come on!” shouted Quinn,
knowing he had to snap her out of it. “We have to go! Now!”

Rachel finally turned away from
the corpse and life began to return to her eyes. “Where?” she mumbled weakly.

“I don’t know. But your neighbor
must have heard the shots and is calling the cops, so we can’t stay.”

Rachel shook her head, still
more zombie than human. “She’s not home,” she whispered. “On vacation. I’m
putting out food for her cat until Monday.”

They still had to move, pronto,
but Quinn knew this was the exact break they needed. He had been having nothing
but bad luck lately, so maybe it was about time for the universe to balance the
scales. “I assume you believe me now that someone wants you dead?”

Rachel looked ill but managed to
nod.

“Do you trust that I’m here to
help you?”

She glanced back and forth between
Quinn and the body on her carpet. “Yes.”

“Then do exactly what I tell
you. Go to your neighbor’s house and sit tight. Don’t do anything to advertise
your presence. Don’t make any calls, don’t do anything. When the cops come pounding on the door, looking for
witnesses, don’t answer.”

“You aren’t going to stay with
me?”

“I need to lead the search away
from here,” he replied. “I’ll take your car somewhere else and work my way back
to your neighbor’s house some other way. Give me an hour or so. When you hear
me knock, let me in. I’ll knock three times. Then one time. Then four times.
That’ll be me.”

“You chose Pi as your secret code?” she said. “Really?”

Quinn smiled. “Well, not all of it,” he replied in amusement.
“Just the first three digits. Since you’re a scientist, I thought you’d like
that.”

Rachel nodded and blew out a
long breath. “Hurry back,” she said grimly.

28

Quinn drove as calmly as he
could away from Rachel’s house, removing the black baseball hat from the
rucksack beside him and placing it on his head. He parked six blocks from the
Waltham train station. He didn’t know if this ruse would work again, assuming
it had worked when he had tried it in Trenton, but it was worth a shot.

He had a cab pick him up a mile
from the station and drop him off several blocks away from the Thai restaurant
at which he had intercepted Rachel. The stolen Ford Fusion was still in the
lot. He drove to Rachel’s neighborhood and parked four blocks from her house,
making his way toward it cautiously on foot, invisible in the darkness, carrying
the heavy gray rucksack with him.

Homes appeared only
sporadically, the acres of distance between them the principal advantage of
buying in a part of town that time had forgotten rather than buying a more
modern tract home, larger but wedged together with others in tight bunches.

He had expected to see three or
four police cars in front of Rachel’s home, blue and red lights carving up the
night, but there were none. Her residence abutted a wooded hill on one side, leaving
her only a single neighbor forty yards away, but he thought it likely the sound
would have carried to at least a few other houses in the distance.

Just then he realized Regev’s
car was no longer in the driveway.

What in the world?

He returned to her home as stealthily
as he could and investigated.

The bodies were both gone.

Someone must have been waiting
for confirmation of the kill. When it wasn’t received, they had managed to
clean up after themselves already. Quinn
swallowed hard. What was he up against here?

The good news was that whoever
had retrieved the bodies had left, having no idea that their target was only
forty yards away. As scary as their competence was, this was at least reassuring.

He made his way to the
neighbor’s house and rapped out 3-1-4 on the door. Rachel was relieved to see
him, and handed him a hot mug of cocoa she had prepared for his return before
leading him into the basement. The glazed look in her eyes had disappeared and
she seemed to have recovered.

The neighbor, a retired schoolteacher
named Debbie Steele, had done a beautiful job converting the basement into a
much larger family room. The entire floor was covered in thick-pile beige
carpeting and a steel basement pole had been painted a pleasant white. Two
identical blue couches faced one another, each made of a comfortable fabric,
and each with a skirt that hung down from the bottom of the couch to the floor
to give it a more cozy look. Four throw pillows, two pink and two light blue,
adorned each couch, with short oak tables positioned at the ends of each. A
holographic television was set within a bookshelf that harbored photographs in wrought
iron frames along with various knickknacks.

Quinn and Rachel settled in on
opposite couches, facing each other, while Quinn described how someone had
cleaned up after themselves at her house.

“So what else do you know about
this Israeli?” he asked. “This Emil Regev?”

“Eyal,” she corrected. “Eyal
Regev. There’s not much to tell. He showed up in my graduate class this
morning. A transfer from Johns Hopkins. Speaks great English.” Rachel paused
for a moment and her face fell. “Well, I guess I should use the past tense. He spoke great English.”

Quinn watched as she visibly
struggled to suppress the visceral memories of the gun battle and deaths and
remain dispassionate.

“He was tall and well built,” she
continued finally, composed and relatively upbeat once again. “And permanently
tanned. Very bright and thoughtful.”

“And an imposter. Not to mention
a killer.”

Debbie Steele’s cat, a beautiful
white Turkish Angora named Duke, had settled in next to Rachel Howard and
seemed to be as engaged in the conversation as she was.

“He stayed for a few minutes
after class to chat. The first two lectures in this course are big picture
discussions. We don’t really drill down to the neuronal or molecular level, nor
talk about specifics in the field. But when we spoke after class, he seemed
knowledgeable. Training a guy like that to fool someone like me for even a few
minutes is impressive.”

“Anything else you can remember
about him?”

“Not much. Just that I really
liked him. He had a lot of positive qualities. He had this air of confidence, a
great intellect, and a great sense of
humor. He only had one tiny flaw as far as I can tell.”

“What’s that?”

“He tried to kill me!” she said emphatically, but with a smile to
indicate she had set Quinn up for this. “This is the sort of thing that can
make you reevaluate your opinion of someone.”

Quinn laughed. “No doubt,” he
said. “Even if you’re the forgiving type.”

Rachel held her smile for a
moment longer before it faded. “Okay,” she said, “now that I’m finding you more
believable, why don’t you tell me who you are. And how you came to be in my
car.”

Quinn sighed. “I’ll tell you
everything. Soon. But before I do, as I said before, I want you to give me an
overview on the subject of memory. Like you did with neuroscience in general.”

“Did anything I’ve already told
you help you understand why people might be after me?”

Quinn shook his head. “I’m
afraid not.”

“This exercise won’t either.”

He understood her frustration.
But he needed this to get a sense of how his story would come across to her and
for his own edification, so he felt this was the best way to proceed. Listening
to his instincts again, as Rachel herself had recommended. “Maybe so, but I
like to be thorough.”

“Can’t you be thorough after
you’ve told me more about what’s going on?”

“I promise, we can make this
quick.” He flashed his most disarming smile. “All I want to know is everything
that has ever been learned about human memory. Ever. In ten or fifteen
minutes.”

“Oh well, in that case . . . I
thought you would be asking for something difficult.”

Quinn laughed.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” said Rachel, taking a sip
of hot cocoa from the mug in her hand. “This will be very big picture. I won’t
get into the molecular mechanisms of memory, or where they are laid down in the
brain. I won’t tell you
all the theories of memory at the chemical and neuronal level. Too
complicated and involved for our quick overview.”

“Whatever you think makes sense.”

“The most important concept to know is that our minds don’t
reflect reality. There really is no objective reality but what our minds make
of the data coming in through our senses. Different wavelengths and configurations
of light hit our eyes, and our minds imbue meaning and reality. It’s just
light, but if it’s reflected from a naked supermodel, it might provoke lust, or
from a mass of writhing maggots, disgust. But these are simply our
interpretations, driven by wiring and evolution.”

Quinn nodded.

“For example,” she continued, “we
find oranges delicious and feces disgusting. But why? Do you think this is just
random?”

“I’m going to say, um . . . no,”
said Quinn.

“Way to be decisive,” said
Rachel in amusement. “Oranges contain energy we need, so our bodies and brains
evolved to respond positively to them. Fecal matter carries disease, so our
brains cause us to be disgusted by the light waves and odor molecules that emanate
from it. But the odor molecules that hit our olfactory receptors aren’t repugnant.
They aren’t anything. Our brains are just wired to respond to them with
revulsion. This property is in our minds, not the molecules themselves. Baby
koalas eat their mother’s feces to obtain bacteria they need to detoxify eucalyptus
leaves. To them, fecal matter smells and tastes as good as an orange does to
you.”

Quinn’s face curled up into a
picture of disgust, a further demonstration of the point she was making.

“So the reality of our world is dictated by our minds,” she continued. “And
this applies to our most heartfelt beliefs about ethics, politics, society—everything.
But back to our sensory input. Even if we pretend there really is an objective
reality to this information, our brains don’t present this objective reality to
us anyway, feeding us a highly edited version instead. Your brain tells you the
best story it can come up with, so you can navigate the environment and stay
alive long enough to reproduce, creating additional brains that operate in this
same way.”

“Can I assume you’ll provide an
example or two?”

“Sure,” said Rachel, rolling her
eyes, “an overview of everything known about human memory in ten minutes, with
examples.”

She paused and gathered her
thoughts. “You may know that everything you see comes into your retina, and
thus your brain, upside down, backwards, and two-dimensional. With a sizable blind
spot in the center. But you don’t see things this way. Your brain adjusts it
for you. It performs the treacherous math needed to put everything right-side up,
and takes a best guess as to what’s in the blind spot, filling it in for you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “But
here is something truly remarkable. Suppose I give you a pair of glasses that
flip the world you’re seeing now upside down. During the first few days of
wearing them, you’d be helpless. But if you kept wearing them, within a few
weeks your brain would lay down new pathways, re-map your input spatially, and
flip the world right-side up for you again. You’d be back in business.”

Quinn’s mouth fell open. “Someone
actually did this?” he said. “Wore upside-down glasses for a few weeks?”

Rachel grinned. “Multiple
someones. And if you then took the glasses off,
the world would look upside down to you again. Until you adjusted back.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Your brain takes all kinds of
liberties with visual information, processing it for maximum usefulness. Which
explains why there are so many optical illusions. Set things up just right, so the
mental gymnastics your mind uses to display the world without a blind spot and
in three dimensions work against you, and you can be easily fooled.”

Rachel paused. “The key point,
which I’ve made several times now, is that your brain isn’t about reality as
much as it’s about presenting you with the best possible narrative to explain
the inputs coming in. Memory is the same way. It helps us avoid danger and recall
the location of a watering hole. But it’s an approximation of reality, and
often not a very good one. People think memory works like a video recording.
This couldn’t be further from the truth. Our memory isn’t nearly as reliable as
we think.”

“Is there a difference between reliable and good?”

Rachel nodded in approval. “I can’t believe you picked up on
that. Yes, I used the word reliable for a reason. To me, saying our memory isn’t very good just means that we
remember things poorly. But forgetting isn’t the biggest problem we have. When
you fail to remember, at least you know
your memory is letting you down. I forgot the quadratic equation, or where I
put my car keys. You know you forgot.
But it’s worse when we remember things incorrectly. When we’re certain we
remember, but we’re dead wrong.”

Quinn was more intrigued than ever. Perhaps what he
experienced wasn’t as impossible as he thought. “How often is this the case?”

“More often than you’d think. A video record always stays
the same. But with memory, subsequent events color our recollections. I’m at a café
talking with a friend about my home when I witness a car crash. Two years later
my wires can easily become crossed. Even though I was at a café, my mind was
focused on my home, and I can conflate the two. Now I remember having seen the
crash while looking out from my living room window.”

Rachel finished the cocoa, now lukewarm, and set the mug
down on an end table beside her. “Shockingly,” she continued, “our recollections
can be unreliable even for events that are singular, traumatic, powerful. Events
you would bet your life you couldn’t possibly forget. In January of 1986, the
Space Shuttle Challenger exploded,
killing everyone inside. It was a news story that had a huge impact on the
national psyche. The day after it happened, two researchers at Emory University
handed out a questionnaire about the event to over a hundred students in their
psychology 101 class. Where were the students when they heard the tragic news?
Who were they with? What were they doing? That sort of thing.

“Two and a half years later they found these same students
and had them fill out the questionnaire a second time. When the researchers
compared the responses to those given previously, they were astonished. The
differences in the two accounts were often like night and day.

“When questioned the day after the event, one student
explained she had been in her dorm watching TV with her roommate when she heard
the news. She was so upset, she told a few others and then called her parents.
Less than three years later, she remembered it much differently. She first
learned the news in a religion class when she heard other students talk about
the explosion. She then went to her dorm, watched TV alone, and didn’t call
anyone.”

Quinn shook his head skeptically. “Sure, there are always
exceptions. But I’m sure most students remembered things accurately.”

“You would think so,” said Rachel with a smile. “But you’d
be wrong. When the researchers rated the accuracy of the students’
recollections, with respect to where they were and what they were doing, the
average score was less than fifty percent. A quarter of the students scored zero. But here is the most amazing,
maybe frightening thing: they were
all exceedingly confident they still remembered the aftermath of the tragedy
perfectly. Their memories were crisp, detailed . . . and absolutely wrong.
Turns out there isn’t much of a relationship between confidence in a memory and
the accuracy of this memory.”

“I see why you chose to use the word unreliable.”

“Exactly,” said Rachel. “Even after I read this study, I
refused to believe it. Maybe for the space shuttle disaster, but what about something
like 9/11? Surely every adult in the country remembered how they heard about
this event, as it was seared into our collective consciousness. So much so that
the words 9/11 are all that are
required to call it back to mind. In my own case, I was just starting high
school at the time, and I was at a sleepover with my two closest friends. We
woke up and were having breakfast when we all heard the news.”

Rachel paused. “So after reading the space shuttle study, I
called each of these old friends in turn to prove to myself that its
conclusions were ridiculous.”  She
frowned and shook her head. “Only I confirmed the opposite. I asked each friend
how they had learned of 9/11, expecting them to chide me for even asking, since
we had been together at the time. My friend Kim did remember being with me and
Julia at a sleepover when it happened, but remembered not hearing about it
until long after breakfast. But my friend Julia remembered hearing about it on
the car radio while her mom took her to the store to buy a new coat.”

“Holy hell,” said Quinn
in amazement. He’d had no idea memory was this fallible.

Perhaps Rachel Howard could explain what he had experienced
after all. He would need to ponder the implications of what she was saying at
length. Not only for what it suggested about his current situation, but life in
general. Husbands and wives legitimately remembering two very different
versions of what happened during a past argument.

It was alarming that people could be so certain of memories
that were so inaccurate. If this knowledge became more widespread it could
shake the foundation of what everyone thought was true of their past.

But this reflection would have to wait. He decided it was
finally time to come clean. “Thanks for this overview,” he said. “It’s been
very helpful. But that’s enough for now. I’m ready to tell you what you want to
know.”

His memory of the assault that never happened seemed so real
to him, even now, that it still made his blood boil. At the same time it was embarrassing,
and what it said about his sanity was deeply disturbing. He would have given
anything not to have to revisit it, ever.

But he didn’t have that luxury. He would just try to get it
out as quickly, accurately, and efficiently as he could. “I’d like to ask you
to hold your questions until I’m finished. And try to keep an open mind.”

And then, blowing out a deep breath, he added. “Because you’re
going to need one.”

29

Quinn proceeded to tell his story to perhaps the most
accomplished neuroscientist in the world. All of it. Of the torture and murder.
His attempt on the president’s life. The subsequent chase. The two mercenaries
at the shack, and finally, his call with Coffey, learning that none of the
memories that had launched him on this odyssey were true.

Rachel Howard listened without interruption, her expression
grim.

“So do you believe me?” asked Quinn when he was finished.
Rachel had learned he was telling the truth about the threat to her life. But
that didn’t mean he was telling the truth about this.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Can you prove that you’re a
Secret Service agent?”

“No. And after last night, I’m not one anymore. I’m not sure of all the fireable offenses an agent
might commit, but I’m guessing that trying to kill the president is one of
them.”

A quick smile played across Rachel’s face. “I caught some
news online this afternoon,” she said. “Big headlines about an explosion at a
mosque in Chicago. But not a word about any assassination attempt on the
president.”

“You say the brain takes in information and then creates a
narrative to feed back to us. Well, politicians put the brain to shame when it
comes to massaging reality. News is often delayed by those in power, and
distorted beyond recognition. I’m sure Davinroy has his reasons for wanting to
bottle it up for a while. But it will come out. Soon.”

Rachel chewed on her lower lip. “You just saved my life and
proved at least some of your claims are credible. So just for the sake of further
discussion, I’m going to say that I do believe you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “But I should also point out that
I’m, ah . . . open-minded to the
possibility that you’ve lied about this.”

“Fair enough,” said Quinn. “So assuming everything I said is
true, does this make me crazy? This is different from misremembering where I
was when I heard about 9/11. This is remembering 9/11, and then learning later
that it never happened, that the Twin Towers are still standing.”

“You could be delusional, yes,” replied Rachel. “But your
behavior in every other way seems rational.” A troubled look came over her face
and she lowered her eyes. “I just hope like hell that you are crazy,” she
whispered.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because the alternative is much worse. If you are totally rational, then these might
be implanted memories. And much more
sophisticated than the run-of-the-mill kind.”

“What run-of-the-mill kind?” said Quinn.

“As we’ve discussed, if something bubbles up from the
unconscious, our minds seize on it and construct a reality, a mythology, to
explain it and pretend we’re running the show. There are patients whose brains
are split, whose left and right hemispheres can’t communicate with each other.
With these patients there are ways to give instructions to the unconscious
without the conscious knowing this was done. Say you instruct a patient who
doesn’t cook to walk to the kitchen and turn on the oven. His conscious mind
doesn’t know you gave this instruction. But if you ask him why he did this, he
won’t confess he has no idea. He’ll fabricate a story, a logic, sometimes
laughably elaborate, to explain it. ‘I turned on the oven to make sure it still
worked—in case I decide to sell the house.’”

Rachel paused briefly to stroke the cat who had moved closer
to her while she spoke. Duke issued a satisfied purr and settled in even
closer.

“Same thing with dreams. Your brain takes wisps of stray electrical
impulses and immediately constructs an elaborate story around them. Psychotics
have delusions, hallucinations, their minds constructing false visual and
auditory images they can’t distinguish from reality.”

“So how does this connect to implanted memories?”

“Our past is nothing more than a reconstruction, sometimes
so exaggerated or inaccurate it borders on fantasy. Our minds are inventive. You
read a description about a place and this later becomes a false memory of
actually having been there.”

She frowned. “More worrisome, our memories are susceptible
to manipulation. The first researcher to show this unambiguously was a woman
named Elizabeth Loftus. She recruited subjects and contacted their families to
get three stories about their past. Then she added a fourth story that was
entirely made up, about the time they were lost in a mall as a child. She
presented each of these stories to the participants. Turns out, many of them
remembered the fourth story happening, along with the other three. Not only
that, but when she had them back later for subsequent interviews, they began to
remember ever more detail about the experience—an experience that never really happened. They now remember
who found them. How their mom hugged them and cried when they were finally
reunited. And so on. So it’s not only possible to implant false memories, but
once this has been done, the mind will embellish
them.”

“Fantasy becomes reality,” said Quinn.

“Yes. And don’t get me started on so-called recovered memory therapy. Sometimes
memories of childhood abuse drudged up by therapists are accurate, but they’re
usually not. Like getting lost in the mall. Your memories are wide open to
suggestion and manipulation. There was something called the ‘satanic panic’
decades ago, when dozens of children made allegations of satanic abuse. It was
later proven to be a collective delusion.”

“But you don’t think this kind of manipulation would explain
what happened in my case?”

“No. Your recollection of what was said during your fantasy
encounter with the president is too precise. You seem to have an almost photographic
recall of it. I think this was done using sophisticated techniques, well beyond
even my capabilities.”

“What do you mean, your
capabilities? Are you saying you’re working on the implantation of false
memories?”

“No. But this is the dark side of what I am working on.”

Rachel explained Matrix Learning briefly, and how her goal
was to achieve techniques that would allow her to implant vast knowledge into
minds with the ease of loading a software program into a computer.

“If you can implant knowledge,” she said, “you can implant
false memories. Two sides of the same coin. And it sounds as though whoever did
this tied these false memories to the highly charged, emotional regions of your
brain, like the amygdala. They counted on the fact that whenever you tried to
think about your wife, your rage would keep you from exploring other memories of
your life with her—memories you’d be unable to find.”

Quinn felt a wave of nausea sweep through him. What could be
more insidious than this, more of a violation of his being?

“You are your
memory,” said the professor, looking more than a little distraught. “It’s as
simple as that. The implantation of false memories is the ultimate
manipulation, far more troubling even than the lack of memory, than amnesia. If
a man approaches and you don’t remember he’s a hired killer, at least you’ll be
somewhat on your guard—simply because he’s a stranger. But if the same killer approaches,
and you falsely remember him as being
a close friend, someone who once saved your life, your guard is completely
down.”

“Or if you remember the President of the United States
savagely killing your pregnant wife.”

Rachel shuddered. “They turned you into a weapon,” she said.
“One pointed at the president. And if someone out there has not only perfected
these techniques, but isn’t hesitating to use them in the most despicable way
possible, this would be . . .”

She shook her head in frustration, unable to find words
powerful enough to express her anxiety over this possibility. “Well, let’s just
say we’d have a really bad situation on our hands.”

“In a world where this can be done, how can you ever know
what to trust?”

“Partly by searching your memories for texture. Like with
your wife. If you can’t remember the most fundamental things about her, you know
you’ve been tampered with. And I have been working on more sophisticated and
foolproof solutions.”

“I’m confused,” said Quinn. “I thought you said you were
five to ten years away from this Matrix Learning.”

“This is true. But the possible misuses of this technology
once it’s been perfected are obvious. So I’m working on preventing this misuse at
the same time I’m working on solving the problem in the first place.”

“Really?” said Quinn, intrigued.

“I wish you’d been in my class this morning. We discussed
this at length. Those of us developing breakthrough technology have a
responsibility to predict how the bad actors of the world will bastardize it,
and develop preventative measures. I discussed Matrix Learning with my class
and some of the dangers. Interestingly enough, the malicious implantation of
false memories was a danger we didn’t get to. But my class realized that even
for positive applications of the technology, it will be critical to develop a
diagnostic that tells you when your mind has been tampered with. Or something
that can actively prevent any tampering being done in the first place.” She
tilted her head. “Interestingly enough, this last point was raised by Eyal
Regev.”

Quinn paused in thought for several seconds. “So maybe
that’s what this is all about. Maybe whoever perfected the false memory
implantation technique doesn’t want someone like you developing a way to detect
it. Or prevent it.”

“That’s the first explanation that makes any sense,” said Rachel. “But I know
everyone in the field. They don’t necessarily publish all of their findings,
but everything I know tells me I’m years ahead of anyone else in this area. Yet
whoever did this is years ahead of me. It’s almost impossible to believe.”

“If I truly am sane, then isn’t this conclusion
inescapable?”

Rachel forced a weak smile. “Like I said, I’m hoping it
turns out that you’re as mad as a hatter.”

“Given everything we’ve discussed,” responded Quinn with a
deep frown, “I’m suddenly hoping the same thing.”

30

The conversation between an ex-Secret Service agent and a
future Nobel laureate continued for several hours. When it concluded, Rachel
used Quinn’s phone to leave a message at her lab,  indicating that she had fallen ill and
wouldn’t be in until further notice, and then they retired to separate rooms
for the night.

They both slept like the dead and arose refreshed. After a
shower and an orange juice and omelet breakfast, Quinn felt like himself for
the first time in ages. Could it really only be Tuesday morning? Could his
attack on Davinroy really have taken place a mere thirty-six hours before?

He felt as though he had lived a lifetime in these few
hours. And now that he knew his memory of Nicole’s death, and life, were
fabricated, the rage and hate that had been consuming him had finally relented,
and he felt at peace, despite his unenviable circumstances. He still felt a
residual sense of loss, but not much of one. He guessed this was because he wasn’t
in love. Had never been. While the implanted memory of Nicole having been the
love of his life was still present, this was now hollow, not even close to the real emotion, which he had never actually
felt.

Rachel had turned on the television after breakfast and they
had both been barraged by Quinn’s story, which had finally burst onto the scene
like an ocean of water through a shattered dam.

Quinn was thankful he had told his version to Rachel when he
had.

The coverage was wall to wall, and there was nowhere other
than a monastery to get away from it. Two nights earlier, at a fundraiser at
the Princeton home of David Garza, Secret Service Special Agent Kevin Quinn had
attempted to kill the President of the United States. Luckily, he had failed,
but he had also managed to escape. Authorities had delayed putting this out in
the media until they could be assured there were no accomplices and the
president and public were as safe as possible from this deranged lunatic.

And deranged he was. Interviews with witnesses indicated this
Quinn had ranted about the president torturing and killing his pregnant wife, even
though it was well known that the man had never married. Psychiatrists were
interviewed on every channel, expressing their opinion about psychosis and the
dangers that this man posed.

“I’ll be damned,” said Rachel after having watched the
coverage for ten minutes. “How could I have ever doubted you? Maybe I was just
jaded. You know,” she added with an impish grin, “ if I had a nickel for every
time I’ve been accosted by a man who says my life’s in danger, and that he tried
to kill the president . . .”

Quinn laughed. “Yeah. It’s a tale as old as time,” he
deadpanned back.

While Rachel was transfixed by the television coverage,
Quinn made a call with the untraceable phone he had acquired. Coffey answered
on the first ring, but asked Quinn to call him back in ten minutes so he could move
to a more private location.

“Jesus, Kevin!” began Coffey when they had reconnected, the
phone projecting a life-sized 3-D image of his face at Quinn’s eye level. Quinn
kept his end audio-only so as not to give Coffey any clues to his whereabouts. “I
got the present you couriered over. I had a top scientist I trust in one of our
nearby Black labs take a look at it. A PhD computer specialist named Justin
Beam. I was sure you were delusional about this. I only checked it out because
I’d given you my word.”

The stunned expression on Coffey’s face told Quinn
everything he needed to know.

“Dr. Beam confirmed what I told you, didn’t he?”

“He did,” said Coffey, shaking his head like he had just
verified that Elvis was still alive but couldn’t get himself to fully believe
it. “Justin studied it under an electron microscope and ran some tests. He
identified computer circuits, but smaller than he’s ever seen, and with a much
different architecture. Crazy advanced shit. He’s certain that there was too
much damage for us to activate it, or reverse engineer it. The eyes are tiny cameras—also
crazy advanced—that were still working.”

“Let me guess,” said Quinn. “This Justin Beam is in charge
of our fly drone program, isn’t he?”

Coffey took a deep breath and nodded. “He was blown away. I
told you this was impossible. He would have told you the same thing. At least
he would have yesterday.”

“I’ve had some revelations myself since our last call,” said
Quinn. “I did what you said, Cris. I Googled myself. You were right, of course.
I wasn’t even at Davinroy’s resort this year. Which shook me up, more than I
think you can possibly imagine.”

Quinn went on to explain how he was unable to remember
anything about his wife.

“I can’t say how,” he continued, deciding not to tell Coffey
about Rachel Howard just yet, “but I’ve come to believe my memory has been
tampered with. The memories of Davinroy’s assault were implanted, using
sophisticated techniques. And in such a way as to drive me mad with rage
whenever I considered them. I was nothing more than a tool.”

Quinn recounted the history of Charles Whitman and his tumor-motivated
shooting spree. “So think of it this way,” he said when he had finished. “It’s
like I had a brain tumor that caused me to try to kill Davinroy. But now this
tumor has been removed, and I’m back to being myself again.”

Coffey nodded but didn’t reply, and Quinn suspected he wasn’t
fully convinced.

“Look, Cris, this fly drone is real! Much more is happening
here than meets the eye. I know the idea of memory tampering is far-fetched. I
know it seems impossible. But didn’t you just say the same thing about the
technology I sent you?”

There was a long pause. “Okay, I’m with you,” said Coffey
finally, and this time Quinn sensed he had come to a final, definitive position.
“You’re absolutely right. Things aren’t what they seem. And I do know you,
Kevin. You passed your recent psych evaluation with flying colors. Your attack on
Davinroy never made sense. And during our recent interactions you’ve never come
across as anything but fully rational. And the fly drone is extraordinary. So I’m onboard. I believe you’re innocent.”

“Thank you.”

Coffey’s face fell. “This being said, the hole you’re in is
getting deeper. I’m not sure if you’re able to get media wherever you are, but
the story broke this morning.”

“I’m aware.”

“The timing of this wasn’t my idea, it was Davinroy’s. After
Justin got back to me last night that the drone was real, I tried to convince
the president to continue to keep this buried, sit on the witnesses and media. But
since you insisted I not tell him about the drone or our interaction, it was
hopeless. Unfortunately, now that your identity is known by every adult in
America, you’re well and truly screwed. Even worse than before.”

“Trying to cheer me up?” said Quinn dryly.

“Of course,” replied Coffey in amusement. “That’s what I do.
Plus making sure you aren’t bored.”

“Very thoughtful of you. How’s the manhunt going? Making any
progress finding me?”

“Yes. Just this morning we finally
got a break.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said
Quinn.

“Hey, you were the one who
asked,” said Coffey with a smile. “Seems a guy returned from a short business trip
to find his Ford Fusion had been stolen. From a parking lot in Trenton near the
train station. He left Sunday night, at about the same time you were reported to have been in the
area. We guessed it likely you’d steal a car so we had our ear to the ground. Paid
special attention to any stolen car reports within five hundred miles of
Princeton. Taking one that wouldn’t be reported for days would be inspired, so I
thought of you immediately.” He raised his eyebrows. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” said Quinn. “You too. But this could be a problem
for me. I don’t want the manhunt getting too close just yet.”

“I understand. I’ll take responsibility for finding this car
myself. I’ll send the team in the wrong direction until we can figure something
else out.”

There was a chance Coffey was still trying to capture him,
and this was a ruse intended to keep him from looking over his shoulder, but
Quinn had too much to worry about to consider this further. There came a point
where you had to trust something, and he chose to trust that Coffey was now on
his side.

“Cris,” he began, almost at a loss for words, “I can’t thank
you enough. And I won’t let you down. We’re just scratching the surface, but
something very big is brewing. I promise you I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Amen to that. We’ll find out together.”

“In the meanwhile, if
you find yourself remembering something that’s emotionally charged and seems
crazy, think twice about trusting it.”

“You mean like everything that’s happened in the past few
days?”

Quinn grimaced. “It does mess with your head. My definition
of the ultimate nightmare is living in a world where you can never be sure of
what you think you know. If something
unlikely does emerge as a potent memory—you know, something else unlikely—just be sure to take the
time to explore it carefully. Search for texture. For depth. If you can’t find
other memories that should connect with it, the memory is bogus.”

“Roger that,” said Coffey uneasily.

31

Quinn and Rachel retired into the basement of their borrowed
home once again, and Quinn recounted his conversation with Coffey, telling her
about the fly drone he had discovered. As long as the life of this innocent
woman was on the line, he wasn’t about to play games. She deserved to have all
information available, even if classified. Besides, with a mind like hers,
perhaps she could solve this puzzle where he couldn’t.

“So what now?” she asked when he had finished. “I’m guessing
you don’t think it’s safe just yet to go back to my life.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise,” said Quinn. He was
about to continue when the cat issued a screech from upstairs like nothing
Quinn had ever heard. It was aggressive, and violent, and the most threatening
sound that could possibly come out of a domestic feline.

Quinn motioned for silence at the same time as his eyes
darted around the room. He had little doubt they had at least one visitor, and
probably two or more. And while the cat had warned Quinn, the intruders would
know that he was now on alert and act accordingly. Which meant whoever had
entered the house wouldn’t open the door to the basement and make themselves
sitting ducks.

Quinn had to act quickly. They had broken in soundlessly,
despite dead-bolted doors, so they were pros. If not for the cat’s warning he
and Rachel would have been easy prey. But the intruders couldn’t be sure their
targets were in the basement, and there would be too many windows for them to
be able to cover all possible exits.

Quinn looked up at the sole basement window, set into the
outside yard within a large steel window well with a gravel floor, and assessed
his chances. If this were his op, he
would plant a man with a gun pointing at the closed basement door and send
others on his team to clear the rest of the house, room by room.

He had to assume that any attempt to open the door to the
upstairs would be met with a barrage of gunfire. Climbing into the window well
and then the yard beyond, on the other hand, was at least a fifty-fifty
proposition, maybe better. But he wasn’t about to risk Rachel’s life on these
odds along with his own. He needed a place for her to hide, and there were
precious few options.

He lowered himself to the carpeting and lifted the heavy
fabric skirt at the bottom of one blue couch. There was about an eight-inch gap
between the bottom of the couch’s wood frame and the floor. Rachel Howard was
slim, but he wondered if she was slim enough.

“Hide under here,” he whispered, urgency in his voice.

“I’ll never fit,” she whispered back. “And it’s the first
place they’ll look.”

Hiding under a couch might seem obvious and cliché, but
Quinn had a feeling it would not be searched. Like a hidden compartment in a
magician’s box, it seemed too tight a space for a grown man to consider as a
possible hiding place. And once she was under, Quinn would re-straighten the
fabric skirt, which was so thick it almost appeared rigid and unmovable. This
was also their only option.

“You’ll fit,” he whispered, hoping this was true. “Trust me!
It’ll work,” he added with far more confidence than he felt. “Now!” he
insisted. “Hurry!”

Rachel flattened herself against the carpet and slid
underneath the couch. The wooden frame compressed her back like a girdle, but
she was just able to force herself under. Quinn hastily straightened the fabric
skirt, jumped to his feet, and repositioned one of the oak end tables. He stood
on top of it and slid open the window above him, popping out the screen. He
then pulled himself up and through as quietly as he could.

But he only made it halfway.

As he was pulling himself through he was hit with a blast of
electricity, the type he falsely remembered Davinroy having delivered. He fell
back to the carpeted basement floor like a brick, gouging his right leg on the
edge of the end table on his way down, drawing blood.

The man who had stunned him propelled himself through the open
window and onto the floor with the ease and grace of a gymnast. He stood over
the bleeding, still-paralyzed figure of Kevin Quinn with a smug expression on
his face.

“My partner’s clearing the house,” he said calmly. “But I
knew if you were in the basement you’d never come through the door. So I made
sure to cover your only other exit.” He shrugged. “It’s what I would have done
in your position.”

While Quinn was still incapacitated the man pulled him a few
feet to the white steel pole that ran floor to ceiling and linked his wrists
together around it with a plastic zip-tie.

He then contacted his sole partner, who was soon descending
the stairs to join him. Duke the cat cautiously and silently flowed down the
steps also, well behind the incoming killer, alert and ready for action. Quinn shot
an imperceptible nod at the small feline in appreciation for his warning, which
had at least given Quinn the chance to hide Rachel.

The newcomer had a prominent scar on the left side of his
neck. “Where’s the girl?” he demanded the moment he stepped off the stairs, and
Quinn found himself wishing whoever was responsible for the scar had managed to
finish the job.

“Not here,” said Quinn, having recovered from the effects of
the stun gun. “I stayed as bait. To draw out any hostiles.”

“Looks like you succeeded,” said Scar with a smile of
superiority. “A little too well. You
didn’t think these hostiles would end up on top, did you?”

He gestured to his partner, the gymnast. “Make sure she’s
not here.”

The man who had stunned Quinn walked around the room and
looked for a hidden door or possible hiding place, returning to his original
position moments later. He caught his partner’s eye. “How confident was our
employer that she was with him?”

“Very. But he wasn’t certain.
We’ll worry more about her in a second. First, I need you to search this guy carefully.
From what I was told, you’re looking for some miniaturized tech. It’s supposed
to look like a fly, although it’s damaged, so who knows. Our employer thinks he
might have it on him.”

The gymnast squinted at Quinn. “You want to make this easy,”
he said, “and just give it to me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Tell your Russian
employer that he’s lost his mind.”

The man laughed. “For what he’s paying us, he can send us on
as many snipe hunts as he wants.”

He searched Quinn for a full five minutes—thoroughly—before
finally giving up.

“So I assume the Russian still wants me alive?” said Quinn
when the search was abandoned.

“Barely,” said Scar. “Having you alive is a nice-to-have,
but not a need-to-have. He told us to kill you if there was any chance you’d
get away. And to feel free to waste you the moment you became a burden. I’d remember
that if I were you.”

“How did you find me?” said Quinn, lowering himself to a seated
position on the carpet, his linked arms sliding down to the bottom of the pole
and his right leg still bleeding.

“Apparently the stealth phones used by my predecessors
weren’t as untraceable as they thought,” said Scar. He pointed a semi-automatic
pistol at Quinn’s chest. “Now tell me where the girl is!”

“I have no idea,” replied Quinn. “I warned her the Russian
was after her. After that I convinced her it would be best for us to split up.
I told her to go into hiding, but purposely made sure I didn’t know where she
was going.” He delivered a fake smile. “You can’t tell what you don’t know,
right?”

“I don’t believe you,” said Scar simply.

“I don’t give a shit what you believe.”

Scar shook his head, almost in pity. Without warning he kicked
Quinn viciously in the leg, in the center of his wound, which sent waves of
searing pain throughout his body. Quinn groaned in agony.

“Where is she!” demanded Scar.

“I don’t know!” spat Quinn through clenched teeth. “If I
knew, I’d tell you.”

Scar bent down and pressed the barrel of his gun into his
prisoner’s forehead. “Did I mention our employer said you were expendable? Last
chance to tell me the truth.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “Do what you have to do,” he said. “I
can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

The man paused for several agonizingly long seconds and
finally removed the barrel from Quinn’s forehead and backed away. “My partner
and I are going to go upstairs and have a talk,” he said, and then with a cruel
smile added, “wait here.”

They had just reached the stairs when Duke made his presence
known once again. He issued a tentative meow and began to push his way through the
fabric skirt at the bottom of one couch.

“What do you two assholes
need to talk about?” barked Quinn suddenly, but his desperate attempt to create
a distraction was too late. Both men had already turned to observe Duke.

Shit! mouthed
Quinn. He had been so close. Live by the cat, die by the cat.

Both men moved quickly. Scar pointed his weapon where the
cat had sought ingress under the sofa while his partner crouched down by its
edge and used his considerable strength to topple it over backwards.

Lying flat on her stomach, but no longer pinned to the
carpet, Rachel Howard was as exposed as a cockroach under a sudden spotlight.
She rolled onto her back and then to a seated position, taking exaggerated breaths
now that the weight had been lifted from her struggling lungs.

Scar followed her with his weapon.  “I’m really sorry about this,” he said with a
shrug, preparing to fire.

“Then don’t do it,” she pleaded, tears beginning to well up
in her eyes.

“Nothing personal,” he said, his expression not showing a
hint of pity or mercy. “But there’s a lot of money involved.”

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut and braced for oblivion.

Quinn had risen from the floor and was trying frantically to
defy physics and disengage himself from the steel pole, but his attempts were
useless. As Scar pointed his gun at Rachel’s forehead, Quinn closed his eyes as
well, unwilling to bear witness to the brutal murder of an innocent woman.

The near-deafening sound of two gunshots exploded into the
air and Quinn screamed out in anguish, knowing that all of his skills, all of
his experience, had failed to save the brilliant woman he had come to like and
respect so very much.

32

Even before Quinn’s scream ended he knew his assessment of
the situation was flawed. Two gunshots had been fired, yes, but Scar had not
been responsible. Instead they had originated from the window well, angling
down precisely through the still-open window and taking out both mercs, leaving
Quinn and Rachel unscathed.

The man responsible poured himself through the window and
jumped to the basement carpet, landing softly, while the cat bounded silently
up the stairs and through the open door, deciding he had seen more than enough
human aggression for one day.

Scar had fallen across Rachel and she was almost hysterical
as the man’s blood began soaking into her shirt. The newcomer removed the merc’s
body and knelt down beside her and repeated, “It’s okay,” over and over again
in his most soothing voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Hypnotically.

Quinn’s mouth fell open as recognition finally wormed its
way through a disbelieving skull. It was the Israeli. Eyal Regev.

Impossible. He was dead.

And if he wasn’t dead, as Quinn’s senses now seemed to
suggest was the case, what was he doing here? Eliminating competitors so he
could hog the reward?

“Eyal?” whispered Rachel, coming out of her shock, but
immediately tensing once again as she remembered the night before.

Regev looked relieved that she had found her bearings. “It’s
okay,” he repeated one last time. “You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. I
promise.”

“How are you alive?”

Still lashed to a steel pole, Quinn had never felt so
helpless. The best he could do was remain quiet and see how the conversation
developed, which was maddening.

“I was wearing an advanced bulletproof . . . well, not vest,”
replied Regev. “Call it an undershirt. Much lighter and stronger than the
current gold standard.”

“But I saw the blood,” said Rachel.

“You were supposed to. They’re
engineered to produce a blood-like fluid when hit. Even with a vest, a bullet
will put you on your ass. While you’re down, the last thing you want is for the
shooter to realize you’re wearing body armor. His next shot will be between
your eyes.”

Regev stood and backed away, so
he now had both Quinn and the professor in his field of vision. “Special Agent
Quinn,” he said, studying him carefully for the first time. “Nice to see you
again. I have to say, I like you better strapped to a pole.”

“I like you better with a bullet
in your chest,” said Quinn. “On the other hand, given what just happened, I may
have to rethink that.” He nodded at the Israeli. “You look good for a dead man.
My compliments to your tailor.”

Regev laughed. “The tech truly
is amazing. They’re having to develop new physics to account for how well it’s
able to spread out and nullify the force of a bullet. And just so you know,
after a few patents, we are planning to share it.”

“We?” said Quinn intently. “Are
you going to tell us who you work for? Who you really are?”

“My name really is Eyal Regev,” replied
the Israeli. “And I suppose I don’t have much choice but to come clean at this
point.” He sighed. “I’m with Israeli Intelligence. The Mossad.”

“The Mossad?” repeated Rachel with
a look of confusion. “Why in the world would the Mossad want me dead?”

Eyal laughed. “Dead is the last thing we want you,” he said.

He reholstered his weapon and rubbed his chin in thought.
“We both were operating under some poor assumptions last night, I’m afraid. I
wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to save you from him,” he explained, nodding toward Quinn.

“He wasn’t trying
to kill me, either,” said Rachel.

Regev nodded in amusement. “Yeah, I get that now. I did say
we were both misguided. Good thing I
didn’t kill him last night when I had the chance.”

“When did you have the chance?” snapped Quinn, his pride
refusing to allow him to take the Israeli’s contention lying down.

“When you shot me. I had you in my sights first, but I
couldn’t risk hitting Rachel.”

Quinn thought back to the positioning of the relevant
parties the night before and realized this might be true. Either way, there was
no point in discussing it further. “Tell us about last night, then,” he said.
“How do you figure in?”

“We were running surveillance on the professor’s house and phone,”
began Regev, “and—”

“Shit!” interrupted Rachel in outrage. “My phone was bugged
too?”

“Not bugged,” said Regev. “Just tracked. But still, I am
truly sorry about the invasion of privacy,” he added, looking genuinely
contrite.

The Israeli faced the Secret Service agent once again. “When
her phone remained stationary at a church parking lot,” he said, “the AI we
have monitoring things alerted me. So I began paying close personal attention.
I was watching when you entered her house. When you immediately found and
disabled my bugs, I knew you were a player.”

“And not her favorite uncle coming for a visit?”

“Exactly. I ran you through Mossad’s facial recognition software,
which is top drawer.”

Quinn didn’t doubt this for a moment. The Mossad had
maintained an unsurpassed reputation for innovation for decades, and he
wouldn’t be surprised if their facial recognition systems were as good as their
bulletproof vests.

“Turns out I got a match to a special agent the Mossad had learned
through the grapevine had tried to assassinate Matthew Davinroy the night
before. A raving mad lunatic, foaming at the mouth about a pregnant wife he
didn’t have. I know you’ve been busy, but the story broke in the media this
morning.”

“Thanks,” said Quinn dryly. “I’ll be sure to check it out.”

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted with Rachel Howard, but I didn’t care. You’re
clearly dangerous and unstable. I wasn’t willing to take any chances. You
hadn’t killed her yet, but I wasn’t going to wait for that to change. The
Mossad is spread a little thin so I’m working with a gun for hire, in a house
that, not coincidentally, is less than five minutes from here. The moment I
learned who you were, Agent Quinn, I set an attack in motion.”

Regev paused and assessed the man before him. “I have to say you were
very impressive. I still can’t believe that we failed.”

“So your partner is alive also?”

Regev’s face fell. “No. These vests are in short supply, and
meant to be kept secret, so he didn’t have one. I’m afraid he really is dead. My
fall through the window knocked me out for a short while. When I came to you were
gone. I gathered up my fallen . . . employee, cleaned up a bit, and left.”

“I’m sorry about your man,” said Quinn. “But he was trying to kill me.”

Regev shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but he did know the
risks.”

“How did you find us here?” said Rachel.

“I had no idea where you went after last night. But while I was
trying to pick up your trail I decided to set up video surveillance of the
outside of your house and vicinity. When I noticed your two visitors staking
out your neighbor’s house, I put two and two together and got here as soon as I
could.”

Quinn’s eye narrowed. “How long did you have them in your sights?”
he asked.

“Almost from the moment you were hit with the stun gun.”

“So what took you so long to act?” demanded Quinn.

“You obviously haven’t been paying attention,” said Regev. “Rachel is my priority. You aren’t. And
she wasn’t in play for some time. So I thought I’d listen for as long as I
could to gather intelligence. You know,” he added, gesturing toward himself, “Mossad agent.”

“Learn anything valuable?”

“Very. First, a clear confirmation that you weren’t trying
to kill her. The opposite, in fact. You were willing to die to protect her.
That’s why you’re still alive.”

“And second?” said Quinn.

Regev hesitated. “Maybe we’ll save that for later. Or maybe
not. Depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“Depending on how you factor into things, Special Agent
Quinn. Why don’t you tell me how you came to be interested in the professor.”

“You first,” said Quinn. “Why were you and the Mossad monitoring
her?”

“No, you first,”
said Regev firmly, making a show of raising his gun once again. “I insist.”

Quinn sighed. “You’re going to find what I tell you
impossible to believe.”

“Try me.”

“The media accounts of what happened are true,” said Quinn.
“I really did try to kill the president and I really did make the accusations you’ve
heard about. But I’ve since learned my memories of what happened, what set me
off, were false. Implanted. I came to realize my mind was tampered with.”

Quinn expected Regev to be rolling his eyes, but instead he
was nodding. “Yeah. We guessed as much.”

“What?” said Quinn, and Rachel looked just as shocked as he
did.

“I’ll tell you all about it. But please finish your story.”

Quinn wanted badly to press the Israeli, learn what he meant
by his last statement, but he knew this wouldn’t get him anywhere. Regev was in
control and would decide if, and when, he provided further information.

“Not much else to tell,” said Quinn. “I was abducted by two
mercenaries.”

“Were they working for the Russian I heard you talk about?”

“Yes. I got the drop on them and learned this Russian wanted
Rachel dead. When I realized she was an expert in memory, I thought I could
protect her and get some answers. Kill two birds with one stone. That’s it.” He
stared hard at the Israeli. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Not just yet,” said Regev. “Tell me about this fly drone
these men were looking for.”

“Fly drone? Is that a drone that flies?”

“Very clever. So you found one. A damaged one. What did you
do with it?”

“Scar spoke about tech that resembled a fly. He never said
anything about a drone. So why would you draw that conclusion?”

“Scar?” said Regev.

“The merc about to shoot Rachel,” explained Quinn. “That’s
how I thought of him.” He gestured with his head toward the man’s body on the
ground, and to the scar on his neck that was still visible. “So are you going
to answer my question? Where did you get the idea he was talking about a drone?”

“What else could it be?” replied Regev. “Every intelligence agent
in the world knows that a flawless fly drone is the holy grail.” He paused. “So
where did you hide it?”

“I didn’t hide it. I don’t even know what you’re talking
about. But even if I did, why would I tell you? You’re a foreign spy working on
American soil, illegally surveiling a prominent scientist. You haven’t said
word one about your reason for this, or your intentions. And while you saved
Rachel’s life, you’ve been pointing a gun at me and haven’t cut me loose from
this pole.”

Regev smiled broadly. “Well, you are the most wanted man in the country,” he pointed out in
amusement. “I’m pretty sure I could get arrested for letting you go.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Regev sighed. “Okay. You make some good points. I suppose I
could give you better reasons to trust me.” He removed a phone from his pocket.
“So let’s take a pause while I check in with headquarters. The decision to bring
you up to speed is above my pay grade.”

Seconds later Regev was speaking Hebrew into the phone at a
furious pace, rightly convinced that neither listener could decipher more than
one or two words, at best. Unsurprisingly, the call was audio only.

After ten minutes, Regev returned the phone to his pocket.

He faced Quinn and nodded. “Okay, Special Agent. I have a
green light to trust you with some sensitive information. This being the case,
it’s time to become civilized again. I’ll cut you loose and the three of us can
adjourn to a safer, more comfortable place.”

“Somewhere that isn’t knee-deep in dead bodies might be
nice,” said Rachel.

“Where do you have in mind?” said Quinn.

“I told you I bought a place five minutes from here. I’ve
introduced some security upgrades. Basically, I’ve turned it into a fortress. Trust
me, no one will find us there.”

“Good. I’ve got a rucksack with weapons and supplies I’ll
want to bring. Including the equipment that identified your bugs. But I assume
you’ll want to scan us and the bag for possible electronic surveillance anyway—just
in case.”

“Baytach,” said
Regev in Hebrew. “Of course,” he amended. The Israeli rolled his eyes. “But do
us all a favor, leave the phone you took from your mercenary friend here,
okay?”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it,” replied Regev. Then, with a grin
spreading across his face, he added, “And let’s leave the cat behind as well. I
think he may be working for the other side.”

33

Since the Mossad agent was using his newly acquired home as
a military outpost, it was exactly what Quinn had expected. Barren. Undecorated
and unlived in. But with enough televisions, computers, monitors, weapons, and
electronics to supply a Walmart. He had one black leather couch facing the
biggest of the monitors and a chair pushed under a large glass desk.

Regev gave Quinn an aerosol can that he explained contained
an experimental wound sealant. The can was small enough to easily be included
with other gear taken into battle, but contained all the sealant any solider
might need, kept under considerable pressure. It didn’t act immediately, and it
didn’t staunch the flow of blood entirely, but in conjunction with bandages it
was proving to be an excellent stopgap measure that had already saved Israeli
lives.

Quinn used his host’s sink to clean his wound, and while he
ordinarily would have required five or ten stitches, Regev assured him that the
sealant and bandages would obviate this need.

Once this was complete, Quinn sat next to Rachel on the
Israeli’s couch, ready to pick up the discussion where they had left off. Regev
sat in the desk chair facing them.

“Over the past few months,” began the Israeli, “two of our
agents, Mossad agents, have been compromised. It took a while for us to
discover what was going on, and even longer to convince ourselves of the truth,
but their memories had been tampered with. For malicious ends.”

“Which is exactly what happened to Kevin,” noted Rachel
unnecessarily.

“That’s right. And I don’t need to tell either of you how
alarming this is. What a game changer it represents.”

“What memories were implanted in your agents?” asked Quinn.
“And to what end?”

Regev frowned. “You know I can’t answer that. We may have forged
something of an alliance . . . Kevin . . . and I am reading you in here, but
you know I have to keep the classified information I tell you to a minimum.”

“Fair enough,” said Quinn. “But I take it this is why you
guessed what had happened to me?”

“Yes. We know Secret Service agents get frequent psych
evaluations, so we felt this was the most likely explanation, especially since
you sought out Professor Howard.”

“And yet you still tried to kill me.”

“Our plan was to incapacitate you if possible. But if we had
to kill you to protect Rachel, we were willing, yes. Because we couldn’t know
for certain we were right. And we couldn’t know what other memories had been
implanted. Maybe you had false memories of Rachel slitting your sister’s throat
two days earlier, and were planning to torture and kill her in revenge.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It isn’t like you haven’t shown a
willingness to kill in the name of getting even.”

Quinn frowned but had to concede the Israeli made a valid point.

“We investigated what happened to our agents but got nowhere,”
continued the Israeli. “No idea who or why. According to our research such a
capability was five or ten years beyond the current state of the art, at
minimum. We only identified a single scientist who had the slightest chance of
making such a breakthrough.”

“Let me guess,” said Quinn. “She’s sitting right next to
me.”

“Good guess.”

“So you came here to make sure she wasn’t responsible?”

“Yes. That was one reason.” He turned to face Rachel. “I’m
afraid we were quite thorough. We had to be. We hacked your computer, read your
e-mails and texts, and surveiled you. As I’ve said, I’m truly sorry about this.”

“So don’t keep me in suspense,” said Rachel dryly. “Did I
turn out to be the bad guy?”

“Of course not. We didn’t think you were, but we had to rule
this out.”

“Then why are you still here?” said Quinn.

“Because this was only one of the reasons I came. We didn’t really
think she was behind what happened to our agents. But if she wasn’t, we wanted
to enlist her help.”

“To find out who is
behind it?” asked Rachel.

“Yes, but even more importantly, to develop countermeasures.
We know you’re big on these. Big on finding ways to counteract the uses bad
actors might make of scientific advances.”

“So you had a bug in my classroom also?” said Rachel.

“Your views are well known. And I was at your last lecture in
person, remember? I heard every word you said.” A guilty look crossed his face.
“But yes, your classroom was bugged. My boss wanted to listen in. We were both
very impressed.”

“Why pretend to be a grad student? And how did you even manage
that?”

“To answer your second question, it wasn’t easy. I took a
crash course in neuroscience over two weeks while the Mossad doctored records,
pulled strings, and called in favors to get me into your class.”

“As a transfer from Johns Hopkins?”

Regev nodded.

“Hard to imagine you could really pull that off,” said
Rachel.

“The results speak for themselves. I was registered in your
class, as you know. The Mossad is very good at what it does.”

Quinn nodded at Rachel beside him. “This is true,” he acknowledged.
“This probably wasn’t even that much of a challenge for them in the scheme of
things.”

“So that’s the how,”
said Rachel. “What about the why?”

“My job was to clear you of any suspicion and then recruit
you to help us. Which would entail giving you highly classified, sensitive
information. And also asking you to work with a foreign government. Not an easy
ask.”

Regev paused. “So we wanted to get to know you. Establish a
rapport. Gain your trust. But also understand you the best we could. The better
we could understand your drives, your motivations, your loyalties, your ethics,
your—”

“The better you could manipulate me,” interrupted Rachel.

“That’s one way to put it. I was going to say, the better we
could make our case. I don’t think you appreciate just how much we’d be asking.
Working in secret with a foreign intelligence agency could be construed as
treason.”

“Why not share this with the US government?” said Quinn.
“Get the help of CIA or DHS to recruit Rachel?”

“Given what’s happened with you, that is the new plan. But only because this problem seems to have spread
to your shores. Before this we thought it was confined to Israel. So your
government would have been less inclined to join our efforts. And what would we
tell them? How would we make a convincing case that this was really happening? Not
easy to wrap your head around, especially given that your experts would conclude
what our experts concluded: this can’t be done. Not given the state of current
knowledge and technology.”

“You’re right,” said Rachel. “They wouldn’t have believed
you.”

“And even if we were able to convince them,” continued the
Israeli, “we’d be shooting ourselves in the foot. How could they trust us if
the memories of our agents could be tampered with for malicious purposes? Our
agents serve on a number of teams with US counterparts, joint initiatives. And
we provide considerable intel to you. Trust is hard enough to come by in the
intelligence community when agents can’t
be tampered with. How disruptive do you think this disclosure would be?”

“So you chose to keep it in-house,” said Quinn. “But now
that’s changed. Now it’s become our problem too.”

“Yes. So even now, the head of Mossad and the Prime Minister
of Israel are setting up a vid-meet for later today. A very high-level
vid-meet. To start a discussion between our two governments. Turns out you’ve
become a very important man to us, Kevin.”

“Because I’m living proof of what you’re claiming?”

“Yes. I was slow to appreciate just how important you are. Not
only in convincing your government that this tampering is real, and that it
represents a potentially devastating threat, but in convincing Rachel of the
same. My superior just chewed me out for my lack of foresight, and for taking
any chances with your life.”

Quinn shook his head in wonder. “So what are you saying,
Eyal? That I’ve become as important to the Mossad as Rachel is?”

“Not even close,” said Regev with a good-natured smile.
“You’re very important, no question. But not Rachel Howard important.”

He paused and stared intently at the professor. “So what
about it? Before this vid-meet happens, I’d like to know your thoughts. If your
government is amenable, are you in? Will you help us?”

Rachel considered. “I won’t commit to anything now, but
almost certainly yes.”

The Israeli closed his eyes and blew out a heavy sigh of
relief. “Thank God,” he mumbled.

“Everything you’ve said makes a twisted sense to me,” said
Quinn. “At least given this bizarre reality we find ourselves in. But it seems
to me the Russian must be the scientist behind this capability. Why else would
he try to capture me? Or want Rachel dead? He has to be key.”

“Oh, he’s key all right,” said Regev. “Your logic is sound.
But there’s a different player behind the memory tampering. The Russian didn’t
develop the technique. Because he knows absolutely nothing about neuroscience.”

Quinn’s eyes widened. “Does that mean you know who he is?” he said.

“Yes. This is more intel we plan to share during our
upcoming vid-meet. But before this happens, you and I need to be honest with
each other. I’ll tell you what I know about fly drones, for example, and you tell
me just what it is you did with the one you discovered.”

“Are you willing to go first this time?” asked Quinn.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

34

Dr. Carmilla Acosta paced in front of the hotel
room door like a giddy schoolgirl, dressed in a revealing black lace-and-mesh
teddy. After ten minutes of this, fearing she might wear a hole in the carpet
and ready to jump out of both the teddy and her skin from anticipation, she sat
on the edge of the hotel’s king-sized bed and tried to calm herself.

And failed miserably.

All she could do was fantasize about what would soon
occur on what she thought of as a cushiony playground. Dmitri’s vise-like arms
wrapping around her, pushing her down, first nibbling at her lips unhurriedly,
and then slipping his tongue inside her mouth, at first gently and then with
growing urgency.

It would take all of her willpower not to hurry him,
to let him control the pace when all she wanted to do was feel him inside her
mouth, inside her body.

