Quantum

by Tom Grace

Kilkenny cautiously approached the intersection, edging alongside a brick building that housed a copy center in its basement level. He slowly peered around the corner and saw that the Russians were moving west down the center of Liberty Street, between the parallel rows of booths that temporarily occupied the metered parking spaces.

  He moved onto the sidewalk, using the booths as a screen between himself and the Russians. At the end of the block, he passed a seven-foot-tall bomb, painted like Old Glory, that stood beside the entrance of a militarysurplus store. The Russians cleared the last booths and stepped onto the sidewalk opposite Kilkenny – about half a block ahead of him. He easily picked them out in the thinning stream of people.

  ‘Ptashnik, this is Kilkenny. Over.’

  ‘I read you, Kilkenny.’ Ptashnik sounded pissed-off. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The Tangos are still on foot moving west on Liberty. They crossed Division and are nearing Fifth.’

  ‘Oh my God! He’s got a gun!’ a woman screamed when she saw Kilkenny crossing Liberty with his weapon drawn.

  Leskov and two of his men turned at the scream and saw Kilkenny. The Russians immediately broke into a run toward Main Street.

  ‘Shit! They spotted me,’ Kilkenny cursed into the handset. ‘Tangos are heading toward Main.’

  The radio chattered with commands and responses as the police drew their forces in. Officers on foot and in cars moved to cordon off the two-block stretch of Main Street where the cop killers were headed.

  The Russian in the rear position turned and aimed his weapon. Kilkenny dove behind a parked minivan as the man fired; two rounds shattered the vehicle’s windshield. The sounds of gunfire cleared the sidewalk for two blocks as people ran for cover. Ahead, the Russians pressed forward into the thick crowd on Main Street.

  ‘They’re on Main, heading north from Liberty,’ Kilkenny reported.

  He sprinted down the street, slowing when he reached the edge of the Art Fair’s downtown venue. Thousands of people had replaced the normal gridlock of cars.

  The atmosphere was still festive as the panic of Liberty Street had not infected this area yet. The aroma of spiced lamb and onion accompanied the bouzouki music wafting from a Greek restaurant’s temporary sidewalk café. Up the block a nine-foot-tall inflatable Mongol warrior greeted passersby, encouraging all to dine at BD’s Mongolian Barbeque.

  ‘Ptashnik, Main Street is packed, and the Tangos are right in the middle of it. Where are those other cops?’

  ‘On the way,’ Ptashnik promised.

  The police radio crackled as officers reported their positions, converging on the scene. Kilkenny pressed the two-way against his ear to better hear over the din around him. Frustrated, he pushed his way onto the sidewalk and began hurdling over the chain partitions that defined the outdoor seating areas of the Main Street restaurants.

  ‘Sir!’ a hostess shouted angrily. ‘You can’t do—’

  ‘Dmitri, on the sidewalk,’ Josef said.

  ‘I see him. It’s Kilkenny, the one who killed Pavel and the others. Josef, you’re with me. The rest of you follow Evgenii to the pickup. We’ll be right behind you.’

  Leskov and Josef broke ranks, moving to intercept. Each readied his weapon as they approached their prey. The four other Russians hurried their pace, moving onto the last city block closed by the fair.

  Kilkenny pushed his way through the long line of people waiting to be seated at the Mongol warrior’s restaurant, and finally reached the intersection of Main and Washington. From behind a wooden barricade, he surveyed the milling crowd, searching for the Russians. He spotted them as they passed into the next block, then realized that two were missing. Nearby, a patrol car quietly approached the intersection.

  ‘Turn around and keep your hands where I can see ’em!’ a cop shouted as the doors on the police cruiser flung open.

  Kilkenny froze, then put both hands in the air.

  As one of the officers approached, Nolan saw two of the men who attacked Sandstrom’s lab muscle their way through the restaurant’s queue. The Russians spotted Kilkenny and raised their weapons.

  ‘Gun!’ Kilkenny shouted as he dove for the curb.

  The cops hit the pavement just as two shots roared past Kilkenny. Both flew wide of the mark, ricocheting off the pavement.

