Final Theory

by Mark Alpert

  Monique craned her neck to get a closer look. After a few seconds she pointed at a red Corvette in the background, about a hundred yards away. “That’s it. I remember I parked near that tour bus in the corner.”

  Gupta touched the screen at that spot and a white X began flashing over the Corvette. Then he pressed another button and folded his arms across his chest. “Now I’ve switched the Highlander to autonomous operation. Watch the screen.”

  Without Gupta touching the controls, the robotic vehicle began cruising across the parking lot. It took the shortest navigable path toward the Corvette, moving at about fifteen miles per hour and expertly weaving between the parked cars. About halfway there, a minivan suddenly backed out of its parking space, only ten feet in front of them. The screen showed the Highlander heading straight for the van’s sliding door. David automatically extended his right foot, blindly hunting for a nonexistent brake pedal, but Gupta kept his arms folded across his chest. No intervention was needed, because the Highlander was already slowing. Working on its own, the vehicle glided to a stop.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Gupta said, pointing at the screen. “Autonomous navigation is much more than a simple algorithm. It involves analyzing the landscape and identifying the hazards. It’s an extremely complex decision-making process, and decision making is the key to intelligence and consciousness.” He turned back to David and Monique. “This was the reason why I switched from physics to robotics. I saw that the world wasn’t getting any closer to Herr Doktor’s dream, the dream of universal peace. And I recognized that his dream would never become a reality until there was a fundamental change in human consciousness.”

  The driver of the minivan shifted gears and moved out of the Highlander’s path. After a moment the robotic vehicle resumed its trek toward the Corvette. Meanwhile, Gupta leaned against the wall of the compartment. “I thought artificial intelligence could serve as a bridge to this new consciousness,” he said. “If we could teach machines how to think, we just might learn something about ourselves. I know this approach must sound utterly utopian, but for twenty years I had high hopes for it.” He bowed his head and sighed. In the dim light from the navigation screen he looked exhausted. “But we’ve run out of time. Our machines have intelligence, but only the intelligence of a termite. Enough to navigate a parking lot, but no more.”

  The Highlander finally arrived at its programmed destination. The navigation screen showed the rear end of Monique’s Corvette, just a few feet away; the letters on her vanity license plate read STRINGS. David turned to Gupta, hoping to hash out their next step, but the old man was still staring at the floor. “Such a waste, such a waste,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Poor Alastair, the secret drove him mad. He went back to Scotland to forget the equations Herr Doktor had given him, but he couldn’t erase them from his mind. Jacques and Hans, they were stronger men, but the theory tormented them, too.”

  Monique glanced over her shoulder and exchanged a look with David. They didn’t have time for a long conference in the parking lot. The FBI agents were less than a mile away, and once they’d inspected every inch of Newell-Simon Hall, they were sure to expand the perimeter of their search. They might even decide to take a second look at the Highlander. Filled with renewed anxiety, David leaned toward Gupta and touched the old man’s arm. “Professor, we have to go. How do you open the hatch?”

  Gupta looked up but his eyes were unfocused. “You know what Hans told me the last time I saw him? He said it might be better for everyone if he and Jacques and Alastair let the unified theory die with them. I was shocked to hear him say that, because Hans loved the theory more than anyone. Whenever there was a major breakthrough in physics, like the discovery of the top quark or charge-parity violation, he’d call me up and say, ‘See? Herr Doktor predicted it!’”

  Despite his anxiety, David paused at the mention of his old mentor, Hans Kleinman. The poor lonely man, shuffling across the streets of West Harlem with the secrets of the universe locked inside his weary head. No wonder he’d never married, never had a family. And yet he hadn’t been entirely friendless. He’d stayed in touch with Amil Gupta. “When was the last time you saw Dr. Kleinman?” David asked.

  Gupta thought for a moment. “About four years ago, I believe. Yes, yes, four years. Hans had just retired from Columbia and he seemed a bit depressed, so I invited him to Carnegie’s Retreat. We spent two weeks there.”

  “Carnegie’s Retreat? What’s that?”