She knew she was in love with him, romantic love, at a
point in her life when she had been certain she would never feel this emotion
again. At one time her marriage had been relatively fulfilling, but the passion
had died half a decade earlier and the marriage would soon follow.

Perhaps it had been a combination of things. Of
catching her husband in the act with another woman, almost two years
previously, feeling unwanted and betrayed, and eager to return the favor. Of
the appearance of Dmitri Kovonov a few months later, a man of dazzling strength
and self-assurance who wanted her with an unrelenting passion that she had
never experienced, a hurricane who would not be denied.

He was a handsome knight from a storybook. Charming,
but mysterious. Powerful and hard, yet gentle. Brilliant and uncompromising.

Carmilla was thirty-three years old and had come far
since she had left her native Argentina as a girl for the land of opportunity.
Stanford undergraduate, Yale to earn her PhD, and for many years now a full
professor of molecular biology at Princeton, a school whose reputation in this
field was impeccable.

Yes, her marriage was failing. Her husband hadn’t
known she had witnessed his infidelity and she had yet to confront him, or tell
him about Dmitri, but she would very soon. She would trade him in for someone
she cared for a hundred times more, a man who made her feel alive, electric,
each and every instant he was with her.

She would have Dmitri and then a few years down the
road, a Nobel Prize. She had leveraged several inspired insights to perfect a
high-speed automated DNA synthesis procedure, and the paper she had written
describing the process would be published in only five weeks, revolutionizing the
field. CRISPR technology had shaken the biotechnology world less than a decade
before, allowing for unprecedented, pinpoint control of the editing of genes.
And the scientists involved had all received their expected Nobel Prize right
on schedule two years earlier.

But what she had done went far beyond CRISPR, far
beyond mere editing. In a day her system could churn out strands of DNA of
virtually any length to exact specifications. Enter into a computer the
equivalent of a thousand pages of nothing but As and Ts and Gs and Cs and the
synthesizer would make a batch of DNA of this precise sequence, without a
single letter out of place. It was the difference between editing a gene or
building it from scratch.

Dmitri was one of the few people outside of her lab to
know what she had accomplished. She had told him about it as a gift to him. A
surprise. She had gone on to explain how she might use this technology to
perfect a designer virus with very special capabilities, one that might save
his sister’s life.

He had wept when she had told him of it. She had never
loved him more than at that moment.

Finally, there was a light tap at the door. He had
arrived!

Carmilla threw open the door and embraced the man of
her dreams. As usual, he showed far more control than she ever could,
extricating himself after less than a minute, much sooner than she could have
managed. She pulled him inside the room and closed the door, breathing deeply
of his aftershave, which had notes of ginger and leather and which had become
like catnip to her.

“I’ve missed you so much, Dmitri,” she whispered.

Kovonov made a show of looking her up and down
approvingly. “I’ve missed you also,” he said. He raised his eyebrows. “I hope
you didn’t start without me.”

Carmilla laughed. “Since I was thinking of you, it took all the self-control I have—but I managed it.”

“You have the virus?” he said eagerly.

She couldn’t hide her disappointment. He seemed more
excited about the completion of the virus than he did about seeing her.

On the other hand, she knew she was being selfish. His
sister’s life was on the line, so of course he was eager. And his joy at this
project coming to an end reflected well on her, after all. She had proposed it.
And he knew that she was the only one on Earth capable of making it happen. Not
just because she could build a virus from scratch, copying the principal
survival and infectious machinery from a virus that nature had forged and
adding in whatever she chose, but because she was one of only a few who had the
genius to know what to add in to
accomplish her goals.

“I have it with me,” she said. “I think you’ll be very
pleased.”

“Give it to me now.”

Carmilla shook her head. “That can wait,” she replied.

She sat on the edge of the bed once again, the same
place she had sat when she had fantasized about being taken by this bear of a
man. “The virus is my gift to you. But before you take it,” she said
suggestively, reaching out to undo his belt buckle, “I need a gift in return.”

Kovonov grinned lecherously. “You drive a hard
bargain, Carmilla,” he said.

He sat beside her and gently lowered her onto the bed.
He brushed his lips against hers and placed his left hand between her legs.
“But if that’s the way it has to be,” he added, rubbing his hand slowly up and
down against the flimsy material of the teddy, “well, I guess I’m prepared to
make that sacrifice.”

35

Rachel Howard had a near mythical capacity for assimilating
new information and adjusting to new situations, but even she was reaching her
limit. One minute she was picking up Thai food for dinner and the next she was
catapulted on a fantastic series of events that seemed never-ending.

Learning that her home was bugged and fending off an attack
there. Hiding under her neighbor’s couch. And worst of all, being an instant
away from death, certain she had taken her last breath. And for the first time
in her life she had seen men die—be killed—right in front of her.

More than in front of her—one had died on her.

So much for her relationship with Debbie Steele. After
leaving two dead bodies in her neighbor’s home—which wouldn’t exactly do
wonders for resale value—Rachel had to believe her days of being trusted to
feed the cat were over.

And now she found herself under the protection of both a
Secret Service agent and an Israeli spy, and had learned that someone out there
had leapfrogged her research and was using these discoveries, not in service to
mankind, but to its detriment.

Surprisingly, she was drawn to both men more than she wanted
to admit, even to herself. As she knew and had preached, you liked who you
liked, with very little conscious control. They were both decisive and talented.
Both direct and down to earth. No putting on airs. And while she was sure they
were both accomplished liars, she was convinced their lies were never told for
the purposes of political jockeying or to backstab a colleague. Neither man was
an academic, but both were very sharp. She was astonished at how quickly the
Israeli had managed to learn enough neuroscience to fool her, even for a short
period.

Perhaps these men appealed to a latent bad-boy-seeking gene
she didn’t know she had. Perhaps she had been in academia too long. In a
politically correct university culture packed with too many spoiled rich kids
complaining of micro-aggressions, parsing every word and statement for any hint
it might give offense, no matter how convoluted the logic behind it,
desperately needing to separate the world into victimizers and victims. People
with so much time on their hands, and so few actual struggles, that the brush
of a metaphoric butterfly wing would send them howling in outrage.

Kevin Quinn and Eyal Regev lived in a world with macro-aggressions. They were too busy
dodging bullets and protecting their countries to worry that an innocently
delivered word might be misunderstood, or become crusaders for safe spaces in
which reality was never allowed to intrude. In their world, those who lost
didn’t get a trophy for participation, because the losers might not be alive to
receive one.

Both men were now
silent, mentally preparing for the vid-meet that was scheduled for three p.m. sharp,
less than five minutes away. Rachel realized she had been in this alternate
reality, this impossible reality, for almost exactly twenty-four hours.

When Eyal had said the meeting would be high-level, she had
no idea how much of an understatement this would be. Both of her male
companions had confirmed the guest list for the upcoming meeting, which she
still refused to believe. Not until it really happened.

She was actually going to be in a meeting with Matthew
Davinroy, virtual though it might be. The President of the United States. The
hit parade of absurdities was about to continue.

In addition to the president, attendees on the Israeli side
would be the Prime Minister, Ori Kish; the head of Mossad, Avi Wortzman; his
Deputy Director, Yaron Hurwitz; and, of course, Eyal Regev. On the American
side there would be Secretary of DHS Greg Henry and his second-in-command,
Matthew O’Malley, along with Special Agents Cris Coffey and Kevin Quinn.

And a Harvard neuroscientist who might well be dreaming it
all.

It turned out that her host had a special room for vid-meets
that was highly secure. She and her two companions took their places at the
small table in the room and waited for the meeting to begin. Their wait was
very short-lived, as holographic software from a set of cameras built into the
walls turned their tiny square table into an imposing oval specimen, and began
populating the virtual conference table with participants, looking for all the
world as though they were really in the Israeli’s home. The projections of the
participants, from multiple locations, was done even more seamlessly than
usual, and each had an identity and location tag floating nearby.

As the chair of Harvard’s neuroscience department, Rachel
was used to being the most senior and influential person at a conference table.
At this particular meeting—not so much.

The tags floating near the Israeli attendees indicated they
were all together at Beit Aghion in Jerusalem, the Israeli equivalent of the White
House. And they all looked weary, not surprising since six o’clock on a Tuesday
evening in Washington was one o’clock on Wednesday morning for them.

As the most powerful human on the planet, Rachel had
expected Matthew Davinroy to begin, but since Ori Kish had asked for this
gathering the duty fell to him.

“Mr. President,” he said. “Thanks to you and your team for meeting
with us on such short notice.”

“You made it quite clear how important you felt this was,”
said the president bluntly, looking slightly annoyed. Not exactly you’re welcome. The relationship between
Davinroy and Kish was rumored to be ice-cold.

“I’m confident you’ll agree that it is,” said Kish.

“I’ve been briefed on all relevant background,” said
Davinroy, “and the information you supplied us. Apparently, there are some
troubling events involving miniaturized drones and advanced neuroscience that
have arisen. And some further disclosures that you’d like to make.”

“Before we begin,”
said Greg Henry, “I did want to thank Avi for the heads-up on Azim Jafari and
the Hamza Mosque.”

“Yes, of course,” seconded Davinroy insincerely. “Much
appreciated.”

“Glad we could help,” said Wortzman, trying to be diplomatic
while his boss, the prime minster, couldn’t quite manage to keep all the
hostility he felt toward the president from his face.  “We’re relieved that his plan was averted, and
grieve with you over the loss of innocent life in the mosque.”

“Thank you,” said the president. He turned his focus to the
man sitting beside Rachel at the virtual table and his expression darkened. “Special
Agent Quinn. I must admit, you’re the last person I expected to be conferencing
with today. Or any day.”

“Mr. President,” said Quinn, “I don’t have words enough to
apologize properly. As you’ve been briefed, I wasn’t myself. I was manipulated.
I hope that one day you’ll be able to forgive me.”

The president glared at Quinn for several long seconds but
didn’t acknowledge his apology. He shifted his gaze to Rachel. “You must be
Professor Howard,” he said. “I’m told your presence is important. So thanks for
attending.”

Rachel was frozen for just a moment, unable to believe the
man she had seen so often addressing the nation was now addressing her. For
once she decided not to ask the participants at this meeting to call her by her
first name. She already felt small enough.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, hearing these words as if
they were spoken by someone else.

“Professor Howard,” said the Secretary of Homeland Security,
“Greg Henry here. I should tell you that during the past several hours we’ve had
swarms of people picking through your background in a bit of a frenzy. As of
ten minutes ago, you’ve been granted our nation’s highest security clearance. We’ll
give you a more formal rundown of what that entails another day, but I thought
you should know. Every word said in this meeting is confidential. Do you
understand?”

Rachel nodded woodenly. “Of course.”

“Can I assume you’ve implemented the jamming protocol we
sent you at each of your locations?” said Avi Wortzman.

“We have,” said Henry.

“Good,” replied the head of Mossad. “This will ensure any
possible listening devices get nothing but static.”

“Are we ready to begin?” said Davinroy, making no attempt to
hide his impatience.

“We are,” said the Israeli prime minister. “This will not be
an altogether comfortable meeting for us, I can assure you. But it’s time to
bring our great friend and ally up to speed on some . . . issues we’ve been
encountering. Despite having to air more dirty laundry than we’d like.”

For the first time, Rachel detected a glimmer of enthusiasm
from the president, who hadn’t realized the coming disclosure might be
humiliating to Kish, and was relishing the prospect.

“This being said,” continued Kish, “let me give the
floor to Avi Wortzman.”

“Thank you,” said the Mossad leader. “Everyone here is
now aware that yesterday, Special Agent Quinn discovered a working fly drone
and sent it to Special Agent Coffey for analysis. I understand that the result
of this analysis showed that this drone is very advanced, beyond any known
technology.”

Rachel was transfixed, even though she knew what was
coming, since Eyal Regev had come clean with her and Kevin that morning. Kevin
had taken time to carefully explain to her the full significance of what had been
disclosed.

Every major country in the world had been working furiously
on drone tech for many decades. She already knew that drones, civilian and
military alike, had become as plentiful as the stars in the heavens—who didn’t?—but
she hadn’t known that the ultimate military and intelligence goal was to
perfect a drone that could perfectly mimic a tiny insect. If a technology that
was impervious to state-of-the art bug detection could be perfected also, such
a drone would be the perfect spy device. A bug that was actually a bug.

Small. Mobile. Self-installing. Undetectable.

The phrase, I’d
like to be a fly on the wall had come into common usage for a reason. A
housefly was the ultimate spy. Which is why Kevin’s discovery had created such
interest, and such angst. In one’s own hands such a device was a godsend. In
the hands of one’s enemies an unmitigated disaster, a cause for serious alarm, perhaps
panic.

Even Cris Coffey didn’t know where Avi Wortzman was
heading. Kevin had contacted his old boss at eleven that morning and asked him to
tell the secretary of Homeland and the president about the fly drone, and Dr. Beam’s
analysis, despite having insisted that he not do so only the day before. Quinn
had explained he needed to get Davinroy’s attention so he would accept a
meeting request from the Israelis that would shed light on this.

Coffey had been stunned. How in the world had the
nation’s most hunted man managed to suddenly get into bed with the Israelis?

Quinn had assured him all would become clear during
the meeting, and had ended the conversation. Now, less than seven hours later,
Coffey was about to get his answers.

“Your understanding is a little off,” said Greg Henry,
ever cautious with information. “We believe the drone may represent a leap forward. But it isn’t yet clear. It came to us
damaged. So we really couldn’t put it through any paces and verify its effectiveness.
But why don’t you tell us how well it
performs. When Prime Minister Kish asked for this meeting, he said you know who’s
behind it.”

“More like which country,” said Wortzman. He opened
his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?” spat Davinroy, “a
drum-roll? Which country is it?”

Wortzman grimaced uncomfortably. “Ours,” he said
simply. “We’re behind it. Israel. After
putting our best minds on the problem for decades we got a few lucky breaks and
perfected the drones. They can fly great distances, blend in with surroundings,
and plant themselves in cars and offices. They’ve been in deployment for the
last four years.”

“Four years!” thundered Davinroy. “You’ve used these
things for four years and kept us entirely out of the loop?”

Ori Kish blew out a long breath. “Yes. Both our countries support
numerous Black projects. With all due respect, Mr. President, are you telling
me you don’t have advanced tech you haven’t shared with your allies?”

“That means nothing!” barked Davinroy. “The difference is
that we’re the superpower here. The
mother ship. And we provide you with substantial support. Financially, militarily,
and at bodies like the UN.”

“And we’ve given you substantial intelligence in exchange!” retorted
Kish, not backing down an iota. “Even before this drone was perfected. We’re
your only true friend in the most deadly region in the world, where scores of
countries think of America as the Great Satan and want to destroy it as much as
they want to destroy Israel. I know you’re aware that we’ve upped the intel we
provide to you considerably in the past four years. What you don’t know is that
we’ve given you even more anonymously. I won’t disclose specifics, but intel
from our fly drone program enabled us to stop Kim Jong-un from nuking six of
your cities a few years back, including Washington DC. We had him bugged for
years. Believe me, that was one crazy bastard, but he managed to sneak the
nukes in and bury them in these cities. This wasn’t just an idle threat. He
couldn’t wait to carry it out. If we
hadn’t stepped up, President Davinroy, neither Washington nor you would be here right now. I know for
a fact that he planned to be sure you were at the White House when he set his
devices off.”

Davinroy looked stunned by this earth-shattering revelation.
Rachel could tell he wasn’t just horrified that North Korea had come close to
destroying six major cities, without America having a clue, but more so that he
and tens of millions of American citizens might owe their lives to Israel and
Ori Kish. It clearly grated on him.

“If you had shared this program with us like you should have,” said the president, now
recovered from his shock, “we wouldn’t need your rescuing.”

“Again, with all due respect,” said Kish, “you wouldn’t have
shared it either if you were in our shoes. We’re a tiny country. We aren’t
surrounded by Mexico and Canada. We’re surrounded by militant enemy states that
have vowed to destroy us. This drone technology gave us an enormous advantage. It
did more than ensure we got the intel to prevent Kim Jong-un from nuking you. It allowed us to stop Iran from
nuking us, and at the eleventh hour. If
this tech had leaked, Israel wouldn’t still be standing today. Others would have
learned how to detect these drones. They would still be valuable, but those at
the upper echelons of power would protect themselves from this surveillance.”

“What are you saying, that we would have leaked it?” said Davinroy.

“Not intentionally,”
said the prime minister. “And not for certain. But bringing you into the tent would
have increased the risk of a leak dramatically. We can keep a secret because
our existence depends on it. But you
are forty times our size, in population and bureaucracy. Our necks are in the noose, not yours, and you can’t say your
record when it comes to keeping secrets is spotless. China has hacked you
repeatedly. Look at the damage done by Edward Snowden, and there are many other
examples. I’m not being critical, but two people have a better chance than a
thousand of keeping a secret. And you’re the thousand.”

Heated expressions appeared on multiple faces around the
table. The president glared at his counterpart but didn’t respond further.

“So why tell us about these drones now?” said Henry. “Because
Agent Quinn found a disabled one? You didn’t want us to panic? Wanted to make
sure we knew it was friendly fire?”

Wortzman gritted his teeth. “I wish this were the case,” he
said. “But I’m afraid it’s much worse
than that.”

36

Just when Rachel had thought the tension among the
conference participants could not be greater, it promptly grew. Now there was
anxiety mixed in with the anger. Both men actually
in the room with her, rather than virtually,
had remained silent and had kept their faces largely impassive. When emotions
ran high and there were titans present, it was best to try to blend into the
walls rather than speaking up and risk drawing fire.

Avi Wortzman pressed a button on a computer pad in front
of him and the vid-meet software projected a holographic image of a middle-aged
man above the center of the virtual table. Clean-cut, relatively handsome, with
gray eyes and brown hair.

“You’re looking at a man named Dmitri Kovonov,” said
the head of Mossad, as the man’s age, weight, and other relevant physical data
appeared beside his image. “He’s a Russian Jew. He emigrated from Moscow to Tel
Aviv with his family at the age of fourteen. Brilliant. Obtained a PhD from
Technion University in Haifa at the age of nineteen. I’ll have his full dossier
sent to all of you after this meeting. But what is relevant right now is that he
was the number two scientist on the team that developed these drones.”

“Who was number one?” asked Henry.

“We promise our scientific heads
a certain degree of anonymity,” said Wortzman, dodging the question. “But back
to Kovonov. A month ago he went rogue. He killed four members of the team and
destroyed the one factory that fabricates the fly drones’ microelectronics. He
made off with our entire supply of inventoried drones, and left us with no way
to make more until we can rebuild the factory. An expensive and time-consuming
undertaking.”

“And you had no safeguards
against something like this?” said Henry in disbelief.

“We had plenty of safeguards,” replied Wortzman. “But he outsmarted us. We
trusted him implicitly and were caught with our pants down. Around our ankles. It’s
a failure of epic proportions. I offered my resignation to the prime minster afterward,
but he wouldn’t take it.”

“Do you know why Kovonov did
it?” said Henry. “His endgame?”

“We aren’t certain. Our best
guess is that he was loyal to Mother Russia all along, possibly having renounced
his Judaism. We think he bided his time until he had a clear path to make off with
the drones. I know you’re aware this is a breakthrough technology, a game
changer. But until you’ve worked with it like we have, you can’t fully
appreciate just how much of a game
changer.”

“So Kovonov could be using these
flies to monitor this very meeting,” said Henry. “With Russia or someone worse
behind them.”

“He could be trying,” said the head of Mossad. “But
as you assured us when we began, you’ve implemented the jamming countermeasures
we provided. Any flies in your offices are hearing nothing but static. We currently
also have the ability to detect these drones, which we’ll share with you
immediately after the meeting. Although if he makes certain changes to the
drones, we may lose this capability in the future.”

“Perfect,” said the president sarcastically.

“The bottom line,” said Wortzman, “is that these
drones, this technology, could now be in the hands of an expansionist Russia,
with its sights on regaining its superpower status at any cost. Or if Kovonov went
freelance, the situation could be even worse. He could be selling them to more
dangerous players even than Russia.”

“So you’ve been trying like hell since he left to clean up
your own mess,” said Henry.

“Yes. Without success.”

“And now without any fly drones of your own,” said Davinroy.

“We had a number in the field when the factory and inventory
were destroyed,” replied Wortzman, “so we still have some capability. We had one
assigned to Jafari for several months based on other fly drone intel we had
gathered. We were about to reassign the drone to more important work when Jafari
announced his grand plan. We lucked out on the timing.”

“Jafari was an American citizen,” said Davinroy. “So you
were spying on our citizens on our soil. And I have to believe you
didn’t limit these activities to suspected terrorists. Why do I have the
feeling the Oval Office may have had a pest problem the last four years?”

“Unlike your NSA,” replied Kish smoothly, “which has
acknowledged spying on leaders of countries allied with you—including a former
prime minister of Israel—we wouldn’t do
that.” He shook his head as if the very idea was unthinkable. “Even if ethics
would allow it, if this were somehow discovered it would forever drive a wedge between
our friendship.”

“Uh-huh,” said Davinroy, glaring at the prime minister in
disgust. “I’m not buying it. I’d say you’re full
of shit but diplomacy and decorum prevent me.”

The president paused. “But let’s move on. For now. I’ll want
to come back to this at another time.”

“Of course,” said Ori Kish.

“So have you made any
progress finding Kovonov?” asked O’Malley, who along with Hurwitz, Wortzman’s
second-in-command, had remained silent until this point.

“Almost none,” said Wortzman.

“I’m surprised,” said Henry. “The Mossad’s bloodhound skills
are legendary.”

Wortzman frowned. “Kovonov knows all of our secrets. Our
methods and the identities of our agents. We don’t know how much spying he did
on us before he left, but we believe it was extensive. Since the fly drones
were our technology we didn’t monitor their possible use against us. So we have
to assume Kovonov knows everything we do. The most classified Mossad data. Not
just on our methods and intel, but all the data we have on our friends. On
joint programs with the US. The identity of the American agents involved.
Classified data on US methods.”

“Are you kidding me?”
shouted Davinroy. “And you’re lecturing us
about leaks! You’ve just opened up Pandora’s box!”

Ori Kish’s face hardened. “No
question this is a spectacular failure on our part. But you’ve had yours as
well. All governments have. We humans are fallible beings, and mistakes happen.
But while you’re rightly angry, please try to keep this in perspective. Yes
we’ve created a problem. But we also saved Israel. Saved Washington and five
other American cities. Even after our failure, we helped you stop Azim Jafari.”

“So what do you want?” said the
president. “Just to warn us? To rip off the Band-Aid of secrecy from an episode
that will have severe repercussions between our two countries? Or did you bring
us in to get our help with your hunt for Kovonov?”

“We would like your help, yes,”
replied Kish. “But before we discuss this further there is more we need to talk
about.”

“Right,” said Davinroy. “The
second order of business that you alluded to. At least it can’t be as bad as
the first.”

Wortzman grimaced. “That remains
to be seen,” he said. “You’ve been briefed on how Agent Quinn was manipulated
into trying to kill you.”

“Yes. And I only believe it
because I was told your side insisted something similar happened to two of your
agents.”

“That’s right. I won’t give you
all of the details, but I’ll paint as much of a picture as I can.”

Wortzman spent several minutes
sharing a sense of what had happened and how the Mossad had become convinced
these agents’ memories had been tampered with. He then gave the floor to Kevin
Quinn, who described his own experiences in colorful detail. How these
nightmarish memories, almost certainly tied into the rage centers of his brain,
had begun to emerge days earlier. He described how real they had felt, bubbling
up through a memory erasure drug he had thought had been forced on him by the
president. His emotions and description of these events were quite compelling.

Quinn went on to detail his journey
to a secluded shack and his encounter with two mercenaries there. How he had
turned the tables, and how he had learned of the Russian behind it. “I know now
that this man was Dmitri Kovonov,” said Quinn. “At the time, of course, all I
knew was that he was Russian, and that his hired hands had been told to address
him as 302.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. This was
the first she had heard of this.

“302?” repeated Henry. He stared
at the head of Mossad. “Does that have any significance?”

“None that we know of,” replied
Wortzman, “but you should run it yourself and see if you turn up anything in
your databases.”

Rachel locked her gaze on Avi
Wortzman. He may have been in Jerusalem, but he was also ten feet away at the
virtual conference table. “Does Kovonov have a neuroscience background?” she asked
for the second time that day.

Wortzman appraised her
carefully. “None at all,” he replied, the same answer Eyal Regev had given.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, very certain. I know why
you’re asking, Professor Howard, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We
should let Agent Quinn finish his report.”

Quinn picked up the story where
he had left off, describing how he learned of the danger to Rachel Howard and
had sought her out. He then passed the baton to Regev, who went on to describe
his own activities and how he had come to cross paths with Quinn.

When he admitted he had been
spying on the professor, and why, Wortzman jumped in. He was quick to point out
that until Quinn had gone off the rails, they had thought the problem was
confined to Israel, which explained why the US had not been told of it.

When he finished there was a
lengthy silence, as the Americans digested all that had been said.

The president leaned back and
locked his hands behind his head. “So you—we—have
two major crises occurring at the same time,” he said, breaking the silence. “A
Russian named Kovonov ran off with your spy drones. And someone is manipulating
the memories of agents. So how are these related?”

“We aren’t sure,” said Wortzman.
“Despite the timing, we thought they were separate. Until today. We have people
turning over every rock to find Kovonov. And we have Agent Regev taking the
lead on our false memory investigation. Imagine our surprise when Kevin Quinn
intersected with Regev and we realized these two thorns in our side were
somehow connected. We were stunned to learn that Kovonov was behind Quinn’s
capture, and that he planned to murder Professor Howard.”

“Which is why the professor asked
if Kovonov had neuroscience expertise, right?” said Henry. “She was wondering
if he was behind the memory implantation also, and not just the theft of your
drones.”

“Yes,” said Wortzman. “But this
isn’t possible.”

“I know we’re all alarmed by
these events,” said Cris Coffey. “But I’m not sure we’re alarmed enough. Let’s not forget that whoever is behind this memory trick wants
President Davinroy dead.”

The president frowned deeply as
this point hit home.

“So we’re looking at two different people?” said O’Malley. “This
makes no sense to me. The odds against Kovonov just magically finding someone
able to screw with people’s heads are astronomical.”

“Not magically
finding them,” said Wortzman. “Only through considerable effort, I’m sure.”

“Right,” snapped Davinroy
coldly. “When you can be a fly on the wall anywhere, at secret commercial,
university, and government labs, you can learn about a lot of interesting projects,
can’t you?”

“That’s undoubtedly how this came about,” agreed Wortzman.
“Our agents’ memories had been tampered with before Kovonov left. Something he
would have learned about. So he must have set his sights—or the sights of his
swarm of fly drones to be more precise—on learning who was behind it.”

“So he’s teamed up with this other party, hasn’t he?”
insisted the president.

“Unclear,” said the head of Mossad. “He may have. But it
could also be that he hasn’t even found this other party yet. His actions with
respect to your Secret Service agent and Professor Howard may represent an
effort to learn more, or to flush out the person responsible.”

“What if Kovonov’s
memory was tampered with?” said O’Malley. “Maybe he was loyal. Maybe he went off the reservation after a false memory
emerged about his poor treatment at the hands of the Mossad.” He gestured at
Avi Wortzman and raised his eyebrows. “Who knows, maybe you tortured and killed
a wife of his that he doesn’t have.”

Wortzman shuddered. “A chilling possibility. I don’t think
this is the case, but I suppose we can’t rule it out.”

“If Agent Quinn’s report is accurate,” said Davinroy, “this
Kovonov is in the continental United States, even as we speak. And we know what
he looks like. If we use facial recognition and put our people in airports and
train stations, I would think we could snare him fairly readily.”

Rachel thought she detected the head of DHS reflexively
rolling his eyes at what she guessed was Davinroy’s naiveté. She knew nothing
about these matters, but it was clear even to her that if it would have been
this easy, the Mossad would have captured him already.

“Can you address this, Avi?” said Henry, passing the duty of
making the president look stupid to his Israeli counterpart.

“It’s a great thought, Mr. President,” said Wortzman, “but
Kovonov is very slippery. Top agents in both of our intelligence agencies have
multiple methods to defeat facial recognition technology. This won’t be a
problem for him. He can pilot both helicopters and planes and has the means to
purchase small private aircraft. If he chooses to use commercial
transportation, he has a number of ways to change his appearance, with forged
documents to match.”

It seemed to Rachel that Wortzman was about to say more but
had stopped himself. She suspected he was going to remind the president that
Kovonov also had intimate knowledge of how the US conducted manhunts, which
made it easier for him to elude them, but had decided not to pick at this sensitive
scab yet again.

Ori Kish cleared his throat and all eyes turned in his
direction. “I think we should stop here for now. We’ve now disclosed what we
came to disclose. So I wanted to make a proposal.”

Everyone around the virtual table gave him their undivided
attention.

“We’re prepared to give you everything we have on the fly
drone technology. Full specs. No need spending years reverse engineering any
drones you find.”

“And in exchange?” said Davinroy.

“First, you agree to institute extraordinary measures to
keep this technology closely held and secret so we can both benefit from it as
long as possible.”

“Again,” spat Davinroy, shaking his head, “do you really
have the balls to sit there and lecture us?”

“Yes, I get the irony,” said the Israeli Prime Minister. “We’ve
been breached. But we have to operate under the assumption we’ll take out
Kovonov and return to full stealth mode.”

“Go on,” said the president.

“We’ll be giving you at least four major breakthroughs. Nano-scale
computer chips and electronics, miniaturized and advanced sensors, miniaturized
and more efficient energy systems, and advances in flight mechanics. You agree
to let us file patents when our governments decide—jointly—to go public with these
advances, to the benefit of the Israeli economy.”

Davinroy rubbed his chin in thought. “Since these were your
inventions, we wouldn’t have a claim anyway. Go on.”

“You rush to build your own factory, so between us we’ll
have two. Again, we’ll give you the exact specifications. Most importantly, you
help us find the Russian. But we need you to agree to pull out all the stops.
We want this to be a very, very, very high priority for you.” Kish paused.
“Have I used enough verys to get my point across?”

“Believe me,” said Henry, “we understand how dangerous it is
to have Kovonov on the loose.”

“Good,” said Ori Kish.

“Not to interrupt the prime minister,” said Wortzman, “but
it’s vital I make it clear that if your side does find him, this is to be a kill on sight mission. Kovonov pulled
off some real magic when he made his move against us, and he’s proven more
clever and dangerous than any man we’ve ever hunted. So there is no capture—only
elimination.”

Rachel found it interesting that the prime minister had outlined
every other term of his proposal, but it had fallen to Wortzman to insist that
Kovonov be assassinated. Wortzman’s delivery of this requirement must have been
planned ahead of time so Kish wouldn’t have to sully himself.

“One last thing,” said the prime minister, retaking the
stage. “We propose placing our man Regev in charge of a joint US-Israel op
aimed at stopping whoever is behind the false memory implantation. We’ll get a
bigger task force together, but for now we believe it’s critical that Rachel
Howard be part of our efforts. As we’ve said, that was what Regev was doing in
the States. We’re convinced she’s our best hope of discovering how these false
memories were implanted and developing detection methods and countermeasures. Provided
she’s willing, we’re prepared to accommodate her however she would like, at
whatever compensation she would like. Given her stature, I’m sure Harvard would
be willing to let her go on a year sabbatical, beginning yesterday, as long as
they think they’ll get her back.”

Rachel still couldn’t fully assimilate the magnitude of this
meeting, of these people, but no one could ever have convinced her that she
might one day be part of a proposal made by the Prime Minister of Israel to the
President of the United States. She couldn’t quite get it to sink in that these
powerful men were deciding her future. If she was willing.

“Is that everything?” said the president.

“Oh, sorry,” said Kish. “Not quite. We’d also like you to
assign Kevin Quinn to this effort. He’s already in place, he has an extremely personal
interest in this matter, and Agent Regev tells me he’s as good as it gets.”

Davinroy waited for several seconds to make sure Kish was
really finished this time. “You’re asking an awful lot in exchange for sharing technology
we’ll be able to crack on our own,” he said in disgust. “And tech you should
have given us anyway. Or do I need to remind you of what we give to you?”

“We’ve already been through this,” said Kish. “I could
remind you of what you get in return.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” said Wortzman,
jumping in to help defray the growing tension, “we spent a decade on this fly
drone tech, getting out the, ah . . . bugs.
And there are tricks that reverse engineering won’t teach you. You might crack
this on your own, but it really will take years.”

“Look,” added Kish, “we aren’t asking anything that isn’t in
your own best interest, that we wouldn’t expect you to want to do in the first place. These were our problems. But you
know that they’re now yours as well.” He paused. “And I’m sure you don’t need
to be reminded again, Mr. President, that whoever is behind the memory
implantation seems to be gunning for you.”

The president’s demeanor remained ice-cold. “I believe we
understand your proposal, Prime Minister Kish,” he said. “I’m going to have my
side temporarily sign off so we can discuss this privately. I’ll have my answer
for you when we return.”

37

The massive virtual conference table collapsed once again
into Eyal Regev’s small square table and Rachel and her two companions were now
alone with their thoughts. The call had been even more remarkable than she had
expected. This time she had been the
fly on the wall when some seriously historical discussions were taking place.

“What do you think, Kevin?” she said. “Will the president
agree?”

Quinn nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, not caring that Regev
was privy to his analysis. “He’s just pissed off at the entire situation and
doesn’t want to seem to be caving too easily. But don’t let him fool you, he’d give
Israel the state of Texas to get such
game-changing technology. And the prime minister was right, he’s only asking
the US to do what it should want to be doing anyway, for its own best interests.”

Rachel considered. “If the Mossad is so legendary,” she
said, this time directing her question at Regev, “why do you need our help with
Kovonov?”

The Israeli laughed. “Are you kidding? The resources America
can bring to bear on something like this are staggering. The Mossad is a
miracle of efficiency and cleverness. But if we’re the best bantamweight fighter
who ever lived, the US is a dozen heavyweight fighters in one.”

They continued discussing what they had just witnessed for
about twenty minutes, when the president signaled that his party was ready to
return to the meeting. When everyone reappeared around the virtual table,
President Davinroy wasted no time getting to the point.

“Prime Minister,” he began with a look of contempt, “I want
to make it clear that I’m outraged by the actions you’ve taken. And I have to
assume your country has spied on me and my government over many years. This is
something I will not forget, and something we need to address further.”

Davinroy paused for effect. “But given the position your mistakes
have put us in, and in the interest of our two countries, I am forced to agree
to your proposal.”

Kish was clearly chomping at the bit to respond to
Davinroy’s barbs, but visibly stopped himself. “Good,” he said, managing to
keep any anger from his voice. “I think this is the wisest course of action.”

“I assume you have this proposal in writing?” said Davinroy.

“We’ll have a version for you and your team to consider in a
few hours. It will mostly outline the broad principles of our understanding. A
battle plan that will leave ample room for the heads of the various initiatives
to react with maximum flexibility to changing conditions on the ground. My hope
is that we can incorporate any changes you have and arrive at a finished
product by the end of the week.

“In the meanwhile,” continued the prime minister, “if you
could begin deciding what resources you intend to apply to the Kovonov manhunt,
and putting together a fly drone team, we’ll have our scientists ready to fly
out and smooth the technology transfer over the next several months.”

“That is acceptable,” said the president.

“There is one last issue we need to resolve,” said Henry.
“What to do about Kevin Quinn.”

“Sir?” said Quinn in surprise. “In case it wasn’t clear, I’m
eager to be assigned to Regev’s operation. As the prime minister said, I
couldn’t have a more personal interest.”

“I’m well aware,” said the head of DHS. “But that isn’t the issue.”
He turned to face Coffey. “Cris, could you jump in here?”

Coffey frowned, and it was clear from his demeanor that he
had been elected to be the bearer of bad news. “The issue,” he said, “is that
you’re the most wanted man in America. Not only is half the law enforcement in
this country actively hunting you, but your face is now widely known.”

Quinn looked confused. “I had assumed you’d just call off
the manhunt and clear my name,” he said. “With the president’s help.”

“We discussed this just now,” said Coffey. “And it isn’t
that easy. Too many people saw you try to kill the president. Too many people
heard what you accused him of. So we’d have to go public with memory tampering.
It’s the only way you could be seen as completely innocent. Even if you turned
yourself in and claimed temporary insanity, you’d be tied up in the courts and
with psychiatrists for ages, with no guarantee you’d go free at the end of it.”

“Okay, so we’ll have to go public with what happened, like
you said,” replied Quinn, who suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.

Coffey shook his head. “I’m
afraid we can’t do that. The public will think it’s bullshit unless the
government convinces everyone that it’s true. But do we really want to raise
this specter? Do we really want people to worry that false memories can be
implanted into their own minds, or the minds of others around them? Even if we
forget the anxiety this will cause, the day after it’s disclosed lawyers for
every criminal in the country will have a new defense strategy. Their poor clients
were manipulated into their crimes by heinous false memories. And at the
moment, there is no way to prove they weren’t.”

Rachel nodded appreciatively.
While the news couldn’t have been worse for Kevin, Coffey was absolutely
correct. Even without memory implantation, advances in neuroscience were
bringing a number of legal issues to the fore. And these would only get thornier
the more the inner workings of the human brain were decoded.

The legal system in the West was
based on free will, on blameworthiness. If a man intentionally drove off the
road to hit and kill an innocent pedestrian, he’d rot in jail. But what if he
drove off the road and killed an innocent pedestrian because he was in the
throes of a heart attack? What if he blacked out and lost control of the
vehicle? Should he still go to jail?

Of course not. Because it wasn’t
his fault. The first driver killed on
purpose. He exercised free will and made a choice.
The second driver had no free will. It was an accident.

But what if the first driver was
later found to have a tumor like that of Charles Whitman? Perhaps he didn’t
have as much choice as it might have seemed.

The more science discovered
biological drivers behind certain actions, the more the definition of
blameworthiness might change. Not that criminals shouldn’t be found guilty and incarcerated
in most cases. But this did introduce new and fascinating ethical and legal
vistas for consideration.

Rachel could see in Quinn’s face
he agreed with Coffey’s points. Convincing the population that their inner
sanctums, and those of people they trusted, might be open to tampering would be
a disaster. At least until such tampering could be detected. She had pondered
these scenarios more than anyone but had failed to consider the future of her
new friend in this context.

“So what do you propose to do?”
said Quinn. “Feed me to the wolves?”

Coffey shifted in his seat uneasily.
“There is really only one workable solution,” he said. “And you’re not going to
like it. Although compared to the wolf thing . . .” he finished, leaving the
thought hanging.

“I have to die, don’t I?” said
Quinn, as the solution suddenly became clear.

“I’m afraid so. And soon. It’s
the only way to take you completely off the grid. What do you say?”

“I’m in, of course. Everything
you said is correct. I have no other choice.”

“Good. I’ll take responsibility
for staging it. I have some Black Ops folks I’ve worked with previously who can
help. It’ll have to be a fire, naturally. We’ll make sure our doctors are called in, so we don’t have to worry about a
perfect dental and skeletal match.”

“Where will you find the skeleton?”
asked Quinn.

“We’ll figure something out,”
replied Coffey, and then with a grin added, “assuming they don’t have them at
Amazon. You know, for one-hour delivery.”

Quinn couldn’t help but smile.

“Here’s what we’d like you to do,
Kevin,” said his former boss. “Sit tight where you are and check the news
periodically. We’ll try to make this happen very soon. When your death has been
reported to every corner of the globe you’re free to join Eyal Regev to find the
jackass responsible for what happened to you.”

“Now that is something I’m looking forward to,” said Quinn, his
expression darkening. “And when I do find him, he’s going to wish like hell
he’d killed me when he had the chance.”

38

The inhabitants
of the home Eyal Regev had set up as a headquarters in Waltham—three people who
would form the nucleus of a critical joint American-Israeli operation—spent the
rest of the day and evening poring over intel and getting to know each other.
They had pizza delivered for lunch a few hours before the vid-meet and Chinese
food delivered a few hours after.

Quinn tried not
to reflect too much on the imminent death of his old life, of almost
everything, and everyone, he had known. Like a participant in a witness
protection program, he would be reborn, never able to go back, only forward.

The pain and disorientation
he would have otherwise felt was muted by the affection he quickly developed
for both of his new teammates. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken
to anyone as quickly as he had to a professor who was effortlessly able to bridge
the vast intellectual gulf between them.

And he and Eyal
Regev developed an instant rapport, unlike any he had ever experienced. After
only a few hours, Regev had become like a brother to him, although one who
seemed to be just a slightly superior version of himself in every way. They had
everything in common. They were of the same height and largely thought in the
same way, which was remarkable given the differences in their cultures and
language. But Regev seemed to be just a little sharper than Quinn, a little
more knowledgeable on a broader base of topics. His sense of humor at least as
good as Quinn’s and maybe even better. Most impressive of all, while Quinn
prided himself on his use of the language, on being articulate, Regev seemed a
little better here as well, astonishing since this was his second language.

Quinn guessed
Regev possessed elite skills, even for a Mossad agent, which made sense to him.
When choosing an agent for a mission that was extremely important, an agent who
had to pretend to be a neuroscience graduate student at Harvard, you chose the
sharpest one you had.

Quinn had
admired and respected his last boss, Cris Coffey, who would be one of the few
people from his past life he would continue to work with. But he suspected he
would soon come to admire and respect the Israeli even more.

At nine that
night a package was left at Regev’s doorstep, one containing a passport,
California driver’s license, and several credit cards, each in the name of
Kevin Moore, who bore a striking resemblance to the soon-to-be deceased Kevin
Quinn. At least they had let him keep his first name. Thank God for that.

At midnight they
checked cable news one last time before turning in. Regev only had two beds, so
Quinn took the couch while his two companions each retired to separate rooms.

They agreed to
reconvene in the family room at eight the next morning. When this time arrived,
they greeted each other but said little else as Regev immediately turned on his
television to learn if they were free to move, or would need to remain in place
a little longer.

The words BREAKING NEWS were splashed across the
top and bottom of the seventy-inch screen in three-dimensional red letters.

“Just to repeat
our top news story this morning,” said a woman named Ann Keeran, a striking
news anchor who could well have been a model, “the manhunt for Secret Service
Special Agent Kevin Quinn ended in the wee hours of the morning, at around two
o’clock Eastern time. FBI agents located Quinn, wanted in connection with an attempt
on President Davinroy’s life, just minutes before, on the I-75 highway in
Cincinnati, Ohio. During a high-speed chase, Quinn lost control of his car in
the Cincinnati suburb of Finneytown, crashing into a parked semi at over a
hundred miles an hour. The car erupted into flames from the force of the
collision, incinerating both it and the man inside.”

Quinn felt sick
to his stomach as the anchor threw the coverage to a reporter on the scene, in
what had already become a media circus, with images of the remains of a
collision from hell pictured behind the throng of reporters, cameramen, and
officials. Broken glass, mangled steel, and the burned-out and demolished husks
of a semi and sedan gave witness to Ann Keeran’s reporting.

“Are you okay,
Kevin?” asked Rachel.

Quinn nodded
woodenly. “Yeah. It’s just not every day that . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”

“I do,” she
replied. “It’s like reading your own obituary. But worse.”

“I have to say
that your Cris Coffey did an impressive job,” noted Regev as he continued to
watch the coverage.

“I owe him one,”
said Quinn. “I’m grateful that he didn’t have me committing suicide. Having me lighting
myself on fire after being found in an abandoned building would have been much
easier to stage. At least he let me retain some
dignity. And it is a relief to be out from under the manhunt.”

“I’ll bet,” said
Regev. “And just to return your compliment from yesterday,” he added in
amusement, “you look good for a dead man too. And you didn’t even need a bulletproof vest.”

They continued
to watch in silence. After five minutes of further coverage on the scene, the
reporting was thrown back to Ann Keeran. “An hour ago,” she said solemnly, “the
White House issued a statement, thanking the law enforcement agencies for their
efforts in tracking down a dangerous fugitive, and expressing their sorrow at
the way this ended. President Davinroy was quoted as saying, ‘It is well known
that the actions of Special Agent Quinn were brought on by a psychotic break
with reality. While he did become a danger to himself and others, we should all
remember his long record of serving his country with honor and distinction. While
I am grateful to have this behind us, the loss of this good man is nothing
short of a tragedy.’”

“Wow,” said
Regev, lifting the remote to switch off the television. “That was . . .
thoughtful.”

Quinn nodded.
“It has Coffey’s fingerprints all over it. My guess is that he wrote it. I just
can’t believe he convinced the president to release it.”

“I can,” said
Rachel. “Davinroy’s a politician, so he didn’t do it to make you look good. He did it to make himself
look good. It’s a huge story, and he gets to go on record being gracious and
forgiving. Irresistible to any politician worth his salt.”

“I had no idea
you were this cynical,” said Regev with a grin. “I’m liking you more every
minute.”

Rachel smiled,
but the magnitude and sincerity of her expression was less than Quinn might
have expected. “So I guess we’re free to be on our way,” she said.

“My government
has a plane waiting for us at Logan. Have you ever been to Israel?”

“Yes,” said
Rachel. “Once. At a scientific conference.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes. I didn’t
have the chance to go to any of your resorts,” she replied, “but I was
impressed. Given the terrorism issues you hear about, I didn’t expect such
thriving cities, or that they’d be even more modern than ours.”

“We’ll make sure
to get you to the resorts at some point,” said Regev. “I think you’ll enjoy
your stay.” He smiled. “It should help that you’ll be given unlimited resources
and treated like royalty.”

Again Rachel
flashed a smile, but to Quinn’s eyes it seemed forced somehow.

Quinn was ready
to travel, the rucksack he had taken being his sole possession. He thought
about ceremonially destroying the black baseball hat he had thought would prove
so important, but decided to keep it as a reminder of the adversity he had
managed to overcome since this episode had begun.

Rachel wanted to
return to her home to pack some belongings, but both men ruled this out
immediately, and Regev promised her a fabulous shopping spree in Tel Aviv as
soon as she felt up to it after landing.

When the Israeli
left them temporarily to pack a bag, Rachel pressed a folded piece of paper
into Quinn’s hand and put a finger across her lips. Read this in the bathroom, she mouthed.

Quinn’s eyes
narrowed in confusion. Was this some kind of practical joke? Given all that had
happened and his assessment of Rachel Howard’s personality, he couldn’t believe
this was true.

Go!
she mouthed adamantly as he stood there, dumbfounded.

This shook Quinn
from his momentary trance and he hustled off to Regev’s bathroom as she had instructed.
He shut the door, unfolded the paper he had been given, and read.

Don’t trust Eyal. Much of what the Israelis said
during the vid-meet was a lie. We need to learn the truth, once and for all. I
didn’t want to share this with you earlier because Eyal was always close by.
Even when we were alone for a short time I couldn’t risk that we were still being
watched—maybe by his AI system, maybe by him personally. But now that you’ve
been declared dead, it’s time to make our move. When you exit the bathroom,
hold Eyal at gunpoint, and I’ll take it from there. I can tell you like him.
And while he does seem like a great guy, I’m counting on you to trust me on
this.

Quinn swallowed
hard. This was yet another twist he hadn’t seen coming. What in the world was
going on? Had Rachel lost her mind?

Maybe so, but
she was brilliant, and he had no choice but to trust her, although he couldn’t
guess why she had become so distrusting of the Israelis for all the world.

Quinn made sure
to flush the toilet and run the sink, and then returned to the living room.
Regev now held a small travel bag and had rejoined Rachel.

Taking a deep
mental breath, Quinn pulled a gun on the Israeli and pointed it at his head. “Drop
the bag, Eyal!” he demanded. “Raise your hands!”

The startled and
confused expression on Regev’s face could not have been faked. “Kevin?” he
said.

“Do it!” said
Quinn.

Regev let go of
his bag and raised his hands above his head. “Kevin, what’s all this about?”

Quinn shook his
head. “I have absolutely no idea,” he replied.

39

A life-sized 3-D image of the face of Daniel
Eisen hung across from Dmitri Kovonov, at a distance software indicated would
have been a comfortable degree of separation if both men were actually
together. Eisen was Kovonov’s most trusted lieutenant, a man who had proven
himself over and over again in the short time they had been working closely
together. He was bald, short, and lithe, but had the wiry strength of a rock
climber and was expert in weapons, tactics, and multiple forms of hand-to-hand
combat.

“We landed at O’Hare about an hour ago,” said Eisen in Hebrew, sounding
understandably tired, “and we’re in the hotel awaiting your instructions. I
take it you had no trouble getting the virus from Dr. Acosta?”

Kovonov displayed a wolfish grin. “No. You might even say it was a pleasure. She’s just attractive enough
to arouse genuine . . . interest.”

“What would you have done if not? A blue pill?”

“Yes,” said Kovonov in amusement. “Along with closing my eyes and
thinking of someone else.”

Eisen laughed.

“I want the two of you to fly to Connecticut as soon as you can,” said
Kovonov, his smile vanishing. “I’ve found a group that should be perfect for
our needs. It’s called the Danbury Evangelical Fellowship. Turns out twenty
members are on the first day of a week-long bible study retreat. They’ve
helpfully put the details online. They’re at an isolated campground inside
something called Cockaponset State Forest.”

“We’ll familiarize ourselves with the group and the retreat on the
plane,” said Eisen.

“Good. I want you to fly into Bradley International in Hartford. I’ll
arrange to have a hired gun meet you there.”

Eisen looked confused. “With all due respect, Dmitri, we can handle this
ourselves.”

“Don’t be an idiot! You’re better than that. Yes, you can handle the
operation yourselves. But where are you planning to get supplies and weaponry,
Chicago? Just put some submachine guns in a carry-on bag while you fly the
friendly skies of United fucking Airlines?”

Eisen’s face remained impassive, taking this reprimand in stride.

“The man who meets you—in
Hartford, Connecticut,” continued Kovonov, “will have weaponry, night-vision
equipment, electronics—everything
we’ll need. After he makes the transfer he’ll be out of the picture.”

“Of course,” said Eisen.

“After that get to Cockaponset Forest and make your way to where these
Danbury evangelicals are lodging. I need a full reconnaissance of physical
structures, sleeping quarters, mess hall, and the entire area. Make sure we’ll
be able to easily disrupt all cell and Internet coverage. Get a feel for
possible routines and if any of them had military training before they were, um
. . . born again.  Most importantly, set
up surveillance and physical obstacles so we can minimize the chances of
getting unwanted company.”

“We’ll see to it, sir.”

“Last thing, Daniel. You know the kind of impact this
virus will have on the world. There will be no going back. I just want to be
certain you’re still with me. Still willing to make such a profound, permanent
change. You aren’t going to have second thoughts about this, right?”

Eisen shook his head adamantly. “I can speak for both
of us here when I say that isn’t going to happen. We aren’t happy about certain
. . . necessities, no question. But we believe in you and what you’re trying to
do. We’re committed to your cause.”

“Good,” said Kovonov. “The achievement of our goals
will come at a great cost. But there are no cheap solutions. And if you ask me,
this is one that is long overdue.”

As the call ended, Kovonov’s thoughts turned back once
again to Kevin Quinn and Rachel Howard. His first pair of mercenaries had
failed to capture Quinn. The two mercenaries he had sent after this to capture
Quinn and kill the professor had turned up dead.

Quinn must have grown some balls, after all.

Ironically, after Quinn had eluded four seasoned
mercenaries, he had been killed running from his own people. Kovonov doubted Quinn
had suffered as much in the deadly car crash as he would have liked, but
knowing this asshole was finally dead was still immensely satisfying.

So should he send additional men after the professor? He
thought for a few minutes and came to the same conclusion he had come to
previously. It was time to let this one go. Just as he had underestimated
Quinn, he was certainly overestimating
the danger that Professor Howard represented.

She had no idea what was really going on. He may have
studied the professor for many years, but she was totally unaware that he even existed.
This was a case of respecting someone too
much. He had become obsessed with her genius, convinced she was the only one
clever enough to hurt him.

But he no longer had time to indulge this whim. He had
wasted too much effort on this already. He needed to let it go.

There were far more important things that now demanded
his attention.

40

At first, Eyal Regev had his hands in the air
and a hurt look on his face. As though he were being betrayed by a close
friend. But when Quinn admitted he didn’t know why he was holding him, his
expression registered nothing but alarm. “You don’t know why you’re doing this?”
he said in disbelief. “Come on, Kevin. Does that sound rational? Consider that
this may be a result of having your mind tampered with. Please. Before you do
something you’ll regret.”

“He doesn’t know what’s going on,” said Rachel
evenly, “because he’s doing this at my request.”

“What?” said Regev, squinting in disbelief.

Rachel rummaged through Quinn’s rucksack and
removed a pair of zip-tie handcuffs. She tossed them to the Israeli. “Put these
on and ratchet them tight with your mouth,” she said. After all she had been
through, it almost seemed normal to instruct the man who had abducted her to hold
the man she had thought was her student at gunpoint.

“You do realize the President of the United
States agreed to make him our boss?” said Quinn.

“He agreed to that under false pretenses,” said
Rachel. “Put on the cuffs!” she snapped at Regev.

The Israeli sighed deeply and did as she
asked. “You don’t need to hold a gun on me,” he said evenly, “or have me
restrained. Kevin and I would both give our lives to protect you. He’s already
demonstrated as much. Although I suppose that isn’t entirely unexpected from a
Secret Service agent. But I’d do the same. There are no words that could
possibly convey your importance to Israel.”

“Good,” said Rachel. “Because I’m not looking
for glib words, or false compliments. I’m looking for the truth. Or are you going to stand there and insist you’ve been
honest? Which will only dig the hole deeper.”

“Look—Rachel—we really are the good guys. That is the
truth. And we really do see you being of paramount importance. Once you were in
the fold, we were planning to tell you everything. We couldn’t proceed
effectively otherwise. You could well be the key to our future. But like I said
before, we wanted to give you the chance to get to know us. And when we finally
aired all of our laundry, we wanted to do it in private.”

“Oh well. Guess your plans have changed.”

“How can you be so certain you’ve been misled?
I thought the take on events Kish and Wortzman provided was compelling. Where
did we go wrong?”

“Kovonov. He’s a neuroscientist, isn’t he? I
asked a second time at the vid-meet. Your boss repeated the lie you had told me,
that he has zero neuroscience background. The only reason you’d deny this is because
you know he’s responsible for the false memories. Which makes sense given his
interest in me and Kevin. I have no idea what connection Kovonov has to fly
drones, but I do know a good part of your story about him is a lie.”

Regev remained silent for several long
seconds, deep in thought. “Okay,” he admitted finally, “he’s a neuroscientist.
But how could you possibly know that?”

“Three numbers,” said Rachel simply. “Three. Zero.
Two.”

Regev blinked rapidly, a blank look on his
face. Rachel noted in her peripheral vision that Quinn looked just as confused.

“I’ll spell it out for you,” said Rachel. “There’s
a one-millimeter-long roundworm found in certain soils,” she said. “A species called
C. elegans. I’m guessing you’ve never
heard of it.”

Regev shook his head.

“It’s been one of the most important model
organisms in neuroscience research for fifty years. It’s cheap to breed, can be
frozen and thawed and remain alive, and it’s transparent, which is very
convenient. It was the first multicellular organism to have its entire genome
sequenced and the first to have its connectome—its
neural wiring diagram—completed as well.
But the main reason it’s been such a valuable research tool is the simplicity
of its nervous system. The human brain has almost a hundred billion neurons. This
particular roundworm is able to thrive with just a tiny bit fewer. I’ll let you
guess the exact number.”

Regev nodded, the light of comprehension
finally shining on him. “Three hundred and two,” he said miserably. “Shit! That’s
really bad luck. Who knew?” he mused.

“Anyone who has truly studied the field,”
replied Rachel. “So even when Kovonov is making up a ridiculous alias for
mercenaries to use, he can’t help but pay homage to this important model
system. When Kevin said during the vid-meet that this was what Kovonov wanted
to be called, I knew. Not only is he a neuroscientist, he’s a diehard geek of a neuroscientist.”

She stared at Regev, unblinking, for several
seconds. “How about it, Eyal? Do you want to finally tell me what’s really
going on?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “But not
in front of Kevin. Just you and me.”

“No deal. He stays. Anything you can say to
me, you can say to him. As you mentioned, he was willing to die to protect me.
Se we’re in this together.”

Regev hesitated.

“Why is this a problem?” said Rachel. “If
you’re on the side of the angels as you say, convince me. Convince us both. Or
remain silent and alienate me forever, proving that you’re lying about my importance as
well.”

“I need you
both to agree to keep what I tell you absolutely confidential. I need your
word.”

Kevin
shook his head. “No good, Eyal,” he said. “I can’t make that promise. The best
I can do is this: I’ll maintain confidentiality on anything you tell me that isn’t
in conflict with the interests of the United States.”

“I’ll
make the same promise,” said Rachel. “But that’s all you’re going to get. So
what’s it going to be? Time for you to make some decisions.”

41

Regev
asked to at least get more comfortable, and Quinn saw no reason not to honor
this request. He had the Israeli sit in the same chair he had taken earlier,
but ten feet more distant from the couch, and gave him another zip-tie to cuff
his ankles. Regev used his outstretched hands, still bound, to pull it taut.

Quinn
and Rachel took their previous positions next to each other on the leather
couch. Given his prisoner’s hands and feet were cuffed, Quinn felt comfortable resting
the gun on his lap, although he still maintained his grip on it.

“It
seems like only yesterday that I was
holding the gun,” said Regev wryly, “and you were bound to a pole. We really
need to stop having conversations this way.”

Quinn
allowed the hint of a smile to cross his face. Maintaining a sense of humor in
the face of adversity was a personal quality he admired.

“I
guess I should begin at the beginning,” said Regev. “Dmitri Kovonov did emigrate
to Israel from Russia at the age of fourteen. And he was absolutely brilliant,
taking to neuroscience like a fish takes to water.” He nodded at Rachel. “Not
as brilliant or inventive a neuroscientist as you are, of course, but very close.”

“As
I said, flattery won’t help you,” said Rachel.

“Not
flattery,” insisted Regev. “Honesty.”

“So
Kovonov was never on the fly drone team?” said Quinn.

