Nonetheless, the program had well-meaning and articulate supporters. They argued that America's only hope of finding “distributed threats” — or threats spread out in little pieces — was to use a distributed means of finding them. Flannigan was a believer in Distributed Ops. In her view, the fewer people who comprised a threat, the more psychology (rather than technology) was an essential tool for dealing with the threat. It was based on this agenda that she had created her division at the NSA, and that division was closely linked to Distributed Ops.
Right in line with the new model. When it was put that way, the Director would feel bound to give her the green light, Flannigan figured. Distributed Ops was designed for exactly this kind of situation. It was a big threat, posed by one individual. They were having trouble building a case. There was no money trail to follow. And if they didn't use Distributed Ops when appropriate, it undermined the program and his credibility. On the other hand, a major success here would strengthen the case for continuing the new program.
“Who are you taking?” Karen asked.
“First, I need a guy to go there and secure the location. And I'll take Simon. And Gene.”
“Gene? Is this really worth Gene?”
“Absolutely,” Flannigan replied. Gene the Genius was a special weapon of the Agency. In fact, Flannigan was not certain that Gene was absolutely needed on this mission. She was asking for Gene only as a negotiating trick: make a big first offer. Karen would come back to her with the message, Okay, you have the green light on this, but you can't take Gene, and she would be able to move forward with hunting down Nemo.
“I'll see what I can do,” Karen said. And they hung up.
Flannigan got her response while she and Simon were leaving for Dulles International. The response: first, they got clearance to continue. Second, an operative had been sent ahead to secure the location.
The third detail shocked her. They were giving her Gene, one of the most prized minds at the Agency. She was a little uncomfortable at the thought that he would be showing up. There was nothing particularly challenging about this case. There was no reason to bring in Gene's special intellect, and he would certainly realize that fact.
She shrugged. On the other hand, it would be interesting to see Gene interact with Nemo; it would be a meeting of powerful minds. For that matter, Flannigan herself was looking forward to working with Gene. They had met in passing at the Agency. He had a boyish charm.
“The Director instructs you to follow Gene on key issues,” Karen explained. Flannigan was the team leader, but Gene was to make the call on any unusual decisions, if they were to arise. Gene himself didn't need to know the authority he was being given, Karen explained. His ego was already big enough, and it could sometimes lead to problems.
THE HOUSE
Outside Boston, MA
20 hrs 15 min to Birth
To get to the Boston area on time, Willard had to drive as fast as he possibly could. Missing the first twenty-four calls from his bookie had put him far behind schedule. And he was slowed down by the darkness, the icy roads, and the possibility of running across a state trooper.
He had his window cracked and the radio on (Zeppelin, Dylan, Eagles). He wanted a beer. Hell, at least some coffee. He wasn't supposed to be doing this crap. He was supposed to be drinking beer at the fire pit. But he was speeding along into yet another gamble in a long losing streak of gambles.
As he entered Massachusetts and made some progress eastward on Route 2, he hit traffic and had to slow down.
He had a question in his mind: Would someone already be there? He was late. Maybe someone else was on time.
Route 2 emptied him into Cambridge. To many people, the area was the home of Harvard, MIT, Tufts, and various unique landmarks, institutions, and people. To Willard, it was hyperactive and hectic in the same way as any city, even at four in the morning. He had grown out of city life. It made him anxious.
He pulled into a Dunkin Donuts. He bought a coffee and got out a map and his phone, which had the kid's address on it. He put his finger on the address. Judging by the map, the kid's house was tucked on a little street in a residential area.
He returned to the truck and got back on the road. To his eye, the city was shockingly alive with lights and cars.
The white truck snaked through the web of residential roads. It felt painfully big and bright and conspicuous to Willard. He had his radio at a whisper, hanging his arm out the window.
He pulled onto a one-way street. This was it.
He didn't see any signs of activity on the street. Maybe no one's here yet. The street was lined with old, bumpy pavements cracked by trees. The houses were small and handsome, each distinctive and set close to one other. Lots of places to hide.
He crept forward. There it was: a modest two-floor home, tucked on a quiet back street. He pulled his truck over on the other side of the street and killed the gas.
There was a light on in the house. The bottom floor. Someone is home. He got out his phone and composed a text message to his bookie:
At address. Someone is here.
He reached into his glove compartment for a pair of binoculars. He trained them on the square of light. There wasn't much to see: a living room. He didn't see any kid, or anyone else.
He straightened up and screwed the silencer onto his Glock. He put it in his lap and sipped some Dunkin Donuts. Maybe things would work out, for once, and no one else would show up. No one to scare away or take care of. And then the payoff would arrive. He savored the December air through the open window. It wasn't as fresh as Vermont, but he liked the cold.
