Jintao Page 25

  McGowen sent out a global search, looking for help. Several contacts referred him to an IT expert in the United States, a man called Green.

  Green’s company, Allied Cyber Task Force, didn’t take every case that came along. Most of their available hours were delegated to ongoing contracts with several major corporations. Green wasn’t looking for new business, but he listened patiently while Quan made a compelling case for helping the new venture. “We’re on the verge of a major breakthrough and need all the protection we can get—no matter the cost.”

  “I’ll let you know by the end of the day,” said Green.

  With relative ease, after disconnecting, Green hacked into the LÓNG website and the Research Center’s com lines and downloaded three months’ worth of com data. An hour elapsed while one of his custom programs sifted through hundreds of communications, zooming in and out, checking for authenticity and following curious reroutes. Eyes darting back and forth, Green looked at the results and followed down a lead—an IP proxy. From pier to pier, he followed it to a facility in Los Alamos, New Mexico.

  He mumbled to himself. The Los Alamos Nuclear Lab? Can’t be. No one can hack that stack. He knew, because he designed it—five different layers, each with a different OS and different rotating passwords. Anyone who could penetrate that security stack was someone Green definitely wanted to meet. He opened a com line to McGowen.

  Green’s real name was Irwin Shaw. Early in his career one of his clients started calling him Green after seeing his exorbitant invoices. The nickname stuck.

  McGowen answered and switched on vidi com. Green was an unshaven man of forty-two, whose uniform consisted of jeans and a dress shirt, usually white and always worn tails out. His eyes were quick and his was manner dismissive and blunt. He stood at a workstation and while he talked, his hands were busy below.

  “I’ll take this on with one condition. I want complete control of your systems. No interference. Just go about your business and let me do my job. It’s a lot easier for me to find the bad guys if they think no one’s looking.”

  “You’ll need our passwords,” said McGowen.

  “Nah, I’m already in. We’ll fix that later. For now, just sit tight.”

  After the call ended, Green hooked tracers onto all of the laboratory’s access points, then returned to the link at Los Alamos. Finding no evidence of an outside hack, he guessed it must be someone inside the facility. He’d need help from the other side of the fence. The on-site security manager was Miles Lungrin, someone Green worked with before.

  “A civilian site being hacked from our facility,” said Lungrin. “That’s a switch. I’ll call around. Maybe someone’s investigating the Brane Research Center. But if it turns out to be someone who tunneled through Los Alamos from outside, that’s a felony.”

  While Green was on the line with Lungrin, an e-mail came through to Quan: “You should tell everyone how lucky they are to have you as a mentor.”

  McGowen opened a com line to Green to report the intrusion and was told abruptly, “I’ve seen it. I told you to sit tight. We’re on our way to Los Alamos.” The com line disconnected.