“No.
We didn’t even have a fly drone team at the time. But he soon earned the right
to head the secret scientific initiative that my country deemed its highest
priority.” He paused for effect. “What Rachel calls Matrix Learning.”

Quinn’s
eyes widened. Matrix Learning. He remembered from his discussion with Rachel in
her neighbor’s house that this was the primary goal of her research. But
judging from her less than surprised expression she hadn’t found this revelation
totally unexpected.

Eyal
turned to Quinn. “Let me explain what this is,” he said. “The idea is to—

“I’m
familiar with the term,” said Quinn, cutting him off.

“Good,”
said Regev, although he seemed surprised that this was the case. “We began the
program as far back as 1999. Not coincidentally.”

“The
year The Matrix came out in theaters,”
said Rachel.

“Yes.
The depiction of instant learning from the movie seized the imagination of our
prime minister at the time, Ehud Barak. Not that this was the first time this idea
appeared in science fiction. As far back as 1957, Isaac Asimov used this
concept in a story called Profession.”

Asimov
may have been the first to come up with the idea, but Quinn doubted he had a
character learn kung-fu instantly and then engage in such entertaining fights.

“The
movie was like a demonstration video to the higher-ups in Israel at the time,”
continued Regev. “To understand just how profoundly the prospect of Matrix
Learning hit us, you have to understand the Jewish people. In Jewish culture
education—knowledge—is everything.
There is a reason so many luminaries have been Jewish. Einstein, Fermi, Freud,
Pauli, Feynman, Bohr, Oppenheimer, Salk. The list goes on. Jews make up one
five-hundredth of the world’s population. One five-hundredth. But they have
earned twenty-two percent of all Nobel Prizes. Not only is education our strongest
cultural imperative, we have been persecuted more than any other people
throughout the ages. At a time in world history when land ownership meant
everything, Jews were often prohibited from owning land. Not able to farm, to
use their hands to get ahead, they had little choice but to use their brains.”

Rachel
nodded. “Jewish colleagues over the years have mentioned that nothing is more
important in their religion than education,” she said. “And I have found them
to be more captivated than average at the prospect of Matrix Learning.”

“Israel
has always been a resource-poor country,” said Regev. “We weren’t blessed with
oil, like our Arab neighbors, so education and innovation were always the keys
to our survival. Hated, outnumbered, and outgunned. So not only did the
possibility of instant education capture many imaginations, the potential this
offered if perfected—to keep us many
steps ahead of our enemies—was
irresistible.”

“Okay,” said Rachel. “So your leaders saw the
movie when it came out in ’99 and began a secret program.”

“Not
just a secret program. The secret
program. Israel’s Manhattan project. No other program we’ve ever mounted was
nearly as well manned or well funded. Progress was modest for the first decade,
because our goals and ambitions were ahead of the technology, but we did make
progress. Progress that would be key when the tech—computers, neuronal maps, and the like—did finally catch up.”

“And
Kovonov came to lead this effort,” said Rachel.

“Yes.
He led our best people. And we succeeded. Five years ago, under his leadership.
He used trial and error, audacity, outside-the-box thinking, and hundreds of
millions of dollars in funding. In the end this wasn’t enough. We benefited
from what we thought of as divine intervention. Kovonov made some guesses that
worked out that even he characterized as blind, random luck.”

Rachel
nodded solemnly. “Last week I thought I was closer to perfecting Matrix
Learning than anyone,” she said. “After what happened to Kevin, I’ve had to
readjust my thinking, acknowledge that someone was ahead of me. But I would
never have believed this. I’ve gone
from being ten miles ahead in a marathon to being an also ran. It’s a difficult
pill to swallow.”

“I
understand. We got lucky, we’re the first to admit it. And we poured dozens of
times more resources at it than the rest of the world combined. Quantity has a
quality of its own. But there was never any question that you were the singular
talent in the field. Kovonov worshiped you.”

“The
same Kovonov who just tried to have me killed?”

“Yes.
But that came later. For years he sang your praises, telling anyone who would
listen you were the only neuroscientist in the world with greater insight even
than his own. He called you a visionary and a genius. He admitted to borrowing
liberally from your work. He lobbied the head of Mossad and the prime minster
to do whatever it took to recruit you. Repeatedly. In the end we decided not to
approach you. It was too risky. Secret program. Foreign government. If only you
had been lucky enough to be a Sabra,” he added with a smile.

“Sabra?”
said Rachel.

“What
we call a native-born Israeli. Taking a name from a cactus that thrives in my
country. Thorny, tenacious, and thick-skinned on the outside.” Regev raised his
eyebrows. “Sweet and soft on the inside.”

“Well,
you’ve definitely demonstrated the thorny and tenacious part,” said Rachel with
just the hint of a smile.

“So
you perfected this Matrix Learning five years ago?” said Quinn. “Why didn’t you
go public? Then Rachel could have joined your efforts.”

“This
is a greater advantage than our fly drones. We wanted to milk it for all it was
worth. Still do. Maintain our advantage for as long as possible. The technology
is totally disruptive. Once it’s unleashed the world will never be the same.” Regev
paused. “I only wish you could have been in the professor’s recent lecture. She
covered many of the ramifications at length.”

“How
good is the technique?” asked Rachel. “And how is it done?”

“The
results are flawless. Astonishing. One minute you know nothing about a subject,
ten minutes later you’re an expert. Like Trinity learning to fly a helicopter,
only not quite as fast. As to the how, Kovonov and his team developed a robot
that injects micro-implants into eight regions of the brain, with very high
accuracy. They’re extremely advanced electronics shaped like tiny needles and
can be punched into place in the brain like a vaccine is punched through the
skin when you get a shot. The companion to this is a very complex, very
expensive device that reminds me of an MRI. Same large doughnut-shaped opening
at one end, in which your head is immobilized. But it’s not an MRI.”

“What
are the principles of its operation?” asked Rachel.

“I
really would tell you, but I don’t know. I just know that it works. The subject
has to have the implants injected first. And has to be inside the MRI-like
device. But there is no physical connection between the two. You don’t have a
giant jack embedded into the back of your skull that you plug a cable into like
in the Matrix movies. But it also isn’t free-range.”

“So
what have you been doing with it all these years?” said Quinn.

“We’ve
used it to flash-educate the most innovative people in Israel,” replied Regev proudly.
“We’ve established the greatest league of inventors in world history. Geniuses
who have broad and deep knowledge of a field implanted and who use this to
produce breakthroughs.”

“What,
like fly drones?” said Quinn.

“That’s
right. This was the first technology to come out of the program. The ultra-light
bulletproof vest and the wound sealant are other examples you’ve witnessed. And
so much more you haven’t seen. Breakthroughs in electronics. Supercomputers
that are desktop sized. Advanced algorithms. Improved ability to hack
computers. Dramatic advances in AI, supercapacitors, lasers, solar energy, 3-D
printers, genetic engineering, nanotechnology, sensors, and dozens of other
areas. We believe that even a tabletop fusion reactor is just a few years away.
It wasn’t just the fly drones that kept us ahead, that allowed us to stop North
Korea and Iran from carrying out their nuclear ambitions.”

“So
your military is what . . . just hoarding all of these innovations?” said Quinn
accusingly.

“Most
we’re helping to commercialize. Some inventions we license cheaply to Israeli
companies. For others, we provide seed money for the inventor to launch a new
company. We’ve been known for innovation for some time, but if you did a
statistical analysis you’d find that the number of breakthrough inventions
coming out of Israeli companies has tripled during the last several years.”

Rachel
shook her head. “You shouldn’t have been this successful,” she said. “We
discussed this in class. Matrix Learning won’t improve native intelligence. Won’t
improve creativity, or  inventiveness. It’s
just knowledge. Instead of pounding the principles of chemistry into your head
for an entire semester, they’re shoehorned in, in minutes.”

“Which
is why we only flash-educate the most creative people possible. You’d be
surprised by how many highly educated people really aren’t that bright—or inventive. And also how many brilliant, creative
people are uneducated. Some are lazy. Some don’t have the funds or access to
quality education. Some come from farming or blue-collar families, where
following in their parents’ footsteps is all they know, all they aspire to.
Some aren’t able to sit still long enough to learn what they need to know.
There is a worldwide high IQ society called Mensa. Some members are
accomplished scientists, true, but many are truck drivers. Firefighters.
Laborers.”

Rachel
nodded appreciatively. “I see. You recruit those with raw ability but without
the patience, or money, or ambition for advanced studies. You implant a PhD
equivalent in days, and then let them apply their genius.”

“Exactly. We have a program to identify and
recruit the most gifted people in Israel, not just using IQ scores, but other
measures of inventiveness, of thinking outside the box, of bold vision. Are you
familiar with Alan Turing and the group that broke the unbreakable German code
in World War II?”

Rachel and Quinn both nodded. Quinn had learned of this effort while in the
military. Alan Turing had successfully created a machine at a place called
Bletchley Park able to break the German Enigma code, turning the tide of the
war and ushering in the computer age.

“Turing also recruited people from all walks of life. Some with no
experience in code breaking or mathematics. People no one would ever think of
hiring based on any known criteria. The group published a thorny crossword
puzzle in the Daily Telegraph and offered a prize to anyone who could solve it.
No one knew the British War Office was behind it. Those who were able to solve
it were summoned to be interviewed to join Turing’s top-secret team, the
biggest surprise of their lives.”

“So you’ve adopted similar methods,” said Quinn.

“More sophisticated and far-reaching, but the same idea. Our success at
finding diamonds in the rough has been extraordinary.”

“I see,” said Rachel. “And then you polish up these diamonds in the rough
with the greatest buffing machine in history.”

“That’s right. With most of them
we didn’t stop at one branch of knowledge, but imparted a few that were
adjacent. This has played a huge role as well. The synergy produced by implanting
expertise in multiple fields has been far greater than expected. There’s a famous
quote we took to heart: ‘To be
the master of any branch of knowledge, you must master those which lie next to
it.’”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes,” said Rachel.

Regev smiled. “I should have known you’d be familiar.”

“This
is all very fascinating,” said Quinn. “But let’s get back to Kovonov. What the
hell is going on now?”

“I’m
getting there,” said Regev. “And trust me, this background is useful. When the
first breakthroughs were made, Kovonov didn’t test this on himself. The
government wouldn’t let him take the risk. You make gambits with your pawns and
knights, not your queen.”

“So
you had others take the shakedown cruise,” said Quinn.

Regev
nodded. “After fourteen months with no discernible issues in hundreds of test
subjects, and with no discernible behavioral or brain abnormalities, Kovonov
insisted he be allowed to use his own invention. And he went hog wild with it,”
added Regev. He raised his eyebrows. “Although this may be one of your idioms
that isn’t strictly kosher.”

Quinn
smiled, but Rachel’s face remained serious. “How hog wild?” she asked.

“He
sucked up many times more knowledge than any other subject had before. Other
than you, he had already been the world’s leading authority on the scientific
principles of Matrix Learning, but he had every other neuroscience discipline flashed
into his brain as well. And not just neuroscience. Physics. Computer science.
Robotics.”

“Isn’t
there a limit to how much knowledge you can shove into a brain?” asked Quinn.

Regev
gestured toward Rachel with his head, indicating that she was the right person
to answer.

“I’m
sure there is,” she replied. “But the limits aren’t precisely clear. With a
hundred billion neurons and almost infinite number of possible connections, the
brain’s capacity is very, very high. Consider a foreign language. Fluency
requires a very broad knowledge of vocabulary, syntax, and so on. Yet a cardinal
named Giuseppe Mezzofanti, born in 1774, was known to have spoken thirty-eight
languages and forty dialects. John Browning, a governor of Hong Kong in the
eighteen hundreds, claimed to speak a hundred languages, although I doubt this
is accurate. But you get the point.”

Quinn
nodded. He had taken Spanish in college but was horrible at it. He couldn’t
imagine being fluent in even two languages, let alone dozens.

“Using
this extensive knowledge base,” continued Regev, “and with the help of his
team, Kovonov went on to make quite a few advances in neuroscience. Advances
that could all be used in scary ways in the wrong hands.” He gestured at
Rachel. “The very ways you lecture about.”

The
Harvard professor nodded, looking more troubled than ever.

“I
must have missed these lectures,” said Quinn. “What scary uses are we talking
about?”

“If
you truly understand the brain there are all kinds of levers to push on,” said
Regev. “Memory implantation, as you know better than anyone. And memory erasure,
of course. But addiction, sex drive, rage, depression, and many others—all can be impacted if you know the right place and
manner to push.”

“Davinroy
mentioned Pandora’s box in the vid-meet,” said Rachel. “But this is the true Pandora’s box.”

“I’m
still not sure I’m grasping the possibilities the way you two are,” said Quinn.

“Take
sex drive as one example,” said Rachel. “Imagine if you could manipulate this.
Ratchet it up to obsessive levels. A woman who wouldn’t think of cheating on
her husband becomes insanely hypersexual and seduces a co-worker. You could use
this to ruin people. Lie in wait and then blackmail them. Sex has brought down
empires. The Trojan War, which many scholars believe is loosely based on actual
history, was started over the lust for the beautiful Helen of Troy. Bill Clinton
almost lost the presidency because he couldn’t resist oral sex with an intern. And
don’t forget the example of the forty-year-old who suddenly became sexually
obsessed with children.”

“Okay
then,” said Quinn, putting on a disturbed expression. “Thanks. This does paint
a vivid picture.”

“Kovonov
wanted badly to use these neuroscience advances against Israel’s enemies,” said
Regev. “Forgive the language, but in the Mossad, we thought of these
capabilities collectively as fucking with
people’s minds.”

Quinn
had to admit that as inelegant as this phrase was, it got the point across well.

“Kovonov
was zealously patriotic about his adopted homeland,” continued Regev. “He argued
that Israel shouldn’t hold back against the barbaric hordes devoted to our
destruction. If we had the upper hand, we should press our advantage. Kish
tended to side with him, while my
boss, Avi Wortzman, was adamantly opposed.”

Regev
paused. “Wortzman is in a tough business, but he strives to be as ethical as possible.
He has Nietzsche’s warning framed in his office, the one about not letting the
battle with monsters turn you into one. He argued that the fly drone invention,
a direct result of the Matrix Learning program, and other tech that resulted,
gave Israel more than enough of an advantage. While he supported using advanced
technology to defeat our enemies, he drew the line at fucking with people’s minds.
That was beyond the pale.”

Amen to that,
thought Quinn.

But
while this was his immediate reaction, he could well understand those Israeli factions
in favor of using every arrow in the quiver. After more than seventy years of
being surrounded by those who had made repeated attempts to destroy them, it
would take impressive ethical resolve not to use all the weapons at their
disposal. Especially against ruthless groups that wouldn’t hesitate to do the
same, with no ethical qualms whatsoever. In 1973, Syria and Egypt joined forces
to invade Israel on Yom Kippur, the most holy day of the Jewish year, when Israeli
soldiers were fasting and in prayer—something
Israel would never consider doing in reverse.

“Wortzman
also argued there was a logistical hurdle to overcome,” continued Regev, “before
these neuroscience capabilities could be deployed, anyway. Kovonov would need
to invent a way to manipulate brains less invasively. Like Rachel mentioned in
her lecture. Not requiring them to plug in like Neo, or even like we were
doing, but remotely. Wirelessly. Until this was perfected, mind tampering
wouldn’t be all that useful. Say you wanted to implant a memory in the leader
of Iran. First you’d have to kidnap him, bring him back to our facility, inject
implants, and then stick him in a machine. Not very stealthy. You could then
make him forget this happened, but still . . .
Best case, this would require a lengthy abduction.”

“Given
Kevin’s false memories,” said Rachel, “this seems like a hurdle Kovonov was
able to overcome. Unless you’re suggesting he captured Kevin and transported
him to Israel and back.”

“No.
Kovonov must have found a more portable, less invasive solution,” agreed Regev.
“But let me go on. We can circle back to this in a few minutes.”

“Okay,”
said Rachel. “I believe you were saying that Kish and Wortzman disagreed over
the use of some of these advances.”

“Since
this disputed tech was used on me,”
said Quinn, “the prime minister must have won the day.”

Regev
shook his head. “The opposite. Wortzman convinced Kish he was right. Together
they made sure the lid to Pandora’s box remained nailed shut.”

Quinn
squinted in confusion, but only for a moment. “I see,” he said, as the answer
became clear to him. “So Kovonov must have decided to take his toys and leave,
refusing to abide by these restrictions. Which means the part of your story
about him going rogue was true. But not because he was still loyal to Russia.
But because he had lost an argument with Kish and Wortzman.”

Regev
sighed. “If only it were that simple,” he said miserably.

42

“We’ve been in place for some time now,” reported the life-sized floating
head of Daniel Eisen in Hebrew.

“How goes the recon of our evangelicals?” asked Kovonov.

“Quite well. We’ve surveiled the proceedings on our own and have now set
up electronic surveillance in key locations. My confidence is high that this
will go off without a hitch.”

“It had better. This is one reason I chose this group, and this venue,
from among all the possibilities. They should be ripe for the taking.”

Kovonov told his underling when he planned to arrive and they discussed logistics.
“While you’re waiting for me,” he said, “I want you to locate a Middle Eastern Islamic
terrorist somewhere in the States. Preferably one long affiliated with ISIS.
Make this your highest priority.”

“I don’t understand,” said Eisen. “Do you have intel that one is planning
an imminent attack?”

“One is always planning an
imminent attack. But no, I have no specific intel.”

“And you aren’t interested in a specific
terrorist. Any one will do?”

“That’s correct.”

“Does it matter if they are at large or in custody?”

Kovonov shook his head. “I’d prefer at large, but either way will work.
As long as they’re part of ISIS and not an American citizen. A home-grown
terrorist is no good to me.”

“I’ll have to pan through US intel for this,” noted Eisen. “Once the
Americans become aware of a foreign terrorist within their borders, they
usually don’t leave them at large for long.”

“Understood,” said Kovonov, frowning. He had planned to get Azim Jafari
to deliver the terrorist they needed, but this was no longer an option. Oh
well. Kovonov was smart and had his fingers deep into the US intelligence
apparatus. He had no doubt he would find what he needed soon enough.

“Can you tell me why this is
such a high priority?” said Eisen. “And your plans once such a man is
identified?”

“I can’t tell you that right now. But I’ll make all of my plans clear in
due course.”

Eisen stared at Kovonov’s virtual image for several seconds, not happy
about being kept in the dark, but finally nodded. “Okay, Dmitri. I’ll get on
this right away.”

“Good,” said Kovonov. “I’ll be in touch.”

43

Quinn’s
intuition told him everything the Israeli was saying was the truth, although he
had to admit he had thought the same before. Intuition might be more perceptive
than conscious reasoning at times, but it was far from perfect.

Still,
Regev’s answers to questions were quick and well thought out and had an impeccable
logical consistency. And how many ways could the explanation of known facts be
contorted, tortured, before the truth became the only remaining option with any
chance of being believable?

“About
two months ago,” said Regev, “two researchers on our Matrix Learning team began
behaving erratically. And not because their memories were tampered with. What
we told your president about that isn’t true. We thought it was the best way to
convince your people that Kevin had been manipulated. So they would be on their
guard and so they would let us recruit the two of you.”

Quinn
was familiar with the expression wheels
within wheels, but what the Israelis had done took this to an entirely new
level. Without question lying to achieve specific ends took more brilliance and
creativity than telling the truth.

“We
monitored these two researchers and came to realize that they had become
delusional. Paranoid. Megalomaniacal. There was a lot more to the diagnosis,
but I’m not a psychiatrist. Let’s just say that their grip on sanity wasn’t
what it used to be. But what was most alarming was that these two were among
the first subjects to undergo the Matrix Learning procedure. One had done so
two months after the very first test subject, and one three months after. ”

“Uh-oh,”
said Rachel grimly.

“Uh-oh
is right,” replied Regev. “It would be accurate to say the Mossad was more than
just panicked. It threw us into a frenzy.
We put considerable resources into analyzing what might have happened, and began
careful evaluations of all subjects who had undergone the procedure during the
first six months of its use.”

Regev
seemed shaken to the core, even from just the recounting of these events. After
several seconds of hesitation, he took a deep breath, gathered himself, and
continued. “Then, about a month ago, Dmitri Kovonov did exactly what we said he
had. He killed four members of the fly drone team, took their inventory, and
destroyed the factory.”

“Didn’t
you say he waited fourteen months after Matrix Learning came online to try it?”
said Rachel.

“Yes.”

Rachel’s
eyes narrowed in thought. “But he had crammed in ten times as much knowledge as
anyone else,” she said, almost as though talking to herself.

“Excellent,”
said Regev. “You’ve grasped the situation immediately, of course. Seems the
procedure does have one or two problematic . . . side effects . . . after all. As
you already deduced, we concluded that Kovonov had gone insane as well, and
that his procedure was responsible. Although we didn’t see the possibility of
the equation you’re alluding to—even
though we should have—until after Kovonov’s actions.”

“What
equation?” said Quinn.

“The
procedure eventually leads to insanity,” said Regev. “But when this will happen depends on a complex combination of two
factors. One, the length of time after first exposure to the procedure. And
two, the cumulative amount of information implanted. The very first subject
this was used on barely had anything implanted, and is still doing fine. Like
Rachel deduced, Kovonov, even though he avoided the procedure for over a year,
used it extensively, so was impacted earlier than all but two of the rest.”

“So
Kovonov went rogue,” said Quinn, “not because he isn’t loyal to Israel. But
because he’s stark raving mad.”

“Yes.”

“Well
that’s much better,” snapped Quinn
sarcastically.

“This
is a disaster of epic proportions,” said Eyal with a fierce scowl. “Dmitri
Kovonov was a fine man. He may have argued for more widespread use of his
neurotech, but he wasn’t a killer. Quite the opposite. But now, like we told
your president, we have a brilliant man wielding a game-changing technology—more than one, but we didn’t tell that to your people—who is off the reservation. Ruthless, driven, and
unpredictable. Almost certainly suffering from paranoia and megalomania.”

“Yeah,
nothing bad can happen from that combination,” said Quinn in disgust.

“He
also managed to recruit a number of our best people when he left. Maybe they
were enticed by the prospect of finally pulling out all the stops to destroy
Israel’s enemies. Or maybe he used his tech to, um . . . fuck with their brains.”
Regev shrugged. “We only know the end result.”

“And
you have no idea where they went?” said Quinn.

“We’re
working on it, but with little success. In addition to taking a number of sympathizers
with him, we believe he left several behind as well, who are helping him elude
us. We’ve recently taken to trusting only a few handpicked agents with details
of our manhunt.”

“Let
me be sure I have this right,” said Quinn. “Kovonov is off somewhere with a
group of followers who are brilliant, have more knowledge packed into their
skulls than even the most experienced operatives, and are armed with fly drones
and numerous other breakthrough technologies. And don’t forget, know all of
your agents, your methods, and your secrets.” Quinn raised his eyebrows. “Not
to mention many of ours. And you’re
nowhere close to finding them.”

“You
forget to mention a group led by a man who is now ruthless and willing to do
anything to achieve his goals. And also that his followers will begin their own
descent into madness over the months and years ahead.”

“Sorry,”
said Quinn wryly. “I didn’t mean to sugarcoat the situation.”

“You
think you’re saying that ironically,” said Regev. “But you aren’t.”

“What
does that mean?”

“It
means that this story gets a lot worse,” whispered the Israeli. “Matrix
Learning was so effective it was irresistible to the higher-ups in Israel. They
used it to flash-educate themselves as well. Wortzman. Kish. Numerous others.”
He paused, a horrified expression on his face. “The entire upper level strata
of Israel’s government and military will eventually go mad.”

For
the first time, Quinn’s mouth dropped open.

“Not
to mention all the scientists and diamonds in the rough we used this on,” continued
Regev, “many who are now CEOs of our companies.”

“Incredible,”
said Rachel in dismay. “You’ve managed to turn scores of the most brilliant,
accomplished, and powerful people in your country—with knowledge of the most advanced technology base
in the world—into ticking time bombs.”

Regev
nodded solemnly.

“It’s
hard to imagine how you could have possibly screwed yourself any worse,” said
Quinn.

This
seemed to shake Regev from his depression. Strength and resolve returned to his
features. “When we told your government about how we stopped imminent attempts
by Iran and North Korea to use nuclear weapons, this was true. So while things
don’t look good, we owe our very existence to the Matrix Learning program.
Without it, Israel and Washington both would be radioactive wastelands. If we
could go back in time, we’d still do the same thing we did. We were enormously
lucky to get it to work, and now the universe is evening the scales by hitting
us with an enormous dose of bad luck.”

“How
good is your computer model when it comes to the onset of madness?” said
Rachel. “Can you get any sense of precision from just three data points?”

“We
can’t be certain, but we think so. Our model would have predicted the timing of
the first three cases with great accuracy. The good news, if there can be any,
is that we have about three months before the next of our people go over the
cliff. After that it will be a steady drip, drip, drip. Fifteen to twenty
months from now, an avalanche of people will be affected, although most of them
don’t know anything about this yet. We’re debating what actions to take as each
victim approaches their tipping point. Surveillance, at minimum. Sedation?
House arrest? Imprisonment? There are no easy answers.”

Regev
paused and there was an extended silence in the room as the two Americans
struggled to digest the unthinkable.

“There
is only one answer that isn’t catastrophic on a number of levels,” continued Regev
finally. “We need to learn why this is happening. We need to find a way to stop
it. Reverse it. Everything depends on this. And not just for our country. Even
if we discount Israel tearing itself to shreds and the collateral damage that
is bound to follow, the threat to the entire world that Kovonov poses, all by
himself, is off the scale.”

“And
you have no idea what’s causing it?” said Quinn.

“No.
It’s subtle, whatever it is. Neurons and brain structure look normal. Our best
people are mystified.”

“That’s
why Rachel is so critical to you,” said Quinn. “Isn’t it? Because she’s the
only neuroscientist alive more brilliant than Kovonov. Not to mention having
the added advantage of being sane.”

Regev
nodded. “We see her as our only real chance. We hoped to convince her to lead a
team to find a cure for whatever this is. In a hurry. Secondarily, we hoped she
could help find a way to detect when a mind has been tampered with along the
way.”

The
Israeli turned to Rachel. “It is a lot to ask, and the stakes couldn’t be
higher. That’s why I enrolled in your class. So we could get to know each
other. So we could increase our chances of successfully recruiting you. Everything
depended on it. As important as we portrayed you in our fabricated story to
President Davinroy, it turns out you’re a hundred times more important in
reality.”

Rachel blinked rapidly, dumbfounded by these revelations.

“Our intent would be to disclose to you everything we know. How our
system works and all of our data. We could leapfrog you many years ahead of
where you are now.”

“What, using Matrix Learning?” said Quinn in disgust.

Regev nodded reluctantly. “We’re running out of time,” he
explained. “Once we’ve loaded all the information we have on our Matrix
Learning program into her brain, we would plan to load additional fields that
she could draw upon for a solution. Computer science, physics, medicine,
mathematics. Far lesser scientists than her have made huge breakthroughs after our
procedure. The extension of their working knowledge helped to spark unprecedented
connections between seemingly unrelated ideas and fields.”

Rachel shook her head in disbelief. “So your plan is to hit me
with the same tech you know leads to insanity?”

“Believe me, I know how much we’d be asking. But I’m not sure you
can fully appreciate the stakes even now. We’re desperate. More than desperate.
My trip here to begin to recruit you is one of the most important assignments
ever given. Maybe a lesser scientist will solve this, but you are our best
hope. If you refuse, or if you fail, the world faces catastrophic consequences.
But if you succeed, you probably save millions of lives, and perfect a
technology that has been your lifelong dream.”

Rachel nodded slowly. “Is that everything?” she said. “I want to
be sure you’ve put everything on the table before I tell you what I’m thinking.”

“Yes. That’s all of it.”

“No it’s not,” said Quinn. “You’re close, Eyal. But we’re not quite
finished yet.”

44

In
Quinn’s opinion, Regev had done a thorough and unflinching job of telling them
the hideous truth. He was sure the Israeli wasn’t withholding anything on
purpose, but had just forgotten that he still knew things that they didn’t.

“What
am I missing?” said Regev, genuinely confused.

“Current
events,” replied Quinn. “How did I get involved? Why does Kovonov want to kill
Rachel?”

“Right,”
said Regev, looking a little embarrassed to have left this off. “There is that.”

He
paused to gather his thoughts. “With respect to you, Kevin, we had heard rumors
that Kovonov had managed a less invasive technique for messing with people’s
minds. Given your case this must be true. A cause for even more alarm. We believe
that you are one of his first attempts at implanting false memories. One of his
first guinea pigs.”

“But
why? Why me?”

“When
I spoke with Wortzman earlier he had some compelling analysis on this, which
makes a lot more sense than I would have guessed. First, Kovonov despises your
president. Many in Israel aren’t big fans. You aren’t aware of Davinroy’s
interactions with Kish behind the scenes. Even though your president portrays
himself as a true friend of Israel, he is not. In many ways the opposite.”

“Actually,
I am aware,” said Quinn. “He sees the drive for a global caliphate as a
ravenous beast and wants to placate it in the hope of keeping it calm. Proving
he has no clue about its nature. How he can possibly believe it can be reasoned
with or appeased is beyond me.”

“Which is why Kovonov would love to see him
dead. And while Kovonov may be insane, we believe he remains fiercely loyal to
Israel. Which brings us to you.”

Regev
paused. “Wortzman reminded me that you’re known to the Mossad as well, for more
than your recent attempt on Davinroy’s life. You were also the agent who saved the
president of Syria a few years back, weren’t you?”

Quinn
gritted his teeth. “I was,” he said bitterly, the mixed emotions he felt over
this action not having diminished with time.

Rachel
turned to him in surprise. “That was you?”
she said.

Quinn
nodded. His identity as the man who had saved Zahir was never disclosed, but
the controversy of the Syrian president’s visit to the US was well known, as
was the fact that he had been saved by a Secret Service agent who many in
America believed shouldn’t have done so.

“The
assassination attempt on Zahir was our op,” continued the Israeli,
addressing Quinn once again. “It was disguised so it couldn’t be traced back to
us, but it was ours. One of the few that failed. After the fact, Mossad made it
our business to hack into your file. We learned that it wasn’t our incompetence
that caused the failure, but your proficiency. We learned that you were very
good at what you did.”

Regev pursed his lips, remembering. “Our
decision to mount the op in the first place was highly contentious. Almost as
many were against it as were for it. All agreed Zahir was a monster. But
history has shown that the removal of a monster in our part of the world can
lead to even worse outcomes.”

“How
has it come to this?” mused Rachel. “When did keeping a genocidal mass murderer
in place become the best outcome we
can conceive of?”

“When
hordes of people passionately believe their god has called on them to destroy
the world,” replied Regev. “When this happens, rational options go by the
wayside. I was in the camp who opposed the assassination attempt,” he added,
nodding at Quinn. “Those of us in this camp believe we owe you a debt of
gratitude for stopping it. Others in my country will never forgive you.”

“Let
me go out on a limb here,” said Quinn dryly, “and guess which camp Kovonov is
in.”

Regev
smiled. “Let’s just say that you aren’t his favorite Secret Service agent.”

“We
had the same two factions in the US when it came to Zahir,” said Quinn. “About
half would have seen me as a hero, and half a villain. To avoid backlash from this
second half, we decided to keep my name out of it.”

“Good
choice,” said Regev. “Did you also believe that removing Zahir would have made
things worse in the region?”

“To
be honest, I wasn’t sure. I was only certain of one thing: I had agreed to do
my best to protect him. So I did.”

Regev
nodded. “I admire that, I really do. But getting back to current events, Kovonov
must have figured that by turning you into the instrument of Davinroy’s death,
he got to kill two hated birds with one stone. And what a great experimental test
of his capabilities, both the memory implantation and his new less-invasive
technique.”

“It’s
hard to imagine I’m the first person he used this on,” said Quinn.

“We
aren’t sure,” said Regev. “But you were among
the first, that much is clear. And you would have been the sternest test of his
capabilities. You’re a highly trained agent. Smart. Confident. Strong-willed. So
he programmed you with memories that were so far-fetched, so improbable, that
if the procedure wasn’t absolutely flawless it would never work.”

“He
definitely didn’t shy away from extreme field conditions,” said Rachel, almost
approvingly.

“No
he didn’t,” agreed Regev. “And don’t forget that Kevin had also sworn to
protect the president with his life. So Kovonov’s tampering had to be powerful
enough to overcome even this. To transform Kevin from a protector to a killer using
false memories that Kevin should have found absurd.”

“His
technology worked like a charm,” said Quinn, disgusted with himself for not
being stronger, not being smarter. “Except that Davinroy got lucky. I failed. As
it turned out, I got lucky, although
that’s not what I thought at the time.”

He
paused. “So why did Kovonov come after me later?”

“As
you discovered, he had a fly drone watching his weapon—you—in
action. He must have been furious when he saw you fail. On the other hand, I’m
sure he was thrilled when you accused Davinroy of the exact atrocities he had
implanted in your mind. Regardless, he expected you’d be caught or killed afterward.
When you escaped, this opened attractive possibilities.”

“Like
what?” asked Quinn.

“Like
obtaining additional data,” said Rachel, answering for the Israeli. “Irresistible
to the scientist in him. I’d be just as eager to get my hands on you.”

“If
you were ruthless and psychotic, you mean?” said Quinn.

Rachel
allowed herself a smile. “Of course,” she replied. “But Kovonov must have been
eager to interview you about what you remembered—or
thought you did. Before you escaped from his men you never guessed these
memories were false. He could find out what percentage of his implanted
memories took, how cleanly, how well connected to your rage centers, and so on.
Then he could put you in an MRI. After that he’d probably . . .”

Rachel
trailed off and Quinn realized she had no plans to finish the thought. “He’d
probably what?” he prompted.

“Well,
given his disregard for life, he’d probably, you know . . . dissect your
brain.”

Quinn
raised his eyebrows. “Then all things considered,” he said, “I’m glad I
escaped. You know, as fun as brain dissection sounds.”

Rachel
laughed.

Quinn
faced the Israeli once more. “But if I wasn’t the first subject,” he pressed,
“couldn’t he have done these experiments on someone else?”

“All
of this is guesswork,” said Regev, “but I suspect he needed any others he was
manipulating alive. You were expendable. And he really, really isn’t a fan. In
his condition, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking forward to torturing
you to death—very slowly. You know,
before he removed your brain for further study.”

Quinn
shuddered. “Have I mentioned I’m glad I escaped?”

Regev
nodded.

“Good,”
said Quinn. He paused in thought. “Okay, this explains me. But what about Rachel?
Why would Kovonov try to kill the scientist he worshiped?”

“We
can’t be sure,” replied Regev, “but we think he guessed how badly we wanted
her.”

“But
she’s his only hope for a cure,” said Quinn.

Rachel
shook her head. “That’s probably the last
thing he wants. Despite global changes to his personality he’s almost certain
to be quite happy with the new him. Many psychopaths know they’re psychopaths, for example, but would never want to be
cured. They see themselves as superior. Unshackled from the ethical bonds that
hold others. It’s likely Kovonov feels the same way.”

Quinn
eyed the Israeli. “So he’s trying to kill her because she might cure him?” he said.

“That’s
our guess,” said Regev. “And also because she has the best shot at developing
countermeasures against the neurotech he plans to deploy. But after he went
rogue, we failed to predict Rachel would be on his radar, or that he would make
the effort to eliminate her.”

“No
kidding,” said Quinn. “Which is why you were caught so off guard.”

“You’re
right, of course,” said Regev. “As embarrassing as it is, if you hadn’t been
able to escape from the two mercenaries to warn her—and us—they
probably would have succeeded.”

“You’re welcome,” said Kevin evenly. “I could
sense your gratitude when you tried to kill me.”

“Like
I said, we still thought you might be dangerous to Rachel. Once you proved
otherwise, you became very important. Kovonov might have made a critical
mistake leaving you alive. Rachel might be able to use you to reverse engineer
his new technique.”

Quinn
considered this for several seconds. “Why did you suddenly decide to make the
disclosures you made during our recent vid-meet with Washington?” he asked. “To
have a better chance to recruit Rachel?”

“When
you burst onto the scene we realized Kovonov had improved his neurotech, making
him even more dangerous. As if just having the fly drones wasn’t bad enough. When
I leveled with you—partially—in
the neighbor’s basement, and disclosed that the fly drones were ours, you
admitted you had sent one to Cris Coffey for analysis. These two new factors
made the decision easy. We would have needed to get the US involved soon,
anyway, but given that the fly drone game was up this was the perfect time.”

“And
your execution was flawless,” said Rachel.

Regev
issued a short, self-critical laugh. “Not quite,” he said in disgust. “None of
us had any idea Kovonov had taken an alias, not to mention one representing the
exact number of neurons in an apparently famous worm.”

Quinn
looked amused. “We have an expression, the
worm has turned. Seems to me you’re living it.”

“If
not for this one flaw,” said Regev with a frown, “it would have worked. Nothing
could have convinced Rachel to join our efforts more than the events of the
past few days, especially seeing living proof of memory implantation and having
the president bless this assignment. She would have joined us in Israel. She would
have come to know and trust the team while we determined the best way to ease
her into the deep end of the pool.”

“You
did succeed in enlisting US help in hunting down Kovonov,” noted Quinn. “Given he
has sympathizers in your camp, this is
an important step.”

Regev
didn’t respond.

“And
now it’s clear why you insisted Kovonov be killed at first sight,” continued Quinn.
“If he was captured and had the chance to talk, Israel would have some explaining
to do.”

“Having
the US involved in the manhunt is critical,” said the Israeli, “but it only addresses
the symptom—and only one of many. Nothing
we achieved is nearly as important as persuading Rachel to join our efforts.”

Regev
turned to the brilliant neuroscientist. “Rachel, you spotted our attempted
deception, but it all would have come out soon anyway. Maybe it’s for the best
it happened this way. When I said I would give my life to protect yours, I
wasn’t being gallant or heroic. I honestly believe that you could help stave
off massive destruction and bloodshed. Prevent the misuse of game-changing
technology that you lecture about. And help prevent my country from tearing
itself to pieces as its leaders go mad.”

Regev
gazed deeply into her eyes. “So what do you say?” he continued. “I’m begging you. Not only on behalf of my
country, but on behalf of America and the entire world. This will impact you, I
promise. Your president should already be dead because of Kovonov. And his
grand plans are sure to be massively destructive. Come to Israel with me. We
can share our neurotech advances. Give you time to fully digest the
implications of what is happening. Then you can decide if you’re willing to
help us. Since we need your best work, your willing
work, we can’t coerce you. If you refuse, you refuse.”

Rachel
snorted. “I have to give you credit, Eyal,” she said, “that’s your first lie
since agreeing to be straight with us. Of
course you can coerce me. Just force me to undergo your Matrix Learning
procedure multiple times. The equivalent of injecting me with a poison so I’ll
be motivated to find the antidote, even if only to save my own sanity.”

“Yes,”
said Regev with a sigh. “I guess we could
coerce you. But we wouldn’t. That’s
not our way.”

“Easy
to say that now,” she pointed out. “But high-minded ethics have a way of disappearing
under utter desperation.”

Regev
looked uncertain. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he said. “I suppose
what you say is true. All I can tell you is that this couldn’t be more
important. Your chance to save the world, and change it forever. Your chance to
perfect your dream technology. You’d be taking a risk, but think of the reward.”

Rachel
shook her head. “I understand every action you and your government have taken
now, Eyal. To be honest, I’m not sure I would have done anything differently if
I were in your shoes. I do think you’re one of the good guys, as is your
government—in general,” she hastened
to add. “But I can’t come with you.”

“Because
of fear of coercion?” said Regev.

“No.
Because you admitted yourself you aren’t sure who you can trust back in Israel.
Your country spawned this technology and a rogue Kovonov. You’ve admitted he
has comprehensive knowledge of your agency and that it could be riddled with
moles. And you can’t even trust those who oppose him. Who’s to say he hasn’t
tampered with their minds? Who’s to say he hasn’t created more unwilling human weapons
like he did with Kevin? Traps ready to spring now or at some unknown time in
the future? Kovonov will learn I’m working with you and determine my location.
Are you really sure you can stop him from killing me if he unleashes his full
bag of tricks?”

Regev
wore a pained expression, and his lack of an answer spoke volumes.

“I
didn’t think so,” said Rachel. “I haven’t ruled out undergoing your Matrix
Learning procedure. I have to weigh this further. But for now, my answer has to
be no. I won’t go with you. Not because I don’t appreciate the mess you’re in,
or want to help. But because I want to be alive, and feel safe, if I ever do
decide to take you up on your offer.”

Regev
smiled weakly. “You make some valid points,” he said. “You do. But Kovonov will
still be coming after you. We would get a team of handpicked men from outside
the Mossad to protect you. I still think you’d be safer with us than on your
own, despite the risks you’ve mentioned.”

“I
know I’m still being hunted,” said Rachel. “That I have to abandon my old life,
at least for a while. So I will dedicate myself to finding countermeasures
against Kovonov’s neurotech. But not in conjunction with the Mossad.”

“And
will you keep what I’ve told you confidential?”

Rachel
and Quinn exchanged glances. They had promised not to share what he told them
as long as it didn’t conflict with the interests of the US. So how dangerous
was it for their country if they kept this to themselves? The US government was
aware that minds could be tampered with, and that a man named Kovonov possessed
dangerous technology and had to be stopped. Were the details of Matrix Learning
and the impending psychosis of the entire upper echelon of an ally critical at
this moment?

“To
be honest, Eyal, I don’t know,” answered Quinn finally. “I have to give it a
lot more thought.”

Rachel
nodded her agreement.

“I
appreciate your honesty,” said Regev softly.

The
Israeli tilted his head in thought for several seconds, sighed, and then faced
the woman he would have given his life to recruit. “Okay, Rachel. Do it your
way. I won’t try to stop you. I’ll even agree to actively help you evade my
agency. But I do have one condition. Of Kevin.”

Quinn
raised his eyebrows as the Israeli turned toward him.

“I
want your word that you’ll stick to her like glue,” said Regev. “Until this is
over. Help her. Protect her with the skill and tenacity of the Secret Service
agent that you are.”

Quinn
didn’t need to think about this for even an instant. “You have my word,” he
said.

“Thank you,” said Regev in relief. “Kevin,
I honestly believe you’re one of the most impressive operatives in your
country.” He smiled. “If you were just a bit more impressive, you might even
rate being an operative in mine. You know, at a low level,” he added, his grin
widening.

Quinn
laughed. “Wow, what an honor,” he said dryly. “But I have a request of you,
also.”

“Go
on,” said Regev.

“I’d
like for my people to think we’re working with you as planned.”

“Interesting.
Do you have reason not to even trust your own people?”

“Not
a specific one, no. But the fewer people who know where Rachel is, the better.
Regardless of how much I might trust them. I’m sure you would agree.”

Regev
nodded. “Absolutely.  I couldn’t have
said it better. You’re like the less-talented, lighter-skinned Christian
brother I never had.”

“I
take it then that you’ll do it.”

“I
will,” said the Israeli. “But I’ll have to trust someone at Mossad to make this work. My every instinct says that
Avi Wortzman is a good man. Not a saint, by any means, but incorruptible.”

“Unless
he’s been manipulated,” said Quinn.

Regev
sighed. “True. But my gut says he’s a man I can trust. And if we want to throw
off your people into thinking you’re working with us, we’ll need him. He’ll be
able to come up with something that will keep you off the radars of both
sides.”

“That
would be appreciated,” said Quinn. “And worst case, if you’re wrong about him,
at least he won’t know where we are.”

“That’s
true also,” said Regev. “You’ll be on your own. But if the two of you ever need
us, or want us, I’ll give you a means to contact us that will be manned 24/7.
If you and the Lord Almighty call at the same instant, we’ll put you through first. And, of course, Rachel,
if you succeed with countermeasures or decide to undergo Matrix Learning and
lead our efforts, we’ll see to your transportation immediately.”

“Thanks,
Eyal,” said Rachel. “But there is one more thing you can do.”

Regev
studied her with great interest.

“Give
me the passwords to get into wherever in your agency’s databanks you keep the
specs and experimental data on your Matrix Learning system. I’d like to start
understanding the advances you made the old-fashioned way. It may not be flash-fried
into my head, but I’d like to think of myself as a quick study.”

Regev
thought about this for an extended period, and Quinn couldn’t blame him. The
granting of high-level passwords into the Mossad’s inner sanctum wasn’t
something done lightly.

Finally,
Regev nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. “And if you let me use my phone, I’ll
buy you time in case others don’t agree that I’ve done the right thing. I’ll
tell my people that we’ve been delayed and will begin our flight to Israel tomorrow.
Then Kevin can shoot me with a tranq gun I saw in his borrowed rucksack and you
can be on your way.”

He
smiled. “Not that I want to be shot, but just to give you absolute peace of
mind that I won’t try to follow, or tell Wortzman about this too early.”

Rachel
caught Quinn’s eye. “Do you trust him enough to let him talk to his people?”

Quinn
thought it through. Regev must realize that Rachel was trying to help, just not
in the way he had hoped. But also that there was a great chance she was right,
and that she was safer on her own. If
Quinn were the Israeli, he would genuinely try to help them at this point.

“I
do trust him,” replied the Secret Service agent evenly. “Let’s cut this man loose
and get him a phone.”

PART 3

Belief

“Do I contradict
myself?

Very well then I
contradict myself,

(I am large, I
contain multitudes.)”

—Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

“What is ‘real’? How do you define ‘real’?
If you’re talking about what you can feel, what you can taste, what you can
smell and see, then ‘real’ is simply electrical signals being interpreted by
your brain.”

—Morpheus, The Matrix

“The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other in silence for
some time; at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and
addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

Alice replied rather shyly, ‘I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I knew who I was when I got up this morning, but I think
I must have been changed several times since then.’”

—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in
Wonderland

45

Dmitri Kovonov had a cab drop him at the Cockaponset Lodge and
hiked two miles through the woods to the GPS coordinates he had been given. He
could have had his underlings pick him up but he wanted some time for
reflection, and picking his way through trees and undergrowth in a section of
the forest without a preset hiking path focused his mind and got his heart
pumping.

It was three hours before sunset and the forest was cool and dry,
and the higher oxygen levels provided by the foliage invigorating.

After almost an hour of being immersed in the beauty and serenity
of nature, he came to a small clearing and saw his associates’ rented Land
Rover, his preferred vehicle, which had certainly been earning its off-road
stripes on this operation. He joined the two men inside, Daniel Eisen and Yosef
Mizrahi, and the three shared greetings in Hebrew.

“I trust you both enjoyed your stay in Chicago,” said Kovonov
wryly. “All two hours of it.”

“It’s an interesting city,” said Mizrahi, playing along, “but it’s
no Cockaponset State Forest.”

Eisen smiled. “Exactly. Chicago is popular with gangs. Not so much with
bible study groups.”

“Good thing we’re here, then,” said Kovonov. He turned to his
right-hand man. “Before you begin your situation report, Daniel, have you had
the chance to search for the terrorist I’m looking for?”

“I have. Once we set things up here we had plenty of downtime. I
ran an AI program through all US intelligence
computers I could access.”

“You could have just said all
US intelligence computers—period,”
said Kovonov with a superior smile. “Same thing.”

Over the years the Mossad’s fly drones had managed to spy on endless
passwords being entered by American intelligence personnel. This, along with
advanced hack-ware developed by flash-educated geniuses had allowed the Mossad
to breach the computers of the entire US intelligence apparatus.

“Unfortunately, no success yet,” reported Eisen. “But there are a few
leads I’m exploring. Detention of terrorists in the mainland is still very
touchy here, so they hide detainees even from themselves.”

“Then searching through the data generated by our flies on the walls
might be the better option,” said Kovonov.

“About that,” said Eisen, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I
have some bad news. It looks like the failure of our White House flies wasn’t a
random glitch.” Eisen swallowed hard. “We’ve lost a number of our best drones.”

“What do you mean, lost?”

“They’ve been discovered and
disabled. Not all, but enough to matter. Which means that Kish and Wortzman must have decided to tell
the Americans about these drones and how to find them.”

Kovonov’s expression darkened. “Shit!” he bellowed. “Shit, shit,
shit. I didn’t see that coming.”

He choked down his anger and forced himself to think analytically.
“It’s the smart thing for them to do, I suppose. But I really didn’t think they
had the balls,” he added, although the Hebrew word he used for balls, baytseem, translated literally into eggs. “What are the chances they told
the Americans about me?”

Eisen gritted his teeth. “A hundred percent. They’re ramping up a
massive operation to find you. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s among their
highest priorities. The good news is that we still have a large number of
drones operational, and I’ve changed them up to make them harder to detect. We
also maintain our backdoor computer access. Their net will have holes plenty big
enough for you to waltz through without breaking a sweat. No way they find you.”

Kovonov nodded. “I agree,” he said.

What his underlings didn’t know—yet—was
that if they did their job right, the Americans would have much more to worry
about than just him. Soon, with any luck, he wouldn’t even be an afterthought.

But he would have plenty of time to ponder the implications of
these new developments later. For now, he needed to focus on the task at hand. “So
where do we stand with our church group?” he asked.

“The twenty members of the Danbury Evangelical Fellowship are staying three or four miles north of here,”
replied Eisen. “Twelve women and eight men. Most between the ages of twenty and
thirty-five, but a few older. They’re lodging at a campground owned by the Holy
Church of Christ, also, not coincidentally, out of Danbury, Connecticut.”

“Weapons?” said Kovonov.

Eisen shook his head. “Not unless they plan to chuck their bibles at us.
They all arrived in a church minibus, which we’ve disabled. The retreat
consists of ten cabins—each capable
of sleeping eight, and each with adjoining bathrooms and showers—a storage shack, and a mess hall that looks
like it can hold almost a hundred. They disperse to take advantage of various
recreational options, individually and in groups, but they all return to the
mess hall at seven for dinner, followed by bible readings and discussion. If
tonight follows the pattern, this will take place outside, around a fire, and will
last until about ten.”

Kovonov shuddered. “Can I assume this includes prayers and the singing of
inspirational songs?”

“Yes,” said Mizrahi with a grimace. “And we listened to it all.”

“It was torture,” said Eisen, and then breaking into a grin added, “In
fact, I think we deserve hazard pay.”

He went on to describe the area surrounding the campground and the surveillance
they had established, and gave his assurances that the likelihood of
interruption was very low.

“And you used standard cameras?” said Kovonov. He had been clear he
wanted the fly drones reserved for the most challenging uses, even before the
recent unfortunate losses, and just about any use would be more challenging
than spying on a church group.

“Of course,” replied his second-in-command.

Kovonov gestured in the direction of the campground. “So I assume we strike when they’re all
together in the mess hall,” he said.

Eisen nodded. “That’s right. I have an electronic eye watching the one door
into this building. After I’ve counted twenty bodies entering, we can make our
presence known.”

“Good. I’m eager to learn the exact . . . greeting, you have planned.”

“Let’s just say there won’t be a lot of singing tonight,” said Eisen.

“I’m sure the woodland creatures around here will be forever in our
debt,” said Kovonov dryly.

46

Daniel Eisen and Yosef Mizrahi
managed to corral the twenty members of the Danbury Evangelical Fellowship inside the mess hall well before dusk,
confiscating all cell phones and other electronic devices.

The structure had a rustic, unfinished appearance, but it was spacious
and vaulted—plenty large enough
to house groups many times this size—with a steeply pitched roof and three sets of handsome wooden beams
forming giant As inside.

The church group put up no resistance, as expected. Given they were all
unarmed inside a building with only one entrance and up against two men clearly
comfortable with automatic weapons, Eisen would have been surprised if a group
of twenty Navy SEALS would have done anything more than surrender.

He and Mizrahi demanded silence from their prisoners. When a few failed
to get the message they underscored their seriousness by shooting off a few rounds
from a Maxim 9—the first semiautomatic
handgun with a built-in silencer—inches
from their heads.

“Anyone else want to speak?” barked Eisen. “Because our next shots won’t
miss. Nod if I’ve made myself clear on this.”

Twenty heads bobbed up and down in unison, and the room fell silent, other
than a few sobs and the sound of panicked breathing.

Mizrahi proceeded to link each of the twenty prisoners together in a
loose chain of over a hundred zip-ties, providing a few feet of slack between
each of them to allow for movement, but no chance for escape. Twenty people
linked together was such an unwieldy jumble of humanity that as long as they
were kept away from knives and other sharp objects they could use to free
themselves they barely needed watching.

Finally, the two men took turns raiding
the bunk beds in surrounding cabins for mattresses, hauling twenty into the
mess hall—although calling them mattresses was being generous. Thin plastic cushions
would be a better term. They tiled one corner of the mess hall with the light
blue pads, each slightly longer and wider than a grown man.

Sleeping would be awkward, but
there was enough play between each person that they should be able to manage it—low
quality though it might be.

When these preliminaries had been
attended to, Eisen and Mizrahi alerted Kovonov, who had waited in the Land
Rover, working on his laptop supercomputer. Kovonov calmly sealed this
revolutionary device, invented by a team at Mossad and unavailable outside of
the corridors of power in Israel, inside a cushioned clamshell case and strode
into the mess hall like the CEO of a top technology company taking the stage
for a product launch.

He stood silently before the prisoners
for several minutes, projecting command and building their anticipation.
Finally, he walked in front of one outgrowth of this twenty-celled organism, a
young, frightened woman wearing jeans and a yellow T-shirt.

“What’s your name?” he said softly,
knowing everyone would strain to hear.

“I’m Jeanine,” she croaked out.
“Jeanine Farrar Bubick.”

Every man and woman in the room was
transfixed by the scene playing out before them.

“Are you scared, Jeanine?”

She nodded, and several tears
escaped the corners of her eyes.

“Don’t be,” said Kovonov, his voice
now louder and more definitive. “I can’t tell you details of what’s going on
here, but you have nothing to worry about. I promise you. Who is in charge
here, Jeanine?”

She looked uncertain. “Ah . . . you
are.”

Kovonov laughed. “I should have
seen that coming,” he said. “Good answer. You’re right, of course. But I mean,
who’s in charge of your group here?”

“I guess it’s Pastor Lewan,” she
replied. “Rich Lewan.”

“Which one of you is the pastor?”
said Kovonov calmly while his two associates stood guard near the door, not
even bothering to raise their weapons at this point.

A man in his late forties with
thinning hair and a kind face raised his hand. “I’m Lewan,” he said softly.

“Hello, Pastor,” said Kovonov,
retreating from the woman named Jeanine and locking his eyes on the group’s
leader . “Sorry to interrupt your retreat, but I’m afraid it had to be done. Let
me explain what’s going to happen here. In a moment I’m going to give each one
of you a very small injection. A pinprick really. I know this sounds scary, especially
since I won’t be telling you what it is. But I can assure you it’s totally
harmless. You have more of a chance of getting sick from a vaccination.”

From the fearful expressions around
the room, this assurance was not effective.

“After that, we’ll be administering
questionnaires to each of you, one by one, in the nearest cabin. We’ll cut you
loose one at a time, and I’ll have you wear a skull cap I’ve developed, with
leads that will rest on your skull and forehead. Again, this is harmless. It’s
basically a lie detector. Not perfect, but better than the current state of the
art.”

Kovonov smiled. “Not that I’m
worried. You really won’t have any reason to lie, since we’ll be asking routine questions. No secrets or incriminating
information. Nothing more than details of your backgrounds and your opinions on
a range of issues.

“Then we’ll reintegrate you back into the chain,” he continued. “While
this is going on and after, we want you to be as comfortable and happy as
possible. I understand these aren’t the best circumstances, but I know if
anyone can make the best out of them, this group can. So we’re going to kill
all Internet signals and give you back your phones, Kindles, and other
electronic devices. As well as your bibles and any other physical books you
might have brought.

“Then we’re going to sit tight for two days, during which time we hope
you can relax and enjoy yourselves as much as circumstances will allow. We’ll
cut you lose and reinsert you periodically as your need for bathroom breaks
arise. But you’ll be left alone as much as possible. We’ve brought plenty of
very good food—so no one has to
be on cooking duty. I’m sure it’s better than what you’ve been eating.

“Finally, at the end of this period, we’ll question each of you again.
Same skull cap, same questions. Cooperate and we’ll be on our way. Don’t
cooperate and we won’t hesitate to kill you all. Sorry to have to be so blunt.
I know you are all good people, but the stakes are high here, and we’re fully
prepared to do what we have to do.”

Pastor Lewan’s face maintained a remarkable serenity. “We’re a
peace-loving group,” he said evenly. “And since you’ve given us no choice, I
can assure you that we’ll all cooperate.” He shook his head sadly. “But it’s
not too late to change your ways. Leave now and we’ll forget this ever
happened. But continue on this path, and you’ll have to answer to a higher
power than just us.”

Kovonov smiled wearily. “Maybe so,” he replied. “But I’m prepared to
cross that bridge when I get to it.”

47

The next day, Mizrahi relieved Eisen and assumed his
colleague’s post near the mess hall door. It wasn’t exactly guard duty, since
the door was chained and padlocked, and they had set an AI to alert them if the
surveillance videos of the inside showed anything potentially worrisome. But
Eisen had thought it prudent to have one of them close enough to act in
seconds, if necessary, if an escape plan did suddenly materialize.

Eisen found Kovonov sitting in front of the farthest
cabin from the prisoners, on one of the many wooden folding chairs the church
group had brought with them. He was drinking a glass of wine and watching a red
squirrel cling to a nearby tree as if defying gravity.

Eisen unfolded one of the chairs leaning against the
cabin steps and sat facing Kovonov, while his boss poured him a goblet of his
own.

They sipped wine and discussed strategy and the latest
intelligence gleaned from their searches of US databases, and finally got
around to the virus Kovonov had obtained.

“I have to ask,” said Eisen, “how did you manage it? How
did you get Dr. Acosta to engineer the virus for you? I know you’re the master
of neurotech, but even so, it doesn’t seem possible.”

Kovonov considered how much he should say. Eisen was
the only high-level player on his new team whose loyalty hadn’t been elevated using
his neurotech advances, who hadn’t been turned into the ultimate fawning sycophant.
Kovonov had wanted to leave him untouched, to see what level of loyalty he could
command without manipulation.

