The Singularity Race (8 page)

“How many gates?”

“Two. This one and another one at the dock.”

Mullins saw the address mounted in one of the stone pillars. “You put up a visible street number?”

“Had to. Fire department requires some form of identification.”

Mullins nodded with approval. He memorized the number. As soon as he could steal a few minutes alone, he'd text it to Allen and request a set of satellite photographs of the compound.

***

The photographs lay on the desk in three piles. Foliage hid most of the terrain adjacent to the lake. On the aerial view, a bold black line drawn by a Sharpie marked the property boundaries. Beneath that top picture, a series of photos featured close-ups of the entrance gate, the dock, the exterior of the three-level lake house, and the single-story guesthouse. Four pages of documents detailed the specifications of the security system and the floor plans of both buildings.

Heinrich Schmidt set the stack labeled “Lake Lure” aside and examined the surveillance photos of an apartment building in Arlington, Virginia. Shirlington House, the residence of ex-Secret Service agent Rusty Mullins. A Sharpie had circled a corner window on the fourth floor. The wide parking lot below offered no concealment for a sniper's position. A second photo showed a blue Prius with Virginia license plates, the target's car, parked in a spot at the edge of the pavement. Good for a drive-by hit if it were a two-man operation, but not ideal for working alone. And Schmidt's instructions had been for a solo op.

The third stack covered a three-story brick building in an Arlington neighborhood called Fairlington Villages. A ring had been drawn around the windows on the lower right with the words “Woodson Condo” printed above. Schmidt understood that the unit housed Kayli and Josh, daughter and grandson of Rusty Mullins and the wife and child of Allen Woodson.

If collateral damage could be ignored, a packet of C-4 plastic explosive would take out both men if a family gathering brought them together in the home.

Schmidt combined the photos and documents into one pile. His preferred location was the isolated lake house, but if pressed into action, he'd take whatever appeared to be the best opportunity. Meanwhile, he was content to earn a fee for simply waiting. The Hampton Inn in the small city of Spartanburg, South Carolina, made a secure hiding spot, and whether he was called into action at Lake Lure only a few hours away or the suburbs of D.C., Heinrich Schmidt was ready.

He looked across the room at the golf bag and clubs leaning against the closet. The new set had arrived via Federal Express that morning and the shipping box lay ripped open on the hotel floor. The return address was from an online sporting-goods store in Chicago.

A fine set of clubs, although the woods were missing.

The M24 Sniper Weapons System fit snugly in their place—the rifle, telescopic scope, and bipod. And the Glock and four loaded magazines had been perfectly concealed in the ball pouch.

As a professional assassin, Heinrich Schmidt had to admit his client knew how to get things done.

Chapter Fourteen

“I haven't had time to remodel this interior. I hope you'll find it comfortable.” Robert Brentwood stood in the small living room of the guest cottage and looked apologetically at the surroundings.

The furnishings were dated but serviceable. A Naugahyde sofa, circa 1970, a pale green armchair, and a black JFK rocker bordered a tan and brown hooked rug spread beneath an oak coffee table.

“My interior designer is flying down from New York later in the week to remedy the situation.”

Mullins thought all the room needed was a widescreen TV.

“This is more than sufficient,” Lisa Li said. “Please leave everything as it is, at least while we're here.”

Brentwood nodded. “As you wish. There's a small eat-in kitchen, but my chef will be preparing all the meals in the main house. I'm afraid there's only one bathroom for the two bedrooms. You and Peter will need to share.”

“What about Rusty?” Li asked.

“He'll have a room in the main house.”

“If he's to protect me, why are we in separate buildings?”

“I thought you'd prefer your privacy. If you'd rather stay in the main house, there's ample room.”

Li shook her head. “Here is fine. Either Peter sleeps with me in my bed or I'll pay for a cot. Rusty can have the second bedroom.”

Brentwood turned to Mullins.

“I should be where she is,” Mullins agreed. “The sofa will be fine.”

“No,” Li insisted. “You'll have a proper bed. You've got two more weeks of your shoulder in the sling. I won't have you uncomfortable on my account.”

Mullins shrugged. “All right.” He looked at Brentwood. “What next?”