Another light came on, after a while, this one on the second floor of the house. Willard raised his binoculars and looked there. He saw a lamp, a bedside table. A woman propped herself up in bed, on an elbow. Willard admired her breasts through the frame of the window. She was young. Was that Mom? The kid had to be awfully young, then.
She got out of bed. Evidently she slept naked: Willard watched her butt as she walked away from the window and out of his sight.
He pulled away from the binoculars and kept watch on both illuminated windows, the one on the ground floor and the one on the second floor. No shapes appeared.
Was that a voice? He thought he heard a woman's voice, faint, coming from inside the house. The windows were all shut; she must have been yelling, or speaking loudly at least.
A minute later, she reappeared in the bedroom, tucked her naked self back into bed, and turned off the light on the bedside table, plunging the bedroom back into darkness. The bottom-floor window was still illuminated.
Willard hadn't been able to make out whether there had been anyone else in the bed. The father, sleeping next to her and too lazy to get up, perhaps. He constructed a picture of what might have happened. The kid was downstairs. Mom woke up and noticed it was four in the morning, and she went and saw that little Johnny was still awake and she yelled at him to go to bed. Then she went back to bed. And of course the kid wasn't going to bed any time soon. Whatever was keeping him awake (Willard was imagining a violent video game) would occupy him until he was good and ready to go to bed.
The other possibility was that the kid was in bed, and the father of the family was in the lit room downstairs. But, judging by the image he'd seen of the woman's body propped up on one arm, Willard did not consider it likely that any husband of that woman would pass up the chance to be in bed with her in the middle of the night. It would take an unusual man to pass that up. Then Willard remembered the bookie's words: He might be weird. He might not be a kid. He might be dangerous.
He leaned back and sighed. Why can't things ever be simple, he wondered.
THE GENIUS
Bethesda, MD
20 hrs 4 min to Birth
A fierce manhunt for Gene had been underway for two hours and it was starting to get desperate. Gene was almost certain to miss the plane the rest of the Distributed Ops team was taking to Boston. And since he was included on teams to p
erform tasks that no one else could do, missing the plane sounded like bad, bad news.
Various cars were scouring the winding, lonely roads in the vicinity of his stately home in Bethesda. Gene had a daily custom of taking walks and thinking. But with no university campus, garden, or countryside at his disposal, he generally walked along the roads by his house.
The car that found him was the one waiting for him in his driveway, parked sideways, with the motor running.
He emerged from the darkness of pre-dawn, at the foot of the driveway to his house, at the end of a long walk. He continued briskly up the path and stepped into the beam cast by the headlights. He looked blindly toward the light.
He was tall and gangly, with generous hair. His round eyes, slightly big ears, and soft nose and mouth made him look almost like a monkey, or a geeky kid. Like a tall monkey from Ohio. But the glimmer in his eyes spoke volumes, and as soon as he started talking he radiated vitality, intelligence, and charm. The mischief that he showed in his eyes — and occasionally flashed in big grins — was the amusement of noticing new things all the time, and always being a step ahead of everyone else.
At this early morning hour, his face was tired, but concerned. He conveyed the exhaustion of being kept awake by troubling thoughts. He was holding an empty mug. He drank coffee or tea all day and night.
The car door opened and a pair of high heels clicked toward him in the light. The owner of the heels came into view: an attractive, sharply dressed brunette with designer eyeglasses.
Gene smiled and greeted her with a warm, lingering handshake. They had met once before. When greeting an acquaintance, Gene politely summarized what he knew about that person and what they had spoken about previously. He had a frightening memory.
They walked toward the car. The woman was a “greeter” from the National Security Agency. Gene was on retainer at the Agency. He had the distinction of being the most intelligent citizen of the United States, in the opinion of the Agency. For this reason, they had lured him away from a research position at a Big Name University with a unique offer. They gave him a large house in the vicinity of the capital, a generous salary, and a protected identity (“Gene” was codename for genius, not his real name). In return, they would call on him occasionally to assist in projects requiring special brainpower. The rest of his time was free to live a comfortable, contemplative life.
The greeters sent by the NSA were always young women. The objective was to fetch Gene expediently and to keep him entertained. Initially they had sent other fine intellects from more traditional positions within the Agency; but as it turned out, Gene frequently was in the mood to talk about a subject which his greeter had no knowledge of, and the conversations tended to languish or even become disagreeable. So the Agency tried sending sexy women who were good conversationalists.
“This time,” she said by the car, “I have been given strict orders that we leave straight out of the driveway.”