And Eisen had earned
special treatment. The man had originally come to him, long trying to convince him to go rogue, to ignore Wortzman
and Kish when they refused to unleash every tool at their disposal to defeat their
enemies.

At the time Kovonov had been weak. Even though he shared
Eisen’s views, he had been too loyal to his superiors, too afraid to take steps
he knew in his heart were required. Ironically, before his weakness had
suddenly changed to strength, his fear to courage, he had refused Eisen’s
entreaties.

Now he had concerns that Eisen’s
resolve was weakening. He feared that his most senior lieutenant might now be unwilling
to take the steps that Kovonov had identified as being vital to a full victory.

The evangelicals talked about being reborn, and Kovonov had
personal experience in this regard. But he had not been born again into the
service of Jesus Christ. He had been born again into strength and pragmatism.

He knew that Mossad agents back in Tel Aviv thought he had
gone mad. And he couldn’t deny that this designation might be technically
accurate. But so what? The fear and empathy embedded in “normal” human wiring
were nothing more than shackles, preventing men from reaching their potential,
from doing what needed to be done.

But now he was free, his regulator blasted open.

He wasn’t delusional, he knew that. He wasn’t even paranoid,
since the threats he was now addressing were all too real. So let those with
lack of vision, weaklings, think he
was crazy. He preferred other terms. Superior. Revolutionary. Evolutionary.

So should he
tell his secrets to Eisen? To a man who had been ahead of this curve, at least
at one time.

Why not? he decided finally. He had perfected Matrix
Learning, cracked the brain’s code, and developed the ultimate neurotech
toolbox. So Eisen was well aware of his genius. But he was also justifiably
proud of the brilliant and creative way he was able to deploy these new tools
to achieve his ends. So why not gloat? Why not put his full superiority on
display?

“All right, Daniel, I’ll tell you,” said Kovonov
finally. “But don’t repeat this to anyone else.” The others didn’t know they
had been manipulated, and he didn’t want them to have reason to suspect they
might have been.

“Of course.”

Kovonov had strengthened the loyalty of his followers
back in Switzerland before they had left Israel, using the original technique,
under the guise of Matrix Learning. But he had only tested his new, more
portable approach on a small handful of subjects: two men in Switzerland, Yosef
Mizrahi, Dr. Carmilla Acosta, and Kevin Quinn.

When Quinn had escaped from the mansion in Princeton,
Kovonov had been eager to capture him. Not only to extract a painful revenge on
the man responsible for saving a monster from a well-earned death, but to
gather the kind of data the living weren’t quite ready to provide. But as disappointed
as he was that Quinn had managed to dodge his experiments, Carmilla Acosta was
proving to be quite a valuable case study in her own right.

“Dr. Acosta was
one of the few researchers who had the bandwidth and expertise to be able to do
what I needed,” began Kovonov. “Since I’ve been flash-educated with a PhD level
of genetic engineering, I knew it was possible, but it would take someone truly
gifted in the field. Since Carmilla had also developed a revolutionary DNA
synthesis technology, and was at least marginally screwable, she was the
obvious choice.”

Kovonov was pleased by Eisen’s attentiveness and eager
expression. The man seemed well aware he was getting rare insight into the thought
processes of a true virtuoso.

“Once the smart dust was in place three weeks ago,” he
continued, “I began. First, I implanted a set of strong false memories in her
mind. Memories of knowing me for almost two years.  Memories of my generosity, good humor, and how
she had sought me out, rather than the other way around.”

Kovonov paused to watch the red squirrel he had
spotted rush down the tree trunk and scurry off into the undergrowth. “Turns
out the mind has a sort of filing system,” he continued. “A specific person becomes
associated with a specific neuron, or neurons, which fire whenever this person
is considered. Think of these as neuronal addresses. I found the Dmitri Kovonov
address in Carmilla’s brain and linked any firing at this location to the reward
centers of her brain. In a nutshell, I caused her to become powerfully addicted
to me.

“I also implanted memories of times we were together
that never happened. Of romantic walks on the beach. Of me engaged in selfless
sex, relentlessly committed to satisfying her needs before my own. Memories tied
into the same regions of her brain that are triggered when she has a powerful
orgasm.

“At the same time I mimicked the brain structure of
those in romantic love. A time when passion becomes an irresistible force, and lovers
are willing to walk off a cliff for the objects of their obsession, can’t stop
thinking of them.”

“Impressive,” whispered Eisen, only now getting a
sense of what was truly possible.

“Once you’ve cracked the brain’s code, human beings
are nothing more than puppets. After one session of manipulation she was convinced
she had known me for years and was in love with me to the point of obsession.
The few times I did screw her during the past three weeks, for my own enjoyment
and to add reinforcement to the virtual memories, I upped her sex drive to
ridiculous, insatiable levels.”

“The dream of mankind throughout the ages,” said Eisen
wryly.

“You have no
idea,” said Kovonov, looking shell-shocked just from the memory. “Not
recommended for anyone with a heart condition.”

Eisen grinned. “Okay, so you make her obsessed with
you,” he said, getting back on track. “She worships you. But what about the
virus?”

“I implanted memories of multiple conversations we had
over the months about a sister of mine who doesn’t exist. A sister suffering
from ever-worsening, inoperable epileptic seizures. I had Carmilla remember
that she had come up with an idea that might help this poor girl. That she
could construct a virus capable of seeking out and interacting with exquisitely
specific neurons and brain regions, the epicenters of the seizures.”

A broad, self-satisfied smile crossed Dmitri Kovonov’s
face. “She wasn’t suspicious of my motives because she remembered it being her idea, that she suggested to me. Then I provided an electronic file
with the exact specifications I wanted to achieve, and had her remember she had
gotten this after consultation with my sister’s physician.”

Eisen shook his head. “Truly brilliant, Dmitri. Seems
I haven’t fully appreciated the potential of the technology.”

“The obsession she had for me drove her harder to
perfect the virus than any other motivation ever could. She told me she worked
on it around the clock, abandoning almost everything else.”

“Well done,” said Eisen.

Kovonov nodded. He took a sip of wine and reflected on
where things stood. Dr. Carmilla Acosta had done well. But assuming the virus
performed as he expected, he had to decide how to clean up after himself. He
could have her killed, but then there would be an investigation. She was too high profile, with a big discovery about
to be released. Why take any chances she left something behind that led to him?
Something he had missed.

The simplest solution was to erase all of her memories of him, the ones
he had implanted and the ones that had been formed the old-fashioned way. But
as he considered this further, inspiration struck.

Because there was another option he could try first. One that had great
appeal to him.

One that would allow him to discover just how powerful his tampering had
really been.

48

Yosef Mizrahi was tall, athletic, and handsome, with thick raven-black
hair and masculine features that drove women wild. Yet he could honestly say
that the time he spent in Cockaponset State Forest was more pleasurable than
any weekend he had ever spent in the arms of a beautiful woman.

Not in a sexual way, of course. But in a way that enriched his
very soul.

And this was due entirely to Dmitri Kovonov. Mizrahi basked in the
presence of the great man, barely able to keep his star-struck awe to himself during
their interactions, only managing to do so after Kovonov had chastised him
repeatedly for gushing and had insisted he keep this adulation more hidden.

What a priceless opportunity Mizrahi had been given.
One he would be telling his grandchildren about someday.

He had always had a deep admiration for Kovonov and
shared his views that neurotech should be deployed against Israel’s enemies,
who wouldn’t hesitate to treat Israel a hundred times more harshly if given the
chance. But ever since joining this inspirational leader on his exodus from the
Mossad, Mizrahi’s admiration for the man had deepened, had grown to
stratospheric levels. He now saw Kovonov as not only a genius whose discoveries
would catapult the human species to new heights, but as a father figure, a
sage.

Mizrahi sat quietly on a bunk inside the cabin Kovonov
had turned into an interview and lie-detector center. He watched the great man
as he finished interviewing the last of the twenty prisoners, a pretty young
blonde, reveling in how smoothly he did so, how at ease he put each churchgoer.
Kovonov had been so elated by the results he could barely contain himself.

History would show that the ultimate game changer had
been tested in these woods and that Yosef Mizrahi had been right there to
witness the dawn of a new era. He didn’t have a ringside seat on history, he
was actually in the ring, in the
corner of the boxer destined to beat the limitations of the human species into
submission.

“Yosef,” said Kovonov, breaking him from his reverie,
“take Linda here back to the mess hall and tie her back in.”

“Right away,” said Mizrahi, fighting for all he was
worth to keep his response subdued.

“Once you’ve finished,” continued Kovonov, “return
here for further instructions.”

Mizrahi nodded. Given they had now achieved their
goal, he suspected what these further instructions would entail: the release of
the prisoners. They would need a plan for doing so that would give them an
ample head start. Mizrahi had no doubt that Kovonov had come up with one that
was as brilliant as usual. He was eager to find out.

“Tell Daniel to give us ten minutes alone and then
join us in this cabin,” continued Kovonov.

“You’re okay with leaving the door to the mess hall unattended?”
said Mizrahi, glancing at the prisoner named Linda who had heard this last
instruction.

“I am,” said Kovonov. “It will be locked and I’ll keep
my eye on the monitors.” He waved a hand toward the prisoner. “And I’m sure no
one will attempt to escape now that they’re so close to being released,” he added
pointedly. “Will they?”

The woman shook her head rapidly, as if this was the
last thing in the world she would ever consider.

“I’ll give Daniel the message,” said Mizrahi.

Kovonov nodded curtly and went back to studying a
computer readout and making entries into his laptop.

Mizrahi led the prisoner away and reinserted her back
into the human chain. He then carefully relayed Kovonov’s message to Eisen before
eagerly returning to the cabin to learn what else he could do for the great
man.

He entered and approached Kovonov, whose back was to
him and the door. “So what is your plan to release the prisoners?” he asked.

Kovonov turned, revealing a gun in his right hand that
was extended toward Mizrahi. Such was the trust Mizrahi had in this man that it
never once occurred to him he was in possible danger, or that he should attempt
to protect himself.

He opened his mouth to ask why the great man was
pointing a weapon his way, but speech never came. Instead, Kovonov pulled the
trigger and Mizrahi’s world was instantly plunged into darkness.

***

Kovonov was in great spirits as he
awaited the imminent arrival of Daniel Eisen. His plan was proceeding
flawlessly.

He had even learned that morning
that Rachel Howard was dead after all, which had given him great satisfaction,
icing on his cake. Perhaps he had judged his second set of mercenaries too
harshly. Before they were killed, they had managed to take the professor with them.

Interestingly, Wortzman had gone to
great lengths to get the Americans to believe she was still alive and working
with the Mossad in Israel. Then he had made sure her location in Israel was a closely
guarded secret. A secret that Kovonov’s moles managed to learn.

Kovonov had been considering
sending in a team to dispose of her once and for all when it occurred to him
that this had all played into his hands a bit too easily.

Wortzman was a clever bastard, but Kovonov
knew how he thought. One didn’t get to the top of the Mossad unless one had a
talent for deep deception. He began to suspect that Wortzman had wanted his
moles to learn where she was located, hoping that they or their boss would go
after her. It was a trap.

When Kovonov had insisted that his
operatives peel back further on the onion, they had found the truth: the
professor had been killed in Waltham, after all. Wortzman may have deceived the
Americans and his own people, but his attempt to flush out Kovonov had failed.

Kovonov’s thoughts were interrupted as Eisen entered
the cabin, right on schedule. His lieutenant was quick to react to the figure
of his colleague sprawled out on the floor. “What happened?” he asked Kovonov who
was standing near the body.

Kovonov shrugged. “I shot him,” he said calmly,
raising a gun at the same instant and providing Eisen with a reenactment of
this event.

Eisen collapsed to the ground beside Mizrahi.

Satisfied, Kovonov walked to a bunk on which an assault
weapon was resting, an H&K UMP 45, long used by US Customs and Border
Protection, a lighter successor to the MP5. He picked it up and pocketed an
extra magazine that was sitting beside it.

He made his way to the door of the mess hall and
unlocked it, entering as he had any number of times over the past few days. The
prisoners were spread across the back corner of the room on the platform of thin
blue cushions. Some were reading quietly, others were engaged in conversations,
and still others were playing cards.

All eyes turned to him as he held the H&K loosely
in his right hand, the muzzle pointed straight down at the floor.

An unearthly quiet and stillness overcame the room.

“Have you come to set us free?” asked the pastor after
several seconds, piercing the silence. He eyed the UMP 45 in Kovonov’s hand warily.
“We’ve cooperated. We’ve answered your questions and done everything you’ve
asked.”

“You have all been wonderful,” agreed Kovonov. “May
you spend eternity in heaven with your loved ones.”

With that he lifted the submachine gun and began to
spray the prisoners with .45 caliber rounds.

It was absolute carnage.

Blood and flesh splattered into the air as helpless,
unsuspecting men and women were turned into Swiss cheese, to the accompaniment
of screams of death and terror that would haunt a medieval torturer.

When the magazine had emptied, Kovonov replaced it
with the spare and set the weapon to single shot, this time taking careful aim
and making sure to put a round through the forehead of each and every member of
the Danbury Evangelical Fellowship. He did so with a ruthless, clinical
efficiency and thoroughness, ensuring that none had any hope of revival.

While this resulted in the spilling of additional quarts
of slick, bright blood, turning the mats a mixture of light blue and bright
red, at least the screams had now died out along with the screamers.

Kovonov had considered letting them know that they
would be dying for a greater purpose. That sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
Reminding them that even God had allowed his only son to be tortured and killed
for the right reasons.

But he knew that this would do nothing to ease their
journey into oblivion.

Kovonov calmly checked the monitors
and was pleased to see that while the thick wooden structure of the mess hall
hadn’t fully suppressed the racquet he had made, the noise hadn’t traveled far
enough to attract attention. The many cameras his underlings had installed
earlier indicated that the nearest park visitors were many miles away and going
about their lives in blissful ignorance.

Perfect.

Kovonov removed a paintbrush he had shoved into his
back pocket. He carefully picked his way between the corpses, minimizing the
gore that ended up on his shoes but not avoiding it entirely.

He stopped a few feet in from the back corner of the
room, next to where a particularly large pool of blood had gathered, and dipped
his brush into the vivid crimson liquid. Carefully, painstakingly, he proceeded
to write an Arabic phrase across the entire back wall of the mess hall, coming
back for more red ink on numerous occasions.

When he was finally done, he stepped back to admire
his handiwork.

Ash hadu an laa ilaaha
illallaah
he had written: There is no God but Allah

wa ash hadu anna Muhammadan
rasool-ullaah: And Muhammad is his Messenger.

It was the Muslim shahādah,
their most profound statement of faith. In some sects the recitation of this
phrase was the first of the Five Pillars of Islam and was the only formal step required
for non-Muslims to convert into the religion.

Kovonov surveyed the grisly scene one last time and
was struck by the fact that it didn’t trouble him. He had previously abhorred
violence. Just a month or two ago, not only would he have been appalled by the
idea of hurting a single one of these men and women, he would have been vomiting
at the sight of the carnage before him.

And yet now that he had changed, he found that he was
actually enjoying himself. He found pleasure in his lack of weakness, pride in
his thoroughness. He found a certain fascination in the grisly ballet of death,
a poetry in the patterns the flesh-and-blood splatter had made on the floor and
walls.

A slow, satisfied smile crept across his face.

Perhaps he was not yet done evolving.

49

Yosef Mizrahi’s eyes fluttered open and the world gradually
swam back into focus. He felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience.
He vaguely noted that Daniel Eisen was sitting beside him on a bunk, awake and
alert. Both were handcuffed with zip-ties, and both also had their ankles
cuffed to the bunk bed, which itself was bolted into the cabin wall.

Kovonov was seated across from them in a folding
chair, watching them intently.

“Dmitri?” said Mizrahi weakly.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” replied Kovonov.

“Now that he is,” said Eisen, “are you ready to tell
us what this is about?”

Kovonov nodded. “I shot you both with a tranquilizer
dart,” he said. “Very short acting. You’ve only been out about an hour. And let
me say I’m really sorry about having to do this. You’ve been loyal and you’ve
performed brilliantly.”

“Good to know our work is appreciated,” said Eisen
with a scowl.

“It truly is,” said Kovonov, not responding to the
irony. “I felt the need to restrain you for a while because I haven’t been
completely honest with you about my plans. I wasn’t sure how you would take
them. I need to be sure that you’re with me.”

“We’d follow you to hell and back,” said Mizrahi,
sounding hurt that Kovonov might doubt this for even a moment.

Eisen eyed Mizrahi and shook his head in disgust. “So
what is the real plan?” he asked Kovonov
warily.

“First, with regard to the current op, I know I told
you we’d be sparing the prisoners—but we can’t. Sacrifices have to be made. We can’t take any
chances. In addition, if we play our cards right we can pin their deaths on jihadists.”

“What?” whispered Eisen in horror. “You can’t mean
that.”

“Of course I do. But I’ll make their deaths as quick
and painless as possible.”

“So you want to just butcher them like cattle in a
slaughterhouse?” demanded Eisen. “They’re helpless.
Haven’t we hurt them enough already? And we promised to let them go. Are we
really going to slaughter helpless innocents?”

Mizrahi found himself agreeing. He had never thought
ill of Kovonov before, but he couldn’t help but find this a troubling
development.

“When you signed on for this project,” said Kovonov, “you
knew I planned to change the world. Don’t tell me you’re getting sanctimonious
all of a sudden?”

“Sanctimonious?”
shouted Eisen. “That’s what you call
objecting to the slaughter of innocents? Yes, I signed on to change the world.
But with a virus. Already a horrific
solution, but one that I believe our survival might depend on. But I never
signed on for this! How are we any
different than the Islamists we’re fighting?”

“Shit, Daniel! Are you really going to start quoting Nietzsche
like you’re Avi Wortzman? His battle not
with monsters shit? In every war civilians are killed. It’s called collateral
damage.” Kovonov shook his head in disgust and disappointment. “I thought you
might balk at the next step in my plan, but not this one.”

Mizrahi’s face had turned into a tortured mask of
conflicted emotions, but he remained silent.

“You can’t do this, Dmitri, ” said Eisen.

“The Americans dropped two atomic bombs on Japanese
cities to end a war,” said Kovonov. “Do you have any idea how many innocent
civilians were killed? How many children? The tens of thousands who were
vaporized instantly were the lucky
ones. An even greater number survived the initial blast and went on to die slowly
and horribly from radiation poisoning. The Americans didn’t want this to happen. But they calculated
this action would save millions of lives by ending the war. Would stop the
kamikaze-deploying Japanese who were so relentless and unyielding they refused
to surrender even after Hiroshima.”

Kovonov’s lip curled into a snarl. “And what was the
ultimate fallout from this?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you what: Japan and
America are now close allies.”

“You’re going to compare ending WWII to shooting
helpless evangelicals like fish in a barrel?” shouted Eisen, so incensed he
looked like a rabid dog. “You’ve observed and questioned these people. On the
whole they’re a decent, well-meaning group. Maybe we find the bible study thing
a little hokey, but it helps them.
They don’t deserve this. And we wouldn’t be killing them to end a war or
prevent casualties on our side. You and I both know there is no need for them
to die.”

“Not a direct need,” said Kovonov, “but killing them
reduces the risk that we’ll be caught or found out, which could ruin
everything. Could prevent us from ending a war on terror. A trans-generational
battle against foes who make the Japanese seem as relentless and unyielding as
a teddy bear. As a small bonus, the
massacre of twenty innocents, if unambiguously tied to jihadists, will continue
to prod America out of its reluctance to truly engage. A small prodding, yes,
but a tiny step in the right direction.”

“No!” said Eisen. “I won’t be a party to this!
Watching them through the monitors, watching their resilience, I’ve found a
renewed faith in humanity. I’m not sure I even support the original plan any longer. But I know I don’t support this!”

Kovonov shook his head. “I thought after I revealed my
true plans I’d have to question
you with the lie detector. Make sure you were telling the truth when you said
you supported me. I never thought you wouldn’t at least pretend to support me.”

“Well think again!” said Eisen. His eyes widened as a new thought struck
him. “Wait a minute. If this was supposed to be the part of your plan you
thought wouldn’t trouble us, what’s the next
part like?”

Kovonov told them, quickly and efficiently, with no
punches pulled.

This time even Mizrahi whitened in horror.

“You’ve gone totally fucking mad!” said Eisen. “I was
told you had, but I never believed it. I thought it was propaganda from
Wortzman to rein you in. But he was absolutely right!”

“What I’m doing is the equivalent of killing one
innocent man to save a thousand.”

“Spoken like a true psychopath,” spat Eisen.

Kovonov turned to Mizrahi. “Yosef?” he said, almost plaintively. “I know
I can count on you. You’re still with me, right?”

Mizrahi’s face was contorted as an absolute war raged inside his mind. Thoughts
and emotions vied for prominence, waging a pitched battle with sharp daggers.

He loved Dmitri Kovonov. This man had become almost a god to him. But the
atrocities he was contemplating were just too great.

Mizrahi finally decided that Kovonov was still a god, but one who had
fallen ill. One he would dedicate his life to curing.

“It pains me to side with Daniel on this one,” he said. “But I have no
other choice.”

And it did pain him, not just
psychologically but physically as well. His entire being protested the decision
to go against Kovonov’s wishes, like the body of a transplant recipient rejecting
the heart he needed to survive.

Kovonov leaped to his feet in a fit of rage and flung the folding chair toward
the far wall of the cabin with all of his strength. “Are you kidding me?” he
screamed at Mizrahi as the wooden chair struck the wall like an oversized hammer,
shattering into pieces.

He clenched and unclenched his fists and a maniacal look remained on his
face. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve molded you?” he bellowed. “I’ve turned
you into a loyal puppy dog! Your admiration for me has been ramped up so high
it’s amazing it hasn’t shot through the top of your head,” he screamed, spittle
flying from his mouth. “So what happened
to following me into hell?” he demanded.

Kovonov took several deep breaths and the fire in his eyes subsided, his
tantrum over. “This tells me a lot,” he said evenly, the scientist once more. “Even
the best of humanity, even manipulated relentlessly, doesn’t have the iron stomach
to do what is necessary. This is such a disappointment.”

“Are you saying my admiration for you isn’t real?” said Mizrahi stupidly.

“You fucking idiot! I understand being clueless when you had no idea I
tampered with you. But now? A light bulb should be going off in your head,
right? I fucked with your brain! Of course I did! That’s what I do! You followed me from Mossad so I
could do this to our enemies, remember? You didn’t always slavishly worship the urinal I pee in, remember?”

Mizrahi thought his brain was exploding as the dam protecting his psyche
from this realization burst open. Gorge rose in his throat.

He had agreed to follow Kovonov initially, had genuinely respected and
admired the man, but knowing that he had since been turned into a human puppet
was a shock to his system that was nearly debilitating, a lead-fisted sucker
punch to his gut.

“As disappointed as I am,” continued Kovonov, “I can’t afford to lose you
both. So I’ll still need to salvage you, Yosef. Daniel is smarter and more
competent, but I’m forced to make this choice. Your brain has been raped repeatedly
and is set up for easy manipulation going forward.”

“What does that mean?” said Eisen. “That you’re going to kill me? Your
friend? The man who stood at your side when Wortzman tried to limit you? Your greatest
ally and top lieutenant? If that isn’t proof that you’ve lost your mind,
nothing is.”

Eisen took a deep breath and softened his voice. “I can still be an ally,
Dmitri. Still help you change the world. Just abandon these plans. The virus
will be enough. Let these people go.”

“Let these people go?” repeated Kovonov in disbelief. “You’re starting to
sound like Moses.”

He raised a gun, this time one that fired bullets rather than
tranquilizers. “I’d consider your offer, Daniel, except for two things. One,
you’ve already admitted to having second thoughts about even deploying the
virus. And two, the Danbury Evangelical Fellowship is already extinct. I
butchered them like hogs while you were out cold,” he added with a cruel smile.

Eisen issued a primal scream that Kovonov ended almost before it had
begun, calmly pulling the trigger and drilling a hole through the forehead of
the man who had been his closest friend and confidant.

“I am so sorry it’s come to this,” he whispered as Eisen’s head slumped
forward against his chest.

But rather than sorrow, his face reflected nothing but self-satisfaction.

50

Mizrahi’s eyes fluttered open and it took him several long seconds to get
his bearings. He was seat belted in on the passenger’s side of the Land Rover
with Dmitri Kovonov at the wheel.

“What happened?” he said, still feeling groggy.

Kovonov smiled warmly. “You were exhausted. Maybe you need more vitamin C,
Yosef. Or caffeine at any rate. Anyway, I insisted you take a nap.”

He looked around. “Where is Daniel?”

“You really are
tired,” said Kovonov.

Mizrahi searched his memory and recent events slowly
came back to him. They had left the twenty members of the church group behind, all
relieved that their ordeal would soon be coming to an end. He remembered that
Kovonov had asked Eisen to watch the group for another five hours before
releasing them. Given that the US was ramping up a manhunt to find Dmitri
Kovonov, he was vulnerable, and it was important that he be given a head start.

The rest of the recent past began to seep into Mizrahi’s
brain as he awakened more fully. Before he and Kovonov had left, the great man
had asked to speak privately with Eisen, to give him a new assignment after he
finished babysitting the evangelicals. Mizrahi hadn’t been told the nature of Eisen’s
new assignment, but he knew it must be important. He wondered when he would see
his colleague again.

A sheepish expression came over Mizrahi’s face. “Dumb
question,” he said. “Daniel’s back at camp, of course, waiting to free the
prisoners. How could I have forgotten? I must have been groggy from the sleep.”

“Must have been,” agreed Kovonov sagely.

51

In addition to funding civilian scientists at top universities to
conduct research in their own labs, the United States government and military
maintained secret laboratories throughout the country, working on advanced
weapons, computers, drones, satellites, aircraft, nanites, and just about every
other area of science and technology in existence. Rachel Howard had received
grant money from the government in the past, but she never imagined her results
might be funneled into a secret netherworld where brightly lit labs existed in
the figurative shadows.

Now that she was actually in
one of these secret labs, it was a lot easier to imagine.

And not just any secret lab. A notorious one. She had not known
this offhand, but even the simplest online query was enough to reveal an
avalanche of infamy extending back many decades.

Plum Island was three miles long
and one wide, not far from New York City and quite near the Hamptons, a famous
seaside resort. Owned by the government for over half a century, most recently
the Department of Homeland Security, it was the known site of labs working on
biological warfare—defense
only, if the military was to be believed—and the suspected site of considerable additional secret biological
research.

The island was rumored to have been
the site of work on so many esoteric and lethal microbes, including those
engineered by its scientists, and the subject of so many lapses in containment,
it was widely considered a toxic cross between Area 51 and Three Mile Island.

What Rachel had learned from Cris
Coffey—while being
whisked to the island with Kevin Quinn like so much illegal black market cargo—was that the military had been responsible
for these very rumors, borrowing from a playbook that had long served it well.
If you wanted to discourage curious reporters and civilians from trying to
breach the robust security on your secret base and gain entry, ensuring they
were terrified of being exposed to lethal contaminants was a good way to do it.

In 2020, with great fanfare, DHS
had announced they had sold Plum Island to a reclusive Internet billionaire,
but Coffey explained this was also a ruse. Ownership had changed hands all right,
but only from one shadowy government organization to another: from DHS to a
Black Ops group that had not only assumed command but had upgraded the
facilities with the most expensive equipment and the latest breakthrough tech
coming from other government labs.

The military man running the
advanced neuroscience lab on the island, Major Roger McLeod, had once reported
to Coffey, and had agreed to ensure that no one on Plum Island would disclose
the identity of their honored guests, even to the president or Greg Henry.
Coffey had fully briefed him, explaining that the stakes were so high they
couldn’t afford to have even a single person in the loop who didn’t absolutely
need to be.

McLeod had simply laughed and
reminded Coffey that he had been out of Black Ops too long, and that they
weren’t in the habit of reporting their activities to the president and DHS
anyway.

Coffey had been amazing and Rachel
could see why Kevin thought so highly of him. He was taking a big risk keeping
his superiors in the dark, a risk that could end up costing him his job—or worse. He had supplied her and Kevin
with untraceable phones and laptop computers designed for the leadership of the
NSA, with more speed and power than was yet available on the market, the equal
of the best mainframes only a few short years earlier.

They had confided in Coffey to a large extent, telling him about
Israel’s Matrix Learning program and that Kovonov was behind it, determined to
deploy advanced neurotech. But they had not let him know that Matrix Learning
had ultimately driven Kovonov mad, or that there were ticking time bombs in the
minds of untold members of Israel’s upper echelon: scientists, military, and
politicians. For now, they would keep this to themselves, out of respect
for the wishes of Eyal Regev.

While Coffey was pulling strings to make things happen, he put his
two wards up at a bed-and-breakfast hotel in the Hamptons. Quinn under the
Kevin Moore identity and Rachel under the name of Angie Helms Loftin.

True to his word, Eyal Regev had provided Rachel with the
passwords she needed to access the Mossad’s entire database on Matrix Learning,
and Coffey had made sure she could do so in a way that couldn’t be traced back
to her location. When she wasn’t watching a movie in the hotel with Kevin, or
sharing a meal, she was poring over this data like a kid in a candy store,
twelve to fourteen hours a day.

She and Quinn developed an easy rapport and an undeniable
chemistry: the bad boy whose life had been shattered and the geek genius
scientist too busy changing the world to maintain a serious relationship. On
paper, it shouldn’t have worked, but in reality it did—only too well.

Finally, when it became clear they were falling for each other on
any number of levels, they had discussed it openly. Both had acknowledged the
elephant in the room, and both were determined to ignore it—for now. Rachel could be the key to
preventing widespread chaos and destruction, at minimum. Under the
circumstances, giving in to her attraction to Quinn would be a distraction she
couldn’t afford.

He agreed and also thought it unprofessional to have relations
with a woman he was protecting. He joked that he needed all of his blood
flowing to his brain when he was with her, and he was afraid that might not be
the case if he got any closer. She could have taken this declaration any number
of ways, but their relationship had evolved to a point that she took it as he
had intended, as amusing and flattering.

After three days of this they had arrived on the Island and to a
large five-story building overlooking the Atlantic that had been designated the
Advanced Neurotechnologies Laboratory.
Since this abbreviated to ANL, or Anal, the building’s inhabitants referred to
it as The Anus. This had been an irreverent
joke in the beginning but had become so commonly used the scientists there rarely
considered its anatomical meaning anymore.

Living quarters had been made available to the two guests on the
Island, with Kevin’s quarters right next to Rachel’s. While they didn’t reside
with the rest of the Anus personnel, the major made sure to tie Rachel into the
lab’s computers and equipment.

With this complete, the major decided it was time to introduce
them privately to the scientific head of the lab, Dr. Karen Black, who was
exceedingly familiar with Rachel Howard and her work.

The major escorted Dr. Black to Rachel’s quarters, and her eyes
bulged from their sockets when the Harvard professor came into view. “Rachel Howard?” she said in disbelief.

She stared at Rachel for several long seconds and then, deciding
this wasn’t an illusion, extended her right hand. “It is a true honor,
Professor Howard.”

“Thank you,” replied Rachel simply, shaking the woman’s hand.

The head of the lab introduced herself and they quickly agreed to
use first names. Even if this hadn’t been Rachel’s habitual choice, it was
standard practice for scientists working together to eschew titles, as they
added an unneeded level of formality and all of their MDs and PhDs tended to
cancel each other out, anyway.

“I can’t tell you how often I’ve fantasized about getting the
chance to consult with you,” said Karen Black, and although Quinn had shaken
her hand as well, Rachel doubted she was even aware any longer that he and the
major were still in the room.

“You should have,” said Rachel. “I would have been happy to help
out.”

Karen shook her head wistfully, her short brown hair barely
moving. “I know you would have. But when these type of research facilities
decide they want someone with a particular expertise, they tend to recruit
right out of graduate school. And they can be more persuasive than you’d
imagine. They offer futuristic resources to draw on and funding that never runs
dry. The chance to work on important, leading edge science right out of grad
school. And compensation triple what you could have gotten elsewhere.” She frowned.
“But there is a catch.”

Rachel nodded. “Let me guess,” she said. “It’s harder to consult
with people like me. And you can’t ever publish your findings.” She was at
least somewhat familiar with the work of every scientist in the field, and
hadn’t heard of this woman, so she was sure her assessment was correct.

“Exactly. You become invisible as a scientist.”

“Regrettable,” said Major McLeod, “but necessary. But I can tell
you, Professor, Dr. Black has done some brilliant work. If she were in academia,
I’m sure you would find her a peer.”

“Thank you, Major,” said Karen. “I am proud of the work I’ve done.
But the professor here is in a league of her own.”

52

Rachel had been told by Karen Black that the Anus housed sixteen
PhD or MD neuroscientists and an army of fifty-nine subordinate lab technicians.
Since she had not become acclimated to this nickname for the Advanced
Neurosciences Laboratory, she found this highly amusing at a sophomoric level
she had thought she’d long outgrown.

But apparently not.

If the question, “What’s inside the anus?” ever did arise, she had
been quite sure the correct answer would never be, “sixteen neuroscientists and
fifty-nine lab techs.”

Which just went to show how dramatically her life had changed.

They had also learned that a team of six ex-special forces
commandos handled security on the island. Quinn had commented dryly that after
surviving a number of years in the special forces, joining the Secret Service
or defending Black sites like Plum Island was considered light duty.

To extend the childish scatological humor further, the security
team had taken to calling themselves Prep H. When Rachel had asked why this
was, they had grinned and told her it was short for Preparation H. In their view a fitting designation since they and
this product had both been tasked with protecting the Anus.

Again, Rachel couldn’t help but smile. On an island full of
stir-crazy scientists and soldiers, naming the primary facility ANL was just
asking for trouble. She had considered advising them to change it to Progressive Neurological Sciences, or
PNS, and had laughed out loud at the thought of the penis jokes that would soon
follow.

The Prep H group had been ordered to make protecting her their
highest priority until they were told otherwise, so she knew that they would be
patrolling outside of her quarters and giving her their every attention. She
had felt guilty about this and had suggested Kevin Quinn was protection enough,
but they had told her politely that this decision wasn’t up to her, and they
would make sure she was protected whether she liked it or not.

She had begun her research right after meeting Karen Black, with
the scientific head of the laboratory happily conducting experiments at her
request, dropping her own projects and giddy at the opportunity to work with
one of her scientific idols.

The head of the lab and Major McLeod were the only two on Plum
Island who had been fully briefed on everything Rachel and Kevin knew, other
than the fact that Matrix Learning eventually led to madness. Since Rachel
couldn’t allow herself to be seen by others in the Anus who might recognize her,
she worked from her residence a short distance away.

The progress Rachel made in
just a few short days was nothing short of breathtaking. First, she had climbed
the learning curve on Kovonov’s original Matrix Learning procedure in record
time while still at the Hamptons. The Mossad’s data was quite comprehensive and
well laid out, and she had spent many years thinking about the problem. But
more importantly, Kovonov had used her
insights, her ideas, for ninety
percent of what he had done.

He had made a few lucky guesses that did extend the work, but he
would have been nowhere without her theories, which she had formulated just out
of grad school. He was only able to perfect the technique because Israel had
poured so much money for so long into this research that they had developed
specialized technologies to accomplish it.

No wonder he worshiped Rachel, who had been an unknowing collaborator.
He could never have succeeded without her.

She felt like Alan Turing, a man whose vision had outrun the state
of technology in his era, who had developed sophisticated concepts for modern
computers that he didn’t have the means to turn into reality.

She had been working for years on ways to get Matrix Learning to
work remotely, bypassing the more limited method the Israelis had developed,
not content to get there in stepwise fashion. She had no interest in working
toward technology that would require multi-million dollar MRI-like equipment,
subjects to have electronics surgically implanted, and the need for them to be
tethered to the equipment for the knowledge download to occur.

So after coming up to speed on Kovonov and his team’s original
process, she began working to understand the new, more mobile process he had
developed, which had given him the tools he needed to go rogue. Despite this
being the area of her greatest expertise, Kovonov had hidden his notes and data
from the Mossad, so she would normally have had no way to make progress on this
front.

Except that a way had been handed to her in the form of a Secret
Service agent named Kevin Quinn. A priceless tool that had magically fallen
into her lap from out of nowhere—or
into the back of her SUV in any case.

Quinn had been tampered with remotely, seamlessly. She was certain
that the evidence of how this was accomplished had been left behind inside his
brain, and she quickly discovered she was correct.

Again, Kovonov had built on her
work, using her theories, thoughts, algorithms, and experimental protocols. Much
of it material that she had yet to publish. He had clearly used fly drones or
hack-ware to get her passwords and steal her most innovative work.

She felt totally violated, but at the same time she was flattered
and gratified that he had gotten her ideas to work. She couldn’t wait to study
what he had done.

On the third day of her stay on Plum Island, Rachel asked the
major to set up a meeting so she could provide a status update. She hadn’t even
had the chance to discuss her findings with Kevin Quinn, her primary research
tool. She was working so hard she had temporarily become a recluse, unaware the
outside world even existed. The few times she had tried to catch the news
online or on TV, one story dominated the coverage, about a massacre at a place
called Cockaponset State Forest in Connecticut, the latest of a long line of horrific
terror attacks carried out by Islamic extremists.

The meeting took place in Rachel’s quarters, which the major had ordered
modified on her first day there. Contractors had cut an opening between her and
the apartment to her north, which had been transformed into an office fitted
with expensive computers and monitors. Quinn, still to her south, teased her
about her decadent quarters and royal treatment, but she reminded him that as
her personal bodyguard he benefited from guarding her in larger environs.

When those attending physically—Kevin Quinn, Roger McLeod, and Karen Black—had seated themselves around a glass table
on the office side of her twin dwelling, vid-meet software created a virtual
table and integrated Cris Coffey’s 3-D image into the meeting.

Rachel sat at the head of both the virtual and real tables and
welcomed all participants.

“Thanks for accommodating my schedule,” said Coffey before they
began. Since he hadn’t told his superiors about this project he had very little
flexibility.

Rachel smiled warmly. “For you, Cris, anything.”

“If only my wife would say that once in a while,” said Coffey dryly.

There were smiles all around. Rachel waited a moment for them to
fade and then began. “As you all know, Karen and I have been working around the
clock for the past three days trying to understand how Kovonov was able to do
what he did. With the goal of finding a way to stop him.”

She didn’t mention her other goal:
learning why the process ultimately led to madness.

“In the days before I arrived,” she continued, “I studied the
Mossad’s files on Matrix Learning. So I first want to bring everyone up to
speed on my progress.” She gestured appreciatively toward Karen Black. “On our progress,” she amended.

“How far over our heads will it be?” asked Coffey.

“It won’t be. I know you aren’t trained in neuroscience. I’ll be
giving you simplified explanations and I’ll try to focus on the big picture.”

She went on to explain how the Israeli Matrix Learning technology worked
as best she could for twenty minutes.

“Rachel makes it sound simple,”
said Karen when she had finished her summary, “but believe me, it isn’t. Turns
out the Israelis based most of this technology on her theories. I’ve worked in
the leading edge of this field for many years and I still have a long way to go to truly understand this, even with
the professor’s tutelage.”

Rachel nodded to acknowledge the
compliment. “Understanding stationary Matrix
Learning with the help of copious data files is one thing,” she said. “But as
you all know, Kovonov has now advanced beyond this technology. No more plugging
into pricey machinery. Now he can manipulate minds on the go. This is a more
challenging problem that wasn’t outlined in any Mossad database.”

“Were you able to get anywhere?” asked Coffey.

“Yes. Because of Kevin. Without someone Kovonov had
manipulated I’d have some guesses, but I’d never know for sure what approach he
was using.”

Rachel shook her head. “Ironically,” she
continued, “if he hadn’t been so set on killing me, I’d never have known about
any of this, or made any of the progress I’ve made.”

She had become convinced that this
obsession with ending her life was a byproduct of his madness rather than any
rational thinking.

“And maybe someone up there is
looking out for us,” said Rachel. “Kevin Quinn alone doesn’t pose any danger to
Kovonov. My work alone wouldn’t either. But the two of us together at this research
facility is his worst nightmare. Doesn’t
mean I can figure out what he’s doing and stop him. But not only did he fail to
kill us, he actually provided the catalyst that drove us together. This was a
big mistake on his part, and at least gives us a chance.”

“So what have you found?” asked Coffey.

“Let me start by explaining how
I found it,” said Rachel. “I began by taking a sample of neurons from Kevin’s
brain.”

“She assured me I wouldn’t miss them too much,” said Quinn good-naturedly.
“But if I ever say or do anything stupid in the future, just know that this is
the reason.”

“Glad I could give you an excuse,” replied Rachel, breaking into a
smile.

She touched the screen of a tablet computer and a four-foot by
four-foot image of a small group of neurons appeared above the center of the
virtual table and began to slowly rotate. The 3-D image was almost neon blue in
color, shining from an inner glow, and displaying a number of what looked like misshapen
octopi with far too many over-elongated tentacles.

“This is an image from ANL’s electron microscope that Karen was
kind enough to generate,” explained Rachel. “Depicting eleven neurons from
Kevin’s brain.”

“Neurons that no longer have to fear being killed by alcohol,” added
Quinn wryly.

Rachel smiled and continued. “Notice that they’ve been dyed blue
for better clarity.”

She pressed another button on the computer and red circles now
appeared around two distinct neuronal structures, which both resembled barren
shrubberies.

“These are dendrites,” she said, pointing at the branches of a circled
shrub that extended from a main cell body. “They receive impulses.”

She pointed at the other circled shrub, which extended from the
end of a long octopus arm. “And these are axon terminals. Which send impulses.
But for the sake of our discussion, their identities and roles aren’t important.
There won’t be a test.”

She touched her tablet again and the image of one of the circled
dendrites exploded in size, while the rest of the image disappeared. “I’ve
magnified a dendrite extending from one of the cell bodies. Note that even at
this magnification nothing appears amiss. But if I zoom in even farther,” she
said, making this happen as she spoke, “you can see a disk clinging to the main
branch. Notice that this disk is perfectly circular.”

“I take it that this is a structure that shouldn’t be there,” said
Quinn uneasily.

“No it shouldn’t. Extrapolating from our small sample, Karen and I
calculated that there are about two hundred billion of these in your brain. And
they are perched on every important neuron you have, like small birds clinging
to telephone lines. But birds capable of affecting neuronal transmission. We’ve
studied several of these at great length under the electron microscope.”

“What are they?” asked Coffey.

Rachel touched her tablet and the image disappeared entirely. “Collectively
these particles are called smart dust.
They’re designed and deployed using specifications that I came up with,” she said in frustration.

“Think of them as nano-electronic devices, smaller than bacteria,”
she continued. “Nanites for short. So small they would make a particle of
talcum powder look like Mt. Everest. Yet each has enough intelligence to know
where they are within the brain, and also in relation to their brethren. And
they can react to external commands—induce the firing of a neuron, block the
firing, and so on. Think of each as having an individual IP address.”

“External commands from where?” asked Quinn. “And how?”

“In this case, radio waves. Information sent
this way would have to be tightly compressed, but it could all be carried by a
radio broadcast of the right length, and with the right supercomputer guiding
it, using the right algorithms.”

“If this system is based on your design, does this mean you’ve
come up with something similar?” asked Major McLeod.

Rachel frowned. “No. I had the concept, but not the means. The
Israelis are at least a generation ahead of us in nano-electronics. They
developed this capability for their fly drones, and then Kovonov used it to
perfect what I could only dream about. Even with these nanites in hand it would
take a team years to reverse engineer the technology, at minimum. Worst case,
it might never be possible.”

“How did Kovonov get them into my brain?” asked Quinn.

“A simple injection would do it. Once in the bloodstream they make
their way through the blood-brain barrier and take up residence.”

“But wouldn’t Kevin know he had been injected?” protested the
major.

“Maybe,” said Rachel. “There are some new techniques becoming
available that almost sneak injections through the skin. But even if Kovonov
used a painful horse needle, he could have programmed the particles to erase the
past few minutes of memory. Imagine Kevin is walking along and some stranger
plunges a syringe into his leg. But twenty seconds later he’s forgotten this
ever happened. The stranger, the pain, everything. Now billions of
nano-particles are swarming in his brain, awaiting instructions.”

Quinn shuddered. “Instructions like, ‘Lay down memories of a murder
that never happened?”’

“Yes. But memory erasure or implantation are only one set of possibilities,
” said Rachel. “There are many more, as we’ve discussed. Once these nanites are
resident in a brain, Kovonov can make a victim dependent on him. Addicted to
almost anything he chooses. Elated or depressed. Calm or filled with rage. Delusional.
Paranoid. Terrified. The sky’s the limit.”

“But how can he have such fine control?” asked Coffey.

“Technology can perform miracles,” replied Rachel. “We can sequence
billions of bases of DNA in hours, with no mistakes. If I wrote a million-page
book, a standard desktop computer could save it to a flash drive in less than a
second, and when I called it up again not a single letter on a single page
would be out of place or incorrect. I don’t want to get down into the weeds
technically, but the radio signals can instruct the smart dust to establish a
precise matrix, and to affect precise neurons. Much the same way a copy machine
or laser printer sets up an electrostatic matrix before printing.”

There were blank looks all around. Even Karen Black seemed not to
know what Rachel was talking about.

“Sorry,” said Rachel. “I forgot not everyone knows how laser
printers work. I studied this technology to get ideas for non-invasive Matrix
Learning techniques. Just to give a quick overview, the toner you put in your
printer is electrically charged powder that contains pigment. The powder is
composed of very fine particles. And the industry has found ways to keep
shrinking these particles over the years.”

“For better resolution?” asked Karen. “Or better quality?”

“Both,” said Rachel. “Today, toner particles average just under a
micron in diameter.”

“And a micron is . . . ?” prompted Coffey.

“A millionth of a meter,” said Rachel. “To put this in
perspective, there are over twenty-five thousand microns to an inch. A piece of
paper is about a hundred microns thick.”

“I knew it was microscopic,” said Coffey, “but this is helpful.
Thanks.”

“So let’s imagine you send a document to your laser printer,”
continued Rachel. “A document with a thousand letters typed in a tiny font. So
what happens next? Your computer sends detailed instructions to the drum of the
printer, basically calling for it to lay down a precise pattern of negative electrical
charges, exactly matching every letter in your document.”

She paused to let this sink in. “So your document has now been
copied to the drum, only with electric charge rather than ink. But then the
drum gets coated with toner. Since the toner is positively charged and the
pattern laid down on the drum is negatively charged, the toner clings to this
pattern. The toner on the drum is then transferred to a piece of paper rolling
through the printer, and is instantly fused to the paper by a pair of heated
rollers.” She paused. “Just like that, you have a precise copy of every last
letter.”

Quinn looked intrigued. “Sounds deceptively simple. Impressive
that anyone could get a system like that to work so perfectly and so quickly.”

“I agree,” said Rachel. “As I mentioned, one of my big ideas, which
Kovonov adopted, was to do something similar with neuronal dust. Think of the
nanites as neuronal toner. In this case, instead of setting up a complex
pattern using electric charge, you’d use something like radio waves. You could
lay down precise instructions for billions of particles at once, which could
then activate or block individual neurons.”

“So how would you zap a chemistry course into someone’s brain?”
said Quinn, and then frowning added, “or a false memory?”

“That’s where the weeds come in,” said Rachel. “The difference
between saying, ‘just charge the drum in the exact pattern made by a thousand
letters’ and actually pulling it off. But with enough knowledge, enough
cleverness, and enough computing power, these nanites make it possible. And with
enough sophistication under the hood, the user no longer has to care about how
his or her instructions are implemented.”

She paused, searching for a good analogy. “When I type a sentence
into the computer it magically appears on my screen. The technology that goes
into converting my key strokes to electricity that can alter the polarity of
liquid crystals inside my monitor—in
just the right way to display what I write—is extraordinarily complex. But once perfected this miracle is
taken for granted, never given a second thought—or even a first one.”

“So is the Israeli neurotech—Kovonov’s neurotech—at
that level?” asked McLeod.

“It would have to be,” said Rachel. “Otherwise it could never be
as effective as it’s been. Implementation would be impossibly unwieldy. I’m
sure it’s been perfected to a level where the user simply has to script out the
memories to be implanted, and a supercomputer crunches a universe of data and instructs
the nanites to lay down these tracks. The computing power to do this didn’t
exist in even the best supercomputers until about 2019, and now there are laptops that could do the job. Not in
wide use, but they exist. I have one. And you can bet Kovonov has one that is
much better even than mine. Because Israel’s Manhattan Project yielded a
technology that helped their scientists improve all other technologies.”

“If I have this right,” said McLeod, “Kovonov injects the nanites,
enters what he wants done into his laptop, and it calculates the precise
instructions necessary to manipulate minds to his specifications.”

“That is my guess, yes,” confirmed Rachel.

“And the radio source?” asked the major.

“He’d just have to tie his computer into a cell phone, possibly
one with an internal booster added.”

“And then convert it into a radio transmitter?” said Coffey.

“No conversion needed,” said Rachel. “A cell phone already is one. It’s basically a two-way radio:
a receiver and a transmitter. Put it in proximity to the neural dust you want
to control, link it to the laptop, and it should transmit radio signals more
than strong enough to do the trick, especially with an internal signal booster
added. For very simple instructions, you wouldn’t need the laptop. The computing
power resident in just the phone would be enough to direct the manipulation all
by itself.”

Rachel paused in thought. “Right now I’m guessing extensive
manipulation still requires a stationary, plugged-in system. So for Matrix
Learning, during which enormous amounts of knowledge are layered into the mind,
Kovonov would still need the MRI-like device and electronic implants. But a juiced-up
laptop and a phone, or even just a phone by itself, are capable of doing
smaller, less complex manipulations.”

“Like the memories implanted in Kevin?” said Coffey.

Rachel nodded. “In the work I’ve been doing over the past eighteen
months—largely
unpublished,” she added with a scowl, “I’ve made a strong case for using radio
waves for this very reason. Cell phones are indispensable, and untold billions
of dollars are being spent to improve them every year. I argued that by the
time the neural smart dust was perfected—in five or ten years I had thought—cell phones would have enough
computing power to implant even the most sophisticated and exhaustive Matrix Learning
programs all by themselves.”

“So instead of downloading a movie about World War II onto your
phone,” said Quinn, “you could use your phone to download the entire history of
this war into your brain?”

Rachel sighed. “Yes. This was the idea.”

There was a long silence in the room as everyone stopped to assimilate
all she had told them.

“Absolutely mind-blowing,” said Quinn.

“I’m not even sure that’s a powerful enough word to cover it,”
said Coffey. He paused for several seconds in thought and then blew out a long
breath. “So what now?”

“I’d like to see if I can learn how to use this system myself,”
said Rachel. “At least at a rudimentary level.”

“Didn’t you say that even reverse engineering the nano-electronics
would be all but impossible?” said Coffey.

“I did. But that’s not what I meant. I didn’t say learn how to do this, just learn how to use it. I don’t have to know how to
construct a computer to be able to use one. Although it isn’t that simple in
this case. In this case, the computer is built, but I have to find a way to
create a keyboard from scratch. An interface that will allow me to access the
guts of what someone else provided.”

“Why do I have a sinking feeling that I’m the computer in this
analogy?” said Quinn uneasily.

Rachel laughed. “If you could find others who have these
nano-particles implanted in their brain, I’d love to work with them. At the
moment, though, you’re the only game in town.”

“Will you need more of my brain cells?” asked Quinn.

“No. I’ll be trying to crack the code Kovonov is using to control
the dust. I’ll have to try thousands of different radio frequencies and
instruction sets, different algorithms, and all of my intuition. If I can
implant a single false memory in your mind, even of a single word—which might
take a day, or might take a lifetime—this would begin to open the floodgates. Although
at best my abilities to use his tech to manipulate you will pale in comparison
to his.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing or a good thing,” said Quinn
with a shudder. “I’d prefer women to manipulate me the old-fashioned way.”

Rachel laughed. “Then you might be in luck,” she said. “Because
there’s no certainty that I can do this.”

Her features hardened. “But it won’t be for lack of trying,” she
vowed.

“Even if you succeed,” said Coffey, “I’m not sure how much this
will do for our cause.”

“I’m not either,” said Rachel. “But at minimum, it will allow us
to detect who has these nanites implanted. Right now they are much too small to
be detectible by sensors. And we don’t want to have to forcibly remove neurons
from the brains of anyone we suspect and then find the nearest electron
microscope. But if I could implant rudimentary memories, I could get victims to
reveal themselves.”

The major rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting idea,” he
said. “When can you begin?”

“The moment this meeting is over,” said Rachel eagerly.

53

Every major erogenous zone on Carmilla
Acosta’s body was on fire.

She hadn’t seen Dmitri Kovonov in
two agonizingly long weeks. But this was about to change. He would be here in
minutes. For the first time visiting her at her home.

Taking
her at her home.

Her husband, Miguel, had left on a
business trip two days earlier and wouldn’t return for another week.

She had prepared as usual, spending
hours at Victoria’s Secret until she found flimsy yet still flattering lingerie,
not a simple task for a world class scientist who spent far too much time at a
desk or a lab and not nearly enough time on a stationary bike. After this she had
scrubbed her house clean from top to bottom, being sure to hide any photographs
in which her husband appeared, whether with her or alone.

She would expunge his image from
her home, and days later she would expunge the man himself from her life.

Carmilla and Miguel lived in a small
red brick home nestled between a smattering of other residences, twenty miles
from Princeton University, mostly surrounded by the farmland that had persisted
stubbornly in the area for over a century. Each day on her way to work she passed
black-and-white splotched Holstein dairy cattle, along with their more
unfortunate relations, the Black Angus variety. This breed would ultimately be
required to give more of themselves than simply milk, but farms had recently
begun to reduce their numbers as genetic engineers got closer and closer to
growing steak in the lab that was indistinguishable from the real thing.

She missed Dmitri so much it hurt, and
his line of work meant he was out of touch for long periods, which had become
intolerable.

But now that he was returning to
her at last, she would never let him go for this long again. She wouldn’t wait
another day to start divorce proceedings, to do whatever it took to have Dmitri
in her daily life. The divorce was long overdue. She couldn’t take any more of
these absences. They affected her, not just psychologically, but physically.

But now that Dmitri was on his way
this was shaping up to be one of the best days of her life. Just an hour
earlier she had learned that she was clean as a whistle genetically. No ticking
time bombs in her DNA.

And she couldn’t imagine Dmitri’s
genes could be anything less than perfect, although it didn’t hurt to find out
for sure. To be confident that they would live happily into their eighties and
nineties and even beyond.

The scientist in her might have
known that the romantic phase of love didn’t last more than a few years, but this
voice was drowned out by the lovestruck woman inside who refused to even
consider the possibility that she and Dmitri wouldn’t be blissfully happy forever.
No two people were ever more perfect for each other. True soul mates.

A week earlier she had plucked a
hair from her head, affixed it to a piece of Scotch tape, and mailed it to GeneScreen
Associates, a company specializing in whole genome sequencing and analysis. And
just last night a representative of the company had left a message for her,
letting her know the results were ready and giving her a number to call to have
them explained by a trained consultant. She had memorized the simple number, 1-800-DNA-TEST,
erased the message, and called back just an hour earlier, more nervous than she
cared to admit.

But her nerves were unwarranted. The
results had been spectacular. The
consultant had told her it was rare to see a genome this clear of genes known
to be potentially troubling down the road, that Carmilla had truly been blessed
genetically.

Everything seemed to be going her
way. Maybe after she and Dmitri made love, she should go out and buy a lottery
ticket. It was that kind of day.

Just as this thought was crossing
her mind there was a knock at the door. She checked to be sure it was Dmitri
and then threw it open, wrapping herself around him in greeting. He pushed her
away sooner than usual and picked up a brown, soft leather briefcase he had set
down, bringing it inside.

Carmilla sensed something wrong in
his demeanor but decided she was being overly sensitive. She took him by the
hand and led him directly to her bedroom, disappointed that he brought the
briefcase along in tow.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, her words filled
with aching emotion.

The man of her dreams simply nodded
in return.

“What have you been up to?” she asked.

He looked almost put off by the
question, as though she were invading his privacy. “Right after I saw you last I
spent a few days in the woods,” he replied finally. “At sort of a  . . . company retreat. What I’ve been doing
since would just bore you.”

Something wasn’t right, she
decided, more certain than ever. Everything
wasn’t right.

“Guess what?” she said, nervously
attempting to engage him in further conversation as her unease continued to
grow. “I just spoke to someone at GeneScreen Associates. They did a genome
analysis on me. Turns out the results couldn’t have been better.”

Again, Dmitri seemed not to care in
the least. How could he not be excited for her? Excited for them? Had he told her the same she would
have been thrilled.

“Why did you use a company to get
your genome sequenced?” was all he said in response. “No one in the world has
better tools to sequence DNA than you do.”

She had asked herself this same
question, wondering if this had been foolhardy. And it probably was. But love
prompted people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do, like shop at
Victoria’s Secret for lingerie, which before Dmitri came into her life she
hadn’t done in over a decade.

“True,” she agreed, “but I’m busy
and this is very inexpensive. So I thought, why not? You’ve made me so happy, Dmitri,
I wanted the chance to clear away any genetic landmines that might be in my
future. Our future. Besides,” she
added, “scientists are identifying so many genes linked to rare diseases that
even I can’t keep up. So better to leave the analysis to specialists.”

He shrugged, not really interested
in her rationale. She had brought this up thinking she could convince him to
get tested as well, just in case, but sensed that now was not the time for this
discussion.

“No more conversation,” he
insisted, pushing her down on the bed and proceeding to force himself on her in
ways that he had never done before. He had always been a fiery lover, but
gentle and attentive at the same time, as interested in her needs as his own.

This time it was all about him. And
he was savage, not caring how aggressive he became or even if he was hurting
her.

The act seemed to Carmilla to be
closer to rape than to lovemaking.

Still, she loved him enough to
understand that moods could vary, needs
could vary. He deserved to think only of himself on occasion. And there was
nothing she wouldn’t do for this man.