“I'll see that your luggage is brought in. I know you've had a long night so I thought you'd like to relax a few hours. Lunch will be served in the main house at one, and then we'll go to the campus so Lisa can see where she'll be working.”

“First, I'd like to walk the property and see the dock,” Mullins said. “Do I need a gate key?”

Brentwood fished a white plastic card out of his front pocket. “This will work at both the dock and driveway. Would you like me to go with you?”

“No. Just make sure Lisa and Peter have what they need.” He took the key and left.

***

The land was wooded with only a border of laurel shrubs planted around the cottage. A trail constructed of river rock and railroad ties led to the main house. Like its smaller companion, the larger residence had a stone foundation and rustic bark siding.

Mullins spurned the path and turned right into the woods. Underbrush had been cleared beneath the pines and hardwoods and he had no difficulty walking in his street shoes.

The fence was about fifty feet away and identical in its wrought-iron structure to the section he'd observed at the driveway entrance. He followed it down the slope toward the lake, noting that a number of trees had been recently felled so that the fence could adhere to the property's boundary. Its construction must have cost enough to build a small village. The iron pickets not only towered a good two or three feet above his head but also appeared to be buried below ground level, making it difficult for anyone to tunnel underneath.

Several yards from the shoreline, the fence angled left. Blueberry bushes formed a protective barrier between the pickets and the water. On a Tuesday morning, the lake was quiet. Looking across to the far shore five hundred yards away, Mullins saw a lone kayaker paddling toward him. The leisurely rhythm of the strokes indicated no urgency to reach a specific destination. But Mullins would check Brentwood's dock carefully. An approach from the lakeside could be a vulnerability. If Brentwood's security measures didn't include video surveillance, Mullins would strongly suggest its installation.

Mindful of his own recommendation, he looked up into the surrounding trees, searching for any cameras that might be trained his way. He found nothing but branches and foliage. Turning his back to the house and the distant kayaker, Mullins pulled the burner phone from his pocket and sent his son-in-law a short text.

***

Allen Woodson knocked softly on the private door to Vice Admiral Louis MacArthur's office. He heard a curt “Come in,” turned the knob, and entered.

Woodson gave a salute that MacArthur returned without bothering to rise from behind his desk.

“You have information for me, sir?”

“Sit,” MacArthur ordered. He swept some papers aside as if to clear a physical path to his young officer. “The information I have is that I have no information. Thailand, Mozambique, and Belize proved to be dead ends. The men left no trail beyond apartments rented for cash.”

“Isn't that unusual? Surely there must be some common connection linking them.”

“Of course there is,” MacArthur snapped. “And no one's more frustrated than I am that we can't find it. These men might only have worked as lone guns prior to the Marriott attack. Just our bad luck that we catch their first team operation.”

“Someone had to hire and pay them.” Woodson wasn't intimidated by his superior's brusque manner.

MacArthur shook his head. “Believe me, we've pursued every conduit of terrorist financing we know. I guess you'd better share their names and photos with Mullins.”

Woodson hadn't told MacArthur he'd already given his father-in-law the identification of the three known gunmen. “Okay. Mullins sent me a request for satellite scans of an area in North Carolina.”

“North Carolina? What's he up to?”

Woodson briefed the vice admiral on Mullins' movements and his role as personal protection for Dr. Li.

“Brentwood.” MacArthur spoke the name as if he was tired of hearing it. “The guy owns half the members of the Armed Services Committee. And he's so entrenched in AI development that I ordered a beachhead in Palo Alto.”

Woodson knew “beachhead” as a military term for a defended position taken from the enemy and readied for launching an attack.

MacArthur realized the word had caught Woodson's attention. He smiled. “It's only an office for interfacing with the nerds, not assaulting them. Maybe North Carolina's a good place for Mullins. He can babysit the scientist and stay out of our hair. Give me the coordinates for the satellite photos. If we keep him happy, President Brighton will be happy. If Brighton's happy, I'm happy. And you don't want me unhappy.”

“No, sir.” Woodson stood and laid a sheet of paper on the desk with the Lake Lure information. “I should probably rendezvous with him in person. How would you like me to arrange transportation?”

