But the LHC ended up finding something which most people consider to be far more interesting. As the data analysis algorithms parsed through the petabytes of recorded data, they began to uncover very regular patterns in the spins of newly discovered particles. While the direction of the particles' spins initially appeared random, the analysis began detecting a repetition which looked increasingly like sequences of bytes, and which were eventually decoded into various forms of digital data: text, images, audio, and even simple video. When it was determined beyond a doubt that the encoded information referenced people, events, and dates that did not yet exist, the site was immediately secured and the project promptly put under the control of a small team from the UN. The name of the mysterious particles whose spins had turned out to be tiny windows into the future was changed from "saxions" to "tachyons" — a term derived from the greek word takhus meaning "swift." The LHC had proven for the first time and beyond any doubt that it was possible for matter to travel faster than the speed of light. At least at the particle level, time travel was possible.
China, Russia, India, Germany, France, and the U.S. immediately began constructing what the media labeled "time antennas" — machines designed specifically to detect and record the spins of tachyons. However, after months of unsettling testimony and warnings from the international scientific community introducing things like chaos theory and the grandfather paradox to the general public, most of the projects were shut down, and all the data gathered by the remaining projects which were already online was designated highly classified. The CIA was one of the few organizations that had access to what became known as the Epoch Index, but field agents could only run boolean queries against it. Quinn could see whether something was contained inside the Epoch Index, but it was impossible for her to access the data itself.
This is certainly not the lead she was hoping for. All the information she needs to break this case wide open may be in the one place on the planet where she cannot look. She wonders briefly how many other clues and answers and key pieces of evidence lay buried somewhere in the future where it cannot be touched for fear of inadvertently ending the world.
She repeats the search, but this time supplies all the numbers used to tag the victims. The Epoch Index is a hit again, but so is one other: the Worldwide Index of Asset and Data Protection. This one, she can access. This one finally yields a real lead. Every number written, tattooed, burned, or carved into the flesh of victims corresponds to a safe deposit box number, all of which are located in a single highly secured data center somewhere in the Swiss Alps.
This is how she will escape the endless wake of murder from the future which keeps pulling her back into her past. This is how the killers get paid.
PART SEVEN: Legacy
Quinn has been commuting to Swiss Fort Knox Site VII via helicopter for five days now. On her first trip, she didn't even make it off the landing pad. She was intercepted by security guards in white tactical gear carrying automatic weapons and crouching in the cold alpine chopper wash. They were respectful when she offered them her badge, but not remotely intimidated. She was sent away with the name and phone number of a Mr. Eberlein with whom she arranged to meet early the next morning.
Eberlein was polite but firm in his conviction that she would not be given access to anyone's safety deposit box for any reason or under any circumstances, with or without a court order from the United States or Switzerland or anyone else, nor would she be making any arrests on SFK property. By the third day, after her superiors had contacted his superiors, and after Eberlein's aggression had started to become decidedly less passive, he begrudgingly extended what he insisted was the best offer she was going to get.
Each morning, Quinn was to be escorted to a vacant privacy room where she was free to spend her day as she wished. In the event that the gentleman associated with safe deposit box number 114 should happen to pay SFK Site VII a visit, he would be informed by Eberlein himself that a Ms. Mitchell wished to make his distinguished acquaintance. Should he find consultation with Ms. Mitchell desirable, he would — under his own volition and free of any and all forms of coercion including but not limited to the express or implied threat of legal action — be escorted to Ms. Mitchell's privacy room where he may remain for as long as he found an audience with Ms. Mitchell both to his liking, and in his best interests. Ms. Mitchell would not be permitted to detain or pursue the gentleman for any reason whatsoever, and positively no accusations or any form of intimidation would be tolerated. Quinn believed that one more day of the U.S. threatening to take an overall keener interest in the Swiss banking system might have gotten her a somewhat better deal, but she didn't want to risk her man getting away. With a smile as patronizing as she could muster, she briefly grasped Mr. Eberlein's effeminate fingers and shook.
Quinn spent her first full day in the stark concrete privacy room catching up on administrative tasks. Since she was alone, she took off her glasses and used her handset to project her workspace onto a stark white concrete wall. She read through all her back messages, filed several reports, reviewed and incorporated the results of the data mining errands she had sent junior agents on, caught up on dispatches, and entered some expenses. That was yesterday. It is now her second day on-site, and she is starting to wonder if she's going to need a contingency plan. She suspects she can only spend one or two additional days in a Swiss Fort Knox privacy room before her boss insists she find a cheaper way to set a trap. Quinn is staying in the nearby town of Valais, and the costs of lodging, helicopter rides, and the fruit cognacs she uses to get to sleep at night are mounting. As she begins to consider her options, there are two quick raps on the thick steel door, and then it is pushed inward with some obvious effort. Quinn taps a code into her handset, kills the projector, and pushes her chair back as she stands. There are four men outside the room: a clearly perturbed Eberlein, two chiseled armed guards, and the man Quinn has been chasing all over the world.