  McGowen wondered who Green meant when he said “we,” and why they were going to Los Alamos.

  ~~~

  Los Alamos National Laboratory, Los Alamos, New Mexico

  Green’s shoes were heating up as he walked across the dusty tarmac from one of the huge glide hangers to the overhang of the main entrance. The blazing New Mexico sun was pricking his skin like a barrage of needles. Waiting for him inside was a man almost two meters tall, buzz cut, belly pressing against his short-sleeved shirt and a security card tethered around his neck.

  “Miles,” said Green, shaking his hand, “you never change.”

  “Not unless I have to,” said Lungrin. “How you been?”

  “Same old.”

  They traveled through a maze of air-conditioned hallways, descending in an elevator to the fourth underground level, where they entered a small room with a wall-to-wall view field across one end and four desks equally spaced across the floor. Each desk was equipped with a view field and the LANL emblem, rotated in each field in synchrony. Lungrin sat at one of the desks and the emblem dissolved, leaving only a command prompt. He entered a string of characters, then got out of the chair and stepped back without saying a word.

  “Okay, buddy, have a seat. You’ve got network access.”

  Within two minutes, Green located an internal account showing an access history to the IP address he’d uncovered. A couple more minutes and he decrypted the password and recovered several gigs including recent deletions. There were files containing data on each of the Jintao family including birthdates, passwords, and ID numbers. He retrieved files lifted from the LÓNG website and access codes for the Brane Research Center.

  Standing behind him, Lungrin said, “I’ve seen enough. Let’s see who we’ve got here.”

  Lungrin went to one of the other terminals and logged in. “She’s in the IT support group—part of our outreach program.” He scrolled past several windows. “Name is Nona Smith.”

  “Can we get her in here?” asked Green.

  Minutes later, in walked a wiry woman with a wide face and black pigtails. She wore a plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and well-worn cowboy boots. Below her broad cheekbones and downcast eyes, her lips were clamped tight.

  “Have a seat,” said Lungrin, placing a small yellow card on the table. “Supervisor Miles Lungrin taking the statement of Nona Smith at Los Alamos Nuclear Laboratories, New Mexico.”

  Lungrin asked her for permission to record and she acquiesced without hesitation. He slid the yellow card closer. “You’ve agreed to cooperate with this interview of your own free will. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you familiar with the name Jintao?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve reviewed files deleted from your computer here at LANL. The files contained personal data on the Jintao family including passport numbers and banking information. You’ve read their personal e-mails and listened to their personal voicemails. Do you admit doing this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve collected proprietary information including banking information. Is this true?”

  “Yes, but not intentionally.”

  “Do you admit sending messages to Quan Jintao and placing com calls to him?”

  She sat up proudly. “Yes.”

  “Why? Why did you do these things?”

  Opening her eyes wide, Nona spoke in a self-assured tone. “I’ve been sending messages to the LÓNG website ever since it was launched and they’ve ignored me. For the last few weeks, it seemed like no one was managing the site at all. I thought if I showed them how helpful I could be, they’d let me be part of what they’re doing.”

  “How were you being helpful?”

  Looking squarely at Lungrin, she said, “I’m a true believer. I totally understand the LÓNG philosophy and I have so much to offer them. I’m Navajo and the LÓNG site makes references to many of my tribe’s most sacred beliefs. To help, I added things to their website—things that were missing—other people liked what I added. I was helping but the site didn’t respond, so I tracked down the site creator, Quan Jintao. I read his incoming mail. I wasn’t trying to do anything wrong. I didn’t steal anything.”

  A transcript of the interview was brought up on the view field and she was asked to endorse it. Without protest she placed her hand into the view field. Lungrin added his endorsement.

  “That’s it. I’m done here,” said Green, looking over his shoulder. “I trust you’ll deep-six the files and nuke the links.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Lungrin, looking at the woman. “And any copies she’s made.”

  After Lungrin finished giving Nona Smith a piece of his mind, two security guards escorted her to her cubicle where she packed up. She was escorted out of the building, carrying her personal belongings in a cardboard box. Around
the corner, in the employee lot, the guards stood by as she got into her dilapidated compact hydro. They radioed ahead to the security gates and watched her car drive away, disappearing down the road in a trail of dust.