He looked at his wrist. He wasn't wearing a watch. “Right now? No time to pack?”
“I'm afraid not. You're needed urgently this time.” She was trying to play it cool.
In fact, Gene could be temperamental, and it was not certain that he would get in the car. There had been problems in the past with getting him on certain projects he didn't think were worthwhile.
She held open the door, but he held his ground, wearing merely jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt. Apparently his brain kept him warm in the cool December night.
“What is it you have for me?” he asked. The answer to that question could decide whether he got in the car or went back inside his house.
“I have a Christmas present for you. We think we've found someone as smart as you are.”
“Ooh. You won't take my house away, will you?” His tone was playful, but his expression was distracted.
“Not yet,” she smiled. “They are sending you to meet this kid.”
“Kid?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. His attention was half-piqued.
“Yes, a kid,” she said, following her script. “The smartest person alive.”
He frowned, but got into the car, as if forgetting that he had considered doing otherwise. As she sat down and closed the door, they suddenly seemed much closer to each other. She was wearing a skirt. The car shifted into motion. She uncrossed and crossed her legs.
“Yes,” she said. “But sadly, I don't know anything more about it. You'll meet Distributed Ops up in Boston take it from there.”
“Distributed Operations,” he said, with a touch of theatrics. Looking out the black window, he appeared to be recalling everything he knew about the program.
“You'll have plenty of time to worry about that later,” she said, touching his knee. “How was your walk?”
His face acquired a pained expression. “Troubling,” he said sadly. “I've been thinking about the flu,” he said.
“The flu?”
“Yes, the flu,” he said, grimacing. “I know it sounds a little crazy, but I'm worried about the flu.”
“Fascinating,” she said, leaning in slightly. “What do you mean?”
He met her eyes, as if evaluating her trustworthiness. “We think of the flu as a mere cold,” he began. “Sure, there is some threat. But with flu vaccinations, it's little more than the common cold to us.
“But the flu has an interesting past. At certain points in history, the flu — or a grandfather of today's flu, you could say — has caused a lot of damage. Have you heard of the Spanish flu?” he asked.
“I've heard of it,” she nodded.
“It was only about a hundred years ago,” he said. “About 20% of the world's population got the Spanish flu. If you got the flu, your chances of dying were about one in four, or one in five. It killed 25 million people in the first 25 weeks after it appeared. That's as many people as AIDS killed in the 80's and the 90's combined.”
“Wow,” she said.
“Wow is right,” he said. “It blows my mind how little we think about this flu. When you hear the word ‘flu,' you think of something that's a threat only to old people, right?”
“And babies.”
“Right. Well the Spanish flu struck young, healthy adults. Not all flus are created the same.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes. Now consider this: what stopped the Spanish flu?”
He paused. She shrugged her shoulders good-naturedly.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Nothing stopped it. It ran its course. Countries around the world tried to quarantine their populations. But it spread all around the world. What stopped it was itself. You see, every virus has an infectivity and a virulence. Much how every human has a height and a weight. The infectivity is how easily it spreads from person to person, and the virulence is how often it kills people.”
She nodded.
“The Spanish flu,” he said, “ran its course. If it had happened to be more infectious, it would have infected more than 20% of the world's population. If it had happened to be more virulent, it would have killed even more people.”
“Scary.”
“Now,” he said, raising a long, thin finger, “if the Spanish flu appeared today in America — and America was where it originally appeared — what do you think would happen?”
She bit her lip. “I have no idea. Could we use modern medicine?”
“You'd think so, right? But no, actually. Modern medicine wouldn't get us anywhere,” he said. “Modern medicine doesn't have a cure for viruses. Just as it doesn't have a cure for the AIDS virus, or even the common cold. But unlike AIDS, the Spanish flu would move quickly if it appeared on the planet today. As it did before, it would make about 20% of the world's population sick. So in the United States, some 60 million people would get sick. And one in four of them would die. So 15 million people would die, in the United States alone.”
“But even without a cure, don't we have better response measures than a hundred years ago?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Response
measures? Sure. But you know what? With increased travel today, and greater population density, there are factors that could increase the spread of the flu. Like the first time, we wouldn't be able to stop the flu very well at all. The truth is that we are hardly any better prepared for a major flu than we were a hundred years ago.”
She turned her head a little sideways. “So you're afraid the Spanish flu is going to come back?”
“Not the same flu,” Gene said. “The next big flu. Another flu with that kind of infectivity and virulence is coming someday. One with more severe infectivity and virulence is coming. It's merely a matter of time until we get a worse virus. The clock is ticking.”
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