"Ms. Mitchell," Eberlein announces with poorly disguised disgust, "allow me to introduce Mr. Ranveer."
Ranveer enters the small room and scans it in its entirety. He is gripping a small steel case which she can tell clearly has some serious weight to it. She knows that he is looking for other doors, one-way mirrors, cameras, incongruous dark holes in the tall white walls. She can tell that he is considering the furniture, appraising its value as either a weapon or a shield. His sharp gaze finally lands on her, and he begins a new threat assessment. Quinn wonders whether he realizes that he is probably far safer at the moment than she is. He is, after all, the one with the money.
He eventually nods to her without expression. "Ms. Mitchell."
"Mr. Ranveer," Eberlein interjects, "I wish to reiterate that you—"
"It's ok," Ranveer says. "I understand. Your services have been impeccable. You may leave us."
Ranveer's accent is a combination of British and Hindi which Quinn is trying very hard not to find exotic and charming. Eberlein is clearly relieved by his client's graciousness. Ranveer passes his case to his left hand and offers his right to Eberlein. Eberlein takes it and performs a pitifully obsequious bow.
"Thank you, Mr. Ranveer. We will be right outside should you require anything."
Eberlein tugs at the door and the guards give Quinn one last look through the narrowing gap. It closes with a surprising report which settles nicely over the layer of tension already spreading throughout the room. Quinn has considered this conversation dozens of times, but now that this man is actually standing before her, all of her rehearsed approaches seem wrong. She steels herself and clears her mind. She can see now that the situation is going to be fluid.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Quinn says, then immediately regrets starting things out on the defensive. She knows she doesn't have much leverage at the moment, but that's not what she wants to project.
"Of course," Ranveer says.
"Please, have a seat."
Ranveer sits in the chair opposite Quinn's and
sets the heavy case down at his feet. She notices that he grips the table with both hands and confirms that it is indeed bolted down. Quinn moves around to Ranveer's side of the table, and then continues on past him. Although she is certain he can't be comfortable with losing sight of her, he does not react. She backs into the steel door and throws the bolt. Privacy rooms lock from the inside.
She half expects Eberlein and the guards to pound on the door in protest, but when the echo of the bolt fades, the room is quiet and still again. Quinn deliberately strikes the heels of her boots against the concrete floor as she saunters back around to her chair. She hopes she has now gained the upper hand.
"My name is Agent Quinn Mitchell. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency."
She waits for a reaction which eventually comes in the form of a shallow nod.
"I'm investigating a series of murders that I think you might know something about."
"I understand," Ranveer says.
She watches him for a moment, expecting him to continue, but he doesn't.
"Mr. Ranveer, can you account for your whereabouts over the last ten days."
"I think you already know the answer to that."
This is not at all what she was expecting, and she's not sure how to continue. "Yes," she finally says, a tad suspiciously. "I'm pretty sure I do. But I want to hear it from you."
"Ms. Mitchell," Ranveer says shaking his head, "these are not the right questions."
Quinn tries to stifle her look of surprise, but she is too late. "Why do you say that?"
"There's no point in discussing what we both already know. Your time with me is better spent asking about things you haven't figured out yet."
Quinn tries to appear unperturbed. "Ok," she says. She regards him steadily, and cycles a full and deep breath in and out. "Then tell me who in the future wants these people dead."
"That is not the right question, either," Ranveer tells her. "Not yet."
She studies him from across the table trying to decide whether she will get further by playing his game, or by trying to derail him. It's a classic interrogation conundrum. Her training suggests that now is the time to come down on him with everything she has — to go from good cop to bad — but her instincts are telling her otherwise.
"What's in your case, Mr. Ranveer," she says suddenly.
Ranveer nods. Apparently this is a line of questioning he approves of. "Gold bullion."
"Payment?"
"Yes."
"Who is it from?"
"Financiers. That's all I know."
"Explain to me how all this works, Mr. Ranveer. How do clients from the future manage to get money to you?"
"The money isn't from the future," Ranveer explains. "It's from the present."