  “The name makes it sound grander than it really is. It’s just an old hunting cabin down in West Virginia owned by Carnegie Mellon. The university makes it available to faculty members during the summer, but hardly anyone goes on vacation there. It’s too remote.”

  A cabin in the woods. Kleinman and Gupta had spent some time there four years ago, but that was their only connection to the place, so neither the FBI nor the terrorists would know about it. “Are there any computers in this cabin?”

  Gupta seemed taken aback by the question. He raised his hand to his chin and tapped his lips with his index finger. “Yes, we installed a computer system so Michael could play his games. He was thirteen then, yes.”

  Monique twisted around so she could look David in the eye. “What are you thinking? That Kleinman hid the equations there?”

  He nodded. “It’s a possibility. Kleinman’s code said Professor Gupta had the theory, right? Amil doesn’t know the equations, but maybe Kleinman secretly placed them on one of the professor’s computers. Kleinman knew he couldn’t use the computers at the Robotics Institute or Amil’s home—those are the first places the government would look if it were hunting for the theory. This cabin in West Virginia would be a much better hiding place. Nobody except for Amil knows that Kleinman was ever there.”

  Gupta was still tapping his lips. He looked unconvinced. “I never saw Hans at the computer in Carnegie’s Retreat. And if he was going to hide the theory there, why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Maybe he was afraid that someone would interrogate you. Or torture you.”

  Before Gupta could respond, Monique pointed at the Highlander’s navigation screen. The two students who’d followed the vehicle from Newell-Simon Hall to the parking lot were waving at the camera, trying to get their attention. One of the young men was short and fat, while the other was tall and pimply, but they had identical looks of concern on their faces. “Shit!” Monique yelled. “Something’s happening outside!”

  Gupta saw the screen, too. He pushed another button on the control panel and the concealed hatch at the very top of the Highlander opened with a hiss. Monique and David scrambled out first, and then Gupta helped his grandson out of the vehicle. As soon as David’s sneakers touched the asphalt, he heard the whine of the sirens. Half a dozen black-and-white patrol cars from the Pittsburgh Police Department raced down Forbes Avenue, heading for Newell-Simon Hall. The FBI had called in reinforcements.

  Monique rushed to the Corvette and unlocked its doors. “Quick! Get in the car! Before they close the street!”

  David was leading Professor Gupta and Michael to the passenger-side door when he stopped in his tracks. “Wait a second! We can’t take this car!” He turned to Monique, pointing at her vanity license plate. “The FBI is probably reviewing its surveillance videos right now. Once they figure out who you are, every cop in Pennsylvania will be looking for a red Corvette with that plate number!”

  “What else can we do?” Monique yelled back. “We can’t take the Highlander, they’ll be looking for that, too!”

  The tall, pimply student timidly raised his hand. “Uh, Professor Gupta? You can borrow my car if you want. It’s parked right over there.” He pointed at a beat-up gray Hyundai Accent with a big dent in the rear fender.

  Monique stared at the thing, her mouth open. “A Hyundai? You want me to leave my Corvette here and drive a Hyundai?”

  Gupta went over to the pimply student, who’d already taken his car keys out of his pocket, and patted the young man on the
back. “That’s very generous of you, Jeremy. We’ll return your car as soon as we can. And in the meantime, I think you and Gary should leave town for a few days. Take a bus to the Finger Lakes, do some hiking in the gorges. All right, boys?”

  The students nodded rapidly, obviously delighted to do a favor for their adored professor. Jeremy gave the keys to Gupta, who passed them to David. But Monique still stood by the Corvette’s open door, gazing mournfully at the car as if she’d never see it again.

  As David came toward her, she shot him a reproachful look. “It took me seven years to save up for this car. Seven years!”

  He reached past her to grab the overnight bag, the laptop case, and the bag of sandwiches Monique had bought that morning at the New Stanton Service Area. Then he dropped the keys to the Hyundai into her palm. “Come on, give the Accent a spin,” he said. “I hear it’s got a nifty little engine.”