  Once he was airborne, Green reported to McGowen. “She’s out of your life. If we hadn’t caught her, I have no doubt she would have shown up on your doorstep. Typical stalker profile: delusional, wants to be part of something big, something to give meaning to her life. They fired her but aren’t pressing charges. I suggest you do the same. You could charge her with identity theft, but since no actual damage was done, she probably wouldn’t get more than a slap on the wrist. We can get a restraining order but I don’t think it’s worth the trouble. The main thing is that she knows we have her number and if she’s smart she’ll consider herself lucky and just walk away.”

  “I’m impressed. You work fast,” said McGowen.

  “There are a few more things I’m going to do for you so that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

  Five hours later Green reported installing hefty security stacks on the LÓNG website and the Research Center computers. He set hooks for intruders and connected everything to a backup system. He also recommended setting up a security field around the lab compound and a full-time IT person to monitor all systems.

  “Looks like you have the start of something important,” he told McGowen. “That can attract the best and the worst kinds of people. Take care.”

  With the New Mexico episode wrapped up, McGowen gave Quan the good news. There were hundreds of messages that had gone unread and Quan set himself to the task of reviewing them.

  Following Green’s advice, McGowen posted a job description, looking for a full-time IT manager. Within twenty-four hours a dozen résumés were in front of him and the top three applicants were invited to an online interview. McGowen’s interest was peaked by a young dark-skinned man with neatly trimmed black hair—clearly the front-runner.

  “My name is David Gupta,” he said, speaking with a slight East Indian accent. “From what your posting says, I’m perhaps overqualified for your needs. However, I have an interest in science and your company appears to be a research facility. With our mutual interest, I’d very much like to work with you.”

  “In your résumé, you cite Allied Cyber Task Force. You worked with Green?” asked McGowen.

  “Most certainly. We worked together—a most successful project. Unfortunately, I cannot discuss any details.”

  “When I ask Green about your work, what will he say?”

  “I believe he will say that I am an expert at coding and cybersecurity.”

  “We need someone full time and, when I say full time, I mean 24/7. We have a lot to do here and we’re understaffed. We have living accommodations. Are you willing to relocate?”

  “I could make that work, although I’ll need to go back home from time to time.”

  Concluding the interview, McGowen made a generous offer which Gupta accepted.

  A few days later, David Gupta arrived with suitcase in hand and McGowen saw him settled in. David was directed first to the task of evaluating the data backup systems. David was fast and, by the end of his first week, he had switched their intranet to Software Defined Networking. He organized and secured their data archives, and compiled a lengthy list of other programming assignments. After reviewing the list, McGowen gave him a green light to proceed. David went first to the complex transporter interfaces, cobbled together months earlier on Kau Yi Chau Island. Here was something that warranted his skills.

  37.

  Hotel Le Meurice, Paris

  Under the extended portico of the Hotel Le Meurice, a sleek black limo-glide was hovering while valets opened its doors. Quan, Gaston, and Lotus stepped out. In front of the eighteenth-century façade, two doormen in gold-buttoned burgundy uniforms stood at the top of a broad marble staircase. They opened the tall polished-brass doors and golden light from a huge crystal chandelier reflected off the polished marble floor.

  Inside, the three colleagues paused on top of the inlaid marble crest of Le Meurice. To the left was a reception desk, made of polished hardwoods framed with ornate gold oak leaves. Behind the desk stood a man with alert eyes and a faintly amused smile. His alabaster head was shaved clean with only shadows where his beard and receding hairline would have been. His suit was snug and the collar of his crisp white shirt was turned up. His greeting was civil. “Bonsoir. Le Meurice welcomes you.” His eyes flicked down to his notes. “I see you have just arrived from California. I trust you had a pleasant journey. Forgive me if I mispronounce your name. Is it Geen-toe?”

  “Jint-ow,” corrected Quan, watching light reflecting off the man’s head.

  “Pardon, Monsieur Jintao. We have your reservations: two gentlemen and two ladies . . . separate bedrooms with adjoining salon. Is that correct?” He looked at the three of them.

  “We are three for the first three nights and a fourth will join us,” said Quan.