“All commercial. I'll have the photos in twenty-four hours and a debit card for your expenses.”

“Here?”

“No. I'll get them to you.” MacArthur stood. “Tell Mullins not to worry. We'll nail those bastards.”

“Yes, sir.” Woodson understood he'd been dismissed. He saluted and left through the private door.

MacArthur sat and scowled at the Lake Lure coordinates. He had no choice but to fulfill the request. And he'd immediately brief Brighton on the intel he'd given Mullins. MacArthur picked up his phone and opened a secure line.

The beachhead had just moved to North Carolina.

Chapter Fifteen

The limo snaked its way along Highway 9 headed to the AI campus twenty miles away. The roller coaster stretch of road stirred a queasiness in Mullins' stomach, and he chastised himself for overindulging in the gourmet meal Brentwood's chef had prepared for lunch. As if almond-crusted mountain trout with white grits and swiss chard hadn't been enough, Mullins had devoured a monstrous slice of German chocolate cake that tasted terrific going down but would be a different matter coming up.

He slipped a roll of TUMS out of his coat pocket and let one melt in his mouth.

After a few miles, the landscape opened up into rolling hills and farmland. Mullins' indigestion eased.

“What's that green stuff?” Peter asked.

Brentwood laughed. “That, my friend, is kudzu. The gift from the Japanese that more successfully overran the United States than their army.”

Shrubs and trees along the roadside were engulfed by the broad-leafed vines, creating strange shapes that gave little hint as to the underlying plants swallowed within.

“It was developed to combat soil erosion,” Brentwood continued, “but it trapped not only the dirt but also everything else growing there. The locals say it can cover sleeping dogs and slow-moving old ladies.”

Peter frowned as he thought about the prospect. “Maybe we should drive faster.”

Brentwood clapped his hands in childish delight. “You heard the boy, Jefferson. Speed up.”

A smile broke across the driver's face and the limo surged forward.

Mullins turned to face the backseat. “Why build your facility here in the feeding grounds of the kudzu? It's not like you have a secret laboratory.”

“Hardly,” Brentwood agreed. “Two things—cheap land and cheap power.”

“I get the land part, but this is country. Where's the cheap power come in?”

“Textiles, Rusty. These little towns in the foothills were built by the mills. Rivers flowing out of the mountains provided hydroelectric energy to the factories. When the textile companies followed cheap labor offshore, they left the power infrastructure behind. I like to think of it as simply unplugging a loom and plugging in a server.”

“Smart.”

“Thanks. But it wasn't my idea alone. Facebook built the first data farm, as I like to call it. Their operation's about ten miles down the road from our campus.”

“And they're researching artificial intelligence?”

“I'm sure they are. Probably not at this facility. But who knows? We're a secretive lot.”

“Information barons,” Mullins muttered to himself.

Brentwood leaned forward. “I didn't catch that.”

“We've had railroad barons, oil barons, and now information barons.”

“In a world of barons, I prefer to think of myself as Robin Hood.”

Mullins patted the plush leather seat. “Yeah, living in the cold, damp wilds of Sherwood Forest.”

Brentwood grinned sheepishly. “I guess you could say my weapon is a quiver full of money, not arrows.”

“And a computer, not a bow.”

Brentwood leaned back between Peter and Li. “I knew we'd understand each other.”

The limo turned right onto an unlined blacktop that ran between fenced pastures. The only sign read, Private Property—No Exit. Mullins scanned the fields expecting cows or horses.

“Wow!” Peter exclaimed. “What are those?”

Mullins spotted a herd of shaggy animals on the brow of a distant hill.

“Buffalo,” Brentwood said. “Or more accurately, bison. I've got the land and may as well put it to good use.”

“Don't they draw the curious?” Mullins asked.

“At first. With all my construction trucks coming in from the main highway, the locals needed something to look at. Otherwise, their curiosity might lead them farther.”

In a quarter mile, a triple-barred metal gate spanned across the road. The driver slowed only slightly to allow the gate to swing open automatically.

“The gate triggers a unique response signal from the car,” Brentwood explained. “A computer reads it, visually identifies the vehicle and permits entry.”

“How about deliveries?” Mullins asked.