Seconds after his climax, he rolled
away from her and started dressing.

Carmilla’s heart raced and she
began to panic. Was he leaving? It was as if he was treating her like a whore. Like
he was about to leave money on the dresser and go. A wild look came to her eyes.

“Bear with me, Carmilla,” he said, sensing
her reaction. “I just have some pressing work I need to do. Don’t go anywhere.”

That had to be it, thought
Carmilla. He was stressed out. He had work that couldn’t wait.

He pulled a hard clamshell case
from his bag and removed a laptop from it, unlike any model she had ever seen.
It was constructed out of blue stainless steel and looked like something a
futuristic alien might use. Without giving her another glance he attached his
cell phone to the computer with a thin cord. Wi-Fi had advanced so much lately
she couldn’t imagine what application required his phone and computer to be
tethered together in this way.

His fingers flew over the holographic
touch screen for several minutes as if she wasn’t there.

As he worked she became more and
more anxious, more and more depressed. What had been euphoria prior to his
arrival had turned entirely to despair. She tried to fight through it, to
retain perspective, but she found it impossible to do.

So he was out of sorts. It
happened. But she had a feeling of dread like she’d never experienced, totally
disproportionate to what she knew her reaction should be. She felt as if her life was spinning out of control.

Five minutes later Dmitri unhooked
his phone and returned his computer to its hard protective shell. He stood up
from the bed and turned to face her still-naked form. But instead of the love
she had come to expect, his face held nothing but contempt.

“Carmilla, it’s been fun,” he said dismissively.
“But I’m afraid we’re through. If I have to spend another minute with you, I
swear I’ll slit my wrists.”

Carmilla whitened, almost matching
the sheets on her bed. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, stunned by not just
his words but his venomous tone. “Dmitri? What’s going on?”

“How can I be any clearer?” he
snapped. “This is over! We’re over.
Are you getting it now? I came here to end things. But I thought I’d fuck you
one last time. You know, as a going away present.”

Tears began streaming down her
face. Was this really happening? How
could it be happening?

“Stop sobbing you fucking bitch!”
he demanded cruelly. “You don’t think I ever really cared about you? I was
using you for sex. Anything positive I ever said to you was a lie. My job
doesn’t take me out of touch, I just never wanted to deal with you unless I was
screwing your brains out at the time.”

Carmilla’s face was now a rictus of
horror, a ruddy pool of makeup and tears as she continued to take body blows
from the man she loved and worshiped.

“While I’ve been screwing you,” he
continued, “I’ve been screwing a dozen others, in a dozen different towns.”

The walls of Carmilla’s world were
now crashing down upon her, battering her psyche into a bruised and bloody mass
of raw, open flesh.

“Why would you hurt me like this?”
she whispered through her tears.

“Because you’re useless. And this has just been a game.
To get you to fall in love with me. Thank you for playing, but the game is now
over.” He glared at her. “And you lost, bitch! If you ever try to contact me
again, I’ll issue a restraining order. Got it?”

Without saying another word, Dmitri
Kovonov stormed from the room and out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Unable to move from the bed, Dr. Carmilla
Acosta continued sobbing, drawing in on herself in an involuntary attempt to
shrink into a fetal position, shattered in every way.

54

Dmitri Kovonov pulled away from the
brick house in a black Ford sedan, rented under the name Randy Bork. This was
the last time he planned to ever be in Princeton, and it wasn’t lost on him
that he was less than twenty miles away from where that despised Secret Service
agent, Kevin Quinn, had failed to terminate a president who had doubled down on
a twisted and dangerous US policy of sucking up to enemies and alienating allies.

Kovonov pushed this failure from
his mind as Carmilla Acosta’s home receded in his mirror.

His visit couldn’t have gone
better. Surprisingly—although
he shouldn’t be surprised by this sort of thing anymore—he had found himself enjoying every minute.

For most of his life it had been
sheer agony to break up with a woman. He would stay with them and suffer for
months before he finally could take no more, and then he would blame himself
and apologize to them over and over, twisting himself into a pretzel to soften
the blow. Even so, the guilt he felt at having to lower the boom, no matter how
gently, would stay with him for weeks.

Not this time. He was a new man, a
better man.

And this time his goal hadn’t been
to soften the blow, but to do just the opposite—to generate maximum anguish—and he doubted he could have done this any better. Instead
of wiping his existence from Carmilla’s memory to protect himself, or having
her killed, he had decided to try an experiment. To see if he had such a
stranglehold on her psyche that he could push her into a state of despair and suffering
that only suicide could remedy.

What a test this would be of his neurotech
capabilities. Could he take a brilliant, well-adjusted scientist, a woman who was
the personification of level-headedness and rationality, self-confident and
self-possessed, and send her into a tailspin from which she would never
recover?

Losing the object of one’s
obsession during early stages of romantic love was already debilitating, more jarring
psychologically than a cold turkey cessation of heroin was physically. But when
the love of one’s life ended things in such a cruel and brutal fashion, the
effects on the brain were even more devastating.

Even so, Kovonov hadn’t left it at
that. He had directed the nanites to trigger high enough levels of depression
and despair within her brain to cause a squad of cheerleaders to commit suicide. He would be astonished if this
didn’t work.

Not that there still wasn’t a chance
of failure. It was an experiment, not a certainty. And he had been shocked and disappointed
that his tampering with Mizrahi’s brain hadn’t had the effect he was after. He
had turned the man into a loyal slave, but it was apparent that certain moral
principles could trump loyalty and devotion in some cases, despite what the
results of the Stanley Milgram experiment would suggest.

If he was wrong and Carmilla hadn’t
ended her life in two days, he would come back and remove all traces of himself
from her memory.

He had been driving for an hour when
a call came in. He hit, accept as virtual
presence, on his dashboard and a virtual image of Yosef Mizrahi materialized
in the passenger’s seat beside him, although he was actually in a hotel room on
the east side of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where Kovonov had left him.

“Hello, Dmitri,” said Mizrahi in
Hebrew, “I have to say, you look content.”

Mizrahi had quickly returned to
being an adoring and slavish follower once the memories of Kovonov’s disclosure
in the Cockaponset cabin and his execution of Daniel Eisen had been expunged.

“I am. My errand went well.”

“How long until you arrive?”

“I’m almost to Philadelphia now,”
said Kovonov. “Say another few hours.”

“Great. I’ve found another property
I want you to see. I think you’ll like it.”

Kovonov nodded. They had spent
almost four days familiarizing themselves with the deep woods and farmlands of
Pennsylvania, looking for a cabin or farmhouse for sale that fit Kovonov’s
needs.

It was annoying not to be able to
share and discuss his true plans with Mizrahi, but Kovonov had learned his
lesson. Mizrahi would follow all orders well and blindly, and wouldn’t ask
questions, but rubbing his nose in what he was planning was a mistake.

He had explained that they were
looking for a place to lie low, to hunker down for a few days to a few months.
Somewhere in a cabin deep in the woods, or a farmhouse, surrounded on multiple
sides by woods. A place that surveillance could ensure could not be surprised,
where food could be stockpiled so they could keep to themselves until they were
ready to return to their home base in Switzerland.

When Mizrahi had asked why they
weren’t ready to return now, Kovonov had simply said that they had more work to
do, and reminded him that he was now being hunted by the US military and
couldn’t risk international travel. Being captured now would ruin everything.

What he didn’t tell him was that
once his plan had succeeded, and commercial flights had resumed, he would
become such a low priority he could walk through an international terminal on fire
and not get any notice.

“Farmhouse or cabin?” asked
Kovonov.

“Farmhouse.”

“Let’s plan to visit it right after
I arrive. You can tell me why you like it so much when I get there.”

There were six properties within a
hundred-mile radius of Lancaster, Pennsylvania—Amish country—that had made
their short list, and they had nine more they still wanted to inspect. Given
that they had plenty of time, at least until they found the terrorist Kovonov
was after, it paid not to leave anything to chance.

“I have more good news,” said
Mizrahi enthusiastically. “I think I’ve found the guy you’ve been looking for.”

Kovonov stopped at a red light and
turned to study his virtual subordinate. He had also tasked Mizrahi with
monitoring the various fly drones still in operation at sensitive intelligence
facilities within the US, continuing the hunt for the man he needed. A number of
their precious drones had been found and destroyed, but he had changed the
settings on the rest, and many of these had yet to be discovered.

“Tell me about him,” said Kovonov.

“I don’t have perfect information. He’s
a high-ranking lieutenant with ISIS. Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy. Don’t know what he was planning in the US, or how
he was captured. But I do know he’s been taken to a secret detention center in Knoxville,
Tennessee, which has been disguised as a civilian facility.”

Kovonov raised his eyebrows. Tennessee
was the last place he would expect to house a secret detention facility, which
is probably why it did.

“Knoxville?” he said. “Is that one
of Tennessee’s major cities, or in the middle of nowhere?”

“Both,” replied Mizrahi with a
smile. “Population of about two hundred thousand. Near the Great Smokey
Mountains.”

Kovonov shook his head. “That
doesn’t help,” he said. He now possessed fifteen PhDs worth of knowledge and
expertise, but US geography hadn’t been on the menu.

“It’s in the northeast corner of
the state. Just to the west of North Carolina.”

This still didn’t help him, but he
would go online and come up to speed the way Mizrahi had obviously done. “Tell
me about this detention facility,” said Kovonov.

“It’s being run, temporarily, by a PsyOps
lieutenant colonel named Stephen Hansen, an expert interrogator. He’s been
assigned to squeeze intel out of al-Bilawy, but he has a three-day leash. After
that al-Bilawy will be transferred to a Black site out of the country for further
handling.”

“Perfect!” said Kovonov.

Mizrahi beamed, a dog whose master
had patted its head.

Kovonov couldn’t believe how well
everything was coming together, and how quickly. He had gone from having all
the time in the world to having no time at all. Now he had to squeeze a week’s
worth of activities into a few days.

First, he would make a final
decision on a property and acquire it. Then he would finalize the hiring of numerous
mercenaries he would soon need as security and extra muscle. And this was only
the beginning.

“Great work, Yosef. But given this
discovery, I need to change plans. Leave me the info on this property you’ve
identified and I’ll check it out myself. I want you to leave now and get your
ass to Tennessee. Learn everything you can about Colonel Hansen and this
detention facility, starting with a search through Mossad databases.”

Kovonov had copied almost the
entirety of Mossad’s electronic files before he had left for Switzerland, and someone
like Hansen rated his own dossier if anyone did. Wortzman had once boasted that
the fly drone and hack-ware programs at the Mossad were so good they had better
files on American agents than did the Americans themselves.

“I want Hansen’s background,
habits, tendencies, whatever you can find. And why he’s with PsyOps and not
their High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group. Since it’s not a military base
he probably mingles in the community as a civilian when he isn’t on duty. Find
him. Follow him. Study him. I want to know how the facility is set up, how
prisoners are transferred, the chain of command, security—everything.”

“I won’t disappoint you, Dmitri,”
said Mizrahi.

You
already have! he thought bitterly. You
just don’t remember. “I know you won’t, Yosef,” he said aloud. “I’ll join
you in, ah . . . Knoxville, as soon as I can. Probably before noon tomorrow.”

As soon as the call ended, Kovonov
dialed up a covert communications expert he had identified weeks before. A
freelancer whose work was as good as his price was high. He would have him go
to Knoxville immediately and purchase a home within a two-hour drive of the
city, on the secluded and defensible side if possible. But given that the man would
need to complete the transaction within a day or two, Kovonov couldn’t afford
to be choosy.

Then this freelancer would work his
magic on the site, setting up phone and video lines in such a way that they
would remain untraceable, thwarting even the most sophisticated military technology.

Kovonov felt electrified. He was in
the home stretch now.

He had been painstakingly twisting
and turning the faces of a Rubik’s cube this way and that since he had fled
Israel. But in less than a week, perhaps much less, all of the faces would have
uniform colors, the complex cube finally aligned to perfection, finally solved.

55

Carmilla sobbed for almost three
hours until she couldn’t sob any longer. She struggled to think clearly but
couldn’t push out the overwhelming despair that engulfed her like a Dementor
from a Harry Potter movie, draining her of all hope, happiness, and will to
live.

She told herself she was one of the
most accomplished scientists in the world, destined for a Nobel Prize. But this
didn’t help. She felt worthless, suffering wounds so deep they were beyond
healing, disillusionment the only possible reprieve.

But why was the chilling touch of
the Dementor so effective? Dmitri had revealed himself to be a monster. She had
done nothing to bring this on herself. He had used her like a dishrag and
disposed of her with utter malice. Wasn’t she better off that she had learned
his true nature? Hadn’t she dodged a bullet? Didn’t she still have everything to live for?

But somehow the answer to these
questions was no. Hope had been
drained from her, and along with it, all interest in life. She had to end it
all. It was the only way.

A memory of a train ride she had
taken with her parents as a little girl found its way into her consciousness.
They had been headed to New York, a city she had never visited before. Halfway
there the train had stopped on the tracks for seemingly no reason. After
fifteen minutes the conductor had finally come on the loudspeaker, explaining
they would soon be on their way and asking passengers not to look out of the
windows on the left side of the train.

Carmilla had been astonished by how
quickly every passenger on the train stampeded to the left side to do exactly what
they had been told not to do. It was a wonder the train didn’t capsize.

Carmilla had learned two important
lessons about human nature that day. The first was that curiosity was
overwhelmingly powerful, and by leaving his instructions vague, by creating an
unanswered mystery, the conductor had guaranteed a response that was the exact
opposite of what he was trying to achieve.

When Carmilla had looked out her
window, she had learned the second lesson. That suicide happened. That
sometimes human beings could lose so much hope, could so drown in despair, they
would put themselves in the path of a moving train.

Out of her window she had seen
police cars and an ambulance, and a gurney on which pieces of bloodied roadkill
were being assembled, only the shape of a pulverized head indicating that this
mass of flesh had once been a human.

The enormous power of the train
would not be denied. The rare man could survive a fall from a great height, a
gunshot wound to the head, or a stomach full of pills.

But no one who had picked a fight
with a train had ever lived to tell about it.

Carmilla’s thoughts returned to the
present and she asked the AI program on her phone for the most lightly traveled
road in the area with a railroad crossing, and the next train scheduled to
traverse it.

Her phone indicated that the train she
was after would arrive in thirty-five minutes, and she could make it in twenty.
She waited ten minutes and then shuffled to the garage like a zombie, hopeful
for the first time as she imagined the release that suicide would finally give
her.

She drove to the indicated intersection,
an access road through farmland, and noted that no one else was in sight. She
heard the faint sound of the train off in the distance, and decided she didn’t
have the strength to face it by herself the way the man in her youth had done.
She could only bring herself to do so inside the illusory protection of a steel
cocoon.

But this was an acceptable
alternative, she knew, as recent advances had come about that prevented
derailments except in the most extreme of circumstances.

She allowed herself to be
mesmerized by the steel behemoth racing along the tracks, bellowing louder and
louder as it approached. Finally, even though the train was still twenty
seconds away, she pulled across the main track and cut the engine. She knew
that at this point the millions of pounds of steel hurtling toward her could
not be stopped in time, even if she were spotted immediately,

She closed her eyes tightly. It
would be over soon.

The train had become so loud it
seemed to be charging through her head, and this was now mixed with an
ear-shattering screech of metal on metal as the conductor braked in a futile
effort to avoid a collision.

She braced herself for impact.

Her car was slammed into with bone-jarring
force.

But this had come almost ten
seconds too soon. And from an entirely unexpected direction.

Instead of the train goring the
side of her car, lifting it with its horns and sending it flying,  she had been rammed from behind.

Her car lurched forward from the
impact and her head slammed into the side window with a loud crack, missing the
now-deployed air bag entirely.

In her last instant of
consciousness her mind held only curiosity.

What would death be like?

And why would someone try to kill
her seconds before she managed to kill herself?

56

Kovonov made it to Knoxville by noon the next day,
pleased with the progress he had made on any number of important fronts. The
city turned out to be quite appealing, with modern architecture, lush
green areas throughout, and the Tennessee River, which sliced through downtown,
complete with four different vehicle bridges that crossed the river at
different points.

He joined Mizrahi on a park bench in direct line of sight
to the secret interrogation facility, designed to look like a small
manufacturing site, with its own loading dock where prisoners were no doubt
dropped off and picked up in industrial trucks designed for this purpose.

Mizrahi wasted no time beginning his briefing. He
explained that he had, indeed, found a file on a lieutenant colonel
named Stephen Hansen, complete with his habits, where he fit in the chain of
command, as well as information about the off-the-books interrogation facility.

Hansen was a rising star within
PsyOps and had a record of achieving better interrogation results than anyone
else, including the High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group, or HIG. This group
had been created by a Barack Obama executive order in 2009, which was seconded by
Congress in 2015. It was a small interagency group tasked with secret
interrogations using methods based on the latest psychological research. While
it was under the auspices of the FBI, it drew on elite interrogators from the bureau,
Defense Department, CIA, and other agencies.

According to Mossad analysis,
though, certain intelligence shops preferred to keep their top people to
themselves, sending along second-tier interrogators to join the HIG. Once
again, human nature had corrupted what would have otherwise been a highly
effective organization.

Hansen’s record spoke for itself,
and Mizrahi conjectured that the powers that be were well aware that he was the
man to go to with the highest value prisoners. A high-level official had almost
certainly arranged for Hansen to get the first crack at this prisoner, behind
HIG’s back, and this latter group wouldn’t be brought into the loop until Hansen’s
allotted time had expired.

“Hansen reports to a full bird colonel,”
said Mizrahi. He quickly consulted his phone. “By the name of Jeffrey
Siperstein.”

“And Siperstein’s superior?” said
Kovonov.

“The head of PsyOps. General Angela
Reader.”

Kovonov nodded. “Go on.”

“The file suggests Hansen’s major
weakness is an addiction to Starbucks. Prefers the Iced Caramel Macchiato.
Tends to drink at least one a day, two or more if he can manage it.”

“Did he have one this morning?”

Mizrahi nodded. “He did. And as
luck would have it,” he added, brightening, “there is a Starbucks within a half
mile of the interrogation facility.”

Kovonov rolled his eyes. “I’m
pretty sure there’s a Starbucks within a half mile of every location in this
country. But why is that lucky?”

“Because he can indulge his craving
easily. He can take a twenty-minute coffee break anytime he wants.”

“I see. So you expect him to get
another of these iced drinks later today.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s
why we’re here. Think of this not only as a briefing, but also a stakeout.”

Kovonov was clearly pleased. “Excellent
work, Yosef,” he said. “I have plenty of work to do on my computer anyway. So I
think I’ll go ahead and get myself a coffee and settle in. If he does show up
to get his fix, we’ll be ready for him.”

57

Colonel Stephen Hansen neared the
entrance to Starbucks in a foul mood. He needed this pick-me-up more than
usual.

He had used all the tricks he knew
of and was getting nowhere. Haji Ahmad
al-Bilawy was smart and tough, and Hansen could tell already that
success was unlikely. He would complain to Siperstein that he had only been
given three days, not nearly enough time, but the truth was he doubted if he
could get anywhere with al-Bilawy if he had three years.

He hated his job with a passion but
couldn’t bring himself to battle for reassignment. First, he was very good at what
he did, which was a curse. The more competent you were, the more work you got.
And he knew what he was doing was critically important. So he had found a way
to suck it up for the past two years and travel to sites like this one when the
need arose.

But very soon this would change. At
minimum he would insist he be assigned to training others how to extract information from these rabid extremists. He
couldn’t take it anymore. And by training others, extending his reach, he was
arguably doing an even greater service to his country.

The Starbucks store was a hive of
activity, having become as much a social destination in the area as a retailer.
Hansen was reaching for the door, calculating how quickly he could expect the
line inside to move, when a tall stranger crashed into him from the side, as
though Hansen had been in his path but temporarily invisible.

Both men grunted from the shock and
physical impact of the collision. The incoming human battering ram, who had
been walking briskly with his eyes glued to a phone, had jet-black hair and moved
like an elite athlete.

“Sorry,” he said in an accent
Hansen couldn’t quite place after both had recovered their composure.

Hansen’s hand shot up to inspect his
own neck as if it had a mind of his own. Had he been stabbed?

If he were anyone else he wouldn’t
have even noticed it, given the distraction of the man plowing into him like a
football lineman, but he was one of the few people to have experience taking
injections using a microneedle array. This was fairly new injection technology
that used hundreds of nearly microscopic needles, each filled with drug, so
small that they penetrated the skin too shallowly to trigger a pain response.

His neck had felt a tingling
sensation for just a moment. Not pain, but something that reminded him of how
he felt after previous injections with a microneedle array.

“Hold on!” he said immediately to
the man who had slammed into him before he could move on, reaching out and seizing
his arm. “Don’t move!”

Something wasn’t right. Hansen was
sure of it. And until he got to the bottom of it this man wasn’t going
anywhere.

He checked to be sure he hadn’t
been pick-pocketed. A purposeful collision was a classic technique for
separating a mark from his watch or wallet, but Hansen confirmed that both were
still in place.

The man waited patiently, not
seeming to take affront at having his arm held and in no hurry to leave the
crime scene, if that’s what this was. And he didn’t ask why Hansen was delaying
him, which he should have done no matter what, guilty or innocent.

As Hansen was considering this
strange behavior he lost his train of thought. In fact, he lost all trains of
thought, almost as if he had blacked out for a fraction of a second. He blinked
rapidly in confusion and disorientation. For a moment he wasn’t even sure how
he had come to be just outside the Starbucks door.

A blank look spread across his face.
He felt certain he had been considering something important, but whatever that might
have been refused to come to him. He shook his head to clear it, realizing he
was holding on to someone’s arm.

“Thanks,” said the arm’s owner. “If
you hadn’t caught me, I might have done a faceplant on the concrete.”

Hansen immediately released the
arm, as confused as he had ever been. He must have caught this guy out of
instinct, because he couldn’t remember the stranger stumbling or beginning to
fall, or that he had reached out to prevent this from happening. Hansen had
been lost in thought before, but never this
lost.

“Glad I could help,” mumbled the
PsyOps colonel, and then shaking off the entire strange experience, entered the
shop.

He ordered his usual caffeine delivery
system and sat at one of eight outdoor tables to enjoy it before getting back
to his duties. A man three tables down was working on the most futuristic-looking
laptop he had ever seen, connected to his phone. Hansen tried to catch his eye
to ask him what kind it was, but the man seemed to be in a fugue state, utterly
focused on whatever work he was doing.

After five minutes the man finished
and left, never glancing back.

Hansen, still sipping at his
coffee, turned his thoughts to Haji Ahmad
al-Bilawy. Was there an angle he had failed to consider? One that could
somehow create even the tiniest of cracks in the terrorist’s dike?

Hansen shook his head vigorously as
he realized he was due at Volunteer Landing Park at five thirty to meet with a
mysterious Black Ops operative. How had this slipped his mind for even a
moment? Wow, forgetting the only order he had ever been given personally by the
head of PsyOps would have been career limiting. This should have been the only thing he was considering.

But it had suddenly all come back
to him. General Angela Reader herself had called him earlier in the day. The
head of PsyOps had bypassed the chain of command, purposely as it turned out,
not wanting anyone in the loop, including Colonel Siperstein.

Now that this had become top of
mind again, he remembered the exact words of the conversation with unusual
clarity.

“I’ve never contacted you before,
Colonel Hansen, as you know,” she had said, “so take this as a measure of the
importance of this communication.”

“What can I do for you, General?”
he had responded.

“To be honest, I’m not even sure. I hate to be so cloak-and-daggerish, but I need
you to meet with a man who goes by the alias of Darryl Dorton. A high-ranking
Black Ops operative. Be at Volunteer Landing park at five thirty. I assume you
know the place?”

“I do.”

“Good. Appear to be enjoying the
park and before too long this Dorton will approach you and introduce himself.
After that the first thing he will say is that I sent him. Provided that he
does this and then gives you his alias, I need you to follow his orders as if
they were my own—whatever they are.”

“And you have no idea what these orders
might be?”

General Reader had smiled. “I have
an idea, but not a certainty. I think some other hotshot within a Black Ops research
group has come up with a superior interrogation method, and wants a crack at
al-Bilawy before HIG gets its hands on him. But whatever he wants, do it, and
tell no one of this. Not of my call, the meeting in the park, or Dorton’s orders.
And I mean no one. Even Colonel Siperstein. Understood?”

“Understood, General,” he had said
as the call ended. “You could not have made this any clearer.”

58

Consciousness slowly returned to Carmilla Acosta along
with her memory.

She was alive, she realized. Lying on her back on
something soft, her eyes closed.

How could this be?

She still felt devastated by the loss of what she had
been certain was the love of her life, but the effect wasn’t quite as
suffocating as before, perhaps because she felt so weak. Confusion and
disorientation had replaced some of the anguish that continued to torture her.

She opened her eyes and waited as they adjusted to the
light.

She was in what looked like a makeshift hospital room,
with an infusion pump on a pole beside her bed, the plastic tubing of an IV line
snaking into her arm and held in place with tape, and bandages wrapped around
her head. She was vaguely aware of an assortment of other cuts and bruises
along her entire body, but the pain was almost entirely muted, meaning the IV must
be delivering a potent opioid.

And her hands had been strapped to poles running along
the bed. Was she now a prisoner?

“Thank God you’re awake,” said a petite young woman,
startling her. She had been seated about six feet from the bed, reading
something on a tablet, and must have realized Carmilla had awakened when she
had tried to free her hands, rattling the poles. “How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?” said Carmilla, ignoring the question.

“You know what, I’m going to get two people in here who
can answer all of your questions. All I can tell you is that you’re safe here,
and you’re going to be okay.”

The woman proceeded to text someone on her phone while
she watched Carmilla. “I’m not authorized to give you any information,” she
said when she had finished, “but I am trained as a nurse, so while we’re
waiting for this pair to arrive, I’d love to know how you’re doing.”

Carmilla looked into the woman’s eyes and saw genuine
concern. So she told her what she wanted to know. They discussed how she was
feeling and her level of pain while the nurse changed her bandages.

Ten minutes later a man and a woman entered and asked
the nurse to free Carmilla’s hands. Once this was done the nurse wished her
patient well and left the room.

“My name is Rachel Howard,” began the woman who had
just arrived. “I’m a neuroscience professor at Harvard.” She gestured to the
man beside her. “And this is an associate of mine, Kevin Quinn.”

“Okay . . . Rachel. I assume you know that my name is
Carmilla Acosta.”

“We do.”

“The nurse said that you would be able to answer my
questions.”

“That’s correct,” said the woman, one who was almost
surely pretending to be a Harvard professor, although her reasons for doing so were
entirely unclear.

“Then where am I? Why am I here? How am I still
alive?”

“I promise we’ll tell you everything,” said the woman,
Rachel. “But this will take a while. The situation is somewhat complicated. And
there is a lot you don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything,”
said the man named Quinn.

“We can tell you that you’ve been unconscious for over
fifteen hours,” said Rachel. “It was touch and go there for a while, but you’re
going to be fine. At least physically. How are you feeling emotionally?”

Carmilla suddenly understood why the young nurse
wouldn’t leave her until these two had arrived, and why her hands had been immobilized.
The nurse had been on suicide watch. For obvious reasons.

“I honestly have never felt more miserable,” she
replied. “The greatest sense of loss and despair I’ve ever experienced. But I
don’t think I’m suicidal anymore.”

Rachel blew out a relieved breath. “That’s  good to hear. We’ve given you pain killers, along
with a cocktail of antidepressants and other pharmacological agents I put together
that I thought might at least take the edge off.”

“At least tell me how I’m alive. How did I survive a
train collision?”

“Because you weren’t in one,” said Rachel. “Your
injuries are from a car collision. Kevin here had been following you. When your
intention became clear he closed the distance between the two of you and rammed
you off the tracks with his own car. You have him to thank for saving your
life.”

“Or to blame,” said Carmilla, not sure yet if she
meant this or not. “It all depends on your perspective.” She nodded toward
Quinn. “So how did you survive? I
take it your car replaced mine on the tracks.”

Quinn nodded grimly. “Pretty much. I survived because
I was eager to avoid the train. The
moment your car was clear of the tracks I dived out of my own. I had so much adrenaline
on board I might have been able to fly out. I made it clear in plenty of time,” he added wryly. “You
know, with as much as a second, maybe even two, to spare. I only wish someone
had caught it on video.”

“We’ll tell you the rest,” said Rachel, “but before we
do, we need to know everything about your experiences. First, do you recognize
this man?” she asked, manipulating her phone to project a 3-D image at
Carmilla’s eye level.

“Dmitri!”
she whispered, shrinking back.

Several tears began to slide down her face as though a
light switch had been thrown.

Her two visitors exchanged meaningful glances.

“Can you tell me where he is?” said Quinn gently,
trying to hide his eagerness.

“He was at my home three or four hours before you
rammed me on the tracks. I have no idea where he is now.”

“So you know that his first name is Dmitri,” noted
Quinn. “Do you know his last?”

“Carston.”

Quinn nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “His real last
name is Kovonov. Dmitri Kovonov.”

“Why would he lie to me about his name?”

“I need you to tell us everything you know about him,”
said Quinn, ignoring her question. “And every experience you’ve had with him—or at least think you’ve had.”

“Think I’ve
had? What is that supposed to mean?”

Quinn ignored her yet again. “Please. Dr. Acosta. You
can’t imagine how important this is. I promise everything will be made clear to
you. Very soon. Tell me about him.”

Why not? thought Carmilla. Who cared at this point?
She had kept her emotions bottled up for so long, afraid to tell anyone about Dmitri
because she was still married, and because she had promised him she wouldn’t
breathe a word to anyone.

So she told them. She detailed her entire two-year
association with Dmitri. No audience had ever been more attentive, or had hung
on her every word more completely. On occasion they exchanged knowing or
worried glances, but they didn’t interrupt.

She finished by sharing the brutal
manner in which Dmitri had ended things, how he had turned into such a monster that
she had become so distraught, so drained of hope, that killing herself had
become her only escape, shedding additional tears as she did so.

“Thank you,” said Rachel softly
when her story had ended.

Quinn nodded his thanks as well.

“I know that couldn’t have been
easy to tell,” said Rachel. She paused for several seconds. “And what I’m about
to tell you won’t be easy for you to hear. But you need to know who this Dmitri
Kovonov really is, and what he’s been up to.”

For the next thirty minutes, Rachel
Howard spun a tale that was beyond belief. A tale of Dmitri being an
accomplished neuroscientist who had perfecting Matrix Learning, who had used it
on himself and others, and who had then perverted it into a method of tampering
with minds by injecting victims with billions of nanites that took up residence
within their brains. A tale of a man who had gone insane, and who was now wanted
by multiple governments for crimes he had already committed and to prevent
those he was certain to commit in the future.

It was utterly preposterous. All of
it.

Except that it was also clear that
this Rachel was a brilliant scientist. Her answers to Carmilla’s questions
displayed a level of expertise that was staggering, that could not be faked,
especially since she had considerable knowledge of Carmilla’s own field. They
had also allowed her to Google Rachel
Howard on a tablet. Sure enough, the image of the woman speaking to her
came up on Harvard’s neuroscience faculty page along with articles in
scientific journals describing her as likely the most accomplished
neuroscientist of the age.

“So do you believe us?” said Rachel
when they had finished.

“I’m not sure,” said Carmilla
honestly. “I believe that you believe
it. But let’s say I do. What then? Are you suggesting that this Dmitri Komo . .
.”

“Kovonov.”

“Right. That this Dmitri Kovonov
implanted false memories in my mind?”

“I’m not suggesting it,” said
Rachel. “I’m stating it as a fact. For all but the last month of the time you
think you’ve known him, he was never even in America, let alone Princeton. So all
of your memories of him prior to this time must have been implanted, and quite
recently.”

Carmilla struggled to grasp what
Rachel was saying. How could this be so? Her memories of their meetings were
crystal clear. “I’ve loved this man for almost two years,” she said. “Now
you’re telling me I never even met
him until this month.” She shook her head. “It just can’t be true.”

“I know how you feel,” said Quinn
grimly. “I know better than anyone.”

For the next ten minutes he
described his own experiences. He told her how Dmitri had programmed his memory
so he would be desperate to kill the president. She had gasped when she
realized she did recognize his face. He was the Secret Service agent she had
seen on TV who had tried to kill Matthew Davinroy and who had later died in an
accident in a Cincinnati suburb called Finneytown.

When Quinn had finished describing
his ordeal and his own realization that his memories were not his own, Carmilla
was too stunned to speak. She broke eye contact and turned toward the IV tubing
in thought, as though mesmerized by the steady flow of fluid still entering her
arm. Both of her visitors waited patiently for her to come to grips with what
had happened to her.

“So what is real?” she said finally. “If he can do this, how can I know anything is real? How can I know I’m
actually having this conversation?”

“You can’t, I’m afraid,” said
Quinn. “As you probably know, Descartes wrestled with this same problem, before
anyone with Kovonov’s capabilities was around. He concluded the only thing one could be certain of was
one’s own existence.”

Carmilla nodded, but this was
something she hadn’t known. She was well-versed in all aspects of molecular
biology but remembered almost nothing from her philosophy class.

“But for the sake of your sanity,”
continued Quinn, “I’d encourage you to accept everything you experience or
remember as real. All except the memories you have of Kovonov that date back
prior to a month or so ago, which we’re certain never happened.”

Carmilla considered this as she gingerly
adjusted her position on the hospital bed.

Rachel gazed at her with palpable
concern. “You told us you were drawn to Dmitri at first because your husband
was unfaithful,” she said softly. “But I suspect this isn’t true. I suspect you
just have a memory of catching him with another woman. A false one. Think hard
about when this happened. How it
happened. Is there texture? Does any of it make sense in a broader framework?”

As Carmilla replayed these events
out in her mind and really focused on the logic, it all began to break down.
How could she have gone almost two years without ever confronting Miguel? There
were other memories she should have had, that should have arisen as she decided
what to do about his infidelity. But it was all a house of cards, a western
town built on the lot of a Hollywood studio. Seen from the front it fooled the
eye beautifully, but peek even a millimeter behind the facade and there was
nothing there at all.

She hadn’t been certain this was
really possible until this exercise. But now she was a true believer. Poor
Miguel. She had treated him so badly recently, and he had never deserved any of
it.

Quinn could tell she was now fully
on board. “Lack of texture is the key, isn’t it?” he said. “I was certain I had
a pregnant wife. Until I realized I didn’t have any memories of the wedding, of
the pregnancy—of anything. It’s a jarring realization.”

“Yes it is,” said Carmilla.

“So Kovonov manipulated your wiring
so you thought you were in love with him,” said Rachel. “Which means you were in love with him. Unfortunately,
you still are. He modified the connections in your brain, your memories, your
brain’s reward system. And he probably did actually sleep with you and interact
for real during the last month to bolster the artificial implanting.”

As horrified as Carmilla was by
this intellectually, the thought of sex with Dmitri began to arouse her against
her will.

“I can soften what he did to you
with drugs,” continued Rachel, “but I can’t reverse it. The brain is plastic
and reshapes itself. So even though the nanites trigger neuronal pathways
artificially, once they’ve been triggered they strengthen connections and build
new ones. And these can’t be so easily undone, although they will fade through
time and inattention. I’m also confident that as I get a better and better handle
on the technology I’ll find ways to at least weaken them. Hopefully, knowing
these feelings for Kovonov aren’t real can aid you in your recovery, along with
copious feel-better drugs. But I really don’t know.”

Carmilla sighed. None of this
helped as much as it should. The drugs were a godsend, but the knowledge of the
manipulation not as much. She still felt keen loss and despair. The man of her
dreams had shaped her unconscious in such a way that it refused to listen to
headquarters when it reported her love was a facade.

But she shouldn’t be surprised in
the least, she realized suddenly. How many men and women throughout history had
known intellectually that the object of their romantic love was wrong for them?
But the inner mind could be impervious to reason. It wanted what it wanted,
immune to rational thought.

“Once he decided he didn’t need you
anymore,” said Rachel, “he must have wanted to see if he could drive you to suicide.
There is no reason to end the relationship with such over-the-top cruelty
otherwise. He’s a scientist, so it’s no surprise that he wants to test the
limits of his new toy.”

“And it worked,” said Carmilla. “I
became suicidal just like he wanted. If not for Kevin I’d have succeeded.” Her
face twisted in confusion. “But how is it that Kevin was there? How did he know
about this? About me?”

“As you know, Kevin has been
injected with nanites also,” said Rachel. “So using him as a guinea pig, I’ve
been able to decipher how Kovonov is able to do what he does.”

“Most of it is based on her ideas
anyway,” pointed out Quinn.

“The important thing,” said Rachel,
“is that I was able to figure out how to usurp Kovonov’s nanites to implant
simple memories of my own choosing. It’s painstaking, rudimentary, and clumsy, but
with enough brute force work and Kevin to guide my efforts, I can manage it. An
analogy would be that Kovonov is using an elegant and sophisticated programming
language, while I’m entering ones and zeros by hand—with mittens on. And
blindfolded. I’m very limited in what I can do, and it takes orders of
magnitude longer to accomplish than it would for him.”

“Still quite an accomplishment,” said
Carmilla. “Congratulations.” Her eyes narrowed. “But how does this apply to
me?”

“As I said earlier,” replied Rachel,
“Kovonov programs these nanites using radio signals. I realized I could take
advantage of this to reach people he’s manipulating.”

“Her brilliance really knows no
bounds,” said Quinn, shaking his head in genuine awe.

“Take advantage how?” asked
Carmilla.

“Cell phones work on radio waves.
Cell towers are powerful radio broadcasters. I wondered if I could press them
into service to send out the instructions for a simple memory implantation. See
if I could get his victims to contact me.”

Using cell towers for this task was
quite inspired, but Carmilla still wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Unfortunately, because my ability
to use Kovonov’s system is still so clumsy,” continued Rachel in obvious
frustration, “I need to broadcast for an extended period. We could blanket the
entire country with a signal and find anyone in America that Kovonov has
manipulated, but that would require taking down the nation’s entire cell
network for about an hour. Well, not taking it down, just borrowing it for our
purposes. But the effect to cell phone owners would be the same. No service. Despite
our military and government connections, and the critical nature of what we’re
doing, we weren’t able to get permission for this.”

“Not surprising,” said Carmilla.

Rachel frowned. “It’s maddening,
but there isn’t anything we can do about it. Those with the keys to the system
won’t allow hundreds of millions of cell phones to be simultaneously turned
into paperweights, even if only temporarily. Not under any circumstances. We
were able to get permission—barely—to do this quadrant by quadrant. Disruptive
for an hour to cell phone users within the quadrant, but the overwhelming majority
of the nation’s system would still be effective.”

“How long will it take to sweep
across the entire nation?” asked Carmilla.

“At the rate we’re going, almost
three weeks. And that’s if our permission isn’t revoked, which could happen at
any time. Let me tell you, it’s taken some high-up, shadowy, powerful players
in Black Ops calling in favors to even make this happen.”

“We started with the Eastern
Seaboard,” explained Quinn. “We hit your neck of the woods yesterday morning.”

Carmilla shook her head. “I don’t
mean to seem slow, but I’m still not quite getting your strategy. What memory
did you try to implant?” she said.

“Not try to implant,” said Quinn
with a smile. “Succeed in implanting. You’re living proof—and I stress the word
living, since you wouldn’t be if it
had failed. The program Rachel devised and sent out causes anyone hosting
nanites to remember having sent a DNA sample to a company called GeneScreen Associates
for a full genome sequencing and analysis.”

Carmilla gasped. “Of course,” she
said, her eyes now as wide as half dollars. “That is brilliant. And it worked like magic. I remembered sending in a
sample. And you implanted a memory of a phone message stating that the results
were in and that I needed to call an 800 number to get my results. This was crystal
clear. I knew something was a little off about this. Sending out for a genome
analysis wasn’t something I would ever do. I was puzzled by it. But since I
remembered already having done it, I chalked it up to the effect that Dmitri
was having on me.”

“That’s the beauty of this ruse,”
said Rachel. “The conscious mind is expert at fooling itself. No matter how
strange an action seems, if you have a firm memory of having taken it, your
mind will invent a reason for why you did.”

Carmilla nodded. “In retrospect it
is remarkable that I didn’t question it more than I did.”

“We asked the Prep H guys to man the
800 number 24/7 in case anyone called,” said Rachel. “And gave them precise
instructions what to say if someone did.”

“Prep H guys?”

Rachel smiled. “Long story. Our
security team. Anyway, I can’t tell you how amazing it was when they told us
you had called. Even though I had tested it on Kevin, who now also falsely remembers
sending his DNA out for analysis, you were the ultimate confirmation that we
were on the right track.”

“But why be so indirect? Why didn’t
you implant memories directly into Dmitri’s mind instead of mine?”

“Couldn’t,” replied Rachel. “Only
works on those with nanites in their brains, and he doesn’t have any. He has
electronic implants, and his
neurons can only be manipulated if he’s plugged in, so to speak, to an
expensive MRI-like device. This system is much more of a hassle, but it’s far
more powerful. In hours, or even minutes, it can download a field of knowledge
into his mind that otherwise would have taken him many years to learn on his
own.”

Carmilla considered this for a
moment. “I see,” she said. “So you were just hoping that someone close to him did have these nanites onboard.”

Rachel nodded.

“And when I called with my name, the
man who answered asked for my address to verify that I was really me, since
genome information is private.”

“Exactly,” said Quinn. “But it
wouldn’t have mattered, even if you didn’t give an address. Calls to that 800
number are tracked using the most sophisticated methods known to the military. Even
if you had a phone that couldn’t be tracked, this wouldn’t be true anymore once
you actively connected to this number. At that point, the system is able to
trace back your location instantly. Unless you’re ultra advanced and run the
line through decoy systems and dummy routers.”

“The moment you got off the phone,” added
Rachel, “Kevin and two members of our security team took a helicopter to
Princeton, where they had cars waiting for them. The idea was to stake you out.
Learn if you were working with Kovonov. Ideally, we were hoping you could lead
us to him.”

“We had one member of our team
stake out your lab,” said Kevin, “and two of us were on your house. When you
left, I followed, and my colleague stayed behind to keep watch on your home.”

“But why did you go on this mission in the first place?” said Carmilla. “Weren’t
you Rachel’s only guinea pig? And wasn’t this potentially dangerous if I did
lead you to, um . . . Kovonov?”

Rachel grinned, immensely pleased
by this question. “Exactly!” she said. “Spoken like a true scientist and a
rational, thinking human being. I had no idea Kevin planned to be in on this.”

She turned to Quinn. “That was so
reckless—and stupid!” she added, unable to help herself, but Carmilla could
tell she had enormous affection for the man and this was out of concern rather
than malice. “How could you not realize that you’re indispensable? Or did you
think indispensable and expendable were the same thing?”

“We’ve been over this already,”
said Quinn. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”

“Well, at least now you have
another subject,” offered Carmilla.

“Thank you,” said Rachel. “This
will be helpful. But it only means that both of you are indispensable.”

“To get back to what I was saying,”
said Quinn, “I followed you, hoping you were driving to meet with Kovonov. I
hung back so you wouldn’t notice you had a tail. When I realized what you were
doing I barely had time to ram you off the tracks.”

“You took a huge risk for me,” said
Carmilla gratefully.

“As much as I’d like to appear
heroic, the truth is I wouldn’t have taken such a crazy risk for a stranger. I
did this only because you were a possible connection to Kovonov, our only lead,
and I wasn’t about to let you get turned into paste.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Carmilla. She
tilted her head in thought. “Have any other victims phoned your GeneScreen
hotline?”

“So far only you,” replied Rachel.
“Which brings us to the heart of the matter. Kovonov didn’t just do this to you
for kicks. He had to have chosen you because you’re one of the most
accomplished molecular biologists on the planet. So there’s something you left
out of your story. Namely, what did he want from you? You must have done
something for him that involved your expertise?”

Carmilla didn’t need to think about
this for even a moment. She sighed, embarrassed by how easily she had allowed
herself to be used. “I engineered a designer virus for him,” she said. “His
sister has epilepsy.”

She shook her head and frowned
deeply. “Well, the implanted memories I have tell me his sister has epilepsy. And
now that I think about it, his sister probably isn’t real either. I  constructed the virus to exact specifications
to help her. I thought I’d gotten the specs from his sister’s doctor, but they
must have come from him.”

“And what does this virus do?”
asked Quinn.

“It’s designed to attack
exquisitely precise regions of the brain. Regions I had thought the doctor
wanted knocked out because they were the epicenters of his sister’s seizures. I
was too blind with love to even question any of it.”

“What regions?” said Rachel.

“I don’t recall offhand. I know
they meant nothing to me.” She raised her eyebrows. “But I kept the
specifications, which have the targets listed. It would be a simple matter to
pull them from my cloud account.”

Rachel Howard could barely contain
herself. “Please do that,” she said. “Right away. Because I’m certain they’ll
mean something to me.”

Her lip curled up into a scowl.
“Let’s find out what this twisted bastard is up to.”

59

Volunteer Landing Park was situated
on the banks of the Tennessee River and offered visitors a picturesque stroll near
the tracks of the Three Rivers Rambler, a steam engine powered train that took
passengers on a lengthy journey along the Tennessee River to the Three Rivers
Trestle, where two other rivers joined to form the Tennessee.

Colonel Stephen Hansen arrived at
the park just before five thirty and sat on a bench near a busy playground.
Toddlers and grade-schoolers in brightly colored clothing were squealing in
delight as they splashed through several fountains and a man-made waterfall,
while their parents either assisted or looked on in amusement. A college-aged
woman wearing a white backpack squirted by on a unicycle, and Hansen shook his
head and smiled. As unlikely as this was, it was nothing compared to being
ordered by the head of PsyOps to meet with a Black Ops operative at this
ridiculous location.

The man he was to meet, going by
the name Darryl Dorton, had doubtlessly staked out his arrival and knew exactly
where he was, probably pissed off that he had parked himself on a bench rather
than wandering aimlessly through the park. Hansen wondered how long Dorton
would make him wait, either for silly cloak-and-dagger reasons or just because
he could.

Ten minutes later a man approached him
and sat down on the bench by his side. “Colonel Hansen,” he said by way of
greeting, “I’m Darryl Dorton. Angela Reader sent me.”

Hansen appraised him carefully. The
man’s pronunciation was a little off, like he was a foreign actor trying to put
on an American accent, but Hansen couldn’t quite place it. “You were at
Starbucks earlier today,” he said, having recognized him immediately. “Working
on a laptop. Why were you spying on me?”

Now the man’s futuristic laptop
made sense. It must be an advanced prototype only available to elite members of
the military.

“I assume the general made it clear
that this is my show, not yours, correct?” said Dorton, shooting him a look of
contempt.

Hansen frowned. “She did.”

“So my taste in coffee is not your concern.”

Hansen took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m
sure you had your reasons.” He paused. “So what can I do for you . . . Darryl?”

“As you’ve probably already guessed,
I want al-Bilawy. An off-the-books transfer. Can I assume you have prisoner
transport vehicles with commercial markings?”

Hansen nodded. “One at the moment.
A ten-foot moving truck with U-Haul markings. Indistinguishable from the actual
vehicles from the outside, but with untraceable plates. Reinforced body,
bulletproof windows, and four seats bolted in with secure restraints.”

“That will do fine,” said Dorton.
“You’ve done some excellent work, Colonel. But now it’s time to demonstrate
some . . . advanced interrogation techniques. I want you to secure al-Bilawy in
the transport and drive—alone, of course—to an unpaved road within Cherokee
National Forest. I’ll send you the GPS coordinates later this evening.”

“What timing do you have in mind?”

“I’ll meet you there at midnight,”
replied Dorton. He raised his eyebrows. “And pack a bag for up to a week, since
we’ll be working together for potentially this long.”

“So you can teach me these advanced
techniques?”

“That’s right. Leave al-Bilawy
unsedated. Note in the log that you have reason to suspect a security breach at
the Knoxville site and you’ll be taking the prisoner alone to an unspecified
location until you can investigate this suspicion further. Disable any means of
tracking the transport vehicle. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even General
Reader. She ordered you to follow my instructions, not to report the content of
these instructions back to her.”

“Understood,” said Hansen.

Dorton stood, pausing to watch a
mom scoop up a toddler who had been scurrying in their direction for reasons
that only the toddler understood. “I’ll see you at midnight, Colonel.”

“Roger that,” said Hansen,
wondering what Angela Reader had gotten him into.

60

The instant Rachel Howard learned the precise regions Kovonov
wanted targeted with his designer virus she knew what he had in mind. This time
Quinn called for a vid-meet, which Coffey’s duties delayed until eight at
night.

At the appointed time the participants seated themselves around
the glass table on the office side of Rachel’s extended quarters and waited for
a virtual Cris Coffey to join them.

For this call the Plum Island contingent had grown by one, and
Quinn knew he would have some explaining to do. He was in attendance along with
Rachel Howard, Roger McLeod, and Karen Black. But this time, Carmilla Acosta
had also joined the proceedings, wearing a soft blue bathrobe they had provided
to maximize her comfort since she had been stitched and bandaged in a number of
places.

When Coffey did beam into the proceedings his expression revealed
just what Quinn had expected it would: anger. “I see we have a newcomer,” said Coffey
immediately in clipped tones. “Quite a surprise,” he growled through clenched
teeth.

“This is Dr. Carmilla Acosta,” said Quinn, “the Princeton
molecular biologist—and
Dmitri Kovonov victim—we
told you about.”

“Yeah, the robe and the bandage on her forehead were big clues,”
said Coffey. “You do remember bringing me up to speed on her and the whole
train track thing, right?” he added.

“She’s here at my request,” said Quinn, holding his ground. “As a
passive observer rather than a participant for now. Not because we don’t value
her input, but she really should be resting in a hospital bed right now. We
made her promise not to tax herself.”

Coffey turned to face the newcomer. “I understand that you’ve been
helpful to our efforts,” he said, “and I thank you for that. I don’t mean to be
rude, and don’t take anything I say personally, but I’m going to need to
discuss this situation with Kevin as though you aren’t in the room.”

He turned and stared sharply at Quinn, not waiting for a response.
“Since she’s here, I have to assume you’ve read her in completely.”

“She’s as up to speed as you are,” said Quinn, an accurate
statement since Coffey wasn’t as fully briefed as he believed.

“And you did this under whose authority?”

“My own. We have a fluid, fast-moving mission objective and I made
a call.”

Coffey shook his head. “So I’m risking everything keeping this
from President Davinroy—at
your request—and you
decide, unilaterally, to read in a random civilian?”

“You and I decided that Kovonov was so dangerous,” replied Quinn,
“and the mission so important, we should keep it on a need-to-know basis. Well,
Davinroy and Henry don’t need to know. Not yet. And they also could have been
compromised. Unlikely, but in this case, possible. Kovonov managed to get to
me, after all.”

“So your argument is that Dr. Acosta has a need to know?”

“Yes,” replied Quinn. “Kovonov put Carmilla right in the center of
this.”

“On a related note,” said
Rachel, “I think it’s time to begin thinking about bringing Davinroy and Henry
into the fold, after all.”

“Why the change of heart?” said
Coffey.

“We’ve learned more and could
use even higher level resources and string-pulling,” she said. “Not that you
and the major haven’t come through beautifully,” she added with heartfelt
appreciation. “But the president and head of DHS do add some pull, you have to
admit.”

“You argued earlier that these
were the very men Kovonov would most want to manipulate.”

“They still are, but I’m making
enough progress that I should soon be able to know for sure if someone has been
tampered with. Right now I can only tell with a convoluted memory implantation
scheme. But I think I’m close to figuring out how to stimulate the nanites to
broadcast their presence back to me. Maybe a week. Maybe less.”

“Bringing the president and Greg
Henry into the loop will take some delicate maneuvering,” said Coffey, “because
they can’t know they were ever out of
the loop.”

“I agree,” said Quinn. “We can
talk more about this later. But Davinroy and Henry think Rachel and I are in
Israel working with the Mossad. So we can schedule a vid-meet after Rachel has declared
these men free of nanites and keep that facade going. I know the Israelis will
agree to it. We’ll bring the president fully up to speed on our results,
telling him we didn’t want to report on our progress piecemeal, or waste his time
on preliminaries.”

Coffey paused in thought. “We’ll need to think through all the
angles very carefully,” he replied. “But like you said, that’s a discussion for
another time. So let’s get back to your decision to bring a civilian into
this.”

“The truth is I pushed hard for this course of action as well,”
said Rachel. “Carmilla does need to
know. And she’s a world-class genetic engineer, which we can use. She’s also loaded
with nanites, someone else that Kovonov has manipulated, and she’s volunteered
to be a test subject alongside Kevin.”

She paused and stared deeply into Coffey’s virtual eyes. “But most
importantly, sending her back to Princeton right now is a death sentence.”

“In what way?” said Coffey.

“I’m administering a sophisticated treatment. She’ll continue to
be in a state of severe depression for some time, but she shouldn’t be suicidal.
At least as long as I’m involved. I know what’s been done to her and the best
way to help.”

“You really think she’d still try suicide if not in your care?”
said Coffey in disbelief. “Even knowing what she knows?”

“Yes. Kovonov’s turned her unconscious brain against her. She
can’t reach it to reason with it. But even if this wasn’t a concern, Kovonov
clearly wanted her dead. We shouldn’t even be calling what happened attempted
suicide. It was attempted murder, plain
and simple. If she pops back up in Princeton, I think he’ll send some mercs to
finish the job.”

“She’s already called in and is arranging for a sabbatical,” noted
Quinn. “Like Rachel did. The authorities found her car at the edge of the
tracks, but Major McLeod managed to have some strings pulled so they wouldn’t pursue
her for a statement. The official line is that a maniac tried to ram her car
onto the tracks, but he overshot the mark.”

“And the perpetrator got his just reward when he ended up on the
tracks instead,” added Rachel, “and was pulverized by the train.”

“Since Carmilla is the victim, the investigators have agreed to
keep her identity confidential,” said Quinn.

Coffey considered for several long seconds. “Okay,” he said
finally. “You’ve sold me. We can’t put her back in harm’s way, and she may be
able to help.” He turned to Carmilla. “Apologies for talking like you aren’t
here. Welcome to the team. My name is Cris.”

“Carmilla,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Really, really crappy,” she said with a weak smile. “But I’ll
survive.”

“We made sure her communications were untraceable,” said Quinn,
letting Carmilla go back  to being a
passive observer. “We then had her text colleagues and family members that she
decided to take an unplanned sabbatical. But we’ve also planted a story online.
If you Google Dr. Carmilla Acosta and suicide, you’ll find a story indicating
that she succeeded in killing herself.”

“Smart,” said Coffey. “Kovonov is the only person likely to ever search
using these terms.”

“That was our thinking,” said Rachel. “So the story is there if he
uses the Web to learn if his plan succeeded. If he falls for this, so much the
better. She’s off his radar. But if he doesn’t and learns she’s still alive, at
least he won’t know where to find her.”

“Good thinking,” said Coffey. He spread out his hands, palms up.
“So what have you learned?” he asked. “Last I heard you discovered that she’d engineered
a virus for him. Any idea what it might do?”

“We know precisely what it does,” said Rachel. “Carmilla provided
the exact specifications of what he wanted.” She blew out a long breath. “I
suspect you’ll find this hard to fathom. Are you ready?”

Coffey visibly braced himself. “Go for it.”

“Basically,” said Rachel,
“to put it in its simplest terms, the virus is designed to wipe religious
belief off the face of the Earth.”

61

Cris Coffey was sure he hadn’t heard right. Ever since he had
learned that Kevin Quinn’s memory had been tampered with the world had
continued to get more bizarre by the day. This must have been how Alice felt after
falling through the rabbit hole. His forehead wrinkled in dismay. “What?”

“Kovonov wants to destroy religion,” replied Rachel, like this was
something that could actually be done. “Or more accurately, religiosity.
Spirituality. His virus is designed to erase these beliefs in whoever it
infects. He’s almost certainly concluded that the global Islamic caliphate
could be reversed if fundamentalist religious passions were annihilated.”

“I have so many questions I don’t even know where to begin,” said
Coffey. “First . . . what? How can
you erase spirituality? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

The hint of a smile appeared on Rachel’s face. “Like many
behaviors that have been found to have an unexpected genetic origin,” she said,
“religiosity is baked into our genes. Prewired into our brains. Those who are
more spiritual than others just respond to these genes, this wiring, more profoundly.
And environmental factors do come into play, triggering this wiring more
potently in some than in others.”

“So you’re suggesting religious belief is like hair color?” said Coffey skeptically.
“Just another genetic trait?” He shook his head adamantly. “I find that very
difficult to believe.”

“The evidence is irrefutable,” replied Rachel. “Clear even before
modern neuroscience and genetics came along. Although these tools have
confirmed and bolstered the case.”

“Not clear to me,” said Coffey. “If it’s common knowledge that
religion is prewired, I must have missed that class. How long has this been
known?”

“A century,” said Rachel. “Maybe more. The trick is to ask
yourself, what does prewired behavior even mean? How do we know what is
prewired versus what is learned?”

Coffey didn’t respond, deciding she really wasn’t looking for him
to answer.

“Behavior is wired in,” she continued, “if it’s exhibited by all
humans across the globe, across all societies. The suckling reflex is wired in.
All newborns can find a nipple and know what to do with it. Facial expressions
are prewired. All humans cry when we’re sad and laugh when we’re happy. Even
blind people who have never seen a smile, on themselves or anyone else, smile
when something strikes them as humorous. This behavior is involuntary. A
genetic reflex. The same expressions occur in every society, and are unchangeable.
Try to train someone to laugh in response to sadness and see how much luck you
have.”

“Are you saying that religious beliefs are like facial
expressions?” said Coffey.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. No human culture has ever been
found without supernatural beliefs. Man is a spiritual animal. There is not a
single civilization known to us that didn’t have a belief in one or more gods.
Over a hundred years ago, the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung studied the
mythology of hundreds of cultures. He was stunned to find so many common themes
among them, which he dubbed archetypes.
He concluded that the only way this could be the case was if these archetypes
stemmed from some inherent psychic substrate shared by the entire species.
Something he called our collective unconscious.”