  A woman screamed, pulling her children away from the restaurant’s giant mascot. Her youngest, a three-year-old boy, stumbled, and she lost her grip on his tiny hand. Hearing gunfire, the young man inside the inflatable suit dove over the child. The next shots ripped through the costume’s thick nylon skin, sending an explosion of pressurized air and fabric upward.

  ‘Time to go,’ Leskov announced as the window of opportunity for revenge closed.

  Both men rushed with the crowd up Main Street toward Huron. On the other side of the barricade that marked the northern edge of the fair, Leskov saw the rest of his team climbing into the dark green Suburban that had brought them there.

  Kilkenny stood up and began scanning the crowd for the Russians. He caught sight of the two men who’d just shot at him halfway up the block.

  ‘Freeze!’ the cop shouted.

  ‘Ptashnik!’ Kilkenny said angrily into the microphone, ‘tell the two cops at Main and Washington to lay off me right now. Your cop killers are getting away!’

  Kilkenny watched the Russians move farther away while he impatiently waited for a reply.

  ‘Rookie, lower your weapon!’ the cop’s partner shouted as he jogged over from the patrol car. ‘This is the guy who was tracking these fucks for us. We’re here to back him up.’

  ‘Then let’s move it,’ Kilkenny ordered, leading the way down the sidewalk.

  The crackling sound of automatic-weapons fire filled the air.

  ‘Oh my God!’ someone shouted, terror-stricken.

  When he reached the toppled barricades at Huron Street, Kilkenny saw a plume of pale yellow steam rising from the grille of a police cruiser. Dozens of holes pockmarked the dark blue sedan. On the pavement, two more officers lay clinging to life. Farther up Main Street, a green Suburban with tinted windows sped north toward the highway.

  36

  JULY 26

  Ann Arbor, Michigan

  It was well past nine and evening was ebbing into night by the time Nolan and Kelsey’s question-and-answer session with Detective Ptashnik was finally through. After the debriefing, an Ann Arbor police patrol car ferried them down to the southeast corner of the Diag. They picked up a carryout of General Tso’s chicken from their favorite Chinese restaurant, then walked over to Kelsey’s old sorority house, where Nolan’s SUV was parked.

  ‘Do you mind driving?’ Nolan asked, offering Kelsey his keys. ‘There’s a call I need to make.’

  Nolan set the bag of food cartons on the floor behind the passenger’s seat and pulled the PalmPilot from his briefcase. As they drove toward Dexter, he searched through the handheld computer for Cal Mosley’s number, which he keyed into his phone.

  ‘This is Mosley.’

  ‘Cal, it’s Nolan Kilkenny.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Mosley asked.

  ‘The Russians struck again today, this time in Ann Arbor. Four people dead. Cal, these were the same guys who hit Sandstrom’s lab in South Bend.’ Nolan then launched into a brief report of the latest attack.

  ‘So they were after these old notebooks?’ Mosley asked.

  ‘Yes. Definitely. After Wolff’s body was found, the police made no public mention of the notebooks. Only a handful of people even know about their existence and their potential importance to our project – and I trust all of ’em. My best guess is that these guys are still watching Sandstrom and probably have his hospital room bugged.’

  ‘They got their intel from somewhere,’ Mosley agreed. ‘Get the hospital to move him and ask the FBI to sweep his old room for any surveillance equipment. In the meantime, I’m going to run this latest information past some people here and see what I can come up with. Thanks for the update
.’

  ‘Cal, I need all the help you can give me. This project I’m working on has the potential to become a multibillion-dollar-a-year industry. If whoever’s behind these attacks succeeds in taking control of Sandstrom’s quantum technology, they’ll have the power to pull the economic equivalent of a coup d’état on the rest of the industrialized world.’

  37

  JULY 27

  Moscow, Russia

  The numbers from the Far East exchanges looked flat, the third straight day without any sign of the occasional exuberance or volatility that made watching the markets interesting in the first place. A day without winners or losers, without victory or defeat – so far. The day was still young, and the Western markets had yet to open.