“Vendors or approved visitors receive a cell phone number to which they text an admittance code. Employees have devices like this one on their cars.”

“And for anyone setting out over the pastures on foot, the buffalo are more intimidating than a herd of Jersey heifers.”

“There is that benefit,” Brentwood admitted.

The pastures of bison gave way to pines and small hardwoods. The road curved left and again the landscape opened. Instead of pasture, a mammoth white structure filled a clearing that encompassed at least five acres. The building stood two stories with peaked rows of solar panels running across the flat roof. Beyond, four steel-girder towers rose above the tree line. Antennae and satellite dishes sprouted from platforms embedded in the tower skeletons.

“Cheap power and you still installed solar?” Mullins asked.

“Nothing cheaper than free sunlight. And computers live on electricity like we live on air. So, I have Duke Energy, diesel-powered generators, and the sun itself to make sure power is never interrupted.”

“How big is this place?”

“Nearly four football fields. But it houses thousands and thousands of servers and processors.”

The impressive size of Brentwood's facility dwarfed the small parking lot, a contrast that caught Mullins' eye. “There are only about twenty cars. Is there more parking in the rear?”

“No. We have a small research team and then our support technicians. One tech can monitor and take care of over twelve thousand servers, and we run our own software to alert us to any pending drive or system failure.”

The limo parked in a reserved space close to metal and glass double doors. A guardhouse to the right of the sidewalk featured a flesh and blood sentinel who gave a nod to Brentwood as he passed. The entrance promised all the decor of walking into a warehouse.

Jefferson, the driver, held open one of the doors. A rush of air blew from the inside, shooing away any insects or airborne contaminants that might otherwise drift into the building. Lisa Li and Peter entered first. Mullins nearly crashed into them when they abruptly stopped just over the threshold.

The room was about fifty feet by seventy feet. No furniture, no receptionist. Instead a ball of roiling mist filled the space between the floor and the ceiling twenty feet above. The vaporous sculpture was contained in a circular mesh of fine tubing. Light played across the moving surface, creating highlights and shadows. As Peter, Li, and Mullins stood mesmerized, the wisps of artificial clouds morphed into a more definable object—a human brain.

“That is something.” Mullins made the innocuous statement because other words failed him.

“The tubing has multiple jets of cold air and warm, moist air,” Brentwood said. “The nozzles swivel to shoot the streams with pinpoint accuracy. Their intersection creates a cloud. The lights shine on different sections to help create the desired image. All computer-driven.”

As Brentwood walked around the dynamic cloud, he beamed like a proud father. “Come, there's more to see.” He stepped toward the rear wall of what looked like oak paneling. It instantly changed to a vast prairie with a herd of stampeding buffalo coming straight at them. Peter squealed and jumped behind Lisa Li.

Brentwood gave two sharp claps and the charging animals became a wall, this time of horizontal cedar. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Since we have no windows, we have areas of virtual scenery for stimulation.” He pressed his palm against the fake wall and a section slid away revealing a passage to the rest of the building.

Mullins stepped through and found the sight more overwhelming than the mist sculpture or prairie landscape. Before him stood hundreds or even thousands of black monoliths, each with red and green lights flashing across their surface. At over six feet in height, they looked like giant dominoes mustered into rows and columns. Four football fields of them.

“Jesus,” Mullins said. “Are these your brains?”

Brentwood walked to the nearest unit and patted it affectionately. “In the sense of stored knowledge, you can say that.”

Lisa Li swept her gaze across the panorama and shook her head. “Only knowledge, not wisdom.”

Brentwood pointed a finger at the scientist. “Exactly. Exactly. You've summed it up spectacularly.”

“What do you say is the difference?” Mullins asked.

Brentwood looked at his newest employee. “Tell him. I'm interested to hear your perspective as well.”

Li looked a little embarrassed at being thrust into the role of lecturer. “Knowledge is comprised of facts. Data collected, catalogued, and stored until retrieved for some process. Like the experienced events and information we embed in our brains. Critical information, trivial information, but that's all it is. Just information.” She looked to Brentwood who nodded his approval. “Wisdom is knowing what to do with that information. How to apply it, how to connect it in new ways and for new purposes. Human programmers do that and the computer performs a prescribed function, brilliantly and with unbelievable speed, but still merely executing someone else's directives. I'm not trying to improve a computer's knowledge. That's just more of these glorified machines. I'm interested in two things—imagination and wisdom. Those are the differences that need to be bridged. The imagination to conceive new ideas, ask and explore new questions, and then the wisdom to apply discoveries in the most effective and benign manner.”