Coffey found himself fascinated. He had heard these terms before,
but never knew how they had arisen.

“Jung called this our natural
religious function, long before neuroscience would confirm it. He wrote
that our religious function influences us as powerfully as sexuality and aggression.
That man throughout the ages had been as preoccupied with religion as in acquiring
food and fulfilling other basic needs.”

“Then how would he explain atheism?” asked Coffey.

“Good question,” said Rachel. “The propensity for religious belief
is wired in, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be actively ignored. Catholic
priests choose not to have sex, and no one would argue that this impulse isn’t prewired. But when
all is said and done, there really are no atheists in a foxhole. When facing
death, even atheists tend to plead with some higher power.”

“But isn’t organized religion in decline around the world?” said
Coffey.

“I thought so too,” said Quinn. “But after I learned what Kovonov
was up to, I spent some time before this meeting brushing up on the subject. Since
2005, Gallup has conducted a survey of religiosity across a large number of
countries around the world. Turns out that, collectively, organized religion is
growing. And even those people who don’t believe in standard religions tend to believe
in the supernatural. Sweden and Iceland are often held out as examples of places
where reason has triumphed over religion. Church attendance is very low in both
countries. But over a third of Icelanders believe in reincarnation, and more
than half believe in elves and trolls. A majority of Swedes believe in mental
telepathy, or reincarnation, or healing crystals, or even ghosts.”

“I really thought religion was on its way out,” said Coffey, “but
I’ll take your word for it. But all of this aside, why would we have a religious function?”

“Because religion must have a survival benefit,”
said Rachel, “like sex and language. Lucretius said, ‘fear begets gods,’ and he
was right. Humans evolved consciousness, intelligence, and this gave them a
huge advantage. But at the same time we became smart enough to realize that death
was inescapable. No matter what we do, the sword of Damocles is dangling above
us.”

She paused. “Primitive man faced death every
day. Harsh conditions, short lifespans, no medicine. An anxiety function is
built into every animal to help them survive, us included. But once we became
aware of death, this function would have become overwhelming if not
counterbalanced with something hopeful. Life is useless, meaningless. Why
struggle to survive when it’s only a matter of time before you fail? Spirituality
allows us to know we’re going to die,
but to believe we’ll still survive this
event. Even with our religious function, awareness of death has made mankind
hopelessly unstable psychologically. Turned us into what Freud called the neurotic animal.”

Coffey made a face. “Great,” he said sarcastically. “How lucky for
us.” He paused in thought. “You said earlier there was also more modern
evidence that religion was prewired. Like what?”

“Religiosity has been studied in thousands of pairs of identical
twins,” replied Rachel, “who were separated from each other at birth and reared
apart. Imagine one is raised by an atheist and the other by the pope. Turns out
the likelihood that they both go on to be religious, or both go on to be areligious, is greater than it is with non-identical
twins reared together.”

“Just to be certain this point is clear,” said Karen Black,
jumping in for the first time, “identical twins have identical genes. So this
result shows beyond a doubt that the genes you carry play a clear role in your
propensity to embrace religion. Not the only role, by any means, but a clear
role.”

“And with respect to the wiring of our brains,” said Rachel, “the
evidence is just as conclusive. Parkinson’s can cause people to lose their
faith. Head injuries have been known to do the same. Individuals with
passionate religious beliefs have lost all interest in religion after a head
injury. Others who were areligious have suddenly become hyper-religious after a
head injury.”

“Hyper-religious how?” asked Major McLeod.

“Obsessive praying,” responded Rachel. “Religious urges. Intense
religious passion. A feeling of certainty about one’s beliefs.”

“Go on,” said Coffey.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” continued Rachel, “any number of drugs
can induce mystical, transcendent, spiritual experiences in people. Epileptic
seizures can also lead to hyper-religiosity. Seizures have also been known to
cause a condition called religious hyperagraphia, which is an obsessive urge to
write about religion and God.”

Coffey tilted his head in thought. “So you’re saying that if
religion, if belief, can be ramped up and down by natural causes, by trauma to
the brain, it can be manipulated unnaturally.”

“Exactly,” said Rachel. “There is a growing sub-field of
neuroscience called neurotheology. Very recently, scientists have been able to
unravel this system, to identify interactions of over a dozen pinpoint areas in
the brain required for spiritual belief.”

“The virus Carmilla designed,” said Karen, “targets these precise
regions. The chance that Kovonov chose these neuronal clusters randomly is infinitesimally
small. So it is absolutely clear that the abolition of religion is his endgame.”

“I am so sorry,” said Carmilla as a tear escaped her left eye. “I
can’t believe I let him use me like this.”

“You didn’t let him,”
said Quinn quickly. “You had no choice. We all know that. Hell, I almost killed
a president I took an oath to protect.”

Carmilla nodded and dried her face with the back of one hand.

“But aren’t these findings you’ve spoken about conclusive proof that
God isn’t real?” said Coffey. “That religion isn’t real?”

“Depends on who you ask,” said Rachel. “Some think so. Others
don’t. If you believe a Creator designed us, then this Creator designed these regions of the brain as well.
Perhaps to make it easier for us to have faith. Let’s face it, for the most
part we’re a very skeptical species. We don’t believe anything we can’t see for
ourselves.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Except when it comes to the
supernatural, which is prewired in. If I claim that an invisible giant hamster
is hovering above me, I’m a lunatic. If I sense the spirit of God hovering
above me, I’m simply a spiritual being.”

“Are you saying God might have baked in this religious function to
overcome our skeptical natures?” said Major McLeod. “So we can still choose to
believe in an unseen Creator if we want?”

“It does make sense,” said Quinn. “If there is a God, he would
need to do that. One part of the Moses story from the Old Testament always
bugged me. If I have this right, Moses brings down ten plagues on Egypt. After
each one he asks Pharaoh if he’s ready to let the Jewish people go. But each
time, God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, so that he refuses, when he might otherwise have
agreed.”

Karen nodded appreciatively. “I never thought about that,” she
said. “But you make an interesting point.”

“Hardly seems fair, does
it?” said Quinn. “If God forces you to refuse, how can he be justified for punishing
you when you do? You have to have free will. So it makes some sense that—if there is a God—he would give us a genetic God-function,
which we can either cultivate or ignore.”

“That’s exactly how believers explain our predisposition to
spirituality,” said Rachel. “Non-believers continue to think these findings
provide absolute evidence that religion is all an illusion.”

“This is fascinating,” said
Coffey. “But given what we’re up against, this debate is irrelevant. Because
Kovonov’s virus will kill off this religious function no matter how it came to be there. Right?”

Rachel nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “But weren’t you the one
who said the idea of a virus wiping out religion was absurd?”

“It is absurd,” said Coffey. “But you’ve also convinced me it’s
possible.” He paused. “But does Kovonov really think this will slow the jihad? These
terrorists are just using religion as an excuse to destroy the West, aren’t
they? They are radical, no doubt. But is what they do really about religion?
Seems impossible that it is.”

“Some are just using
religion to achieve their goals,” replied Rachel, “but many are inspired by it.
Many wouldn’t do what they do if not for their religious passion. You’ve been
trained in the Judeo-Christian ethic. So you imagine if someone is truly
spiritual, truly religious, they would be like Gandhi. But this is the opposite
when you are truly spiritual and you believe your god and prophets want you to
wipe out all infidels, engage in global genocide.”

“But most Muslims who are truly religious don’t subscribe to this
part of the religion,” said Major McLeod.

“That is true,” said Rachel. “There are all different levels and
interpretations. Just because most jihadists are hyper-religious doesn’t mean
that all Muslims who are hyper-religious are jihadists. But Kovonov doesn’t
care. If he succeeds, the global caliphate will die out as a threat, and
ultimately even a concept.”

“But his virus won’t discriminate,” said Coffey. “It will take
down all the world’s religions.”

Quinn nodded grimly. “Speaking of which, it occurs to me that we
should reassess the recent Cockaponset massacre. These evangelicals were wiped
out soon after Carmilla gave the virus to Kovonov. In my view, this is
too much of a coincidence.”

Coffey considered. “Are you
saying that it wasn’t Islamic terrorism? That Kovonov was behind it?”

“I am,” said Quinn. “They were a
secluded group of true believers. What better group to test his virus on? As
you said, the virus won’t discriminate. It will work the same on Christians as
it will on Muslims. So I’ll bet he exposed them to the virus, waited for it to
do its thing, and then tested them to see if they suddenly lost their religious
passion.”

“Makes sense,” said McLeod. “We
just have to hope that his field test failed.”

Carmilla Acosta shook her head. “Rachel
is certain the regions targeted are those needed for religious belief,” she
said weakly. “And I’m certain the virus will do its job. I’m sure the test was successful.”

Coffey frowned deeply. “I’ll try
to pull strings to get one of the bodies from the massacre,” he said. “Rachel,
if you had one of the victim’s brains, could you confirm this happened, and if the
virus worked or not?”

Rachel didn’t hesitate. “I’m
sure I could. If I remember right, they were all shot through the head. So all
of their brains will be . . . compromised. But I should be able to find pinpoint
ablations of the religious centers within otherwise undamaged brain tissue. I
don’t have to verify every last one has been hit. Two or three would be more
than enough confirmation.”

“Given that we’re certain it
will work,” said Karen, “is this worth doing?”

Coffey nodded. “I think so, yes.
For good measure. And in case others in the future require more convincing than
we do.”

“But don’t we have to face the
fact we might already be too late?” said Major McLeod.

“We’re not,” said Quinn.
“Carmilla assured us that the current version of the virus isn’t contagious. No
matter how manipulated she was, Kovonov could never have supplied a plausible
reason to engineer this in.”

“Can it be made contagious?” asked Coffey.

Rachel turned to Carmilla. “Do
you feel up to fielding this, or do you want me to?”

“You,” whispered Carmilla, her
energy having faded even since the meeting had begun. They needed to get her
back to her room.

Rachel turned to address the
gathering. “I’ll just parrot what Carmilla told us earlier today,” she said.
“The answer is yes, it can be made
contagious. Hypercontagious. But Kovonov will need to have extensive
modifications done. It will need to be inserted in a hyperinfectious carrier,
which won’t be simple. But if done correctly, she estimates it could infect
every man, woman, and child on Earth within six months.”

“No virus ever gets everyone,” said Coffey.

“This one could,” said Rachel,
“because it will be insidious. No one will know they have it. No one will seek treatment.
Carriers won’t stay at home or be put into quarantine. A number of seizure
victims over the years have shown us what to expect. Those true believers who
are infected will suddenly stop being true believers, without having any idea
this is due to an outside agent.”

“How long will it take Kovonov
to make the needed modifications?” said Coffey.

“Carmilla thinks it will take at
least a few months,” replied Quinn. “But she’s convinced he can’t do it
himself, even if he had genetic engineering implanted using his Matrix Learning
system. It can only be done by the best in the world.”

“So what’s our play?” said
Coffey.

“Carmilla is putting together a
list of maybe twenty to thirty scientists in the world capable of pulling this
off,” said Quinn. “Rachel will race to find a simple method to confirm that Davinroy
and Henry haven’t been compromised. Then we can bring them on board.”

Coffey nodded thoughtfully. “And
once this happens, they can activate more than enough resources to put
surveillance teams on every last scientist on Carmilla’s list.”

“That would be the goal,” said
Quinn.

“Then maybe it’s a good thing
Carmilla is on the team, after all,” acknowledged Coffey with a smile.

62

Quinn stayed behind in Rachel’s
apartment after the meeting disbanded and the participants had gone their
separate ways. Their mutual attraction had continued to grow, and Quinn
couldn’t help but wonder if this, too, was simply their genes, neurons, and
unconscious minds giving them no choice in the matter.

They had agreed to keep their relationship
platonic, to resist the magnetic pull their personalities and presence seemed
to have on one another. Yet the more they fought to ignore this pull the more
it seemed to intensify. Was this just human nature? Quinn wondered.

If something was forbidden, did
that necessarily make it that much more appealing? Or was this effect like that
of hunger? The longer you denied yourself food that was sitting right in front
of you, the greater your hunger would grow, eventually becoming irresistible.

Quinn could tell that Rachel Howard
was just as susceptible to this effect as he was, whatever the cause.

In addition to a natural
attraction, they found they made a great team, and had made great progress
together. They had managed to chip away at the secrets of Kovonov’s neurotech
advances, and they were now beginning to get a handle on the man himself.

They had been on the couch for
forty-five minutes, engaged in effortless conversation, as usual, punctuated by
long bouts of laughter, when Kevin decided he couldn’t take it any longer. If
he didn’t have Rachel in his arms he would burst.

Judging by the look in her eyes as
he inched ever nearer on the couch, she felt the same.

He leaned in closer to her face,
slowly, and she didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes as his lips neared her
own, and he longed to feel their softness against his.

“Incoming call from Major McLeod,”
announced her phone, breaking the spell when his lips were but millimeters away
from their destination.

Rachel’s head jerked back and her eyes
shot open.

“Accept the call,” she called out,
and instinctively Quinn slid a foot or two farther away from her on the couch.

McLeod’s head floated in front of
them and his enthusiasm was unmistakable. “Good, you’re together,” he said by
way of greeting. “We just got another bite on your 800 number.”

Quinn was immediately alert. Finally,
another of Kovonov’s neural nanite victims had identified themselves. “Tell us
about it,” he said.

“Male caller.” The major raised his
eyebrows. “Israeli accent.”

Rachel inhaled sharply. “Are you
sure?”

“I took the call myself. I worked
with a few Israelis on a joint project years ago, and I know the accent well.”

“What name did he give?” asked
Quinn.

“He didn’t. It was a very short
call. He said that he remembered sending some hair in for genome analysis, but
that he hadn’t been thinking clearly. He said he had no interest in the
results, and insisted that we not call again.” McLeod grinned. “He was quite
agitated by the whole thing, as you can imagine. I told him we couldn’t take
him off our call list if we didn’t know who he was.”

“Nice touch,” said Quinn.

“Thanks. He still didn’t give a
name, but he gave his cell phone number so we could remove it. Then he
threatened to sue if we ever called again and ended the call abruptly.”

Even after having personal
experience with the implantation of false memories, Quinn continued to be
impressed by just how powerful they could be. The Plum Island team never had
this guy’s number in the first place because no message had ever been left. He
just remembered having listened to a
message, which he remembered having deleted.

“I assume you were able to trace
him,” said Quinn.

“We were. I’ve scrambled two of the
Prep H team, Lieutenants Gene Bowen and Dave Zerkle. They’re in the air now.
Their helo will land at Fort Drum in New York and take a faster aircraft to
this new lead. They should be at their final destination in just over an hour.
Once they are, given we now have this guy’s cell number, they’ll be able to
pinpoint his exact location. I have a few items to attend to, but I’ll be
leaving in a hour myself to meet up with them. Captain Stagemeyer—Brian
Stagemeyer—will be in charge of the Prep H team while I’m away. So you’ll still
be well protected.”

“I never doubted that for a moment,”
said Rachel.

“Same plan as with Dr. Acosta?”
said Quinn. “Wait to move in, hoping this guy will lead you to Kovonov?”

“Yes. Maybe the second time will be
a charm.”

“So where was he calling from?”
asked Rachel.

“Just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee.”

Quinn thought for a moment and then
frowned. “What’s in Knoxville, Tennessee?” he asked.

“Hopefully, Dmitri Kovonov,”
replied the major. “But whoever this guy is, and whatever he’s doing in
Knoxville,” he added, “you can bet your ass we’re going to find out.”

63

Dmitri Kovonov waited calmly in the
deep darkness of Cherokee National Forest. He was lurking just inside the tree
line beside a narrow road, with a small rucksack resting on the ground near his
feet. It was ten minutes until midnight and he knew that Colonel Stephen Hansen
would take great care to arrive for their rendezvous precisely at the appointed
time, parking a few minutes away, if necessary, to ensure he arrived not a
minute too early or too late.

Earlier that day, just after
Kovonov had left the Starbucks, he had sent Mizrahi to help his freelance communications
expert ready the new home they had acquired nearby. When this was completed,
Kovonov had sent his underling on another important mission, one designed to
take advantage of a strategic opportunity he wanted to exploit.

Kovonov loved midnight. It held a
unique place in the collective imagination, had become synonymous in literature
and mythology with evil and dread. The stroke of midnight, the precise moment
separating one day from another. In ancient times called the witching hour, when black magic was at
its zenith and witches, demons, and ghosts roamed the Earth at their most
powerful.

And in modern times, when experts
wanted a way to represent their assessment of just how close humanity was to
self-destruction, they settled on something they called the doomsday clock, with midnight representing the global
apocalypse, of course. Currently, the clock was set to its latest point ever,
11:58, but Kovonov thought these so-called doomsday experts were idiots. In his
opinion it was 11:59:59. And then some. If not for Israel’s efforts at
thwarting the plans of Iran and North Korea, midnight might have already
arrived.

But he was determined to usurp the
witching hour. Instead of the global apocalypse Islamic extremists longed to
bring about, he would use the stroke of midnight to mark the beginning of the
end of this malignant threat. The precise moment that he had single-handedly begun
to reverse the tide.

Several minutes later a pair of headlights
lit the dark night, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. The headlights
continued to work their way closer until the ten-foot truck to which they were
attached pulled up to within yards of Kovonov’s position and stopped.

Right on schedule.

Kovonov noted the truck had U-Haul
markings, as expected, although the telltale colors of orange and white were
impossible to make out in the dim moonlight. He hadn’t seen another vehicle
since he had arrived thirty minutes earlier and didn’t expect to see another
one for at least as long.

He emerged from behind the tree
line with his rucksack in hand and approached the driver, motioning for him to
lower the window. “Glad to see you, Colonel,” he said by way of greeting. “I
assume al-Bilawy is inside,” he added, nodding toward the back of the truck.

“That’s correct, ah . . . Daryl,” replied
Hansen, rolling his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me your real name
since we’re going to be working together.”

“Not yet,” said Kovonov.

He moved to the opposite side of
the cab, pulled open the door, and seated himself. He directed Hansen to drive
along a dirt road that twisted deeper through the woods, ensuring even greater
seclusion and privacy.

After about ten minutes of this
Kovonov called a halt. “Let’s get out,” he said, “and you can introduce me to
our prisoner.”

“Right here and now?” said Hansen
in disbelief. “Can’t this wait until we’re at our destination?”

“If I thought it could wait,”
growled Kovonov, “it would wait! I don’t expect my orders to be questioned
again!”

Hansen glared at his temporary
superior. “Your show,” he said through clenched teeth, bristling at the entire
bizarre situation he was now in and the need to answer to a stranger he knew
nothing about.

Kovonov followed the colonel to the
back of the truck through a blanket of darkness, taking a moment to gaze at the
glorious star field above, which he rarely took time to appreciate.

Hansen opened the back of the truck
and climbed inside, with Kovonov close behind.

The prisoner was restrained in one
of four chairs bolted securely into the vehicle’s frame.  His loathing of the two men who had entered
was etched into every line in his face. He had all the markings of a zealot, a
true believer, for whom the assertion that America was the Great Satan wasn’t just a rhetorical flourish.

“Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy,” said Kovonov in delight, still holding his ruck. “Am I
ever glad to see you.”

Al-Bilawy glanced back and forth
between Hansen and Kovonov. He looked confused by Kovonov’s obvious enthusiasm.
Interrogators had often tried to establish rapport with him, but had never
acted as though he were a long-lost uncle.

Hansen looked equally confused.
More so when Kovonov removed a silenced pistol from his bag.

“What are you planning to do with
that?” demanded the colonel.

“Shoot you dead,” said Kovonov
calmly, raising the gun in one smooth motion and pulling the trigger. Hansen’s
head exploded like a pumpkin dropped from a skyscraper. Blood and brains sprayed
outward, splattering the prisoner and much of the inside of the truck.

Al-Bilawy’s eyes widened and he
shouted into the duct tape covering his mouth, which muffled his words.

Kovonov ripped the duct tape free.

“What is going on?” demanded the prisoner, having no idea what to
make of what he had just witnessed.

Kovonov didn’t reply. Instead, while
al-Bilawy was pinned to his seat with no range of motion, he reached up and
injected him in the neck with a microneedle array.

“Is that truth serum?” spat the
terrorist in disdain. “If it is, it won’t work. Besides, you American pigs don’t believe in truth serum, or in
torture.”

Al-Bilawy glanced at Hansen’s bloody
corpse on the floor of the truck and his smug expression vanished. Americans
didn’t believe in executions of this type, either. “What have you done to me?” he shouted in alarm.

“First, I’m not an American,” replied
Kovonov, reverting back to his Russian accent. “Second, have you ever
considered that if America truly were the Great Satan, it would revel in
torture, not outlaw its use? Or is Satan a pacifist in your religion?”

“What?”

“I’m saying, shit-for-brains, that
you possess a psychotic ideology that is as stupid as it is evil. But I’m not
here to debate theology. In answer to your question, I injected you with many
billions of nano scale electronic devices. They are already making themselves
at home in your brain.”

Al-Bilawy shrank back in horror.

“This nanite infestation won’t hurt
you,” continued Kovonov. “But it will allow me to implant complex memories, and
perform other manipulations. This will take some doing, since the memories I
plan to implant are fairly extensive. But the bottom line is this: I’m going to
turn you into a puppet. Into my bitch
as the Americans would say. You’re going to do exactly what I want you to do,
and you’ll think you’re carrying out orders from your own leaders.”

“I will never do anything for you!”

“Were you not listening? It won’t
be for me. It will be for your superiors. You’ll think the orders came directly
from that psychopathic asshole, Walid Abousamra.”

“Do your worst!” bellowed
al-Bilawy. “I am a loyal servant of Allah. He will either protect me or I will be
happy to become a martyr in his service.”

He shook his head and his eyes
burned into Kovonov’s. “And very soon Allah will help his pious followers smite
you dead, along with all other infidels on Earth.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . smite us dead. I
get it.”

Kovonov pulled a standard syringe
from his bag and injected al-Bilawy in the arm. “You really need to relax,” he
said. “This will help. In fact, you’ll be going to sleep now. For a long time.
It’s easier to manipulate you with the proper precision when you’re
unconscious, and I don’t need you just yet.”

“I’m going to kill you,” whispered
the prisoner, already fading away.

“No you’re not,” said Kovonov,
looking amused. “Because when you awaken, you won’t remember that we ever met,
and none of what I’ve told you.”

The Israeli smiled. “Sweet dreams,
you demented piece of shit!”

64

McLeod’s call the night before had brought great news,
but had spoiled the mood Quinn and Rachel had been in. Once the call had ended
they both managed to find their restraint once again and Quinn had retired to
his own apartment next door. Alone.

The next day was all about work. Rachel bent herself
to the various tasks she was pursuing with her usual insight and stamina, most
of the time in close consultation with Karen Black. Quinn joined them for
dinner and Captain Brian Stagemeyer also dropped by to provide an update.

According to the captain, McLeod and the two others
with him, Lieutenants Bowen and Zerkle, had found the man they were after and
had run an exhaustive facial recognition search. And they had located an exact
match.

His name was Yosef Mizrahi and he was known to have
worked extensively with the Mossad, but was thought to have been killed in
action a month earlier. This made sense. The Israeli intelligence agency was trying
desperately to conceal how many of their men had left with Kovonov, even from
its own government.

But the fact that Mizrahi was almost certainly in league
with Kovonov was a lucky break. Whether or not this was a voluntary association
was unclear. Rachel and Quinn both suspected the man was unaware that
microscopic guests had set up shop in his head. Regardless, the chances that he
would lead them to Kovonov were excellent.

McLeod and his fellow soldiers had been following this
Mizrahi for an entire day, but they had yet to see any sign of the Russian-born
Israeli. Still, Quinn was as optimistic as he had been in a long time.

Later, when he retired for the night, he rolled onto
his back in bed to consider all that had transpired since the fateful day in
Princeton when he had tried to kill Davinroy, and examine events from as many
angles as he could.

But try as he might, all he could think about was the
woman who was in the bed next door.

And how irresistible the impulse to join her there had
become.

65

Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy could barely contain his excitement. His blood felt like rocket fuel
coursing through his veins, energizing him like never before. Allah had blessed
him like few others in history, had chosen to turn him into an instrument of
destruction, who would deal the Great Satan a devastating blow.

He stroked his thick, billowy black beard absently as
he considered the glorious afternoon and night to come. The fruition of
planning and sacrifice that had taken years to accomplish. While he was to be
the designated face of ISIS in America, others had performed brilliantly to
make sure everything was in place.

His excitement was so great that everything that had
come before this day now seemed like a fading dream. Being summoned by the
esteemed leader of ISIS, Walid Jassim Abousamra, and told of the glorious task
he had been chosen to perform. Working out the details and the scripts he would
use, planning for every contingency. And coming here, to a house that had been
set up for him an hour outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. It had all been a
whirlwind that was now nothing more than a blur.

But while he could recall almost nothing of the last
few months of his life, he could recall every detail of the plan in nearly photographic
detail. His preparations and rehearsals for this day must have been all-consuming,
so much so that they ran together in his mind in such a way that he couldn’t
remember a single one. But the results spoke for themselves, and he had never
been more prepared, more ready, for anything.

He picked up the phone that had been left for him and
dialed the number of the Secretary of Homeland Security. The call was answered on
the third ring.

“Who is this?” demanded Greg Henry, obviously miffed
at his phone’s inability to identify the caller. Al-Bilawy had been assured
that all the phone numbers he had memorized were up to date, and no
communication from his phone, or from the video hookup in this home, could be
traced or identified.

“You are speaking with Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy,” he said proudly. “Calling on
behalf of Walid
Jassim Abousamra and the glorious members of what you call ISIS. And in service
to the almighty Allah.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” said Henry, unimpressed.
“How did you get this number?”

“Not a joke,” said al-Bilawy. “Retribution for your
sins. Punishment for your evil.”

“Al-Bilawy has been captured and is in a detention
facility. Who is this?”

“You mean the detention facility in Knoxville?” said
al-Bilawy smugly. “You’d better check again. But first put this call on video
so we can see each other. That way you can run my image through your facial
recognition software.”

A moment later virtual images of both men were staring
at each other. Al-Bilawy grinned fiercely upon seeing Henry’s face. He was clearly
shaken from the mention of Knoxville.

“What’s this all about?” said Henry uneasily.

“First verify my identity,” said al-Bilawy. “I’ll call
you back in five minutes,” he added, ending the connection.

Five minutes later Henry’s image floated once again before
the ISIS soldier, his face now ashen. “I’ve confirmed that you’re al-Bilawy.
How did you get my personal number? And what do you want?”

“What I want is for every non-believer to die a
horrible death!” snapped al-Bilawy. “But for now I’ll settle for the seven or
eight million people living in the Bay Area of California.”

He shot Henry a cruel smile. “Although living will soon be the wrong word to
use.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there is a nuclear device embedded in
the foundation of a building in downtown San Francisco. There are additional
devices in other major cities, but let’s begin with San Francisco.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“And you are all too predictable. Do you think we are
children? Calling you with idle threats we can’t make good on. Of course we’re
prepared to demonstrate our claims.”

The terrorist paused. “I’m sending a file to your
phone now,” he said. “It’s locked, but it will open for you on its own at four
p.m. It provides the name of the building and instructions for how to verify
the existence of the device. This includes drilling into the foundation. It
specifies precisely where to do this. You can then snake a detector down to get
clear video of the device and measure its telltale radiation signature. The
file will also detail the various booby traps that surround the device. Any
attempt to remove the bomb, disarm it, remove any surveillance sensors, or
remove any wireless signal sensors will cause it to detonate.”

“Why not let us access the file now?”

“We want to give you time to verify what you’re up
against. But not too much time.”

“The Bay Area has one of the highest Muslim
populations in America. You expect me to believe you’d kill hundreds of
thousands of your own?”

Al-Bilawy laughed. “I envy them,” he said
passionately. “They are the lucky ones who will get to die gloriously in
service to Allah.”

Henry swallowed hard. “Assuming this isn’t a bluff,” he
said. “What do you want?”

“Oh, there will be plenty of time for further
discussion. For now, just wait until four and then verify there is a nuclear
device where I say it is. I’ll call you again at seven. This will give you
three hours to confirm it’s real. Did you get the file yet?”

Henry glanced down for several seconds and then
nodded. “I did.”

“Good. When I call back, you had better accept it as a
video call. And your despicable President Davinroy had better be on the call,
as well. Do I make myself clear?”

“You know you’re signing your death warrant.”

“Don’t try to cheer me up,” said al-Bilawy.
“Unfortunately, I am not in the Bay Area myself, so I will be denied the honor
and the glory of becoming a martyr for Allah in this attack. But after this is
over, I plan to gun down as many people as I can in a crowded movie theater. So
rest assured, I will still soon be able to join Allah and thank him personally
for allowing me to be his trigger.”

66

Rachel was taking a break for a late lunch and Quinn
decided to join her in her apartment. She was having an especially productive
day in the lab and the lunch was even more lively, and more fun, than usual. She
told Quinn that she and Karen had been working with Carmilla Acosta, who had been
more helpful than they had expected. Carmilla was still deeply scarred by what
had been done to her, but Rachel was convinced that in a few weeks’ time she
could cut back on some of Carmilla’s meds without fear she would take her own
life.

Once again Quinn found himself pulled irresistibly to
the Harvard Professor, but once again the mood was spoiled, this time by an
incoming call from Brian Stagemeyer.

A moment later his virtual presence was with them in
Rachel’s apartment.

“I’m really beginning to hate you guys,” mumbled Quinn
under his breath.

“What was that?” said Stagemeyer.

“Nothing,” said Quinn with a sigh. “So what’s up,
Brian?”

“Lieutenant Bowen just contacted me.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Bowen?” he said worriedly. “Is
the major okay?”

“He’s fine. Just preoccupied. But I have some great
news.”

“They found Kovonov, didn’t they?” said Rachel excitedly.

“They did. He’s holed up at a farm about an hour out
of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The major is busy staking him out and setting up an
attack plan, so he sent Bowen to relay some orders to me. Namely, he wants the
rest of the Prep H team on-site as soon as possible. He doesn’t think we’ll be
necessary, but Kovonov is a high-value target and not someone who should be
underestimated.”

“Amen to that,” said Quinn. “Glad to hear it. I’d love
to come along also, but Rachel would kill me before I got on the chopper.”

The captain laughed. “We won’t need you. Bowen says
Kovonov looks like a squirrel settling in for a long winter. He’ll be a sitting
duck. But the major will wait until we arrive to strike. By then he’ll have studied
the survey of the property, the electronic blueprints to the farmhouse, and
observed our target for an extended period.”

“Make sure Kovonov doesn’t have any of his mercenary
friends protecting him.”

“He does. Bowen says they’ve spotted three. Given that
we got the drop on them, they shouldn’t be a problem to take out. Don’t worry,
Kevin, we’re going to get this bastard.”

“Have the major call us the second you do,” said
Quinn.

“I will. Bowen also told me McLeod scrambled a temporary
security team to the island from a base in New York. My team and I will be in a
helicopter waiting to take off. As soon as this New York team lands—which should be in about an
hour—we’ll
check them in and join the major. But the point is, even though this op
requires all of us, we aren’t about to leave you unguarded for even a minute.
So rest easy.”

“Thanks,” said Quinn. “But I wasn’t worried.
Especially since you’ve got eyes on Kovonov.”

He paused, and his voice became more somber. “One last
thing. Remind the major that this is not a capture mission. We promised the
Israelis that we’d kill Kovonov on sight. He’s too dangerous to take any
chances with.”

“Don’t worry. The major doesn’t need a reminder. And Kovonov
won’t live out the night.”

“I’ve never believed in the death penalty,” said Rachel.
“Even after someone is convicted in a court of law and given this sentence by a
judge. I should be outraged by what’s about to happen. But I have to admit that
when it comes to Dmitri Kovonov, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

She sighed. “Good luck, Captain.”

***

The moment the call ended Quinn could tell that an elephant-sized
weight had been lifted from Rachel’s shoulders. She was still carrying
considerable psychological baggage as she raced to learn why Matrix Learning
led to madness and tried to reverse it in time to stave off catastrophe, but at
least she would soon be able to do this without fear of the Kovonov bogeyman.

Quinn broke out champagne he had been saving for just
such an occasion. They had Kovonov dead to rights and the Prep H team was very
good. The team would still need to recover the virus Carmilla had constructed,
but given it wasn’t contagious, even this wasn’t critical as long as they returned
with Kovonov’s head on a platter.

As he and Rachel celebrated, the dam between them finally
burst, and they found themselves in a passionate embrace without quite knowing
how this had come about. Not only were they more than ripe for it, one of the
main reasons not to fraternize in the first place was about to be removed.

They began kissing on the couch like they were in
junior high school, but they quickly graduated to Rachel’s bed, with most of
their clothing not making the entire trip, ending up as a haphazard trail on
the floor behind them. Their session of lovemaking was as passionate and mind-blowing
as any Quinn had experienced.

He decided that if a starving man denied himself
cheesecake day after day, when he finally did take a bite the taste would be
enhanced to extraordinary levels. This was the first time Quinn had been forced
to deny acting on a mutual attraction for this long, and while he never wanted
to repeat the experiment, the payoff for doing so was one for the record books.

Perhaps it was the epic sex
talking, but Quinn decided that the total destruction of his old life may have
been for the best, his emergence as Kevin Moore from the ashes of Kevin Quinn.
Until Princeton happened, his life had been largely empty—he just hadn’t
realized it.

He had some friends and felt a
kinship with his fellow Secret Service agents, but he had been empty inside. He
had slept with too many women to count, but his relationships were shallow and he
had avoided commitment like the plague.

Rachel was different. She wasn’t
after him just for a one-night stand. She had more substance than any five of
the women he usually dated, and more intelligence than ten. She was someone so
out of his league academically he still couldn’t believe he enjoyed spending
time with her. But he did. Immensely. Who knew that sex was so much better when
the relationship had nothing to do with sex?

And while protecting the president
had been meaningful, working with Rachel and the Israelis to perfect a revolutionary
technology and prevent disaster was more challenging, and certainly more
important, than anything he had ever done. He could make a profound difference
in the world.

He had found a purpose, and a woman
he respected more than anyone he had ever met, of either sex. She was an
egghead professor who had been thrust into his world and was managing herself
with grace and a remarkable competence.

Quinn was about to share these
thoughts with the woman resting contentedly in his arms when there was a knock
at the door. He shook his head in disbelief. Were a few hours of privacy really
too much to ask? He decided that he should look on the bright side. At least
they hadn’t been interrupted while making love.

Rachel turned to face him and gave
him a quick peck on the lips. “I’d better see who it is,” she said miserably.

He nodded.

“Activate intercom feature,” she
ordered her phone. “Audio only.”

“Activated.”

“Who’s there?” she said.

“Sorry to bother you Dr. Howard;
Mr. Moore,” said a deep voice coming through her phone. “But we’ve been
assigned temporary security duty, and we wanted to introduce ourselves.”

Quinn frowned. “We’d better let
them,” he mouthed, “or they’ll never leave us alone.”

“Can you give us just a few
minutes?” said Rachel into her phone.  “We
were just, ah . . . finishing up an experiment.”

“Sure. Take all the time you need.”

They kissed a final time and dressed,
so content they almost floated to the door as though on a cloud.

Four men entered calmly and the
first extended a hand. As Quinn went to take it he found himself facing three
drawn guns.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Resist or call out and you’re
dead!” said the man.

Quinn didn’t doubt his sincerity
for a moment. The group looked deadly serious, and deadly competent. They
quickly cuffed his and Rachel’s hands together with zip-ties.

“Okay,” said the leader. “Now we’re
going to duct tape your mouths shut and escort you out of here. We’ll be
flanking you so no one can see the tape or restraints. If any of your
colleagues do become suspicious, they’ll end up dead. So it’s in your best
interest to see to it that we remove you from the island with no fuss.”

“Who sent you?” said Rachel just
before black duct tape was pulled across her mouth. “And where are you taking
us?”

“We’re taking a trip to
Pennsylvania,” he replied. “And I don’t know the name of the man you’ll be
going to see. All I know is that he told us to call him 302.”

PART 4

Endgame

“Knowledge is the
food of the soul.”

—Plato

“The predisposition to religious belief is the most complex and
powerful force in the human mind and in all probability an ineradicable part of
human nature.”

—E. O. Wilson. Professor Emeritus,
Harvard University, and Father of Sociobiology.

“Your mind is software. Program it. Your body
is a shell. Change it. Death is a disease. Cure it. Extinction is approaching.
Fight it.”

—Peter Thiel, Billionaire Venture Capitalist

67

The E-4B jet
lifted off at 8:00 p.m. with its precious cargo, just forty-five minutes after
Matthew Davinroy and Greg Henry had ended the call with Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy. Davinroy preferred this plane
to any of the five underground bases that had been established to ensure
emergency command and control and the continuity of government during a crisis.

E-4Bs
were specially modified aircraft that had been at the ready since the early ’80s,
but this was the first time Davinroy had set foot in one. Also known as the
Advanced Airborne Command Post, the plane was a militarized version of the
Boeing 747-200, designed to provide the president, Secretary of Defense, and
the Joint Chiefs of Staff a survivable command, control, and communications
center to direct US forces and civil authorities.

The plane
could be refueled in flight, was shielded from nuclear and thermal effects,
including an electromagnetic pulse, and had been designed to support advanced
electronics and communications equipment.

Davinroy had summoned key members of his National
Security Council to join him. The vice president was out of the country and
several others were too distant, or weren’t able to commandeer a helicopter in
time to join them, but he had waited to take off until the personnel he deemed
most critical were on board. Greg Henry, of course, but also his Director of
National Intelligence, Andrea Hardie, his Secretary of Defense, Ryan Hardcastle,
and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Tony Loro.

As soon as the plane leveled out these four men and
one woman met in the forward conference room, which was surprisingly spacious
and boasted a table that could have sat five or six more in comfort around it.
Davinroy could have chosen to have others attend virtually, but he wanted to
keep this meeting small.

“I know you’re all eager to learn why you’re here,” he
began without ceremony. “So I’ll turn this over to Greg Henry, who was the
first person contacted.”

Henry took the floor and recounted the call he had
received around noon from Haji Ahmad
al-Bilawy.

“I assume his nuke checked out,” said Andrea Hardie, “or we wouldn’t be
in this plane.”

“It did,” replied Henry. “In every particular. It’s
embedded in the foundation of the Champion Tower in San Francisco, just as his file
specified. He claims he has the detonation codes and can set it off remotely.”

Admiral Loro frowned. “He claims?”

“We don’t have absolute proof,” said Henry, “but there
is no reason to doubt him at this point. There are electromagnetic conduits to
the device embedded in the concrete, which lead to the surface. Any one of
these can carry a remote signal if he has the proper codes, and we have no
reason to doubt that he does. Uprooting any of these conduits will set it off.”

“Can’t we block electromagnetic signals?” asked Tony
Loro.

Henry shook his head. “My experts have read the file
he sent to me. They tell me it is very precise and very credible. The device was
set up so that any attempt to block his specific signal—which we don’t have the
specs on anyway—will
set it off. I’m told it is a very impressive, foolproof design.”

“He wouldn’t have directed us to it if he thought we
could stop him,” pointed out Hardie.

“He also has surveillance cameras everywhere,”
continued the Secretary of Homeland Security. “If we remove them, he can set it
off. If we try to dig the bomb out, he can set it off.”

“I’m no technical genius,” said Admiral Loro, “but if
I’m understanding your experts correctly, we’re
totally fucked. Is that about it?”

“Elegantly said, as always,” muttered Hardcastle.

“But essentially correct,” admitted Henry. “He followed
up with a call to me and the president about an hour ago. Insisted on audio and
video. During the call he threatened to set off the device at the stroke of
midnight tonight, Eastern Standard Time.”

The Director of National Intelligence looked confused.
“He’s called us twice already?” she
said. “So why haven’t we found him yet?”

“We’ve activated every resource we have,” said Greg Henry,
“but whoever set up his communications was a magician. I’m told we’ll
eventually be able to find him, but the chances of doing so before midnight
tonight are very slim.”

“Which al-Bilawy must know,” said the admiral.

“Are we certain this guy is a lieutenant with ISIS?”
asked Andrea Hardie.

“Yes,” said Henry. “We captured him and sent him to an
interrogation facility in Knoxville, Tennessee. A few days ago he disappeared,
along with the PsyOps colonel who was charged with the interrogation. The log
says he was worried about a security breach and moved the prisoner, but we
think ISIS managed to free him somehow.”

Ryan Hardcastle
nodded grimly. “Defense is quite familiar with this asshole,” he said. “He’s a
member of ISIS’s military council. An ethnic Chechen Georgian national of all
things, who rose to the rank of colonel in Georgian military intelligence. He
recently commanded ISIS fighters
in Edlib, Aleppo, and the mountains of Lattakia. Known to be ruthless and to be
a true believer, even among true believers. If the rest of ISIS leadership is
drinking the Kool-Aid, he’s a Kool-Aid alcoholic.”

“Perfect,” said Hardie, chewing on her lower lip. “So
what are his demands?”

“He didn’t make any,” said Davinroy. “Not yet. He says
he will at 11:30 tonight. He knows we won’t have enough time to follow through
on them, but if we agree to do so later, he won’t detonate the device.”

“That’s a bluff,” said Admiral Loro immediately. “To
mute our actions now. The demands will either be ridiculous, like surrendering
our country, or he won’t make them. I have no doubt he won’t miss his chance to
wipe the Bay Area off the map.”

“Why give us a heads-up, then?” asked Davinroy.

“To get his jollies, for one,” said Henry. “I agree
with the admiral. You heard this asshole, Mr. President. He was in his glory. And
this also allows him to maximize our terror.”

Admiral Loro shook his head in disgust. “This is also
a propaganda bonanza for ISIS. You say he insisted his call with you be both
audio and video?”

Greg Henry nodded.

“Why do you think he did that?” said the admiral in
contempt. “Because now he has footage of a US president and head of Homeland Security
at his mercy, pleading with him not to detonate, offering to negotiate. He’ll
have this footage sent out around the world right next to that of a crater
where San Francisco used to be. So in addition to striking a horrible blow,
killing millions, he can further embarrass us. The footage will make us look
weak, show that we were powerless to stop him. I’m sure he’ll include a
standard ISIS rant about the death of infidels, the inevitability of the global
caliphate, and so on.”

“Which will also ensure that ISIS gets unambiguous
credit around the world,” said Hardie. “Talk about driving panic. Not to
mention being the ultimate recruiting video.”

“He claims there are more nuclear devices buried
throughout the country,” said Henry. “Which may be another reason he’s notified
us about this ahead of time. So we know for certain he’s responsible. If his
negotiating position is strong now, think how strong it will be if this goes
off.”

“Do we believe him when he says there are more?” said Hardcastle.

“Our experts are doubtful,” said Henry. “But they also
would have bet their lives there couldn’t be a nuke in the foundation of the Champion
Tower.”

Davinroy blew out a long breath. “Recommendations?” he
said.

There was an extended silence.

“We only have one hope,” said Loro finally. “We stab
ISIS in their heart. We scramble the entire might of the country. We use
overwhelming force so we can have a knife at their jugular before midnight. A
nuclear knife. We tell them if they don’t call al-Bilawy off, the caliphate
ends today.”

“So play a game of nuclear chicken with ISIS?” said
Davinroy.

“What other choice do we have?” said the admiral.

“And if they refuse?” said the president. “Maybe this
is exactly what they want. We nuke ISIS and they don’t go through with San
Francisco. We’d never be able to convince the Muslim world that the threat to
our city was real, that a preemptive strike of this magnitude was justifiable.
We’ll look like monsters, killing untold innocents along the way.”

“You really think getting themselves nuked is their
grand plan?” said Henry dubiously.

“It’s possible,” said Hardcastle, defending the
president’s position. “They don’t think like we do. We can’t comprehend a
religion that glorifies death for a cause. It doesn’t compute. But they strap
bombs to their kids. They launch rockets from elementary schools, praying those
fighting against them will kill kids while trying to take out the launchers so
they can score a public relations coup. Militaries around the world have
reported that putting women and children purposely in harm’s way for the cause
has become standard practice for the jihadists for decades.”

“I don’t care if it’s their grand plan or not!” said
Loro. “It’s something we have to do. And we’re running out of time.”

“They didn’t have to give us warning,” said Henry. “So
they must be prepared for whatever we throw at them, threats or otherwise. I
hate to say it, but I can’t imagine them not detonating, no matter what we do.”

“I already told you why they gave us the warning they
did,” said the admiral. “So they could get our president on video. Even so, they’ve
still managed to tie our hands brilliantly. Al-Bilawy pretends we have a chance
to get out of this at 11:30, giving us no time to do anything if this is a lie.
They know you won’t do anything preemptive if you believe a peaceful solution
is possible,” he added, addressing the president. “And if you do, they get the
ultimate public relations coup. But I say, fuck them! Let them have their
virgins in heaven! Let them have their PR coup! If we throw everything we have
at them right now, believe me, they’ll call al-Bilawy off.”

“I don’t know,” said Hardcastle grimly, “I agree with
Greg. I think we lose San Francisco no matter what we do.”

“Either way, we’re running out of time!” said Loro.
“We need to mobilize now! Let them know what’s in store if they don’t call this
off.”

Hardie frowned deeply. “I have to agree with Tony,” she
said.

“Well I don’t!” said the president. “I’ll agree to
whatever al-Bilawy demands at 11:30 to buy us time. I’ve been told there is
some chance we’ll be able to get through his firewall before midnight anyway. But
if I can delay him even twelve hours, I’m told tracing his calls and finding
him becomes almost a certainty. I’ve also been given to understand that nukes
like this fail to go off about five percent of the time. I’m confident that we
can stop this. Without having to start
a global war with the Muslim religion. And let me remind you all that this is a
religion practiced by a quarter of the world’s population.”

“Wake up!” shouted Loro. “And get your head out of
your ass! We’re in a global war already!  Is it going to take watching San Francisco
turn into a sun and millions of people being vaporized before that’s going to
sink in?”

“Good thing I’m still commander in chief, then, isn’t
it Tony?” shouted an enraged Davinroy. “And one more outburst like that and you
won’t be Chairman of the Joint Chiefs anymore.”

Loro fumed but didn’t respond.

“Do we at least warn the Bay Area?” said Andrea Hardie,
trying to move on and break the tension.

“No,” said Davinroy. “Because it’s not going to end up
happening. We’ll find al-Bilawy or I’ll delay this until we do. And when the
nuke doesn’t go off, I don’t want to
be responsible for panicking an entire country and causing hundreds or thousands
of deaths as these people trample over each other to get out of the blast zone.
Which they wouldn’t be able to do anyway if word got out. Highways and airports
would become parking lots.”

Tony Loro was the picture of contempt. “And what if
you can’t stop it?” he said, not shouting but with acid dripping from his every
word. “Please tell me you’ll at least let me mobilize the military to be in the
best position to strike back. Do it because it’s good politics if for no other
reason,” he added, and of those in attendance only Davinroy didn’t realize that
this was the greatest insult he could ever deliver.

“If you are wrong and San Francisco is hit,” continued
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, “what do you want to tell a devastated public?
A public in a state of shock a hundred times worse than after 9/11? That you
knew about it ahead of time and did nothing? Or that you stand ready to avenge
the loss of San Francisco and wipe ISIS off the face of the earth? If it’s the
latter, we should make sure our forces are moving into place so they can be
unleashed without delay.”

Davinroy nodded. “Get a plan together and tell me when
such an attack can be launched. If events play out the way you believe they
will, we’ll do exactly as you say. But I’m confident San Francisco is going to
be just fine.”

Loro had won this argument, but his face was still a
seething mask of rage and resentment. He had won the right to shut the barn
door, but only after the horse had already bolted. Or in this case had been
incinerated. Not nearly good enough.

“You have no idea how much I pray that you’re right,
Mr. President,” he said bitterly. “But I feel certain that you aren’t.”

68

Rachel Howard and Kevin Quinn
were brought to a cabin deep in the woods somewhere in the vicinity of
Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Night had fallen and clouds blotted out the moon and
stars, leaving the area not in proximity to the cabin as dark as a cave.

They were forced inside and tied
with plastic strips to chairs bolted into the floor of the main room. Quinn
tested his bonds, which held as he expected. He and Rachel had been affixed to
their chairs by experts, and there would be no escape.

He took a practiced survey of
his surroundings. The room was barren and had no books or knickknacks or plants
to suggest it was someone’s home, vacation or otherwise. It had a couch, a few
chairs, a table, and a monitor, but that was all.

A polished stainless steel
container sat alone on the table, about the size of a paperback book, but there
were no knives or other weapons in sight, and nothing Quinn could see that
could be used as a weapon. A key fob hung from a small hook set into the wall
next to the front door. The fob was a black oval emblem with the words Land Rover spelled out in silver
lettering, matching these words spelled out on one of the two vehicles parked
outside.

Quinn’s survey was interrupted as his
captors ripped the duct tape from his mouth, and then from Rachel’s, and
proceeded out of the cabin, most likely to man a security perimeter.

“Where do all these guys come
from?” said Rachel when they were alone. “Mercenaries-R-Us?”

Quinn couldn’t help but smile, despite their grim
circumstances. “Pretty much,” he replied.

How could he
not be impressed with this woman? She had been ripped forcibly from her former
life but she never complained, and she was able to maintain her sense of humor in
the teeth of danger and adversity.

“The legitimate warriors for hire work in organizations
called Private Military Corporations,” he explained, “which are paid to conduct
much of the actual fighting around the world. But any number of the ex-soldiers
employed at these PMCs are only too happy to work for scumbags for the right
price. Like strippers earning extra money by turning tricks.”

Dmitri Kovonov entered the room just as Quinn
finished, clutching a goblet of red wine in his left hand. He walked
over to Rachel, beaming. “Professor Howard,” he said in delight, “what an
honor. Welcome to my little hideaway.”

Kovonov slowly turned to Quinn,
shook his head in disgust, and then turned back to Rachel. “But you really do
need to hang out with a better class of people,” he added, setting the goblet
of wine down on the table nearby.

He closed the few yards that
separated him from Quinn and drove his fist into his helpless prisoner’s
stomach. Quinn doubled over. When he lifted his head once again, Kovonov hit
him with a right cross to the face, his ring tearing a gash in Quinn’s cheek that
quickly began to leak bright red blood.

“Never interfere with the
extermination of a monster!” hissed Kovonov, still incensed over Quinn’s role
in saving the Syrian president years earlier.

Quinn glared back, his stomach
and face still stinging from the blows they had taken. “You can bet I won’t
interfere with your extermination,” he
said defiantly.

Kovonov laughed. “Please don’t
tell me you think the cavalry is outside, Agent Quinn. Major McLeod and his hemorrhoid
team? You have noticed we’re in the
woods, not at a farmhouse, right?”

Quinn’s heart pumped madly
against his chest. “Where are they?” he demanded.

“You thought they had the drop
on me, didn’t you? Here’s the thing. None of this was your plan in the first
place. It was mine.”

“What are you talking about?”
said Quinn.

Kovonov ignored the question,
turning to Rachel Howard instead. “I bought that Agent Quinn had been killed in
an auto accident, of course. But I really thought you were dead, too. Avi
Wortzman outdid himself. He made it clear you were alive, but in such a way as
to arouse my suspicions. When I dug further and found evidence he had planted
that you were actually dead, he knew I’d buy it, congratulating myself for my
thoroughness. I had no idea there was yet another layer of deceit, and that you
were alive after all.”

Kovonov studied her expression
for several seconds. “Not even you knew about this, did you?” He shook his
head. “But of course you didn’t. Because you chose not to work with Wortzman.
Instead, you decided to freelance on Plum Island.”

He lifted the goblet of wine
from the table and drank from it once more. “Which brings me to how I learned
you were alive. And how I was able to capture you so easily. As much as I hate
to admit it, turns out I got a lucky break. Of course, no one else could have
taken advantage of it nearly as well as I have.”

“Are you going to congratulate
yourself all night,” said Rachel, “or are you going to actually tell us how you
found us?”

“I wouldn’t miss telling you for
the world. Turns out my lucky break came from the good Dr. Acosta. While I was visiting
her to crush her soul and further program her brain, she happened to mention
she had sent away for a genome analysis. Seemed funny to me, because she could
do this herself, and she didn’t seem the type. GeneScreen Associates,” he added
with a smirk. “Ever heard of them?”

Quinn noted approvingly that Rachel
didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, answering his taunt with
nothing but a look of contempt.

Kovonov continued. “Imagine my
surprise when my associate, Yosef Mizrahi—the recently deceased Yosef Mizrahi I
might add, since I finally don’t need him anymore—later confessed that he had sent his DNA out for analysis
also. To an outfit called GeneScreen Associates. I was driving when he told me
about it. Almost drove off the road I was so stunned.”

He shook his head. “First
Carmilla and now Yosef? This GeneScreen outfit must have a very persuasive
advertising program, don’t you think? I got a kick out of how upset Yosef was
by it all. He remembered getting a call that the results were ready to review,
and he remembered having sent away for them, but admitted it was a severe lapse
in judgment he couldn’t explain. He assured me he wouldn’t call back. He
apologized profusely for his carelessness, saying he had no idea what had come
over him.”

Kovonov raised his eyebrows.
“But I had an idea what had come over
him,” he said. “I knew exactly what it was.”

He nodded at Rachel, a look of
admiration on his face. “Someone had found a way to use my nanites for their
own ends. Even more remarkable, this someone had found a way to do this
remotely, over vast distances. Must have used a cell tower. This was just so ingenious.
There is only one person in the world who could have pulled it off. Not the
using the cell tower part, the knowing what to broadcast part. Only you,
Professor Howard. I already knew you were brilliant, but you really outdid
yourself this time.”

He paused to take another sip of
wine. “But even if you were alive, you couldn’t have done this if Agent Quinn
wasn’t alive also. So the reports of both
of your deaths must have been greatly exaggerated.”

Quinn couldn’t believe it. What
were the chances that both Carmilla and Yosef Mizrahi would mention GeneScreen Associates
in Kovonov’s  presence? Once again he
thought of Adolf Hitler surviving so many assassination attempts due to blind
luck. It seemed a cruel irony that people as despicable as Kovonov would catch
this kind of break.

“And once you figured out we
were still alive,” said Quinn, “you found a way to set a trap.”

“Very good,” said Kovonov.
“Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought.”

He turned back to Rachel. “My
sources were certain you weren’t in Israel, so I knew where you’d have to be to
make the progress you’ve made. Plum Island. I didn’t even need a fly drone to
spy on activities there. The Mossad hacked security on the island years ago,
allowing us to get the feeds from your own surveillance cameras.”

“Why?” said Quinn.

“Maybe you are as stupid as I thought,” said Kovonov. “Because Plum Island is
the center of America’s secret neuroscience research program. Of course we were
keeping tabs on US efforts. How could we not? When the American government was engaged
in its Manhattan Project, you’d better believe you were paying close attention
to Nazi efforts to build a nuclear bomb. Why would we do anything less? We
needed to see what the competition was up to.”

“In case you got tired of
stealing my work,” said Rachel.

Kovonov smiled icily. “You had
the theory, but I did the implementation. And this was the more difficult
achievement. But I do give you some of the credit for my breakthroughs.”

He drank the last of the wine and
set the goblet down on the table next to him. “But back to Plum Island,” he said.
“I took a long look at their security feeds. The Island is covered in video and
audio, with the exception of the inside of living quarters. Which I’m thankful
for,” he added, making a face. “I’ve put you on a bit of a pedestal, Professor
Howard. Seeing you go at Quinn like a porn star would really tarnish the image
I have of you.”

“If you had no eyes in my
apartment, what makes you think we had sex?”

“Give me some credit for knowing how to read body language,” he said,
shaking his head in disappointment at her behavior.

He paused to gather his thoughts. “So
after confirming where you were and getting the lay of the land, I had Yosef
call the GeneScreen number and allow himself to be found. Your men took the
bait right away as expected. While they
were following Yosef, all five of my mercenaries were following them.”

“What have you done with them?” snapped
Rachel.

“You know the answer, you’re
just afraid to admit it to yourself. They’re dead. All of them. I did spare one
in the first batch temporarily, a Lieutenant Bowen, so I could erase his recent
memories and implant those of my own choosing. Memories of a routine surveillance
of a farmhouse. Memories of orders from Major McLeod to contact Plum Island to bring
the rest of the gang along for the slaughter.”

Quinn wanted to scream, wanted
to spew molten hatred from his eyes strong enough to melt Kovonov where he
stood, but he forced himself to remain calm. Giving in to his rage wouldn’t
help him, or Rachel.

“As part of the orders Bowen remembered receiving from McLeod, he
also made sure that before your hemorrhoid guys flew off, they put out the
welcome mat for my team, so we could waltz onto the island and remove you.”
Kovonov grinned, quite pleased with himself. “And, finally, I had two of my men
lying in wait at the landing coordinates he provided to his comrades, about
fifty miles from here. The last members of your security team were gunned down while
you were on your way here, I’m afraid.”

As sick as Quinn was about these
revelations, there was no denying the effectiveness of Kovonov’s strategy. In
one fell swoop he had effortlessly managed to kill off the entire Prep H team,
have his own team invited to the island, and get Quinn to lower his guard to
such an extent that he was, literally, caught with his pants down.

“Not bad, right?” said Kovonov.
“The file on you, Agent Quinn, says your instincts for avoiding a trap are
legendary. But apparently not as good as my instincts are for setting one,” he added with a superior
smirk. “My men told me there was a champagne bottle on the table when they
entered. Let me guess. You were celebrating that you had found me and that I
was a sitting duck?”

He shook his head in mock regret.
“Sorry to have ruined your party, but your celebration may have been a bit
premature.”

Quinn saw that Rachel was
fighting to keep a cool head as well. Instead of cursing him for butchering good
men she had come to care for, she took the opposite approach. “You know you
haven’t been yourself,” she said, her tone displaying nothing but concern.
“Your colleagues told us you were a good man. Before the change brought about
by Matrix Learning. You can fight this. Remember who you were.”