  PEERING THROUGH HIS BINOCULARS, SIMON saw four figures emerge from the robotic car. He recognized David Swift, Monique Reynolds, and Amil Gupta right away. The fourth figure was a mystery—a gangly teenager with black hair and dusky skin. Gupta hovered over the boy, leading him out of the vehicle without touching him. Yes, very mysterious. Simon’s first impulse was a surprise assault, but this parking lot wasn’t an ideal field of operations. Too open, too visible. More important, the small army of FBI agents was too close, and squadrons of patrol cars from the local police department were converging on the campus. Better to wait for a more advantageous opportunity.

  The four figures headed first for Monique’s Corvette (Simon had gotten a complete description of the car from Keith, the deceased mechanic), but after conferring briefly with the pair of Robotics Institute students, the quartet squeezed into a battered gray subcompact. The car zipped out of the parking lot and made a right on Forbes Avenue. Simon let them get a hundred meters ahead before following in his Ferrari. He planned to hold his fire until they reached a sufficiently secluded stretch of highway. After traveling for about a kilometer, the subcompact turned right again on Murray Avenue. They were heading south.

  KAREN HAD ASSUMED THAT JONAH was still asleep. She’d put him to bed as soon as they’d come home from the FBI offices that morning, and when she went into his room to check on him a few hours later, he was still lying prostrate under his Spider-Man blanket, his face pressed into the red-and-blue pillow. But as she turned to leave the room he rolled over and looked at her. “Where’s Daddy?” he asked.

  She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed the blond hair out of his eyes. “Hey, sweetie pie,” she murmured. “Feel better now?”

  Jonah frowned and batted her hand away. “Why are the police looking for him? Did Daddy do something bad?”

  Okay, Karen thought. Don’t give him too much information. First find out what he knows already. “What did the agents tell you last night? After they took you away from me, I mean?”

  “They said Daddy was in trouble. And they asked me if he had any girlfriends.” He sat up in bed, kicking the blanket off his legs. “Are they angry at Daddy? Because he has girlfriends now?”

  Karen shook her head. “No, honey, no one’s angry. What happened last night was just a mistake, all right? Those agents came to the wrong apartment.”

  “They had guns. I saw them.” Jonah’s eyes widened as the memory came back to him. He gripped Karen’s sleeve and bunched the fabric in his fist. “Are they gonna shoot Daddy when they find him?”

  She wrapped her arms around her son and held him tight, resting her chin on his left shoulder. He started crying then, his small chest heaving against hers, and in a moment Karen was crying, too. They shared the same fear. The men with guns were looking for David, and sooner or later they’d find him. Her tears slipped down her cheeks and fell on Jonah’s back. She could see the blots of moisture on his pajama top.

  As she rocked Jonah in her lap, she stared at the picture hanging on the wall beside his bed. It was a drawing of the solar system that David had made for Jonah about two years ago, just before he moved out of their apartment. On a large yellow poster he’d sketched the sun and all its planets, as well as the asteroid belt and a few roving comets. David had worked on the thing for hours, carefully delineating the rings of Saturn and the Great Red Spot of Jupiter. At the time, Karen remembered, she’d been a little resentful of all the effort he’d put into it; he was willing to spend the whole day drawing a picture for Jonah, but he couldn’t take five minutes to talk with his wife, even as their marriage was collapsing around them. Now, though, she recognized that David hadn’t been so heartless. He’d simply retreated from the inevitable. Rather than engage in another fruitless argument, he bent over the yellow poster and did something he loved.

  After a minute or so Karen wiped the tears from her face. All right, she thought, enough crying. It’s time to do something. Grasping Jonah’s shoulders, she held her son at arm’s length and looked him in the eye. “Okay, listen to me. I want you to get dressed as quickly as you can.”

  He gave her a confused look, his cheeks puffy and flushed. “Why? Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to see a friend of mine. She can help us fix this mistake, so Daddy won’t be in trouble anymore. Okay?”

  “How can she fix it? Does she know the police?”

  Karen placed her hand on his back, nudging him off the bed. “Just get dressed. We’ll talk about it on the way down there.”

  While Jonah slipped out of his pajamas, she headed for her own bedroom to change into one of her business suits. Maybe her gray Donna Karan, the one she usually wore during contract negotiations. To carry out what she was planning, she needed to look respectable.