"Someone leaves it here for you?"
"Yes."
"So you're hired by someone in the future, but paid by someone in the present."
"That's correct."
"You somehow gain access to the Epoch Index to get the names of people that someone in the future wants dead. You tag your victims with a safe deposit box number which makes it into the media so there's a good record of it. Then that number gets sent back into our present to someone who leaves the money here for you."
"More or less, yes. Very good."
"That looks like a very heavy case, Mr. Ranveer. Who has that kind of money?"
"Money isn't a problem. My safe deposit box number isn't the only information that gets sent back."
"What else?"
"Stock tips, sports scores, intellectual property. Whatever has value by virtue of being unknowable. My assumption is that my cut is actually relatively modest."
Even though Quinn is the one putting most of the pieces together, and even though they appear to be fitting, she's just not sure she's buying it.
"How are you getting access to the Epoch Index?"
"That is not important."
"Why are these people being targeted?"
"Ah, now that is the right question, Ms. Mitchell," Ranveer says. Quinn is surprised to see him brighten, and to see that, for the first time, he seems to be taking a genuine interest in the conversation. "That is what I came here to discuss. They are being targeted because they are the most deadly and dangerous terrorists the world has ever seen."
"Terrorists?" Quinn says. She begins unconsciously reviewing profiles. A Russian computer hacker. A young executive rising through the ranks of Petróleos de Venezuela. A rich California kid who couldn't be bothered to finish college. The nine-month-old son of an Omani investor. "What kind of terrorists?"
"The kind that you hunt, Ms. Mitchell. The nuclear kind."
Quinn shakes her head. "That's not possible. There aren't any nuclear terrorists."
Ranveer smiles. "Exactly."
"Who's feeding you the names?"
Ranveer leans forward and places his arms on the steel surface between them. He watches her with his perfectly black eyes, and she perceives in him a tranquility that is simultaneously comforting and unsettling.
"You are, Ms. Mitchell."
Quinn's expression instantly changes. She takes in a breath and starts to say something, but stops. Ranveer waits for the impact of his words to begin to dispel, then continues.
"You are the one who will save thousands of lives in the future. You are the one who will figure out how to adapt to a world that is already changing faster than anyone can possibly imagine. I came here to tell you that Molly did not die in vain, Ms. Mitchell, and that your life has not been wasted. I came here to tell you that you will become a hero."
Quinn's hands are pressed into the metal surface in front of her and her eyes are one blink away from spilling tears. They watch each other from across the table until the stillness in the room is shattered by sudden commotion outside. The yelling and barking of orders is loud enough to penetrate the thick metal door and concrete walls. They both reflexively stand, and Ranveer lunges for his case. Quinn wipes her face and places a hand over the weapon on her hip.
There is scratching against the door, then the sound of the bolt being thrown. The heavy metal slab is swung open with surprising ease, and before it slams against the wall, the entire room is full of masked figures in dark body armor behind blinding strobe flashes. The LEDs on the ends of the submachine guns are meant to stun and blind anyone inside without the concussion and violence of a flashbang grenade. Three men are on top of Ranveer before anyone can speak, and then the flashes stop. The heavy case drops, and he is cuffed and bent roughly over the table.
Eberlein is screaming somewhere down the hall. For a moment, his voice gets louder, then it fades rapidly into the distance. When everyone has declared the room clear, Quinn's boss steps inside, surveying the situation while holstering his pistol. He is a short, older man with wiry gray hair and baggy but bright eyes who looks as addicted to the action today as the day he became a recruit. He nods at Quinn and gives her the smile he reserves for successful operations.
"Well done, Mitchell."
"Thank you."
"You ok?"
"Yes, sir."
He moves around the room until he can get a good look at Ranveer's face, then he looks back at Quinn. "So what's the good word, Agent? Is this our man or not?"
Ranveer's neck is bent and his face is pressed into the cold brushed steel, but he can still twist around and look up. His expression is not one of pleading. It is strained by the physical position he is in, but not by emotion. Quinn can see that he is not afraid, and he is not trying to convey a threat. There is nothing he wants or needs from her. He has already created his legacy and accepted his fate, and he is now simply waiting for Quinn to choose her's.
Table of Contents
Title
License
PART ONE: Homelessness
PART TWO: Nuclear Reduction
PART THREE: Tools of the Trade
PART FOUR: Legwork
PART FIVE: Security
PART SIX: Follow the Money
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PART SEVEN: Legacy
The Epoch Index Page 4