Kovonov laughed. “I do remember
who I was. I was a good man. Now I’m
a better one. I like the new me. I
have no interest in going back to the sniveling existence I had before, when I
was incapable of being bold. But no danger of that. You’re the only person
alive who has a chance of reversing what happened. And you won’t be allowed to
. . . proceed.”

“Allowed to proceed or allowed
to live?” asked Rachel.

“I’m not sure yet. With proper
programming even you should be controllable. And what an addition you’d make to
my brain trust.” Kovonov winked. “And you aren’t half bad looking, either. Holing
up here is sure to get lonely. It would be nice to have some female
companionship, if you know what I mean.”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

“Come now, Professor Howard. We
both know that you wouldn’t have a choice. I could make you forget everything
you know about me. Replace your contempt with memories of adoration. Turn you
into a Dmitri Kovonov addict. Given
who you are there are risks involved, but I just might do that.” He glanced at
Quinn in disgust. “Although the idea of sloppy seconds makes this much less
appealing.”

Quinn’s jaw clenched so tightly
his teeth were in danger of breaking.

“Either way,” continued Kovonov,
“I don’t want a cure and I don’t need one. This change has freed me to do what
needs to be done without a conscience screwing up the equation.”

“What needs to be done!” said
Rachel. “What, like wiping religion from the human race?”

“You’re quite the detective,” said
Kovonov in amusement. “But I’m not surprised you knew about this. I did happen
to notice Carmilla was on the island with you. Apparently, whoever was manning the
GeneScreen hotline got to her in time to disrupt my little experiment.”

He reached toward the table next
to him, carefully avoiding the empty goblet he had set there, and lifted the rectangular
stainless steel container from its surface. He pressed a small indentation on
one edge and the lid slowly slid open, accompanied by an electric whirring
sound.

“The case may be a little
excessive,” he said, “but it is protecting precious cargo.”

He reached inside and removed a small
stainless steel vial, about the size of his thumb, from a cushioned cavity, and
held it up to his eye. “This is it,” he announced proudly. “The virus Carmilla
fabricated for me. She truly is a rare talent. Almost in your league, Professor
Howard. Before too long I’ll be able to make it contagious.”

“You tested it on those
evangelicals in the Cockaponset woods,” said Quinn, “didn’t you?”

“Very good,” said Kovonov,
genuinely impressed. “I’m surprised you made this connection.”

“So why kill them afterward?”
pressed Quinn. “You’d already stripped them of their belief. Wasn’t that enough
damage?”

“With this much at stake, I couldn’t
take any chances. I had kept them as prisoners for days, and they had all seen
my face.”

“You can’t do this!” said
Rachel. “The eradication of religiosity is a bridge too far. Even you must know
that.”

“I can do this!” replied Kovonov. “And I will! You understand better than anyone how effective this virus
will be. All twenty evangelicals exposed to it lost their faith. The interviews
were fascinating. Even those who pretended to still have a strong belief at the
end were called out by my lie detector. When pressed, they admitted they were
having significant second thoughts about it all. Each fooled themselves into
believing this change of heart had been the culmination of thoughts that had
been brewing just under the surface for years. As you well know, Professor, if
the unconscious mind makes a decision, the conscious mind strives to find a way
to make sense of it, to take credit for it. Just because my virus forced their
unconscious into losing faith, it worked the same way. I thought you would
appreciate this finding.”

“Well you were wrong!” said
Rachel in disgust. “What you did is unforgivable.
And when I said you can’t do this, I
wasn’t speaking literally. Of course the virus will work. I was saying you
can’t do this because of its impact on humanity. You know it will affect all
religions, all supernatural beliefs.”

“Of course I do,” he replied,
returning the small vial to the case and setting it back on the table.

“Do you have any idea what that
might do to our species?” she said. “The unintended consequences? The scientist
in you knows this propensity is there for a reason. We evolved it. It’s an
integral part of the human condition.”

“I agree it’s an evolved feature,”
said Kovonov. “But so what? It’s vestigial. We evolved tonsils, an appendix, and
wisdom teeth. These are no longer needed. Same is true of religion.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,”
insisted Rachel. “Our fear of the unknown is as great as ever. Our need for
religion as great as ever. It’s a tenet of human nature as fundamental as sex
or hunger. And you’re just going to rip it out by its roots? Erasing these
areas of our brains might ramp up the neuroses of our species to unsustainable
levels. Do you really think this is a good time to take that chance?”

She forced her expression to
soften. “I get your frustration with religion,” she continued more calmly. “It has caused a lot of harm. But the
importance of spirituality in human existence can’t be overemphasized. Only when this
spirituality impulse becomes entwined with a restrictive and dogmatic religious
creed are we threatened.”

Rachel paused, deciding on the best way to press
her argument further. “Do I wish there weren’t extremists who interpreted
their religion as a call to send civilization into the Dark Ages, to kill all
non-believers, to bring about the Apocalypse? Of course I do. And I wish I
didn’t have to go through long lines at airports, or learn about a terror attack
somewhere in the world almost every day. But what you’re planning isn’t the
answer. Religion can become bastardized, but so can everything. Islamic extremism is a cancer on religion. But if you
can’t excise the tumor, you don’t vaporize the entire patient. You contain the
tumor and wait for an immune response to kick in.”

“This isn’t just about a
too-literal interpretation of Islam,” said Kovonov. “Throughout history every religion has been antagonistic to every other. Because if one divine faith is true,
every other must be a lie. The history of our species contains endless examples
of religious tribalism, of conquests justified in the name of a Creator,
spurring on our violent tendencies and leading to massive bloodshed. Do
you know how many millions of people have been murdered in the name of Christ?
In the name of a savior who preached love and compassion and turn the other
cheek?”

“The crusades and pogroms were
many hundreds of years ago,” said Rachel defiantly. “The Christian religion has
now become the peaceful religion its deity intended. Through time, the same
will happen with Islamic extremists. If you could limit this to only the most
rabid extremists, stripping them of their core beliefs, of their passion for
jihad, this would be one thing. But you can’t. And I promise you that removing
all religiosity from the human species will only end in disaster. It will leave
a gaping hole in the human psyche that can never be filled.”

Kovonov smiled icily. “I guess we’ll soon get to find out.”

“Even if you strip religious belief from the jihadists,” said Rachel,
“this won’t stop the jihad. Not anymore. It’s been set in motion. For many it’s
all about their faith, but for many others it’s come to be about more than this.
About revenge, and hatred, and power. Once there is death and destruction on
both sides, it becomes self-fueling, the reasons that it began not important
anymore.”

“Now this is something I
can agree with,” said Kovonov. “Which is why the virus is only step two. Step one is to wipe out the current
generation of jihadists like so many cockroaches. Wipe the slate clean. Then introduce
the virus to prevent this cancer from ever growing back.”

“How do you plan to exterminate all jihadists?” said Quinn.

“I don’t. I plan to leave that to the most powerful military force
the world has ever seen. It’s your
country that will end this worldwide threat, once and for all.”

“Not a chance,” said Quinn. “Our people—our leaders—haven’t shown an appetite to devote the boots on the ground and
financial resources needed to even dent this threat, let alone eliminate it.”

“They just haven’t been properly motivated yet,” said Kovonov
ominously.

Quinn had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Are you
saying you’re going to supply the
motivation?”

“I am, indeed,” said Kovonov smugly. “In just about two hours from
now, the instant the clock strikes midnight in your nation’s capitol, the San
Francisco Bay Area will no longer exist. It will suffer a nuclear detonation.
For a brief instant, it will become hotter than the sun, with only a mushroom
cloud to mark where a thriving city once stood.”

He stared at Quinn with a grim intensity. “How’s that for proper
motivation?”

69

Quinn was reeling. Could it be?
Was this madman’s true plan even worse than the elimination of all religious
belief? It was too horrible to even contemplate.

Just a short time earlier he and
Rachel had thought they were on the brink of stopping Kovonov cold. Now Quinn knew
his own life expectancy could be measured in days, at most, and that not only
was Kovonov untouched, he was crazier and more dangerous than ever.

Quinn shook his head as he came
to his senses. What was he thinking? Of course this last threat wasn’t true, regardless
of how resourceful and formidable Kovonov had shown himself to be.

“You’ve finally gone full bore
delusional,” he said. “Just getting a nuclear device into San Francisco would
be all but impossible. But you’re asking us to believe that you not only
managed this, but also orchestrated events so ISIS will take the fall for it?”

“Believe what you want,” said Kovonov.
“But that’s exactly what is about to happen.”

“How?” said Rachel.

“Glad you asked,” replied
Kovonov. “Remember Kim Jong-un? He may have been a psychotic imbecile, but he
had some people working for him who were exceedingly competent. You’ll find
this hard to believe, but they managed to sneak nuclear devices into six of
your cities several years back. Israel learned about this at the eleventh hour
from our fly drones. We were just able to stop them in time. And then we killed
Kim Jong-un. You have Israel to thank for averting a catastrophe and removing
an enemy from the board. But these nuclear devices remained in place.”

Quinn whitened. This threat had
suddenly become much more believable.

Kovonov studied his prisoners
with great interest, noting that both of them now looked like they had seen a ghost.
“Wortzman disclosed this to you already, didn’t he? I can tell from your
reaction.”

Quinn nodded woodenly. “He did.”

“Interesting,” said Kovonov. “I
never guessed my old boss would come clean about so much. Good. Now you know
I’m telling the truth. To continue, we only managed to stop North Korea because
we were able to get the detonation codes and change them at the last moment. We
later managed to remove five of the six devices in secret and transport them back
to Israel to add to our own arsenal. Which took some doing, I might add.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The
sixth, in San Francisco, had been embedded in the foundation of a skyscraper
that was being constructed at the time. There was no way for us to remove this
one without being obvious. Wortzman was adamant that we not tell your
government about stopping North Korea, which meant we couldn’t say anything
about the device. If we did, Wortzman worried it would raise too many questions
about our capabilities that he didn’t want to answer.”

“So you just left it there?” whispered
Quinn, feeling hollow, sickened.

“Why not? We were the only ones
with the activation codes and we wouldn’t use them under any circumstances.
Only a few people in all of Israel knew that this was the case, and the codes
were deleted from every database we had. All except one.”

“Which you found,” said Quinn.

Kovonov nodded. “I’ve had them for some
time now. But very recently I freed a member of ISIS’s military council who was
being held here in America. A man named al-Bilawy. He’s still in this country, and
I’ve programmed him to set off the nuke. But before he does this, he’ll make it
absolutely clear to your government that he and ISIS are responsible.”

He paused, seeming to enjoy the
horrified reaction of his audience.

“Not that he wouldn’t have been
thrilled to do this without any programming,” continued Kovonov, “but I wanted
to make sure he got your attention in the proper way. In just a few hours, he
will kick awake a sleeping giant. I’ll admit, the kick will be much more
painful than I would have liked. But then again, the giant is in a coma.”

He nodded proudly. “Once America is
awake, your country will flip on the light switch to reveal the full extent of
the cockroach infestation, and you will exterminate them once and for all. You
will finally worry more about the future of civilization than about political
correctness or possible collateral damage. America will turn its awesome might
to a scorched earth campaign deploying every missile, plane, and pair of boots
on the ground available to it.”

He paused for several seconds as if
visualizing this glorious future in his mind. “Then, once you’ve wiped the
slate clean and destroyed the caliphate, I’ll release my virus and make sure this
tumor never grows back.”

Kovonov nodded slowly. “And it all
begins in just a few hours in the City by the Bay.”

Tears welled up in Rachel Howard’s
eyes. “How can you do this?” she whispered, barely managing to get the words
out. “How can you kill millions of innocents like this?”

“If that’s what it takes to wake
the US up to the threat, I’m doing you and the world a favor. Believe me, if
not for Israel, San Francisco would have already been lost. Along with five
other American cities. And if I didn’t initiate this, the real jihadists would
very soon. The global caliphate has been allowed to grow too strong and too
bold. Your leaders have their heads buried so deep in the sand it’s inevitable.
I know you think I’m a monster, but I’m just speeding it along, amputating an
arm to save a life. Like Hiroshima, I’m taking innocent lives to spare even
more.”

“Yeah, you’re quite the humanitarian,”
spat Quinn.

“Just so you know, I did set
this up to give your country an out. But Davinroy failed to take it, as I knew
he would. He’s a jackass and a weakling. I made sure al-Bilawy gave him plenty
of notice. I made sure Davinroy knew that he couldn’t stop the detonation. In
this case, the only option he had was to begin a preemptive strike against
ISIS. Throw everything at them, including nuclear weapons, until they agreed to
call off their dog.”

“But this al-Bilawy isn’t their dog,” said Quinn. “He’s
yours.”

“True, but your president
doesn’t know that. Had he acted quickly with a preemptive strike, I would have
stopped al-Bilawy myself. But of course Davinroy did nothing. He continues to
live down to my every expectation. And San Francisco will have to pay the price
for his incompetence, his inaction.”

“You will go down in history in
the same breath as Stalin and Hitler,” said Quinn.

“I don’t care how history judges
me,” said Kovonov. “These other men sought global domination. I do what I do to
prevent global domination.”

He shook his head. “As much fun
as this has been, Agent Quinn, it’s time for you to leave. While I prefer to
have companionship while I await America’s awakening, Dr. Howard will do just
fine. And with you here, I can’t help but feel like a third wheel. I’m sure you
understand.”

“Fuck you!” spat Quinn.

“No thanks,” said Kovonov. “But
when Dr. Howard makes this same offer, you can believe I’ll take her up on it.”

Quinn fought against his
restraints, even knowing it was useless, but retained just enough presence of
mind to stop before he injured himself.

Kovonov waited patiently for him
to settle back down. When he had, Kovonov reached into Quinn’s front pocket and
removed his cell phone. “While I was spying on Plum Island I heard McLeod tell
his men that the phones he issued to you were untraceable, even by him. I asked
my men not to destroy your phones when you were captured so I could study them.
Just curious how these compare to Israeli models.” He smiled. “In case you
didn’t know, I happen to have a PhD level of knowledge in electronics,
cryptography, and counter-surveillance.”

“Of course you do,” said Quinn.

“I also want to study you, Agent
Quinn. So I set up a makeshift lab a half mile from here. I’m going to have one
of my hired guns take you there now so I can complete a few choice experiments.”

“Do these experiments include
torturing me to death?”

“Maybe,” said Kovonov with a
shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to see how cooperative you are.”

***

Kovonov sent a text to one of
his mercenaries and a few minutes later left the prisoners alone so he could
meet with the man in the pitch-darkness beyond the cabin.

“I want you to come inside and
remove Kevin Moore from the premises,” he explained. “I told him you’d be
escorting him to a separate lab facility. So pretend that’s what you’re doing. If
he thinks he’ll be allowed to live he won’t be inclined to try something
desperate.”

“What do you really want me to
do with him?”

“Take him to the banks of the
river. To the grave your men dug for my, ah . . . fallen comrade earlier today.
Then kill him. The hole is big enough for them both. I didn’t have you fill it
in earlier for a reason.”

“Any other reasons to leave it
open I should know about?”

“None,” said Kovonov. “Finish
burying the bodies and make sure the gravesite blends in with the surroundings.”

He paused. “On another note, I
trust everyone on your team is currently manning their posts?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I don’t expect any
trouble, but I tend to be overcautious. I need you and your men on high alert
until midnight. After that you can get by with a single sentry while the rest
of you get some sleep. ”

“Understood,” said the
mercenary. “But back to this execution. You do realize that every kill triggers
the hundred grand bonus, even if the target is wrapped up with a bow. You can
do this yourself if you want to save the money. Your call.”

“I’m aware of the terms of our
agreement,” said Kovonov. “If I wasn’t planning to pay your bonus, I wouldn’t
have given you the assignment. Just get it done as soon as possible. No
hesitation.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

70

As the mercenary led Quinn away from the cabin the
darkness became a living entity, enveloping and relentless. The man became
impatient as his prisoner’s pace slowed to a crawl, the lack of even starlight
forcing Quinn to pick his way forward like a blind man without a cane or guide
dog.

The merc finally shoved a penlight into Quinn’s hands,
which were cuffed tightly together with a zip-tie. “Use this,” he instructed,
backing up and continuing to keep a gun pointed at his prisoner’s back. “We
don’t have all night.”

The man Kovonov had assigned to take Quinn to an
offsite lab was wearing the latest night vision goggles, so advanced they were
no longer bulky but looked like goggles a swimmer might use, not to mention being
more effective than past models at turning the night into a neon green day.

“Stay close,” he told Quinn. “If we get separated by
more than two yards you’ll be killed. And not by me.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just stay close.”

They continued walking through the woods, the night
air a perfect temperature. Quinn shined the penlight on the terrain in front of
him as he picked his way between trees and over aboveground roots that bulged
up from the dirt like giant worms. The buzz of insects and the hooting of an
owl punctuated the silence, and Quinn thought he could hear the faint rush of a
river from the direction they were heading.

“What’s your
name?” said Quinn after several minutes had gone by.

“Why? So we can become buddies?”

“So I don’t have to address you as hey fuckhead.”

The mercenary couldn’t help but smile. “I’m Daniel
Bell.”

Quinn wasn’t sure this was his real name, but it was
as good as any. “Thanks, Daniel. How much do you know about your boss? The man
you call 302?”

“I know he pays ridiculously well. That’s all I have
to know.”

“Actually,”
said Quinn, “you need to know more. I assume you aren’t aware that he’s about
to nuke San Francisco. In just under two hours it will be slag, and millions of
people will be dead.”

Bell laughed. “Sure they will. He’s going to nuke California
from his cabin in the Pennsylvania woods. Let me guess. He’ll be launching an ICBM
from his bedroom.”

“I know how it sounds. But it’s true. Why do you think
he wouldn’t let any of you in the room while he was talking with us? So you
wouldn’t know what he’s really doing. The device is already there, and he has a
guy who can set it off remotely. At midnight our time. But your boss knows
where to find this guy, so it isn’t too late to stop him.”

Quinn halted and turned to face the merc. “Help me,”
he pleaded. “Help save millions of lives. Help yourself. What do you think the US government will do to reward you
for saving San Francisco? I promise
you at least ten times what your boss is paying you. Not to mention you get to
save more lives than any man in history.”

Daniel Bell shook his head in contempt. “That’s really
the best story you can come up with?” he said, gesturing for Quinn to resume
walking. “You should have told me my employer was an alien from the planet Jupiter.
Now that I might have believed,” he
finished, laughing at his own joke.

“You’re right. I could have made up a hundred stories
more believable than this one. Why do you think I didn’t? Because this one is
the truth!”

“Save your breath. There’s no way I’ll ever believe
you.”

Quinn realized his efforts were futile. There was no
chance he could convince this man to help him save San Francisco. But perhaps
he could salvage a minor victory. “After midnight, you’ll learn I was telling
the truth,” he said, his voice hollow. “You’ll learn you could have averted the
most horrific event of all time but chose not to. When this happens, at least
take out your boss. Promise me that you’ll kill him for committing this
atrocity.”

“Sure,” replied Bell. “If San Francisco is vaporized
exactly at midnight, I’ll take him out. Free of charge. Satisfied?”

“You think you’re humoring me. But just remember your
promise.”

The sound of rushing water had become louder and
louder as they proceeded and they finally reached the banks of a river. Bell
led his prisoner to a ditch. Quinn trained his penlight on the open gravesite
and made out a body that couldn’t have been there long, one that had belonged
to Yosef Mizrahi.

“There is no lab, is there?” said Quinn. “I can’t say
I’m surprised. So what, you’re just going to kill me now?”

“I’m afraid so,” said the merc, backing away a few
more feet to stay out of range of a possible desperation attack. “My employer
doesn’t seem to like you.”

“Shoot me, then,” said Quinn in resignation. “At least
I won’t have to live to see the coming horror. Just remember your promise.”

“I will,” said Daniel Bell pleasantly, giving no
indication that he was seconds away from gunning down a man in cold blood.

Quinn shut his eyes tightly and braced for the end, wondering
if there really was an afterlife, and if there was anything more he could have
done to prevent a cataclysmic event that was now unavoidable.

71

A deafening shot exploded throughout the woods. Quinn
fell to his knees, surprised that the bullet that killed him had brought no
pain in its wake.

He heard a thud behind him and his eyes shot open. He
was still alive!

He pointed the penlight toward the sound. The mercenary
who had called himself Daniel Bell had fallen to the dirt, a river of blood spurting
from a gaping hole in his chest.

A man emerged from behind a tree holding an automatic
pistol and wearing night vision goggles of his own. “Jesus, Kevin, how many
times am I going to have to save your life?”

Quinn’s eyes widened. “Eyal?” he said in disbelief. “Eyal
Regev?”

“I’m touched that you remember,” said the Israeli,
producing a combat knife and cutting Quinn’s hands free.

“How are you here?”

“Rachel is critical to us. I knew you had Black Ops
connections, and figured she might end up on Plum Island. After I confirmed
this suspicion, I’ve been living in the Hamptons in case I was needed. I hired
three mercenaries to stay close and on call.”

“And I’m guessing you’ve been watching us through Plum
Island’s own security feeds.”

“Yes. The Mossad’s kept a close eye on this facility
for years. How did you know?”

“Kovonov. He spied on us the same way.”

“I told Wortzman where you were, but he’s the only one,”
said the Israeli as he began to frisk Bell’s corpse. “He agreed that until he
could root out any moles in the Mossad, keeping Rachel’s whereabouts between the
two of us would better ensure her safety.”

The Israeli handed Quinn the dead mercenary’s gun and
night vision goggles and pocketed his cell phone for future intelligence
gathering. “I have no idea how Kovonov learned you were alive,” he said.
“Shocked the hell out of me when he moved on you. Sorry it took us so long to
get here. We had to land the helicopter farther out than Kovonov and be
more careful in our approach.”

“We?”

“I brought my guns for hire.”

Quinn nodded. “Well, for my money,
your timing couldn’t have been better,” he said, sliding the goggles over his
eyes. “Kovonov has Rachel in the cabin east of us. Just the two of them. She
should be fine for at least the next few hours.” A haunted look came over his face.
“And we’ve learned what Kovonov is up to.”

“Yeah, I caught that during my surveillance,”
said Regev. “An anti-religion virus. I never would have believed it.”

“More than that, Eyal. Much more. You
guys didn’t happen to leave a Korean nuke in San Francisco, did you?”

“No!” said Regev in horror,
understanding the implications immediately. “It can’t be!”

“It can be. Kovonov got the detonation codes. He’s orchestrated things
so the blame goes to ISIS, to galvanize America into wiping them out. It goes
off at midnight. We can still stop it, but we need Kovonov alive to do it.”

Regev waved his arms in a
prearranged signal. Seconds later three men emerged from the woods, each having
been completely concealed by the darkness and the trees, and joined Quinn and
Regev by the open grave.

“The good news is that your pay
just doubled,” began Regev, addressing his three hires. “The bad news is that we
have a tough mission ahead of us. One that couldn’t be more important.”

He turned to Quinn. “We’re not sure
how far out from the cabin you were when we began following you, but we didn’t
see anyone else. How many men are protecting Kovonov?”

“Kovonov mentioned five, and this
was my count also. The men who brought us from Plum Island and the guy you just
killed. So now we’re down to four.”

“Good,” said Regev. “Our odds are
excellent. Five of us. Four of them. And we’ll have plenty of cover and the
element of surprise.”

“Can we still surprise them?” asked one of the
mercenaries. “They’ll have heard the gunshot.”

“They were expecting that,” said Quinn. “With me as
the target.” He gestured toward Bell’s body. “Assuming he was planning to fill
in the grave when he was done, they won’t be expecting him back for a while.”

“But from now on,” said Regev, “we need to
limit ourselves to silenced weapons. We should be able to take the rest of them
out and get to the cabin without too much trouble. But here’s the tricky part. Once
we do, we have two mission parameters that absolutely have to be met. The cabin
contains one man and one woman. Dmitri Kovonov and Rachel Howard. First, we
have to take Kovonov alive. Second, we have to do this while making sure he
doesn’t kill Rachel Howard. Both are equally critical.”

“You think he’ll try to kill her as
a last-ditch act?” said one of the mercs.

“Very possibly.”

“What if taking out Kovonov is the
only way to save the woman?” asked the same man.

“Just make sure it doesn’t come to
that!” barked Regev.

Realizing this wasn’t helpful he paused
for a moment and then added, “Capture him alive without Rachel being harmed and
your pay will be quadrupled.”

“That’s a generous incentive,” said
the merc. “But what if it does come to that, despite our best efforts?”

Regev and Quinn exchanged pained
glances. Quinn was falling in love with the Harvard neuroscientist and Regev
was convinced she represented Israel’s best hope for avoiding a meltdown. But
they had to prevent the nuclear device from being detonated. This was the
coldest of equations, but the answer to this question was clear.

“Kovonov must remain alive,” spat
Regev bitterly, disgusted by a universe that would force him to speak these
words. “Even at the expense of Rachel Howard.”

72

“Are we ready to do this?” said Regev.

The four men with him made it clear that they were.

“Let’s make this count,” he said. “I’ll take point.
Kevin, you take the rear. The rest of you fan out behind me, but not so far as
to lose sight of anyone. Far enough apart that if one of us is spotted, we
aren’t all spotted, but close enough that we don’t risk friendly fire.”

Regev paused in thought. “We’ll pick them off one by
one. When all four are down we’ll regroup outside the front door of the cabin
and I’ll give you further instructions.”

These orders were acknowledged and the group set off
through the woods with Regev in the lead. The Israeli moved like this was an exercise
he practiced twice a day. He glided silently through the woods like a panther,
his night vision goggles replacing gleaming eyes, every bit as stealthy as this
masterful predator.

When Regev got to within fifty yards of the cabin he
identified the first of Kovonov’s mercenaries and fired a silenced round. Even
though a silencer interfered with accuracy he managed a clean head shot and his
target collapsed to the ground.

One down. Three more to go.

Regev began to advance toward the cabin once again
when he heard screams behind him. He whirled around to witness all hell
breaking loose.

Bright ropes of laser light seared the night sky, their
origin unclear, and skewered the three mercenaries multiple times. Two were
killed instantly by tunnels that were burned straight through their bodies, the
diameter of quarters. The third had been severely wounded and tried to run from
this unseen enemy, but he managed only a few steps before a blinding laser
pierced his chest and he fell to the hard soil.

All three had been killed in seconds.

Quinn, watching this carnage from the rear, rushed forward
to take cover behind a tree when one of the beams found him, boring a large hole
through his left arm. His instinct was to run to get out of danger, but as he
began to move Regev launched his body at him and he was driven backward, away
from the cabin.

So much blood poured from his limp arm that he was
already growing weak as Regev quickly rolled off of him and pulled them both
behind a cluster of trees.

“Shit!” whispered the Israeli, still out of breath
from sprinting to tackle Quinn. He reached into one pocket and removed a full aerosol
can of wound sealant, along with a sterile package that contained a combination
of wound dressing and bandage, and went to work on his American friend to
staunch the flow of blood.

“He’s deployed Lase-Net,” said Regev, speaking rapidly
and barely loud enough for Quinn to hear. “A tech our learning enhanced
scientists just perfected. It’s a set of self-installing drones the size of your
hand that contain advanced AI. Release dozens of these around a perimeter you
want protected and they disperse into trees. They scan for human heat signatures.
When they find one in range they check if it’s friend or foe. If foe, they laser
it to death.”

“How do they know the difference?” whispered Quinn as
Regev continued to administer first aid.

“One way is to set the system to recognize friendly
phones.”

Quinn thought about this for a moment. “Which is why you
were immune,” he whispered. “You had Bell’s phone with you.”

Regev nodded. “The system can be set to ignore someone
moving in close conjunction with a friendly, in case you want to escort a
prisoner through the kill zone. If the prisoner tries to escape, he gets fried.”

Quinn realized this explained Bell’s warning not to
get more than two yards ahead of him. He vaguely recalled the US was working on
something similar, but it was a number of years from being realized. Once
again, Israel had eaten America’s lunch technologically.

The reason Regev had tackled him was now clear. When the
Israeli had realized what was happening, and that Quinn was the only one who
hadn’t entered the laser kill zone, he had raced back to make sure he stayed
out of range.

“What now?” whispered Quinn. “Now we’re outnumbered, three
against two. Or maybe three against one and a half,” he added, nodding toward
his injured arm.

“Wait here,” said Regev under his breath. “These mercs
won’t venture beyond the laser perimeter and give up their advantage. I’ll take
one out and bring you back his phone as soon as I can, so we’re both immune.”

Regev unscrewed the silencer from his gun, since
surprise was no longer an option, and disappeared without another word, as
catlike as ever. Less than a minute later gunfire could be heard in random
locations as Regev fired, moved quickly to another location, and fired again,
trying to confuse his foes about his position and giving them a sense they were
up against a greater force than they actually were.

This strategy was working beautifully as far as Quinn could
tell. Regev seemed to be in five places at once. Shoot, move, shoot, move—he circled around and
doubled back like a deft boxer in a two-acre ring.

Five minutes later he returned, hopping on one leg and
using trees to steady himself. He had successfully downed one of the mercs, but
one of the other two had gotten the drop on him while he was retrieving the
fallen soldier’s phone for Quinn. His advanced body armor had protected his
torso but he had been hit twice in the right leg, and much of this limb now
looked like hamburger.

Regev tossed a phone to his American partner.

“How many down?” whispered Quinn as he pocketed the
phone and joined the Israeli.

“Just one, I’m afraid.”

“Can you apply wound sealant and bandages on your own?”

“Yes,” whispered Regev. “Go!” he added, knowing that
since he was now the more injured their roles had reversed.

Quinn cut through the trees, his left arm hanging
uselessly by his side. He paused to wait out a brief bout of dizziness brought
on by loss of blood, which had been slowed considerably but not completely stemmed,
and then continued. As he did so he picked up the faintest sound of movement to
his right as one of the remaining mercs attempted to outflank him, and caught
the neon green image of the man ducking behind a tree.

Quinn rushed away from the cabin and to his left,
putting a number of trees between him and his adversary. He circled back
silently and threw a pebble to the right of his quarry, a tactic as old as time
yet almost always effective. The mercenary instinctively swiveled toward the
sound and as he did so Quinn emerged from behind a tree and put a bullet into
his head.

He was rushing back to Regev, who was just completing
his self-administered first aid, when the last mercenary emerged from a tree
behind the Israeli.

“Eyal, dive!” screamed Quinn frantically.

Regev used his good leg to launch himself five feet to
the left, crashing into the hard soil as a shot missed him by inches. Quinn rolled,
firing three times as he did. Only one of the shots hit the target, but it did
so with deadly effectiveness.

He raced to the fallen merc, kicked his gun away, and
then checked for a pulse.

“He’s gone,” said Quinn. “That’s all of them.”

He held out his right hand to pull Regev up. “I guess
we’re even now.”

“Even?” rasped
Regev weakly, managing the faintest of smiles to go along with his feigned
outrage. “I saved you three times. You saved me once.”

“Well, if you want to get technical about it,” said Quinn wryly as he finished pulling Regev
to a standing position.

The Israeli may have managed to seal and bandage his wounds
while Quinn was gone, but he was in bad shape. “Put your arm around me and use
me as a crutch,” said Quinn. “On my left so I can still shoot.”

The Israeli did as he was instructed and Quinn pulled
him along to the cabin, the dizziness returning. He whispered his plan to Regev
as they moved. He led the Israeli to the front window and left him there to use
it as a crutch while he returned to the front door, approaching from the side.

Quinn drew in a deep breath and signaled to Regev. The
moment the Israeli acknowledged the signal he shot through the lock and dived
away from the door, an instant before a volley of automatic fire emerged from
the cabin that would have turned him into a sieve if he had remained where he
was. A moment later Regev shot the window, shattering it, and dropped to the
ground as a volley of bullets was sent his way, also.

“Come in here and Rachel Howard is dead!” shouted
Kovonov after all gunfire had ceased. As Quinn had hoped, when Kovonov realized
there were at least two men outside, men who had somehow defeated both his
laser perimeter and mercenaries, he had given up trying to fight his way out.

The Israeli had pulled himself to a sitting position
but he looked to be on the verge of losing consciousness. Quinn didn’t think he
would last much longer, which was a big problem.

“Your plan has failed!” shouted Quinn with all of his
strength. “Tell us where to find your puppet in time to stop him.”

“That’s never going to happen!” shouted Kovonov. “No
matter what.”

“There are four of us out here who know you’re
responsible,” said Quinn. “So you’ve failed. Millions will die, but you’ll be blamed. Not ISIS.”

With his last vestiges of energy, trying to sound
strong, Regev shouted two sentences. The first was in Hebrew, but then
realizing it might be important for Quinn to know what he was saying, he switched
over to English. “Tell us how to stop this, leave Rachel in peace, and we’ll
let you escape.”

“Agent Regev?”
said Kovonov in shock. “Is that really you?”

Kovonov laughed. “You’re out there with agents of the Mossad, Agent Quinn?” he said derisively,
his tone now suggesting he felt he had regained the upper hand. “Do you really think
your new friends are going to tell the world an Israeli was behind this?”

Quinn glanced over at Regev who now appeared to have finally
lost consciousness.

“Why not?” shouted Quinn. “Israel won’t be blamed.
We’ll make sure they know you were acting alone. That you had become insane.”

Kovonov laughed. “You can’t really be that naive.
Israel gets blamed for all the ills
of the world. We’ve saved you from six nuclear detonations, but that won’t
matter. Even knowing I went rogue, Israel will get blamed, and Davinroy will
let it happen. Scapegoating Israel has become an international sport. You
aren’t even Jewish, Quinn, but surely you must know this is true.”

Quinn did know. Kovonov was right. It was impossible
to miss. Radicalized Muslims cut off heads, burned people alive, and treated women
like vermin, even killing them for trying to go to school. But the UN—packed with Islamic
countries—spent
all of its time condemning Israel for
human rights violations, ignoring atrocities committed in Muslim nations
hundreds of times worse than any supposed Israeli offenses.

“So my plan goes forward,” shouted Kovonov with
absolute conviction. “And you can choose. You can tell the truth, and blame me.
Or you can let ISIS take the fall, and let this be a catalyst to eliminate a
threat you know has to be stopped before it destroys civilization.”

Quinn was fading fast. Given this turn of events, he
was now certain he had no chance to stop the nuke from detonating, no matter
what he did. His best bet was to try to at least save Rachel before he
collapsed. If he didn’t resolve this soon he and Regev were both dead, and
Rachel was lost.

“Okay, you win!” he shouted as the world continued to
spin around him. “You’re right. We can’t let Israel take the fall. But here are
your choices. We can storm in and
fill you with holes, risking that Rachel will be hit in the crossfire. Or you can
leave her and your virus behind and exit through the back door. We give our
word we won’t follow.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. But it’s the truth. And if you want to
live it’s your only choice. We’re breaching in exactly one minute, regardless.”

A minute passed without a response.

It was now or never, Quinn decided. He could well be
walking into a curtain of bullets, but he had run out of options. He stumbled
through the door, expecting to be cut down like a weed, but no gunfire came.

Kovonov had left through the back door. Rachel was
still zip-tied to the chair, her mouth once again sealed with duct tape, but
very much healthy and alive. His eyes welled up with tears upon seeing her.

The Land Rover keys were still on the hook by the
door, and Quinn noted that the virus container was still on the table. Kovonov
had decided to trust that Quinn would honor his word if he stuck to the
bargain.

He cut Rachel loose as the last bit of adrenaline he
possessed shot into his depleted bloodstream, allowing him to remain conscious
for just a few minutes longer.

73

Rachel drove away from the cabin
and followed her phone’s directions to the nearest grocery store twenty minutes
away, which had closed more than an hour earlier. After Quinn had rescued her,
he had managed to help her load Regev into the Land Rover and had seatbelted himself
in before finally blacking out.

Kovonov’s stainless steel
container was on the floor of the passenger’s seat and she had confirmed that
the vial of virus was still snugly inside.

When she hit a main artery that
would take her most of the way to her destination she instructed her phone to sync
itself to the car’s speaker system and call Cris Coffey’s emergency number. The
call went directly to voice mail.

“Cris, call me back immediately!”
she said, unable to keep the panic from her voice. “I promise this is the most urgent
call you’ve ever gotten.”

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

Two men she cared deeply about
were dying beside her and San Francisco was about to be vaporized, and no Cris
Coffey. Without him she couldn’t reach the president, and without this there
was no hope.

She made it to the grocery store
in fifteen minutes, just after eleven. Time zero was in less than an hour.

She pulled into the dark, empty
parking lot. Just as she was shutting off the engine the phone rang.

“Rachel, where are you?” blurted
out Coffey when she had accepted the call. “I heard you were taken from the
island. Are you okay?”

“I’m at the Healthy Foods
Grocery on Elm Street,” she replied, relieved that he had finally gotten back
to her. “Near Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  First
things first: Kevin Quinn and Eyal Regev are both with me. Badly injured. Can
you scramble a Black medevac helicopter to get these men medical attention and get
us out of here?”

“Eyal Regev? What is he doing there? How badly is Kevin
wounded?”

“No time for questions, Cris.
Can you get us a medevac?”

“Yes. Hold tight. I’ll be back
on the line shortly.”

Three minutes later Coffey
returned. “Your ride will land in the parking lot in about an hour. It’s the
best I could do. It’ll have a doctor on board and will be prepared for incoming
wounded.”

“Thanks, Cris. Now I need Davinroy.
Immediately! San Francisco is about to be destroyed, but I think I can stop it.
Get me through to Davinroy!”

“How do you know about San
Francisco?”

“Long story, and we may be out
of time already. Get me Davinroy!”

“I can’t. He’s on board a
specialized aircraft for use during a nuclear threat. I wasn’t on duty at the
time or I’d be up there, but they’ve battened down the hatches. Full-on
emergency mode. No way I get through to him now. Last I heard, hours ago, was
that he had a call scheduled with the terrorist at 11:30 and was confident he
could buy a reprieve. But Davinroy only sees the distorted view of reality he
wants to see, so I doubt this is true.”

“You’re right. The attack is going
forward no matter what he does. Do you have any contacts who could break through to him?”

“I’m sorry, Rachel, but no power
on Earth will get you Davinroy’s ear before midnight.”

“Okay Cris, I’m forced to try
plan B. Gotta go.”

“Good luck,” said Cris Coffey solemnly.

Rachel took a deep breath and
called the emergency number Regev had given her before they had parted ways in
Waltham. It was picked up by a woman on the first ring, answering in Hebrew.

“Do you speak English?” said
Rachel.

“Of course. You’ve reached the Jerusalem
Trading Company. How can I help you?”

“My name is Rachel Howard. I was
told to call this number in an emergency. I need to speak with Avi Wortzman
right away.”

“Please hold,” said the woman.
She came back on the line only a few seconds later. “Yes, we have you on our
list, Dr. Howard. Can you tell me the nature of the emergency? It’s six fifteen
in the morning here.”

“I don’t care what time it is!
Get me Wortzman! Wake him and get him on the line! I was told I rated top treatment.
This is the mother of all emergencies.”

“Please hold for Avi Wortzman,”
said the woman evenly.

Two minutes later Wortzman was
on the line. “Rachel? Are you okay? Where is Eyal? I’ve been up for hours,
waiting to hear from him.”

“He and Quinn are injured, but
they got us away from Kovonov.”

“Thank God.”

“Were you aware Kovonov has a puppet
about to blow the Korean nuke you left buried in San Francisco?”

“What?” replied Wortzman in dismay. “No,” he mumbled. “I had no idea.
This is worse than I feared. Davinroy boarded an E-4B and is in the air, so I
knew something big was brewing. But this is unspeakable.
What could he be thinking?”

“It’s set to go off at midnight,
in about forty-five minutes. His plan is for ISIS to get the blame so the US
will wipe them out. I might be able to stop it, but I can’t get through to Davinroy.”

“At this point, even I can’t
help you with that.”

“I know. But I believe you can
do what I needed Davinroy to do. I need you to take over the US cell phone grid.”

“What makes you think we have this
capability?”

“Can you or can’t you? No
bullshit. Millions of lives are at stake. Don’t tell me about political
fallout, or strained relations. You guys all spy on each other and play stupid
games. I’m sure you know how to screw with each others’ electrical and
communications grids, even though you’re allies.”

There was a long pause, during
which Rachel held her breath.

“Yes,” said Wortzman finally. “I
can do that.”

Rachel threw her head back over
the car’s headrest in relief, exhaling loudly. “Awesome!” she said to the Land
Rover’s ceiling. “How long will it take?”

“Probably under an hour.”

“That’s not good enough. Get it
done in thirty minutes. I’m sending a short file to you now. Once you have
control of the grid, ramp up the transmission strength to its highest level and
broadcast the signals specified in the file right away. Repeat it over and over
until just past midnight in Washington DC. Understood?”

“Why?”

“Too long to explain. But
there’s a chance it can save San Francisco. Promise me you’ll get it done.”

“I will,” said Wortzman
solemnly. “In thirty minutes or less,” he added as he ended the call.

Rachel remained in the parked
Land Rover and immediately called Karen Black, waking her from a sound sleep.

“Rachel, are you okay?” she
mumbled, the third person in a row who had asked this same question. Her voice strengthened
as adrenaline drove her fully awake. “I heard you and Kevin had disappeared.
What happened?”

“No time to explain. I need you
to get Carmilla and take her to the MRI room. Close it up and stay with her
there until 12:15.”

“What?”

“Please! Just do it! Trust me.
Get her inside, close the door and don’t let her out for any reason until
12:15. I’ll explain later, but this could not be more critical.”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Karen!” she said. “I’ll
explain soon,” she added as she ended the call.

With this done, Rachel exited
the vehicle and popped the hatch. She opened a recessed compartment and
unscrewed a tire iron attached to a spare tire. She approached the glass entrance
to the grocery store, using her phone’s flashlight app to light the way, and
stood to the side, swinging the tire iron for all she was worth.

The glass was largely shatterproof,
but after five or six blows she managed to forge a hole large enough for her to
get through. She braced herself for the earsplitting sound of alarms, but none
came. Much to her great relief the dark night remained quiet.

Rachel rushed through the store
searching for the kitchenware aisle. Being in a grocery that was as dark as a
cave was unsettling, but no more so than anything else she’d been through that night.

She found the aisle she was
looking for and illuminated the aluminum foil offerings with her phone. She
chose the widest roll available—eighteen inches—and noted that it was
twenty-five feet long. More than enough for her needs.

Clutching her bounty, Rachel
Howard returned to the car, dropped the tire iron to the pavement, and managed
to slide Quinn to the ground beside it. She began to wrap aluminum foil over
every square inch of his head, lifting it gently when necessary, and continued
this process all the way to the bottom of his ribcage, turning his upper half
into a silvery mummy. She repeated this procedure a second time for good
measure, making sure to provide enough ventilation for him to breathe.

With this completed she sat on
the pavement beside a man she was coming to love and stared at the night sky.

How had it come to this? Two men
she cared about deeply were dying nearby and all she could do was wait for Armageddon,
dependent on the head of the Mossad to seize control of America’s cell phone
infrastructure, at her insistence, to have any chance at heading it off.

And she had thought calling her new
lab the Anus was surreal.

She broke out laughing from the
ridiculousness of it all. She considered checking on Avi Wortzman’s progress,
but forced herself to leave him alone, since another call would only cause a
further delay. All she could do was sit in a dark parking lot and watch over an
aluminum mummy.

A bright light appeared from out
of nowhere and blinded her.

“Freeze!” said a male voice.

Rachel almost starting laughing again
when she saw it was a young police offer, scared out of his mind, pointing his
gun at her. After facing scores of mercenaries with automatic weapons, a baby-faced
rural cop who looked to be fresh out of the academy wasn’t all that
frightening. She realized that just because she hadn’t heard an alarm when she had
broken into the store didn’t mean a silent alarm hadn’t sounded.

She held up her hands.

The cop gestured at the tire
iron beside her. “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering,” he said. “You
have the right—”

He stopped in mid-sentence when
he noticed the wrapped body next to her for the first time.

Alarmed, he swept his flashlight
in a broad arc, gasping when he spotted yet another lifeless body in the
vehicle. He shined his flashlight through the window, illuminating the blood-covered
Israeli in the backseat.

The cop’s naturally pale face whitened
further. “Did you kill them?” he
asked in dismay.

Rachel sighed. “No. They’re badly
injured, but I’m trying to save them.”

“Sure you are. I guess someone
else broke into the store and left these bodies and a tire iron next to you,
right? This is just an elaborate frame up.”

“No, I admit to breaking into
the store. But if you’ll check, the cash register wasn’t touched. I’ll pay for
the door and the aluminum foil.”

“Who are you?” he said as if he
had come across a unicorn.

“Would you believe a world-renowned
neuroscientist?”

The cop shook his head. “You are
one sick puppy.”

He gestured to Quinn. “Uncover him.
I want to verify that he’s still alive.”

Rachel’s face became panic stricken.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “You got me. I destroyed a door and stole some
aluminum foil. And I’ll accept the consequences. But just let me leave this
foil in place for another few minutes and I’ll do anything you ask. I’m begging
you.”

The cop crouched down while
still holding a gun on her. “If you won’t do it,” he said, reaching for Quinn’s
head, “I’ll do it myself.”

Rachel snatched the tire iron
from the pavement and lunged. The young cop’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t get
off a shot as the tire iron came crashing down on his right arm, sending his
gun flying.

He grunted in pain and reached
for his gun, but Rachel kicked it ten yards farther away into the darkness as
though the parking lot were a hockey rink. The cop rushed off, frantically
searching for the weapon with his flashlight.

Rachel didn’t hesitate. She fell
back beside Quinn and removed the gun he had been using from his pants, being
careful not to disturb the foil.

She rose from the pavement with
her arm extended. “Freeze!” she screamed, unable to believe she was actually
doing this. “Take another step and you’re dead! Try to shine that light in my
eyes and I’ll shoot!” she added.

The cop stopped in his tracks
and slowly turned to face her, careful to train his light at her knees, which
provided enough illumination to verify that she had a gun pointed at him, one more
lethal than his own, which was still five feet away.

“Do what I tell you and you’re
in no danger,” said Rachel. “This will be over soon. In about twenty minutes or
so a helicopter is going to land in this parking lot. The people inside are
going to take me and these two men with them, and you’ll be free to go. You’re
perfectly safe. I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I didn’t have a choice.”

The cop’s eyes remained wild,
certain he was about to be killed by someone who had escaped from the psychiatric
ward at a hospital. “So we’re just waiting for your helicopter?” he said in an
obvious attempt to humor her. She could almost hear the word imaginary inserted before the word helicopter.

“You think I’m totally out of my
mind, don’t you?”

“Not at all.”

Rachel laughed wildly, which
didn’t help her cause. Of course he
thought she was crazy. She was holding him at gunpoint in a dark parking lot
waiting to see if the world would end.

“Maybe I am crazy,” she said
with a heavy sigh. “Either way, we’re both going to find out soon.”

74

Haji Ahmad al-Bilawy was euphoric, a feeling beyond
any he thought he might ever experience. He was but minutes away from plunging a
knife deep into the eye of the Great Satan. And he had just ended a call with
the President of the United States.

Davinroy had been pathetic, and al-Bilawy had strung
him along, made him squirm. By the end the president was begging, offering
anything al-Bilawy wanted to call it off, or even delay the strike for half a
day.

Al-Bilawy had taken great pleasure in teasing
Davinroy, toying with him, making him grovel, pushing him into utter embarrassment
and beyond, and finally, with ten minutes left on the clock and the United
States powerless to stop him, he had cut Davinroy off at the knees. He had
figuratively spat in his face, displayed his contempt, and made sure the
president knew that this was just the beginning. That Allah had no mercy for
the infidel, and this would be but a taste of things to come.

Al-Bilawy had a video ready to go just after midnight,
to be sent to YouTube and media outlets around the world. It would show the
strength of ISIS, the greatness of Allah, and the weakness of the United
States. It would make it clear for all the world to see who had been
responsible for this heroic deed, and how Davinroy had pleaded like a little
girl. It would be ISIS’s finest hour.

He checked the device that would detonate the bomb and
carefully entered the codes that he had committed so firmly to memory they seemed
carved into his brain. He waited eagerly to press the button, to send the world
into a new age, and the caliphate on its way to a new glory.

Six minutes to go.

He desperately wanted to jump the gun, the wait for
the ecstasy to come now seeming eternal. But he owed it to those who had sacrificed
to make this happen, who had planned this to perfection, not to deviate from
the plan by even an instant.

He had tapped into an atomic clock on his phone so he
could be as precise as possible. He would wait until the stroke of midnight in
Washington DC, the center of power of this corrupt country, and do what he now
knew he had been put on this Earth to do.

“All praise to Allah,” he said aloud in Arabic.

A triumphant smile began to spread across his face but
stopped abruptly of its own accord. Just as he realized his face was frozen, an
overwhelming smell of burnt rubber assaulted his nostrils. He turned to see
what might be causing the pungent odor when his sight stopped working. He
blinked several times, but this did nothing to relieve his sudden blindness.

His euphoria of a moment earlier turned to pure,
unreasoning terror.

This, too, was short-lived as his entire body started
convulsing and he crashed to the floor in agony. He bit down so hard on his
tongue it began pouring blood into his mouth, mixing with copious amounts of
saliva to produce a red foam that slithered down his face. He lost bladder and
bowel control at the same time and both systems voided explosively into his
pants.

His heart beat erratically and he gasped for breath
before his respiratory system shut down entirely, followed seconds later by his
heart.

During a period of only twelve seconds so many of
al-Bilawy’s systems broke down or malfunctioned that he died a horrible death
many times over. What had once been a zealot dedicated to bringing about an
apocalypse was now a dead husk lying in a pool of his own saliva, blood, urine,
and excrement.

As close as al-Bilawy had been to fulfilling his
life’s purpose, he had expired far too quickly to have any understanding of what
was happening to him, or to regret that he hadn’t chosen to detonate the
nuclear device a few minutes early after all.

75

Andrew Danson doubted he would live out the night. The
crazed woman holding him at gunpoint had made him move another ten yards away
from his gun, and she had likely broken his arm with a tire iron, although he
couldn’t be sure if the blinding pain he was feeling was simply due to blunt
force trauma brought on by her savage blow.

He had only been a cop for six months, so of course he
had drawn night duty. He hated the graveyard shift because of what it was doing
to his natural sleep rhythm, making him feel like a vampire, out all night and
sleeping all day. But more than this, he hated it because of the unrelenting
boredom. Other than having to check out the occasional false alarm generated by
a residential home security system or help out with a rare predawn auto accident
somewhere, there had been as close to zero excitement during the past half year
as it was possible to get.

Suddenly he longed for this lack of excitement.

Decades of television dramas had convinced the public that
cops always worked with partners, but this was often not the case, especially when
it came to night duty in low-crime areas. But he should have called for backup,
even before arriving on the scene. He had been a fool.

He had accepted the risk of being killed in the line
of duty, but he had always imagined if this ever did come about it would be a
result of him intervening in a bank robbery or terrorist attack.

Not like this.

Not at the hands of a crazed woman who killed people,
covered them in foil, and ranted about helicopters. People this deranged were
impossible to predict. She might let him go as she had promised or might just
as easily decide to turn his skull into a coffee mug.

The woman never took her eyes from his, her gun never
wavering as she stood guard over her foil-covered prize, a silent vigil that
had gone on now for quite some time. Her left arm hung down by her leg, a phone
loosely clutched in her hand.

Finally, she broke the long silence. “What time is
it?” she asked her phone, as though not having the strength to lift it to her
face to see for herself.

“Three minutes past midnight.”

The woman winced as though she were in pain. She shot
a glance toward the western sky, as if searching for an answer there, and
looked to be on the verge of vomiting.

“Are any restaurants in San Francisco open at this
time of night?” she asked. Her voice was strained, and it seemed to Danson she
was choking back tears.

“Hundreds. San Francisco is on Pacific Standard Time,”
pointed out the AI function of her phone, “so it is now only three minutes past
nine o’clock there.”

“Oh, right,” croaked the woman. “Call the first restaurant
on your list within city limits.”

Danson looked on in disbelief. Sure, why not? Maim or
kill two men, attack him, hold him at gunpoint, and then order takeout from a restaurant
three thousand miles away. No crazier than anything else she had done.

“Calling Aaron’s
Sea and Wind Bistro on Market Street,” announced her phone.

The call was answered after three rings. “Aaron’s Sea
and Wind Bistro,” said a man’s voice through the speaker, with the typical clamor
of a busy restaurant in the background.

The woman become weak in the knees and stumbled,
barely avoiding falling to the ground next to her foil-covered victim. “Please
tell me you’re in downtown San Francisco,” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion.

“We are. We’re located at the north end of Market
Street.”

As Danson looked on in wonder the woman before him underwent
a complete transformation. Her mouth dropped open and she whimpered as though a
crushing weight had been lifted from her soul. While the gun remained steady in
her right hand, her phone slipped from the fingers of her left and dropped to
the pavement, while tears began streaming down her face.

Should he say something? Should he try to be
sympathetic, or try not to attract attention to himself?

While he was deciding the woman began to hum the unmistakable
tune of “The Star Spangled Banner” through her tears, just barely loud enough to
be heard. She was dazed, and sounded completely cut off from reality, humming
like a woozy fighter hit one too many times in the head.

“Gave proof through the night,” she sang faintly under
her breath, “that our flag . . . was . . . still . . . there.”

She stopped abruptly and tears began to roll down her
cheeks even faster.

How was it possible for anyone to be this messed up in
the head? wondered Officer Danson.

“Are you okay?” he said finally, hoping this wasn’t a
mistake.

She nodded, still sobbing and still holding a gun on
him. “Oh yeah,” she said exultantly. “Everything is great.”

As he was wondering what to do next, a helicopter abruptly
appeared in the distance from behind a hill, racing at breakneck speed in their
direction. In less than a minute, churning through the night air and creating
an unmistakable din, it dove like a hawk and settled abruptly fifteen yards
away in the empty parking lot.

This time it was the rookie police officer whose mouth
dropped open.

And for the first time, Andrew Danson began to wonder
if this weeping woman was insane, or if he
was.

76

It was
just after 2:00 a.m. and the militarized 747 rolled to a stop on the runway. Matthew
Davinroy had just lived through the most brutal night of his life, and while he
had thought of himself as an atheist—pretending
to believe in God for political expediency—he
had found himself praying as midnight approached.

And
perhaps his prayers had been answered. He had dodged a bullet the size of an
asteroid. Either al-Bilawy had been bluffing or the bomb had been a dud, as he
had been told was a possibility.

Either way, all that mattered was that he had come
through this crisis intact. Had the device gone off, the impact it would have
had on his presidency, on his legacy, would have been incalculable.

Perhaps God had been looking out for him, after all.

77

It wasn’t until four in the afternoon, almost sixteen
hours after the helicopter had lifted off from the Healthy Foods Grocery
parking lot, that Rachel
was allowed into the room in the Plum Island infirmary that housed her two
favorite men. They had been given blood and meds and had been patched up in flight,
a testament to the skills of both the pilot, who had kept the helicopter
perfectly level, and the doctor, who had hands as steady as a slab of granite.

After landing on the island they had been rushed to
beds, IVs still attached, and had received additional treatment. Regev, who had
been shot twice in the leg and who had lost even more blood than Quinn, was
still being sedated, but Rachel had been assured he would pull through and
eventually regain full use of his leg.

Quinn was weak, but now fully conscious. He had been
told the still-unconscious Regev would make a full recovery and that San
Francisco was doing fine, but he had no idea how this latter could be possible.
He couldn’t have been more eager to learn what had happened after he had
blacked out.

Rachel described how she had raced to the Healthy
Foods Grocery before Cris Coffey had finally returned her call. How he had
agreed to send a medevac but had been unable to put her through to the
president.

“I don’t understand,” said Quinn. “What good would
Davinroy have done at that point? And how is it that the bomb didn’t go off?”

“Not to be immodest,” she replied happily, “but you
have me to thank for that. And Avi Wortzman.”

“Doesn’t seem possible,” said Quinn, trying to make
sense of this. “I don’t see any way you could have stopped al-Bilawy.” He
paused in thought. “Unless . . . did you trick Kovonov into giving you his
location?”

“Not a chance. But I knew that al-Bilawy must have
been injected with neural nanites. I also knew that he was hiding somewhere in
the country. So I wasn’t searching for a needle in a haystack. You know,” she
added with an impish grin, “I had it pretty much narrowed down to the
continental United States.”

Quinn laughed and then immediately groaned in pain as
he realized this wasn’t a good idea in his current condition.

“So I thought
about my trick with the cell towers,” she continued. “How we had reached out
and touched Carmilla Acosta and Yosef Mizrahi. We had no idea where they were,
but we were still able to manipulate their nanites. I knew I could do the same with
al-Bilawy.”

“But you’d have to take over the cell grid of the
entire country. In record time. And even if you managed that, what memory could
you implant that would get him to call it off? Besides, I thought it took you half
a day to develop instructions to get the nanites to lay down even the simplest
of memories.”

“All great points,” said Rachel, beaming. “The first
part, taking over the cell infrastructure . . .” She shrugged. “Well, that’s
where Avi Wortzman came in.”

Quinn tilted his head in thought, trying to
reconstruct what must have happened. “You used the emergency number Eyal gave
us to get through to him. You must have guessed Israel had the capability to
take control, didn’t you?”

Rachel nodded. “I figured I had some pull. Israel is
racing toward a catastrophe and Eyal did tell me they think I’m pretty much
their only chance to avert it. Not that Wortzman wouldn’t have helped under any
circumstances, but he asked fewer questions than he would have otherwise. And
he did come through with flying colors.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re brilliant?”

“Actually, yes, several times. But you know, it never
really gets old.”

“You are absolutely brilliant,” said Quinn. “So what
memory did you implant? And how did you manage to come up with the required
instructions so quickly?”

Rachel shook her head. “Nothing as subtle as a memory.
You’re right, I couldn’t have programmed one in time. But there is one command
that is so simple it can be written on the head of a pin. Memories require a
complex construction of pathways, a subtle excitation of neurons. But an
epileptic seizure is nothing more than the uncontrolled
firing of neurons. So I transmitted a command to the nanites to cause every
single neuron in al-Bilawy’s brain to fire at the same time. No finesse, no subtlety—a command that was as basic
as it got. But one designed to cause the ultimate seizure.”