  Before she could get very far, though, the doorbell rang. She froze for a moment, remembering how the FBI agents had stormed into the apartment the night before. Cautiously, she approached the front door and squinted through the peephole.

  It was Amory. He stood on the doormat in his own gray business suit, looking anxious and tired. A gauze pad on his forehead covered the gash he’d gotten when the federal agents had tackled him. He held a cell phone to his ear and nodded several times, apparently finishing up a conversation.

  Karen opened the door. Amory quickly closed the cell phone, then stepped inside the apartment. “Karen, you have to come downtown with me to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He wants to speak with you immediately.”

  She scowled. “What? Are you crazy? I’m not going back there!”

  “It’s not the FBI, it’s the U.S. attorney. He wants to apologize for the conduct of the agents last night.” He pointed to the gauze pad above his eyebrow. “He already apologized to me for the rough handling.”

  “Apologize?” Karen shook her head, dumbfounded. “If he wants to apologize, he should come up here and do it! He should get down on his knees and beg my son for forgiveness! And then he should bend over so I can kick him in the ass!”

  Amory waited for her to finish. “He also has some new information about your ex-husband’s case. They’ve identified one of David’s co-conspirators in the drug business. She’s a professor at Princeton named Monique Reynolds.”

  “Never heard of her. And there’s no drug business, Amory. I told you, that’s a cover story they fabricated.”

  “I’m afraid you may be wrong about that. This Reynolds is a black woman from Washington, and she has definite connections to the drug trade. Her mother’s a junkie and her sister’s a prostitute.”

  Karen waved her hand. “So what? That doesn’t prove a damn thing. They’re making up stories again.”

  “They’ve seen this woman with him, Karen. Are you sure David never mentioned her?”

  Amory stared at her intently, studying her eyes. After a few seconds she grew suspicious. She could see the FBI’s motive for putting out this story: they were still playing the girlfriend angle, still trying to inflame her jealousies so she would betray her ex-husband. But why was Amory studying her so carefully? “What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you
interrogating me?”

  He chuckled at her question, but it sounded forced. “No, no, I’m just trying to establish the facts. That’s what we lawyers do, we—”

  “Jesus Christ! I thought you were on my side!”

  He stepped toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Tilting his head, he gave her a fatherly smile, the kind he usually reserved for the junior associates at his law firm. “Please, calm down. Of course I’m on your side. I’m just trying to make things a little easier for you. I have some friends who are willing to help.”

  He stroked her arm, but the caress made her skin crawl. The old bastard was working with the FBI. Somehow they’d enlisted him to their cause. She shrugged his hand off. “I don’t need your help, all right? I can take care of this myself.”

  His smile disappeared. “Karen, please listen. This is a very serious case and some very powerful people are involved. You don’t want to make enemies of these people. It won’t be good for you and it won’t be good for your son.”

  She stepped around him and opened the front door again. She couldn’t believe she’d ever slept with this asshole. “Get out of here, Amory. And you can tell your friends to go fuck themselves.”

  He grimaced, curling his patrician upper lip. With as much dignity as he could muster, he stepped out of the apartment. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said coldly. “I wouldn’t do anything rash.”

  Karen slammed the door shut. She was planning to do something very rash indeed.

  SITTING AT HIS DESK IN his West Wing office, the vice president poked unhappily at his dinner, a small, dry piece of chicken breast surrounded by steamed carrots. Ever since the veep’s fourth heart attack, the chefs in the White House kitchen had been serving him bland, low-fat meals like this one. For the first year or so, he’d stoically accepted the new diet; his memory of the crushing chest pains was vivid enough to keep him on the straight and narrow. But as time went on, he became increasingly resentful. He yearned for a Porterhouse steak swimming in its juices or a fist-size lobster tail drenched in melted butter. The daily culinary deprivation put him in a foul mood, making him snap at his aides and Secret Service escorts. Nevertheless, he soldiered onward. The American people were counting on him. The president was a boob, a brainless figure-head who had a talent for winning elections but little else. Without the vice president’s counsel and guidance, the whole administration would go straight to hell.