  Orlov shuffled around a few positions, much like placing bets on a roulette table – only on a global scale. His bets were spread over the three Cs: companies, commodities, and currencies. The billions under his control allowed Orlov to cover a wide field of opportunities; since the beginning of the year, his portfolio had already increased sixty-five percent.

  The phone on his desk rang softly.

  ‘Da, Irena,’ he answered.

  ‘You have a call from Dmitri Leskov.’

  Orlov glanced at his watch; it was just after midnight in the eastern United States. ‘Put him through.’ There was a click, and then a dull hum that often accompanied overseas phone calls. ‘Dmitri, what news do you have?’ Orlov asked.

  ‘The materials are en route to you now. The courier should deliver them to you by the end of the day.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Cherny quietly walked into the office and laid several laser-printed pages on his desk. It was a copy of a news article she’d retrieved from a wire-service Web site on the Internet. Orlov’s left eyebrow arched slightly as the headline caught his eye.

  FOUR KILLED, DOZENS INJURED IN

  ART FAIR ATTACK

  ‘Did you encounter any problems that I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing we weren’t prepared for. Did Irena locate the information I wanted you to see?’

  ‘I have it right here.’

  Orlov skimmed the article, noting that three of the slain had been police officers. The search for the men responsible would undoubtedly be thorough, making it dangerous for Leskov’s team to travel.

  ‘Dmitri, there are many difficulties surrounding this assignment. I think you and your men should remain where you are for a while, just to make sure the situation resolves itself. I’m certain our associates there can find a comfortable place to house all of you.’

  ‘They already have, Victor Ivanovich.’

  38

  JULY 28

  Moscow, Russia

  ‘Oksanna,’ Orlov said with a smile, the syllables of her name rolling almost musically off his tongue.

  Zoshchenko passed through the tall French doors of his office, moving with poise and grace. The well-cut lines of her jacket and skirt accentuated her trim figure.

  Orlov stood in front of his desk, enjoying every step of her approach. When she reached him, he clasped both her hands in his, leaned forward, and kissed her gently.

  ‘Will Dmitri be joining us today?’ she asked.

  ‘Nyet,’ he replied, looking amorously into her eyes.

  Orlov reached over his desk to activate his speaker-phone.

  ‘Irena?’ he called out. ‘While I am meeting with Dr Zoshchenko, please see that we are not disturbed.’

  ‘Da, Victor Ivanovich.’

  Orlov switched the speakerphone off, then motioned for Zoshchenko to accompany him into the adjacent room. Once inside, she turned and embraced him, pressing her body tightly against his, fueling their arousal.

  She pulled back far enough that her hands could find space between them to begin the unfastening. Orlov carefully worked the buttons of her jacket and slid the garment off her shoulders.

  Orlov stepped out of his Italian loafers, then bent down and caressed each of her calves as he removed her pumps. He lingered there, gazing up at her as his hands roamed up beneath her skirt to slowly draw down her tights.

  His silk tie fell to the floor, quickly followed by his shirt and trousers, then her blouse and skirt. They kissed each patch of bare skin as it was revealed.

  Orlov appraised her nude form with delight. She guided him to the ornate bed that dominated this private chamber. The headboard bore the carved image of a Romanov double eagle – Orlov had once told her that the last czar had commissioned this bed. Now, they shared it.

  When their sexual relationship had begun to evolve, she found Orlov’s technique to be like that of most men she’d been involved with – crude and clumsy. Slowly, patiently she trained him and as a reward for his efforts brought him to dizzying heights of ecstasy. Orlov eventually developed a sense of improvisation, and their passion play now took occasional ventures into the exotic.

  An hour later they both lay exhausted, their bodies entwined in the rumpled and sweat-soaked linen sheets of the royal bed.

  ‘Victor,’ Zoshchenko whispered as she ran her hand through the graying hair on his chest, ‘I had a chance to take a look at the notebooks you acquired.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I don’t know what to make of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, a bit irritated. ‘Dmitri and his men went through a lot of trouble to get those notebooks.’