“Which would do what, exactly?”

“Kill him in seconds. Cause a total meltdown. Al-Bilawy
would be unable to control his muscles or his autonomic nervous system. He’d go
blind, salivate uncontrollably, lose bowel and bladder function, and his heart
and respiration would shut down.” She shuddered. “It truly is a horrible way to
go.”

“Remind me not to piss you off,” said Quinn.

Rachel laughed. “If this technology is ever perfected
enough to come into use, we’ll really have to install a fail-safe so what I did
to al-Bilawy can never be repeated.”

“Wait a minute,” said Quinn, blinking in confusion.
“How is it I’m not dead? You sent
this command across the entire nation. Shouldn’t I have had one of these death
seizures also?”

“You should
have,” said Rachel. “But I’ve become very fond of you. So I decided it would be
better if you took a pass on the whole, every
neuron firing at once thing. Which brings me to why I was driving to the
grocery store in the first place.”

“Yeah, I was getting around to asking about that. It
just seemed less important than how you managed to save San Francisco.”

“It’s how I managed to save you. I wrapped your head completely in aluminum foil, and even your
upper body.”

“You what?”

“First I broke into the store to get the foil, and
then I wrapped you like a mummy. I’m not sure that reflective aluminum is your
color, but it did block the signal from the cell tower so your nanites stayed
calm.”

“Aluminum foil is a real thing?” said Quinn in
astonishment. “I thought wearing foil headgear was something done by lunatics.
Delusional conspiracy theorists who thought it could keep their minds from
being taken over by outer space aliens or some other nonsense.”

“This is true. But it’s also true that nothing blocks
radio signals better. Next time you’re in a kitchen, use a landline to call
your cell until it rings. Then put a single layer of aluminum foil over your
cell phone and call again. It won’t ring this time.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. You’re living proof that this works.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Quinn. “So I was blacked out in
the parking lot of a grocery store covered in aluminum foil.” He grinned. “I
can’t say this is the first time that’s happened. But it’s definitely the first
time it happened when I was sober.”

Rachel laughed.

“Anything else I should know about?” asked Quinn.

“Well, I did attack the cop who tried to remove your
metal helmet. With a tire iron. To save your life.” Rachel shrugged. “You know,
that’s what I do,” she added, fighting to keep a straight face.

She went on to describe what had happened in the
grocery store parking lot in great detail.

“Wait a minute,” said Quinn in alarm when she had
finished. “What about Carmilla? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. I thought of her too. You don’t have to
sleep with me to get my protection.”

“Yes, but it is the best way,” said Quinn with an impish grin. “So how did you save her?”

“I made sure she stayed in the MRI room while the signal
was being sent out. Radio waves can ruin the results of an MRI, so MRI rooms
are built to block them out. Microwave ovens are too, but I figured the MRI
room was the better choice. Not quite as cramped.”

“Good call,” said Quinn with a smile. “But I bet she’s
jealous she didn’t get the foil treatment,” he added wryly.

“How could she not be?”

“That was quite a night,” said Quinn.

Rachel leaned forward and kissed him gently. “Yes it
was. Glad you made it.”

“Thanks to you,” he said. “You saved millions of
people. It’s just too bad that the world will never know what you did.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Rachel. “I mean, it would
probably get me a few free rides on the cable cars, but I’m okay toiling in
anonymity. And the truth is,” she added more seriously, “it wasn’t just me. If
you and Eyal hadn’t managed to fight your way through a gauntlet, Kovonov’s
plan would have gone off without a hitch. And I’d either be dead or his toy
right now.”

“We have Eyal to thank for that. If not for him, I’d
be in a ditch by a river.”

“Don’t downplay your own heroism. How about you thank
Eyal, and I’ll thank you?”

“Now that sounds like a good plan,” said Quinn. “And when
I’ve recovered, I have an idea of how I’d like you to show your gratitude.”

“Does it involve a bed?”

“Lucky guess,” said Quinn with a broad grin.

78

Two days later Prime Minister Ori Kish sent a
private plane to transport Quinn, Regev, and the esteemed Professor Rachel
Howard to the Holy Land.

Carmilla had steadily improved. She had become
fascinated by the application of advanced DNA synthesis techniques to
neuroscience, which helped occupy her attention.

Her strength of will and level-headedness also
allowed her to counteract the damage Kovonov had done better than most would
have managed, and while still suffering from loss and depression she was
holding up well. Her husband, Miguel, was now staying with her on the island
for an indefinite period, although not permitted to venture into secure areas.

She had told him how her mind had been
tampered with, how memories of an infidelity he hadn’t committed had been
implanted, and how intense feelings of depression had been triggered. But she
had left out her physical encounters with Kovonov. She had been manipulated
into sleeping with him, mentally raped, and saw no reason to burden her husband
with this knowledge, especially now that the prospects for their marriage were
stronger than ever.

Eyal Regev was recovering, but would need to
use crutches for some time to come, and Quinn’s arm would take time to fully
heal as well. The two men, who had hit it off so well and so quickly in
Waltham, continued to grow even closer, and were well on their way to building
the strongest friendship either had ever experienced.

During the flight to Israel, Rachel completed the
programming for a new set of implantable memories, tailored to Avi Wortzman’s
specifications. The Mossad leader then used these false memories to cause four
moles that Kovonov had manipulated to self-identify, so he was now confident his
organization was clean once again.

The morning after Kovonov had bolted out of
the back door of his cabin, Wortzman had alerted the American team hunting for him
that a Mossad agent, now injured, had located Kovonov in the woods of
Pennsylvania, and had given them exact GPS coordinates. To prevent additional
lives from being lost, he had made sure they were also warned to be wary of a
new automatic perimeter protection technology that Kovonov had been rumored to
have developed.

Wortzman would have liked to wait until he
could have had a team retrieve this technology, but Kovonov’s elimination was
too important for any further delay. Even so, somehow, inexplicably, the Americans had failed to find him. Wortzman had
been furious, not understanding how they could have possibly let Kovonov slip
through their net, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Seven days after al-Bilawy had been stopped,
Ori Kish, Avi Wortzman, Greg Henry, and Matthew Davinroy met around a virtual
conference room once again, at the request of the president.

“How
goes the hunt for our Russian-born rogue?” said Wortzman when pleasantries,
brief as they were, had been dispensed with.

“Not well,”
said Henry. “It’s possible he never made it out of the woods alive. He could
have gotten hopelessly lost and starved to death. He could have fallen over a
cliff or into a river. Or maybe he lost a skirmish with a wild animal. We don’t
know. All we know is that we haven’t found him.”

“Well, thanks for the effort,” said the head
of Mossad. “Keep us posted if anything turns up.”

“I will,” said Henry.

“I trust our fly-drone experts have all now arrived
in America and are bringing your scientists up to speed,” said Prime Minister
Kish.

“As far as I know,” said Davinroy, clearly not
intending to elaborate further.

“Any word on your team’s assessment of the
technology?” pressed Kish. “Do they seem enthusiastic?”

“Not really,” said the president. “But I’m
sure they’re learning a few new tricks.”

A few new tricks? Wortzman wanted
to strangle the smug bastard, but he decided he shouldn’t be surprised by how
far Davinroy went to downplay what Israel was providing. The tech was five to
ten years beyond what the American team could do. And as far as not being
enthusiastic, Wortzman’s people had reported that the American scientists were
wetting their pants, in awe of the breakthroughs his scientists were sharing.

“How goes the initiative that your Agent Regev
is leading?” said Greg Henry. “Any progress in understanding how false memories
might have been implanted in Special Agent Quinn? Or who might be responsible?”

“Professor Howard has made excellent progress,”
said Wortzman. “Special Agent Quinn has been key, as well. Thank you again for
loaning them to us. I’d like to schedule another meeting very soon so they can present
their findings to you.”

“We’ll put something on the calendar,” said
Henry.

“I don’t know if Special Agent Coffey has
mentioned it,” added Wortzman, “but since this is a joint US/Israeli operation,
he’s shared some research from one of your Black Site neuroscience teams. He
didn’t disclose its location, of course.”

“Of course,” repeated Henry.

“Rachel Howard was very impressed with the
work of the head of this lab, a Dr. Karen Black. Apparently there is another
woman who is consulting there, Dr. Carmilla Acosta. Anyway, we probed to see if
they might be amenable to being part of the Regev task force, and they seemed
eager to join up. I assume you’re okay with that?”

This time the president fielded the question. “If
Professor Howard is happy,” he said, “and the scientists in question are happy,
I can’t imagine why they shouldn’t all work together.”

“Excellent,” said Ori Kish. While he had been
content to let Wortzman respond to Henry, he preferred to respond to Davinroy
himself. “I know Rachel will be excited to hear the news.”

“Speaking of Rachel Howard,” said the
president, “has she left Israel at any time during the past few weeks?”

“She hasn’t,” said Kish. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m sure you’re aware we had a scare a week
ago today, and were forced to briefly board our command and control aircraft.”

“Yes, we had heard, ah . . . rumors to that
effect,” said Kish. “I don’t suppose you’d care to share what that was all
about?”

Davinroy smiled humorlessly. “Not really, no.
But it was a very strange night. You know we found a cabin, dead bodies, and an
automated laser defense system very near where your man spotted Kovonov. But later
it came to our attention that a woman had broken into a grocery store on the
night in question, very near this location.”

He paused and searched the two Israelis for
any reaction.

“Go on,” said Kish evenly.

“Apparently the woman and two wounded men flew
off in a helicopter,” said Davinroy. “The thing is,” he added, raising his
eyebrows, “no one seems to know whose helicopter it was or what it was doing
there.”

“That is strange,” said Kish.

The president’s face flashed his hatred of the
Israeli Prime Minister for just a moment before becoming neutral once again. “Our
people ran the store’s video footage of the break in,” he said. “The woman stole
a single roll of aluminum foil. That’s it. The footage wasn’t as clear as we
would like, given it was very dark and the camera didn’t have high-end
nighttime imaging, but we ran it through our software anyway. Came back with an
eighty-seven percent likelihood of being a match to Rachel Howard. ”

“Wow,” said Wortzman, “that’s even stranger.
Wasn’t her though.”

“Right, because she’s been in Israel the whole
time?”

“Exactly.”

The president studied the Mossad leader for
several seconds. “Then another strange thing,” he added. “That very night, our nation’s
cell phone grid was taken over for a few minutes. Just before midnight.”

“Your entire grid?” said Kish in apparent alarm.
“Do you think the Chinese were testing their capabilities?”

Davinroy glared at him. “No, my best people
tell me the signature of how this was accomplished was wrong for the Chinese.
They told me the approach smacked more of being something the Israelis might do.”

Kish shrugged. “That is odd. It wasn’t us, of
course, but if you send over the data, we’ll be happy to help you identify who
it might have been.”

“No need,” said Davinroy caustically, “I wouldn’t
want you to go too far out of your
way to be helpful.”

“Let us know if you change your mind,” said
Kish. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Greg Henry. “We also found an ISIS
soldier. High level. Name of al-Bilawy. He was in a home outside of Knoxville,
Tennessee, with an airtight communications firewall. Turns out he had suffered
a seizure the likes of which our doctors had never seen before. Massive. His
brain was fried from the inside, and his body didn’t make out all that well
either.”

“Difficult for me to grieve too hard for a man
like that,” said Kish. “There are those who might argue that his death is
probably for the best.”

“Definitely
for the best,” said Henry. “But due to some circumstances we don’t want to get
into, we can pinpoint the time of his death very accurately. We know he was
alive at 11:49 and that he died before midnight. We believe he died right within
the narrow window that our cell grid was seized and used by some other party.
We’ve studied the signal that was broadcast during the siege, but it’s nothing
but harmless noise.”

“Very bizarre,” said Wortzman.

“And you know nothing about this?” said the president
dubiously.

“Should we?” said Kish with a shrug.

Wortzman knew the Americans were almost
certain they were lying, but he was confident they wouldn’t push it. Israel was
transferring game-changing technologies to them, useful for much more than just
drones, and their crisis had magically resolved.

To borrow an American idiom, Wortzman felt sure
they weren’t about to look this gift horse too hard in the mouth.

“Getting back to the emergency you had that
same night,” continued the prime minister, “I trust everything turned out okay.
Whatever it is that had your top people so . . . excited.”

“It all turned out very well,” said Davinroy.

The president paused and glanced at Henry,
seemingly reluctant to continue. “But I should tell you that I’ve decided to
use the bully pulpit to drum up greater public support for a more aggressive
anti-terror campaign. I plan to lean hard on ISIS and other jihadist movements.
This will consist of a far greater deployment of resources, looser rules of
engagement, and even boots on the ground. It’s time to clean out the swamp.”

The hint of a smile passed over Ori Kish’s
face. “I consider this very good news,” he said. “As you know, Mr. President, I
have long advocated for this type of strategy. Israel will, of course, support
this effort with intelligence and in any other way that we can. You can count
on us.”

“Good to know,” said Davinroy dryly. “I had a
feeling that I could.”

79

After the meeting with Davinroy and Henry
ended, Rachel Howard, Eyal Regev, and Kevin Quinn were escorted into the
conference room. A selection of ice-cold drinks was brought in, including
several bottles of Snapple peach tea, Rachel’s favorite, which was no accident.

Wortzman quickly described how the call with
the president and the secretary of DHS had gone, including the latest on the
hunt for Kovonov, and answered their questions.

When this was done, the prime minister got
down to the most important business he had ever conducted. He locked his gaze on
Rachel Howard as though she were the only one in the room. “So you’ve now had several
days to meet the key players on our neuroscience team,” he said to her as she
swallowed a mouthful of peach tea. “How has that gone?”

“It’s been great,” she replied. “You have some
wonderfully impressive people, and they couldn’t have been nicer.”

Kish laughed. “Good to hear. They really are
nice. Truly. But they’ve also been told to treat you like royalty. To throw
themselves on broken glass and let you walk on their backs so you don’t scuff
your shoes.”

Rachel
smiled. “You’ve definitely made no secret that you want to keep me happy,” she
said. “I’ll give you that. My quarters are spectacular. The personal shopper,
maid, and chef are nice touches also. And the freshly cut flowers every
morning. But none of this is necessary.”

“It is,” said Kish. “You know we’re doing it
for selfish reasons. Well, not entirely selfish. As Eyal explained, having our
top people go mad will have worldwide repercussions.”

“You mean many hundreds of additional Kovonovs?”
said Quinn wryly. “Yeah, I think we get how the possible repercussions could
spread beyond Israel’s borders.”

Rachel swallowed hard. Even one Kovonov had almost proven too many,
although he was especially talented, even among the talented bunch to come. He
was also potentially still at large.

The last Korean nuke left in America had now
been removed and defused, and Kovonov no longer had his virus, but it was still
unsettling to know he might be out there somewhere.

“The upcoming crisis will be bad,” said
Wortzman, “but it won’t be like having multiple Kovonovs running around. We’re now
fully prepared for the personality changes that will come over our people. We
aren’t about to let those affected out of our sight. And we’ll most likely put
them under house arrest when they’re approaching their sell-by date. But there
are many powerful people involved, and this will be a disaster no matter how
you slice it.”

Rachel nodded. Regev had already told her that
two of the people who would be affected were sitting right in front of her, the
prime minister and the head of Mossad. Both had found the use of Matrix
Learning too tempting to resist, although, according to Regev, neither had indulged
all that much, meaning both would retain their sanity for at least the next
year.

“But let me get back to why we feel it’s
necessary to pamper you,” continued Kish. “While the tipping point of this
crisis is still a ways off, every second counts. We know you need rest and
recreation. But our goal is to see to it that you’re either working on solving
this problem, resting, or enjoying yourself. We want to take every chore off
your hands. Anyone can cook and clean and do laundry. Only you can get us out of this mess.”

“I’m flattered,” said Rachel.

“As I told you before,” said Regev, “it isn’t
flattery. It’s honesty. Reality. I know you can solve this,” he added with
such conviction it was as if the matter had already been settled.

“Several of the scientists I’ve met this week
seem to me to be more capable than I am.”

“I explained why that might be the case in
Waltham,” said Regev.

Rachel smiled. “I know you did, Eyal. And I
wasn’t pointing this out because I lack confidence. I was pointing it out
because it demonstrates the truth of what you were telling me.”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” said Wortzman.

“I told her that far lesser scientists than
her had made major breakthroughs after undergoing Matrix Learning,” explained
Regev. “After loading several other disciplines into their minds.”

“Which brings us to the crux of the matter,”
said Rachel. “The elephant in the room. What you really want to know. Am I
willing to undergo Matrix Learning myself? For the cause?”

“Yes,” admitted Kish. “Knowing that if you
don’t solve it in time, you’ll follow the rest of us over the cliff.”

This was something Rachel had been pondering
since Regev had first proposed it back in Waltham.

“My interactions with your people have been
eye-opening,” she said. “I’ve been able to witness just how much of an advantage
an encyclopedic working knowledge of neuroscience and all related fields can
give someone. Your scientists possess knowledge it would take me thirty years
of study to learn on my own.”

Rachel decided that Matrix Learning truly was
the ultimate capability. She had familiarized herself with the work of the scientists
she had met, before and after their use of this technology, and it was night
and day. The tremendous additional working knowledge they had downloaded allowed
them to catapult beyond her current capabilities. She had been five lengths
ahead of the pack, and now they were one length ahead of her.

But if she were to undergo this flash
education, she could only imagine where she might end up, what she might be
able to accomplish. If it had even half the effect on her that it had on the
others she had met, she was as confident now as the Israelis that she could
solve their problem. She wondered what problems in neuroscience she wouldn’t be able to solve.

Rachel had known that if Matrix Learning could
give her any added chance to avert the coming disaster, she had to undergo the
procedure no matter what. The stakes were too high to worry about her own
future. And how could she not try it out, anyway? She had spent the bulk of her
career working toward this technology. You didn’t spend your life designing rockets
only to refuse to travel in one because of the risk.

But the past few days had impacted her
attitude dramatically. Having the chance to meet those who had benefited from
this technology had changed everything. Where she had been reluctant to go
forward, even fearful, she was now giddy at the prospect. The potential of
Matrix Learning was greater even than she had imagined. Rachel was now eager to
see what she could accomplish, convinced she could find the antidote to the
poison she was choosing to ingest in time to save her sanity.

She had discussed her decision with Quinn prior
to the meeting, and his reaction had surprised her. He told her he believed their
relationship was evolving into something special. And while he agreed she had
no choice, he feared what might happen to their relationship if the knowledge
gulf between them grew even larger.

So if she was going to take this risk, he
insisted on doing so as well. He would see to it he was programmed with a PhD
level of neuroscience education. This would still leave a massive gap between
them, but at least it wouldn’t be the size of the Grand Canyon.

Rachel was optimistic by nature, but she felt
more hopeful about the future course of her life than ever. If a genie had offered
to conjure up her ideal man, she would never have been so audacious as to ask
for a handsome Secret Service agent who could be her close friend, confidant,
lover, and protector, and who also possessed an advanced knowledge of
neuroscience—not to mention having technology in his head she couldn’t wait to
study further.

There had been a long silence in the
conference room as everyone waited for Rachel’s next utterance. She decided she
had made them sweat long enough. Now it was time to use her power to do a
little arm twisting. A lot of arm
twisting.

She faced the Israeli prime minister. “You’ve
said you think I can avert your crisis if I cram more knowledge into my brain,”
she said. “Well, with all due modesty, I’ve come to believe you’re right.”

The three Israelis in the room brightened
enough to light a cave. “Does that mean you’re in?” said Kish excitedly

Rachel nodded. “I’m in. But I do have some
conditions,” she added quickly. “Maybe demands
would be the better word.”

“Anything,” said Kish, his enthusiasm not
diminished in the slightest.

“We’ll see. I plan to drive a hard bargain.
And this isn’t about me. I won’t be asking for something easy like having a
chocolate placed on my pillow each night.”

“Which we’re glad to do also,” said Kish with
a smile. He quickly became serious once more. “All right, then. Tell me what
you want.”

Rachel decided to start with a demand she knew
Kish would meet. They had already assured her she could choose her own team,
from both the Mossad group and the group on Plum Island, and that Regev and
Quinn would be key players, in security and other capacities.

But Quinn felt they owed their favorite
Israeli even more.

“I want Eyal Regev promoted,” she began. “Without
him Kevin and I would be dead several times over and San Francisco would be devoid
of all life. He performed brilliantly and heroically. I want you to award him
your country’s most prestigious medal, whatever that is. And I want his salary
doubled.”

The blood drained from Regev’s face and he held
out his hands helplessly. “I didn’t put her up to this,” he said to Wortzman
and Kish, clearly embarrassed. “Honestly.”

Wortzman looked amused. “First of all,” he
said to Rachel, “we’re well aware of Agent Regev’s contributions. His skills
have not gone unnoticed. Which is why he was sent on a mission to recruit you
in the first place. His promotion and medal are already in the works. I was
going to tell him about them by the end of the week. Thanks for ruining the
surprise,” he added with a smile. “The salary thing we weren’t planning on, but
consider it done.”

Regev looked like he wanted to crawl under the
table. Quinn had told her he wouldn’t be happy about being part of her
negotiation, but she felt confident he’d get over it when the first of his new
paychecks arrived.

“What else do you need?” said Kish.

“I need your word that once I’ve solved this
problem, you’ll put Matrix Learning in the private sector, agree to disclose it
to the world.”

Kish’s face fell. This one wasn’t so easy. “You
know we can’t do that. And why. You better than anyone.”

“I’ve given this extensive thought,” replied Rachel. “In fact, I’ve thought about
this—lectured about this—for many years. Eyal was in one of these lectures, and
I understand that Avi Wortzman was attending . . . remotely. Here is the bottom
line. This technology is disruptive. No doubt about it. And I know the dangers
as well as anyone. Dmitri Kovonov provided quite a case study for what bad
actors can do with this capability. But while I’m working to reverse the
insanity effect, I want to direct half of the vast neuroscience team you’ve assembled
to come up with countermeasures to prevent
this misuse.”

Wortzman nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember these
discussions from your class.”

He turned to the prime minister. “It was an
impressive lecture. She pointed out that for too long scientists have failed to
prepare for the misuse of transformative technologies. Early computer
scientists not only didn’t spend any time trying to prevent the future use of
computer viruses, they never even considered these might come into existence. She
urged her students to consider tackling this end of the spectrum, which she
argued might be even more important than the innovation itself.”

“We happened to discuss Matrix Learning during
the class,” said Rachel. “We explored any number of ways this technology could
lead to trouble. But if we can find a way to ensure brains are protected from
unwanted memories, unwanted tampering, this alone would be enough to warrant
giving this to the world.”

“I have no problem working to counteract
possible misuses,” said Kish. “It’s an excellent idea. And of course you should
be in charge. I’m happy to let you control the most highly resourced program in
my country, Rachel. You can deploy our scientists—your scientists—any way you like, and I can promise you a nearly
unlimited budget for additional people and equipment.”

The prime minister shook his head. “But we really
can’t give this to the world. No matter how many countermeasures we come up
with, there will be misuses we can’t predict, disruptions we can’t predict.”

“As
long as we’re able to develop countermeasures against the most severe misuse of
the technology,” said Rachel, “we have to just let the cat out of the bag and
let the chips fall. Let’s face it, these capabilities will be developed someday
soon, somewhere, by some person, or group, or country. It can’t be stopped. At
least this way Israel can reap the credit and the financial rewards.”

She paused for a moment to let the prime
minister consider her arguments.

“No technology in history will be more
disruptive, more transformative,” she continued. “I get that. But we can’t
flinch. Humanity is already at a severe inflection point, just starting up the
handle of the hockey stick. There’s no turning back. The risks of self-destruction
are very real, but this train has left the station and there’s no stopping it.”

“But the longer we delay disclosure,” said
Kish, “the more time we have to perfect countermeasures.”

“Secrecy is the problem,” insisted Rachel, “not the solution. We have to open
source it. If you’re the CEO of Apple and you want to provide scores of innovative
apps for your new cell phone offering, you don’t hide the source code in-house.
You let it out. You let the entire world work on it.”

She paused to take another drink of peach tea.
“Civilization will adapt. Or it won’t. But we can’t hoard what we all know is a
development as important as fire, the wheel, or agriculture.”

Kish considered. “It’s a scary prospect,” he said
after a long silence. “If we set it loose, the world will never be the same.
And there will be no turning back.”

“It’s an extremely
scary prospect,” said Rachel. “But I believe this technology will end up
solving more problems than it will create. Imagine everyone on Earth having the
same universal language implanted in their minds along with their native
tongues. Just like that, every person in the world would be able to hold a
conversation with every other. Think of all the problems, technological and
otherwise, that quick and easy education could help solve. If the inventors of
farming had kept this advance to themselves, the human race would have likely gone
extinct long ago. Either that, or the few people remaining would be in small
clans, still hunting and foraging with simple tools.”

Kish nodded thoughtfully but didn’t respond.

“These are my terms,” said Rachel. “I’ll
undergo Matrix Learning. I’m confident I’ll find a way to solve your problem
and perfect the technology. In exchange, I get to direct work on finding countermeasures
for the most dangerous misuses. The moment I solve both problems, you agree to
let the technology see the light of day.” She stared intently at the Israeli
prime minister. “I need your word.”

Kish paused for almost a full minute in
thought. Finally, he nodded. “It’s a deal,” he said. “You have my word. And not
because you have us over a barrel. But because you’re right. Perfect the
technology, and I’ll see to it that this is disclosed. Better yet, you can see to it.”

“I’ll support this decision as well,” said
Wortzman. “You make a lot of sense, Rachel. I’ve been battling with monsters a
long time. Might be nice to do something to actively better humanity.”

Rachel sighed. She had been confident she
would eventually get agreement, but there was part of her that worried about the
old adage, be careful what you wish for.
This could be the biggest mistake ever made. She was rolling some very powerful
dice.

On the other hand, she believed in what she
had argued. There was no turning back. Knowledge was the key to success, to
happiness, to progress, and it would soon be available in nearly unlimited
quantities to every single person. Illiteracy and ignorance would be wiped from
the planet. And while knowledge and wisdom were not the same thing, perhaps one
could eventually lead to the other for the human race.

“Great,” she said. “Let’s do
this thing. Load me up so we can get to work finding solutions.”

Rachel Howard seemed to glow
from within as a dazzling smile erupted onto her face. “And then let’s go
change the world,” she added with absolute conviction.

From the Author: Thanks
for reading Game Changer. I hope that
you enjoyed it. As always, I’d be grateful if you would rate the novel on its
Amazon page here,
as a high number of ratings really helps drive the success of a book.

Also,
feel free to visit my website (where
you can get on a mailing list to be notified of new releases), Friend me on
Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author,
or write to me at doug@san.rr.com.

Game
Changer: What’s
real, what isn’t, and a few personal anecdotes

As
you may know, I conduct fairly extensive research for all of my novels. In
addition to trying to tell the most compelling stories I possibly can, I strive
to introduce concepts and accurate information that I hope will prove
fascinating, thought-provoking, and even controversial.

Game Changer is a work of fiction and
contains considerable speculation. I encourage interested readers to read
further to get a more thorough and nuanced look at each topic, and weigh any
conflicting data, opinions, and interpretations. By so doing, you can decide
for yourself what is accurate and arrive at your own view of the subject
matter.

The genesis of the overarching plot: I’ve long been fascinated by neuroscience and human
behavior, and wanted to do a novel that could extrapolate from current
breakthroughs in these fields and examine future possibilities from every
angle. The more research I did, the more fascinated I became. But I soon
discovered that neuroscience offered an embarrassment of riches. How could I
possibly narrow it down to a single novel given all the possibilities that a true
understanding of neuroscience, and the manipulation of the human mind, could
bring about?

Plots swirled around in my head. What
if you could control addiction? The sex drive? Religion? Memory? Aggression and
rage? Depression? What if you could implant ten years of knowledge into
someone’s brain in days?

Unable to decide between these
possibilities, I finally decided to touch upon them all, with what I call
Matrix Learning as the central driver.

At some point soon thereafter,
while I was researching the science of memory, a scene materialized in my
brain. I imagined a Secret Service agent trying to assassinate the president
for the crime of torturing and killing his wife, only to learn later that he
had been manipulated. Before I had any idea of the characters, the story, the
background, or the settings, I knew one thing: the first section of the novel
would end with someone saying to this Secret Service agent: “How do I know the
president didn’t torture and kill your wife? Because you never married. You never
had a wife.”

It was a scene I couldn’t get
out of my head, and I knew I had to write it. In some ways, the entire novel
was built around these few sentences.

So with this brief explanation of
how Game Changer came to be, I’ll go
on to detail some of the science behind it, along with some personal anecdotes.
This field is producing so many astonishing results, and it has grown so
rapidly, that I regret I can only provide the slightest taste within these
pages.

Finally, I had to cram the
information I needed to write this novel into my head the old-fashioned way. By
reading books and studying. If only Matrix Learning were real, I could have
finished months sooner. What a wonderful advance this technology would represent.

Although, as we have seen, it would
not be without its dangers . . .

Matrix Learning: This
topic deserved to come first, but it is a bit long, so if you find yourself
losing interest in this or any other section, I encourage you to skip ahead to
whatever sections interest you the most (I tried to restrain myself and keep
each one short, but some are longer than others).

Here is a list of topics that I covered,
in their order of appearance:

How
often are we sure of memories that are wrong?

The
pace of technological advance

The
San Diego fire of 2007, cows, and suicide on the tracks

Neuroscience—what
makes us tick?

Addicted
to Dmitri Kovonov?

Plum
Island

Neurotheology—God
on the brain

Aluminum
foil and laser printers

The
BRAIN Initiative

A
sleeping giant

Fly
drones and fly catching

Israel,
the Mossad, and US Intelligence

Neuroscience
and the law

Miscellaneous

Now on to Matrix Learning. This is
a term I made up, but I have read articles referring to Matrix-style learning, and I wouldn’t be
surprised if this becomes a shorthand for the technology someday. While scientists
are a very long way away from achieving Matrix Learning like that depicted in
the novel (or in the movie), they are making progress on a number of fronts. This
progress includes the implantation of false memories (and knowledge would be
just another category of false memory), and the use of smart dust and other
technologies that could evolve into the nanites described in the novel.

I’ve included passages from four lay
articles that I found intriguing below. Again, while these only scratch the
surface, interested readers can readily find additional information online.

1) Scientists Give Mice False Memories (Elizabeth Landau, CNN, July 25, 2013).

Scientists say they have,
for the first time, generated a false memory in an animal by manipulating brain
cells that encode that information. What’s more, the researchers say, the
cellular events involved in the formation of a false memory resemble what takes
place in forming a real memory. This jibes with the fact that humans who have
false memories of events that didn’t happen firmly believe that those memories
are real.

“We should continue to
remind society that memory can be very unreliable,” said the study’s senior
author, Susumu Tonegawa, director of the RIKEN-MIT Center for Neural Circuit
Genetics.

The lucky mice who
participated in this study underwent a brain exploration technique called
optogenetics, a means of manipulating individual brain cells with light.

. . . The researchers showed
that if you can activate particular brain cells using light, and those brain
cells contain memory information, then you have the power to make an animal
believe it experienced something that never actually happened.

“The results indicate that
the underlying brain mechanisms used in the recall of a false memory are very
similar to those governing a real memory,” Tonegawa said. “This may be why our
memories feel so real to us, even if they have been distorted. It’s not that
false memory is formed by forgetting, some kind of a simple mix-up, or what we
call imagination,” Tonegawa added. “No, it really happened in the brain, as far
as the brain is concerned.”

2) Twenty billion nanoparticles
talk to the brain using electricity (New
Scientist, June 8, 2015)

Nanoparticles can be used to stimulate regions of the brain electrically,
opening up new ways to treat brain diseases. It may even one day allow the
routine exchange of data between computers and the brain.

When “magnetoelectric” nanoparticles (MENs) are stimulated by an external
magnetic field, they produce an electric field. If such nanoparticles are
placed next to neurons, this electric field should allow them to communicate.

Sakhrat Khizroev of Florida International University in Miami and his team
inserted 20 billion of these nanoparticles into the brains of mice.

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Khizroev’s goal is to build a system that can both image brain activity and
precisely target medical treatments at the same time. Since the nanoparticles
respond differently to different frequencies of magnetic field, they can be
tuned to release drugs.

“When they are injected in the brain, we can ‘see’ the brain,” says
Khizroev, “and if necessary, we can release a specific drug inside a specific
neuron on demand.”

3) How Smart Dust Could Spy On Your Brain (MIT Technology Review, July 16, 2013) Intelligent dust particles embedded in the brain could
form an entirely new form of brain-machine interface, say engineers.

Today, Dongjin Seo and pals at the University of
California Berkeley reveal an entirely new way to study and interact with the
brain. Their idea is to sprinkle electronic sensors the size of dust particles
into the cortex and to interrogate them remotely using ultrasound. The
ultrasound also powers this so-called neural dust.

Each particle of neural dust consists of standard CMOS
circuits and sensors that measure the electrical activity in neurons nearby.
This is coupled to a piezoelectric material that converts ultra-high-frequency
sound waves into electrical signals and vice versa.

[Note: this last one is on editing and erasing memory—the flip side of the coin—which is also featured in the novel.]

4) Brain
Researchers Open Door to Editing Memory (Benedict Carey, New York Times, April 5, 2009)

Suppose scientists could erase certain memories by tinkering with
a single substance in the brain. Could make you forget a chronic fear, a
traumatic loss, even a bad habit. Researchers in Brooklyn have recently
accomplished comparable feats, with a single dose of an experimental drug
delivered to areas of the brain critical for holding specific types of memory.

The discovery of such an apparently critical memory molecule, and
its many potential uses, are part of the buzz surrounding a field that, in just
the past few years, has made the seemingly impossible suddenly probable:
neuroscience, the study of the brain.

Now neuroscience, a field that barely existed a generation ago, is
racing ahead, attracting billions of dollars in new financing and throngs of
researchers. The National Institutes of Health last year spent $5.2 billion,
nearly 20 percent of its total budget, on brain-related projects. Endowments
have poured in hundreds of millions of dollars more, establishing institutes at
universities around the world.

The influx of money, talent, and technology means that scientists
are at last finding real answers about the brain—and raising questions, both
scientific and ethical, more quickly than anyone can answer them.

“This possibility of memory editing has enormous possibilities and
raises huge ethical issues,” said Dr. Steven E. Hyman, a neurobiologist at
Harvard.

How often are we sure of memories that are wrong?

My own memory is atrocious. I
have always been able to learn things very quickly, but I forget them just as
quickly. When I’m writing a novel and have an idea, I have to record it
somewhere or it will soon be gone forever. I get out of the shower and use my
phone to e-mail the idea to my computer upstairs, while I’m still dripping wet,
or I pull off the side of the road and send a message to myself. As much as I
think I’ll never forget an idea, I’ve done so too many times to take that
chance.

The section describing the memory experiment conducted at
Emory, comparing students’ recollections of the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion the day after it
happened and over two years later, is accurate—and truly scary. We all know
human memory isn’t great, but what is jaw-dropping to me is that not only is
our memory unreliable, it is unreliable even when we’re absolutely certain
we’ve gotten it right.

This really calls into question everything we think we
remember. When my version of past events differs markedly from my wife’s, I
used to be sure that I was right. Now I’m pretty sure that we’re both wrong.

In my view, the most entertaining description of the Emory study
and its implications can be found in an article that appeared in The New Yorker, and which is available
online, entitled, “You Have No Idea What Happened” (Maria Konnikova, February
4, 2015).

After I read the Emory memory
study, I was still skeptical. I discussed this study with my sister, Pam, and
she was skeptical also. We both agreed that for something like the Challenger disaster, misremembering was
a possibility, but surely not for something as profound as 9/11.

But then Pam had an idea. She
had been at a conference with two colleagues on 9/11, giving a presentation. So
why not ask them where they were on this tragic date? When they laughed at her
for asking, because, of course, they were with her—how could she not remember?—she could explain the findings from
the Emory study.

Sure enough, the first colleague
she asked did remember they were
together at the conference when it happened.

But the other colleague did not.
She remembered being at home, and learning about it there. My sister was
flabbergasted. Perhaps the Emory study wasn’t so crazy after all. When Rachel Howard
describes being at a sleepover with two friends on 9/11, and learning that they
have different recollections of even this memorable day, this was meant as a fictional
recounting of my sister’s experiment.

The pace of technological advance: About
thirty years ago I was a grad student in a PhD program in molecular
biology, although I finally decided to write a master’s thesis and leave, since
I didn’t have the patience for lab work.

As part of my research project,
I mutated viruses, looking for interesting mutant phenotypes (observable
manifestations), and then sequenced these viruses to learn what exact changes
had taken place at the DNA level.

Sequencing even two hundred
bases back then was quite an ordeal, took days, and required working with potentially
dangerous levels of radiation. I really didn’t enjoy it.

The fact that it is now possible
to sequence billions of bases in the time it took me to do two hundred
continues to blow my mind. How can this be? If you had asked me back then if
this would be possible in 2016, my answer would have been an emphatic NO!

I would have said it would never be possible. Not in 2016, not in
22,016.

We are truly living in an
amazing age. Every time I write one of these novels, I always come to a point
at which I hesitate to push the possibilities of a technology any further. No,
this is going too far, I think. My readers will revolt, thinking the technology
I present is too far-fetched, too impossible, even for five or ten years in the
future.

But then I always come back to
DNA sequencing. And cell phones. And computers. And I realize that I’m not being
too far-fetched—because a decade or two ago, I would never have had the
audacity to suggest we could perfect technological miracles that I now take for
granted every day.

The San Diego fire of 2007, cows, and suicide on the tracks:

The San Diego wildfires of 2007
described by Azim Jafari happened, just as described, and the statistics cited
are accurate. It did cause the largest peacetime movement of civilians in
America since the civil war, with nearly a million residents forced from their
homes.

I was one of these residents.

While the fires headed in the
direction of my neighborhood, my family loaded up what we could into our car,
including photo albums, one dog, and one guinea pig, and I spent fifteen
minutes dousing my home with water before we headed downtown. It was exceedingly
stressful. Eventually we found lodging at a not-so-great motel, and smuggled in
our pets.

Our house was spared, but the
entire week was a horror show. Soot rained from the darkened skies and
breathing the unfiltered air was dangerous. From the cast of the sky, it did
seem like we were living in the aftermath of a nuclear war. It was eerie and
creepy and surreal, and deeply distressing.

And as mile after mile of
Southern California was consumed, and schools and businesses and the economy
ground to a halt, it did occur to me that the region had been brought to its
knees without need of a bombing, or a jet crashing into a skyscraper, and that a
terrorist could have brought it about with a lighter and few gallons of gas.

So while I was writing Game Changer and needing to come up with
a terrorist plot for the Mossad to foil—allowing me to introduce Mossad
characters and their counterparts in the US—I thought this would be a good,
dramatic choice.

Now let me switch gears. I was
Director of Biotechnology Licensing at Bristol-Myers Squibb in Princeton, New
Jersey, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Each day on my way to work I
passed farms and many cows, just like Carmilla Acosta. I once knew Princeton
well, so I enjoyed setting a few scenes here, even if I didn’t spend much time
describing the community.

When Carmilla remembers having been
on a train that made an unscheduled stop, followed by the conductor asking passengers
not to look out of the window on one side, followed by so many passengers rushing
to this side to look out it was a wonder the train didn’t tip over, this was an
event that I experienced personally, on a trip from Princeton to New York. Before
this time I had never associated trains with suicide, but after this event it
was impossible not to. (I just performed a quick search—and while I didn’t find
any up-to-date figures, I did find that in 2011, tragically, there were 173 train-related
suicides across America.)

Neuroscience—what makes
us tick? All
of the neuroscience discussed by Rachel Howard and Kevin Quinn, predominantly
in chapters twenty-five and twenty-nine, is real, and as accurate as I could
make it, although highly summarized and not rigorously presented. Most of this
was gleaned from two books written by David Eagleman, a neuroscientist at
Baylor College of Medicine, who is a gifted writer and who does a brilliant job
of explaining complex concepts in a highly entertaining manner. The books are Incognito and The Brain: The Story of You. If you had to read just one, I would
choose Incognito, as it contains more
material and is truly captivating (but only after reading all of my books, of course, and recommending
them to thousands of your friends :).

Some of the material on memory I found in the book The Seven Sins of Memory, by Daniel L.
Schacter, Chair of Harvard’s Department of Psychology, who has done
groundbreaking work on this subject.

The Danziger study is real. Apparently a full stomach can
influence who gets paroled and who doesn’t.

It is also true that damage to different regions of the
brain can cause dramatic and specific changes to personality and behavior. The
story about Charles Whitman, The University of Texas shooter, is real. He did
have a tumor and he did know something was going terribly wrong inside his
brain. The same for the man with a brain tumor who began to exhibit pedophilic tendencies.

The link between the physical brain and human behavior, and
the implications of this when it comes to the concept of the soul, is
fascinating to me, and I attempted to address different views on this subject,
although this is all highly speculative and subjective.

As discussed in the novel, human
beings are born largely unfinished, and our brains are wired-up as we go, and
unconscious subroutines burned into our brains tend to perform better and more
efficiently than tasks carried out by our conscious minds.

The unconscious does control our bodies, the random thoughts
we have, and far more of our lives than we’d ever imagine. This point is demonstrated
repeatedly in the book, Incognito,
and is truly astonishing to ponder. The unconscious really does run much of the
show, and we really have become expert at taking the credit.

The Hess experiment, in which men ranked women whose eyes
were slightly dilated as being more attractive, is true. And the unconscious
has been shown to be able to pick up on patterns faster than the conscious in a
number of experiments.

Emotions are important in driving decisions, and those with a certain type
of damage to their prefrontal cortex, whose emotions no longer influence their
behavior, can largely lose the ability to decide, paralyzed by even the
simplest of choices, like what to make for dinner or watch on TV.

With respect to split brain patients, researchers really can
get them to act without their consciousness knowing why, and they will
fabricate reasons for their actions from whole cloth.

Finally, our memories really can be readily manipulated. The
Loftus experiment, in which a memory of being lost in a mall was more or less implanted
in subjects, is real, as is our tendency to embellish memories, even those that
are false.

Addicted to Dmitri Kovonov? Obviously,
the many manipulations Kovonov carried out on Carmilla’s brain to get her to
fall in love with him, and become addicted to him, are impossible. At least
right now.

Kovonov’s claim that specific people
are represented in the brains of others by specific neuronal addresses, as it
were, is accurate. These addresses can be as short as a single neuron, are
known as Jennifer Aniston cells, and might potentially be manipulated one day
for unsavory purposes, as suggested in this passage from the New Scientist article, New memories implanted in mice while they
sleep:

Evidence suggests that single
neurons can represent specific people in the brain—such cells have been termed
Jennifer Aniston cells, after a test subject was found to have one brain cell
that only fired in response to images of the actress. If you could identify a
neuron that represents you in someone else’s brain and then stimulate areas of
the brain that create a rewarding feeling every time that neuron fires, you
might, in theory, be able to make that person like you more. “The fact that you
can do it during sleep is a bit worrying, in that it implies that you could
make somebody want something even if they didn’t really,” says Neil Burgess at
University College London. “There are a few ways of thinking about this—there’s
the medical application, and there’s the more Orwellian application, where the
government gets inside people’s heads and starts to control them,” he says.

Plum Island: This is a real island with a
checkered history, and the background on it given in the novel is accurate, all
except the following sentence: “In
2020, with great fanfare, DHS had announced they had sold Plum Island to a
reclusive Internet billionaire.” This hasn’t happened yet, but check back in
2020 to see if this comes true.

Notably, in the movie The
Silence of the Lambs, FBI trainee Clarice Starling offers Hannibal Lecter
an annual vacation on Plum Island in exchange for helping her track down a serial
killer. In response, he scathingly refers to it as “Anthrax Island.”

To the best of my knowledge there is no Black neuroscience lab on
the island, and if there were, I suspect it wouldn’t be abbreviated as ANL. But
Plum Island would be a great place to put such a secret lab, in my opinion.

Finally, because the island is a major setting for the novel, I’ll
leave you with this excerpt from a CBS News story from June 10, 2012, entitled,
Plumbing the Mysteries of Plum
Island (which can easily be found online):

Plum Island sits at the end of New York’s Long Island like a question mark.
For nearly 60 years, controversies and mysteries have engulfed it.

And no wonder. The island is controlled by the Department of Homeland
Security. Its labs are staffed by scientists from the United States Department
of Agriculture. They come and go by special government ferries, guarded by
armed officers.

We were asked not to film the docks on either side.

So what really goes on here? The USDA says scientists study diseases that
can affect livestock, primarily overseas, to develop vaccines.

And although the government says the germs stored on the island affect only
animals, that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. And information about them is
strictly protected for security reasons.

Neurotheology—God on the
brain: I had thought that religion was in decline
around the world, certain pockets notwithstanding, but this is apparently not
true, as described by Kevin Quinn in chapter sixty-one. The Gallup poll data
and the data about the supernatural beliefs prevalent in Sweden and Iceland were
taken from the book The Triumph of Faith,
by Rodney Stark, which has as much data and statistics on the subject as you
would ever want to see. In preparation for these sections I also read Matthew
Alper’s The God Part of the Brain,
which I found both fascinating and useful.

The evidence presented in chapter sixty-one that a propensity
toward religiosity is prewired into the human brain is accurate, including the
identical twin studies mentioned, as well as the similarities across virtually
all cultures as noted by Carl Jung and others. Also, spiritual feelings can be
ramped up or down as a result of drugs, disease, or physical trauma.

Like the discussion about the existence of the soul earlier
in the novel, thinking about the philosophical implications of these findings was
intriguing to me. The argument about why these findings don’t necessarily
disprove religion is my own, as far as I know. I wouldn’t be surprised if this
argument had been made before, but it isn’t one that I’ve read.

I thought it made some sense that if there were a Creator,
he would give us this prewired religion function. Faith is defined as belief in
the absence of proof. If a Creator made us without the ability to have faith,
we could hardly be expected to come to it on our own. But if we were made with the ability to have faith, prewired
for it in fact, we could always choose to ignore it. (Again, this doesn’t mean
there is a Creator, just that these findings don’t necessarily rule it out.)

Those of you who have read other novels, and other notes,
I’ve written, may know that when I began writing novels I was leaning toward
atheism. But the more physics and cosmology I’ve learned, the more open-minded
I’ve become (which is the opposite of what I thought would happen). This has
occurred because, while I find the idea of a omnipotent Creator preposterous, the
answers proposed by physicists and cosmologists to explain the origin of the
universe are at least as preposterous. The universe is exquisitely fine-tuned
for life (Google “The fine-tuned universe” if you’re interested in learning
more). Scientific theories to explain the impossibly perfect balance of forces
that allow life to exist typically involve infinite universes, which sounds
cool, but which isn’t any easier to wrap one’s mind around than the concept of
God.

In the final analysis, all that I am sure of is that
something amazing is going on, something impossible, and something far beyond
my ability to understand, whether this something is God or physics.

The novel describes precise locations in the brain
responsible for spirituality. While some progress has been made in unraveling
where this spiritual function might reside in the brain, these locations have
yet to be mapped out. This being said, I postulated that this would involve
multiple locations, rather than a single location, after reading articles like
the one excerpted below, from a piece in the Huffington Post (April, 2012) entitled, No God Spot in Brain,
Spirituality Linked to Right Parietal Lobe:

Scientists have speculated that the human brain features a
“God spot,” one distinct area of the brain responsible for spirituality. Now,
University of Missouri researchers have completed research that indicates
spirituality is a complex phenomenon, and multiple areas of the brain are
responsible for the many aspects of spiritual experiences.

“We have found a neuropsychological basis for spirituality, but it’s not
isolated to one specific area of the brain,” said Brick Johnstone, professor of
health psychology in the School of Health Professions. “Spirituality is a much
more dynamic concept that uses many parts of the brain. Certain parts of the
brain play more predominant roles, but they all work together to facilitate individuals’
spiritual experiences.”

In the most recent study, Johnstone studied 20 people with
traumatic brain injuries affecting the right parietal lobe, the area of the
brain situated a few inches above the right ear. He surveyed participants on
characteristics of spirituality, such as how close they felt to a higher power
and if they felt their lives were part of a divine plan. He found that the
participants with more significant injury to their right parietal lobe showed
an increased feeling of closeness to a higher power.

Aluminum foil and laser printers: I had fun writing the scene in which Kevin Quinn is turned
into an aluminum foil mummy. It turns out that aluminum foil really does block
electromagnetic signals. Like Quinn, I had thought this was a myth, but my research
indicated it wasn’t.

But I had to prove it to myself.
So I did the experiment Rachel recommends in the novel. I parked myself on the
couch and called my cell phone from our landline. Then I placed a single sheet
of aluminum foil over my cell and called again, responding with a triumphant,
“Yes!” when the phone didn’t ring. My wife, long used to being married to a
writer, now takes anything I do in stride, and looked on in amusement.

“Working out a scene?” she
asked.

“Yep,” I replied. “Did you know
that aluminum foil is a real thing?”

With respect to laser printers,
when I was an undergraduate at Ohio State, my father owned a company that sold
copy machines, faxes, and other business equipment. His biggest client was the
General Electric jet engine plant, which was a massive (and incredibly cool)
complex of buildings. He had placed over a hundred copy machines there, spread
out over many, many acres and many, many giant buildings. The repair technician
he sent when a copier had an issue was rubbing many of the GE people the wrong
way, and they weren’t happy with the level of service.

So during one of my summer
breaks from college, he decided to make me his secret weapon to bring his
company back into good graces with GE. He gave me a crash course on copy
machine repair and sent me to the GE plant every day as the maintenance, repair,
and customer good will technician. Most of the tweaks required to optimize
copier performance were simple. For anything that wasn’t routine, he would send
a real repair technician to fix the problem. But I was really there to be
charming and polite and helpful and repair the damage to the relationship
another tech had caused.

Why do I mention this? Because
copiers and laser printers work the same way, and I haven’t taken this
technology for granted since the days at GE. Both devices lay down an electric
charge on a drum in the precise pattern of the document to be printed, and then
suck up toner. It occurred to me when writing Game Changer that this would be a useful analogy to use when
thinking about how the nanites could quickly be directed to assume complex
patterns.

The BRAIN initiative: This is real,
and the blog post that Rachel read to her class, likening this effort to the
NASA moon launch, is also real. As discussed, this was written by Francis
Collins, who led the Human Genome Project.

As Collins wrote, the goal of this initiative is to produce
the first dynamic view of the human brain in action, revolutionizing our
understanding of how we think, feel, learn, remember, and move. This is a
massive, expensive project, and a very big deal.

I won’t spend further time with it here, but I would direct
you to HumanConnectomeProject.org, or you could Google The BRAIN Initiative, or these specific articles: 1) The $5 Billion Race to Map Your Brain,
and 2) Whole mouse brain mapping within
reach.

A
sleeping giant: Kovonov was attempting
to motivate America to get off the sidelines and unleash its full might to
destroy an enemy. This is precisely what the Japanese did during World War II,
although in this case it wasn’t on purpose. America had chosen to sit out this
war at the start. But this changed dramatically after Japan’s attack on Pearl
Harbor. A Japanese admiral, realizing the grave mistake his country had made,
was alleged to have said, “We have awakened a sleeping giant, and have filled
him with a terrible resolve.”

The Kovonov character would no
doubt be aware of this history, so I chose to have him call this to mind by
characterizing his actions as kicking
awake a sleeping giant.

Fly
drones and fly catching:
I put very little material into the novel about the science of fly drones, but
the pursuit of Micro Air Vehicles is a real thing, of course. Drones have
become impossible not to notice, and before I turned to neurobiology, I had planned
to write a novel based on a future in which MAVs had been perfected.

Not only could fly drones and other
MAVs be used in surveillance, they could be used to inject poison, could be directed
into jet engines to down planes, and could engage in all sorts of other mayhem.
I threw myself into the subject for almost two months, during which I read
books on the subject and spent many hours attempting to come up with an
overarching plot.

But try as I might, I could never
find one that really grabbed me. Finally, I gave up, and turned to neuroscience
as the basis for a possible novel. But while writing Game Changer, I still had drones on the brain, and realized they
could work quite nicely in a supporting role, although I chose not to go into
any technical detail.

With respect to killing and
catching living flies with one’s hands, these passages are accurate. I know,
because I captured flies this same way as a kid. I’d have other kids try to
catch one, which couldn’t really be done without the sliding a hand on a smooth surface technique. When they were unable
to do so, I’d bet them that I could. I won a number of bets this way, and
couldn’t resist including this in the novel—the technique, not the bets :).

Israel,
the Mossad, and US Intelligence:
Meir Dagan really was the head of the Mossad from 2002 until 2010, and really
did have a framed black-and-white photo of his grandfather, just before he was
killed by the Nazis (and the results of the Stanley Milgram experiment that are
described are accurate, as well).

Anything in the novel about Israel and the Mossad that wasn’t
obviously fictional—like
their Matrix Learning Manhattan Project, and so on—was factual. Israel is as tiny as
described, has as scant a population, and is surrounded by countless larger
enemies determined to destroy it. The Mossad has become almost legendary in its
excellence as a spy agency, as described. Finally, the country does contain
perhaps the most highly educated population, per capita, of any country in the
world, and has become a world-renowned center of innovation. I drew on two
books for much of this information: Spies
Against Armageddon, by Dan Raviv and Yossi Melman, and Start-Up Nation: The Story of Israel’s Economic Miracle, by Dan
Senor and Saul Singer.

The US Intelligence Community is as
unwieldy of a behemoth as described in the novel, with seventeen separate
agencies, almost thirteen hundred government organizations, and two thousand
private companies, operating from over ten thousand locations spread across the
country. In 2010, the Washington Post
published the results of a two-year investigation of the US Intelligence
Community entitled, “A hidden world, growing beyond control,” which is quite eye-opening. Here is how
this lengthy story begins:

The top-secret world the government
created in response to the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, has become so
large, so unwieldy and so secretive that no one knows how much money it costs,
how many people it employs, how many programs exist within it or exactly how
many agencies do the same work.

These are some of the findings of a
two-year investigation by The Washington
Post that discovered what amounts to an alternative geography of the United
States, a Top Secret America hidden from public view and lacking in thorough
oversight. After nine years of unprecedented spending and growth, the result is
that the system put in place to keep the United States safe is so massive that
its effectiveness is impossible to determine.

Neuroscience
and the law: I touched upon this briefly in the novel, when the
decision was made to fake Quinn’s death rather than disclose the possibility of
false memory implantation, so as not to throw a lifeline to criminal defense
attorneys throughout the country. This is another area I find fascinating, but
I couldn’t spare the space in the novel to address it more fully.

David
Eagleman does discuss this extensively in his book Incognito, however. In addition to his other duties, Eagleman is also director of Baylor
College of Medicine’s Initiative on
Neuroscience and the Law, and has lectured on these issues all over the
world. Here is an excerpt from this section of his book:

The biggest battle I have to fight is the
misperception that an improved biological understanding of people’s behaviors
and internal differences means we will forgive criminals and no longer take
them off the streets. That’s incorrect. Biological explanation will not
exculpate criminals. Brain science will improve the legal system, not impede
its function. For the smooth operation of society, we will remove from the
streets those criminals who prove themselves to be over-aggressive,
under-empathetic, and poor at controlling their impulses. They will be taken
into the care of the government.

But the important change will be the way we punish the
vast range of criminal acts—in terms of rational sentencing and new ideas for
rehabilitation. The emphasis will shift from punishment to recognizing problems
(both neural and social) and meaningfully addressing them.

Miscellaneous:
The information about Alan Turing, his contributions to computer science and
the war effort, and his recruitment of non-typical code breakers, is accurate.
If you haven’t seen the movie The
Imitation Game, about Turing and his efforts to crack the Nazi Enigma
Machine, I can’t recommend it more highly. One of the best movies I have seen.

Adolf Hitler did survive multiple assassination
attempts over many years. Had just one of these succeeded who knows what the
world would look like today.

The transparent roundworm, C. elegans, has
played a vital role in neuroscience for many decades for the reasons given, and
does, indeed, possess just three hundred and two neurons.

The information about girls
outperforming boys when it comes to reading is accurate. Not only this, it is
often difficult to get boys to read at all. I’ve written articles for Today’s Parent and others on this
subject, since my Prometheus Project
kids series has been touted by both parents and educators for its appeal to
reluctant readers (and interestingly enough, gifted students at the same time).

Microneedle arrays are being developed for painless
delivery of medications.

The information about the Advanced Airborne Command Post (the E-4B jet), and
the High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group is accurate.

The information about the
vulnerabilities of facial recognition, including CV Dazzle and the use of
remote control bulbs to blind cameras, is accurate, as is the discussion of the
Chinese torture called Death by a
Thousand Cuts.

Finally, the symptoms experienced
by al-Bilawy after Rachel Howard activated all of his nanites at once are all
actual symptoms of what is called a Tonic-clonic seizure (previously called a
Grand mal seizure), although these would typically not all occur during the
same episode, nor be as severe.

My first responsibility in business
development for a biotech company was trying to partner an experimental anti-epilepsy
drug, and I gave my first ever presentation in this role to executives of Eli
Lilly, in Indianapolis, Indiana.

My guess is that if every neuron
fired at once, al-Bilawy would simply collapse, dead, in an instant, but I took
a bit of dramatic license, stepping through symptoms sequentially and keeping
him alive for a full twelve seconds.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Douglas E. Richards is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of eight technothrillers, including Wired, Amped, Mind’s Eye, BrainWeb, Quantum Lens, Split Second,
Game Changer, and The Cure. He has also written six middle
grade/young adult novels widely acclaimed for their appeal to boys, girls, and
adults alike. Douglas has a master’s degree in molecular biology (aka “genetic
engineering”), was a biotechnology executive for many years, and has authored a
wide variety of popular science pieces for National
Geographic, the BBC, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Earth and Sky, Today's Parent, and many others. Douglas has a wife, two children,
and two dogs, and currently lives in San Diego,
California.