“Meaning what?” Mullins asked.

Brentwood jumped in, unable to restrain himself. “Meaning, Rusty, if Apollo determines on his own that the greatest threat to the earth is climate change brought about by greenhouse gases and a destroyed ozone layer, and the unbiased conclusion is that the greatest accelerant of these phenomena is humankind, what's to stop this super intelligent computer from wiping our species off the face of the earth?”

Peter stepped closer to Brentwood, his eyes wide. “Who's Apollo?”

Brentwood did a double take, blinking like the boy had materialized in front of him.

“Apollo?”

“You said Apollo,” Peter insisted.

Brentwood colored slightly, and then shrugged. “It's the name I made up.”

“I've read the stories, Mr. Brentwood. Apollo brings the sun. He brings the light. I think it's a good name.”

Lisa Li draped her arm over Peter's shoulders. “It is a good name, Robert. And you'll need one.” She looked at Mullins. “I believe if we create an artificial intelligence with imagination and wisdom we can't avoid the development that logically follows—artificial consciousness. And like any conscious entity, he'll have a desire for self-preservation.”

“Forget climate change,” Mullins said. “What if Apollo feels even remotely threatened?”

Brentwood and Li just looked at each other. Neither gave an answer.

“Where will Aunt Li Li work?” Peter scanned the enormous room for signs of people.

“All of the offices and labs are on the lower level,” Brentwood said.

“Underground?” Mullins asked.

“Yes. Environmentally more efficient. The greatest enemy of all these electronics isn't a power loss. It's heat. Heat generated by hundreds of thousands of components, each alone not creating a high level, but collectively turning out a thermal boost that would soon damage delicate circuitry.” Brentwood pointed straight over his head. “The ceiling is high and the roof peaked in upside-down troughs to channel that rising heat either outside or to the level below for warmth in winter. We replace the hot air with outside air that passes through chilled mist to lower its temperature without using full-scale air-conditioning. And the lower level is deeper than the frost line, which makes it easy to heat and cool.”

Brentwood led them to a monolith on the side wall that was twice as big as the others. When he was about five feet away, the front panel slid up, revealing an empty chamber.

“Elevator,” he explained.

The inside was deep enough to serve as a freight elevator. Diffused lighting from an overhead panel illuminated the interior.

“Where are the buttons for the floors?” Peter asked.

“No buttons. With only two levels, you're always going to the other one.”

A low hum sounded as the elevator automatically descended. Mullins stepped farther back and noticed a small keypad installed in the side wall about four feet above the floor. Ten numerical buttons, zero to nine, were flush with the brushed metal surface and could easily be overlooked.

“What's the keypad for?” Mullins asked. “Firemen?”

“Firemen? Oh, you mean like those special keys they carry to override the elevator controls? I have a waiver since we're only two floors and there are adequate stairwells. The keypad disables this elevator and the other four. It can also secure access to the stairs.”

“In other words, put you in lockdown,” Mullins said.

“I guess you could call it that. The main function is to create a literal firewall that isolates any outbreak.”

The door opened, catching Mullins by surprise. They stepped into a large reception area. Like the entry space above, the walls depicted virtual scenes, this time a rocky coastline that reminded Mullins of Maine. There was even the sound of surf and a breeze carried the faint taste of salt.

A translucent white desk faced the elevator. Behind it, an attractive dark-skinned woman of around thirty was talking into a wireless headset. She wore a sunburst dashiki and held up a forefinger signaling them to wait. She spoke a few words and then slipped off the earpiece and microphone.

“Welcome back, Robert. It looks like you've surrounded yourself with fine company.”

“Felicia, meet Peter Wang and his aunt, Dr. Lisa Li. Dr. Li's joining our team. And this is Rusty Mullins, perhaps the best security man and criminal investigator in the country.”