  “Trés bon. We are happy to have you. Ah, and I see this is your first time with us. It will be our pleasure to provide you with complimentary champagne. And let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable. For current venues, you may wish to speak with our concierge.” He gestured toward an antique desk on the other side of the lobby where a young woman smiled pleasantly.

  “Elise can arrange sightseeing, entertainment, shopping, dinner reservations—anything you may wish to undertake during your stay. The bellman will show you to your rooms.” He gestured toward the elevators, where a uniformed attendant stood waiting.

  “Excusez-moi,” said von Ang. “Are there any messages?”

  “Ah, oui. And you will be able to access them from the privacy of your salon,” said the desk manager.

  “Merci,” said von Ang.

  The elevator was as opulent as the lobby—marble floor, inlaid walls, coffered ceiling in gleaming gold. The cabin exhibited no indication of movement until the door opened on the ninth floor.

  Opening the door to their apartments, the bellman led them into the posh salon: tasseled velvet drapes hanging from the high ceilings, Louis XVI tables, chairs, and settees on top of Bracquenié area rugs and aged parquet floors, French doors opened to a shallow balcony overlooking the Tuileries Garden and the Paris skyline.

  “Sealy will love this,” said Lotus. “But, it’s a little too museum-like for my taste.”

  Quan walked past her and out onto the balcony. Looking at the lights across the cityscape, he remembered. They call this the City of Light.

  Uniformed porters set their luggage on stands while a white-gloved waiter poured flutes of champagne and set a tray of hors d’oeuvres on a table in the center of the room.

  Von Ang withdrew to the ornate desk at the side of the salon, lighting up a view field and pulling up his mail.

  Lotus picked up a glass and an hors d’oeurve and wandered onto the balcony next to Quan. “Think I’ll call room service and see about dinner,” she said. “I’m famished. What would you like?”

  “Prawns, if they have them.” Looking down to the walkway below, he watched couples strolling in the park. “Sealy and I walked in that garden. Three times, I think.”

  “Very romantic,” said Lotus.

  “You know, I should have been the one to tell Sealy about the experiments—especially about my new ability. It came as a surprise to her.”

  “Sorry. What can I say. Sometimes I’m a klutz.”

  “I’m sure she’ll get over it. I’m just saying it would have been better if I had told her.”

  “Sorry. I just didn’t think.” She turned toward the door and said, “I’ll go see if they have prawns.”

  Looking down at the people in the park, Quan thought, Highly functioning robots—they don’t even know what they are—data storage units. All of us are programmed by what’s in our memory banks.

  He turned and went back inside, asking von Ang, “Any interesting messages?”


  “The usual. Colleagues saying hello, conference organizers confirming our speaking time, requests from the press, and so on. There was one from McGowen, a general FYI saying that David Gupta asked if he could use the machine. McGowen said no, of course.”

  The waiters returned, removing the canopies and setting up for a late supper. A white tablecloth and three place settings were laid down, and the three travelers took their seats.

  With the same detached courtesy exhibited by the desk manager, the waiter asked, “Is there anything else you require?”

  After waiting for the others to comment, Quan said, “No. I think we are all right for now.”

  “Bon appétit,” he said, briskly pivoting and leaving the room.

  After the door closed, von Ang said, “You know, we’re going to have our hands full tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lotus.

  “Word travels fast and we’re a hot topic,” said von Ang. “Tomorrow will be a media circus.”

  While they dined, Quan’s thoughts returned to his father. In the process of modifying his genome, senior Jintao had imbued Quan with an amazing gift. He created the first of a new generation: a human capable of traveling along the quantum flux. In his last excursion, his father’s totem had guided him to witness a region that transcended matter. The nature of it was difficult to understand.

  Thoughts propagate in a place that transcends matter. Memories are held in a configuration of loci within the neural net . . . a collection of atomic valences . . . a connectome. And the connectome is just a unique set of reference points. Evidently that connectome can be transferred to other dimensions.

  We are both—pawns and kings. DNA makes us what we are—generated from millions of experiments tried and lessons learned—it governs us and at the same time makes us able to transcend nature.

  38.

  At the northern outskirts of Paris, a mag-lev train pulled up next to the four cylindrical towers of the Cap 21 Conference Center. Its doors opened and another twenty attendees disembarked for the 27th Annual International Conference on Quantum Physics. Inside the enormous three-story atrium, sunlight filtered in from a stained-glass dome overhead and a cacophony of foreign voices reverberated throughout.