  Zoshchenko propped herself up on her elbow to face him. ‘No, you misunderstand me. Acquiring the notebooks was definitely worthwhile. Wolff’s drawings give a hint at what he was thinking, but without the narrative and his calculations, they’re just a collection of very interesting pictures. I’ve put a former KGB cryptographer to work on them, but he doesn’t hold out much hope.’

  ‘Why? Isn’t he a very good code breaker? If not, get someone who can break the damn code.’

  ‘Actually, he’s one of the best the KGB ever employed. I know because I’m the one who found him for them. He’s never seen anything quite like the mathematics of Wolff’s cipher – he’s not even sure where to start.’

  Orlov’s hand caressed the curve along the small of Zoshchenko’s back as he considered the notebooks. ‘Will this have any effect on Avvakum’s work?’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing until the notebooks are decrypted. According to your surveillance, Sandstrom believes Wolff may have had a working theory that can explain the quantum effect he discovered. If this is true, such information would go a long way in bolstering our claim on all technology derived from this discovery. Such knowledge would be almost as valuable as the device itself.’

  Zoshchenko lifted her head off Orlov’s chest and rolled to prop up her upper body on her elbows so she could face him. ‘I believe then that we must maintain electronic surveillance on Sandstrom and his associates indefinitely.’

  ‘The longer we keep watching them, the riskier it becomes,’ Orlov reminded her.

  ‘I understand, but we don’t know how much of the notebooks they have stored in their computers. Our hackers were met with heavy resistance when they tried to access the MARC network. Someone shut them out completely and then began tracking them. If Dmitri hadn’t destroyed the lab server when he did, our hackers might well have been identified. Regardless, we have to assume that they are working to decrypt whatever portion of Wolff’s notebooks they have. Should they succeed, that might put their effort ahead of ours.’

  ‘And if their patent claim has priority, we lose.’

  ‘Precisely, Victor.’

  39

  JULY 28

  Moscow, Russia

  It was nearly midnight, but within the windowless lab the distinction between night and day wasn’t readily apparent. Lara Avvakum’s fascination with her work caused time to slip past more quickly than it ever had before. Her workdays grew long; spans of eighteen, even twenty, hours weren’t uncommon as the feverish passion of discovery consumed her.

  She stared blankly at the screen, unable to get Ted Sands
trom out of her mind. The possibility that he might be the one who started this project whetted her desire to learn more about him.

  But surely, Avvakum reasoned, Victor Orlov’s prohibition against contact with my predecessors on this project doesn’t extend to knowing something about them. After all, is it not wise to know all you can about the competition?

  A moment later she accessed the Web search engine on her computer and keyed in a deliberately broad search for Ted Sandstrom. Within seconds there were seven responses to her query.

  Avvakum selected an article from USA Today and waited while her computer connected with the newspaper’s Web site and downloaded the article. The peripheral elements of the Web page loaded first, then the story and accompanying photographs. In bold text, the headline appeared.

  ND PROF KILLED, ANOTHER INJURED IN LAB BLAST

  Avvakum scrolled down to the article and read about an attack on the professors’ lab that left Raphaele Paramo dead and Ted Sandstrom severely burned. Five unidentified men posing as a moving crew were responsible for the blaze and the theft of Sandstrom’s lab equipment and research. The article cited FBI sources in claiming that industrial espionage was the apparent motive for the attack.

  Two other individuals, Nolan Kilkenny and physicist Kelsey Newton, were treated for minor injuries and released from the hospital. The article went on to describe how Sandstrom had recently signed with two consortia to develop commercial applications related to an undisclosed discovery.

  Am I working for thieves and murderers? Avvakum thought fearfully as it all became painfully clear. No one just walks away from all this research; it was stolen, and the minds that created it trampled.

  Avvakum pored over the other articles, searching for further information pertaining to the incident. She soon learned that once Sandstrom’s condition had stabilized, he had been transferred to the University of Michigan Hospital. The investigation lab was currently at a standstill because of a lack of evidence.