“There’s that word classical again.”
Champ picked up a long, thin glass tube. “And this is the only device in the world that is potentially more powerful than a Turing machine.”
“You showed me that thing when we first met, but didn’t explain what it was.”
“I can tell you, but you won’t understand it.”
“Come on, I’m not stupid,” Sean said irritably.
The other man snapped, “That’s not the point! You won’t understand it because not even I understand it really. The human mind is not meant to function on a subatomic plane. Any physicist that tells you he fully understands the quantum world is lying.”
“So quantum? That’s what we’re talking about here?”
“Specifically subatomic particles that hold the potential for computing power far beyond human comprehension.”
“It doesn’t look like much,” Sean said, glancing at the tube.
Champ slid his finger along it. “In the computer field, it’s said that size matters. At the Los Alamos National Laboratory there is a supercomputer called Blue Mountain. As you undoubtedly know, every PC in the world has a chip. It’s the brain of the computer and has millions of miniature switches chirping language in 1s and 0s. Blue Mountain has over six thousand chips making it a three teraops computer; that means it can perform three trillion operations per second. They use it to simulate the effects of a nuclear blast since the U.S., thankfully, doesn’t explode the damn things for real anymore. However, as powerful as a three teraops machine is, when they tried to reproduce a mere one millionth of a second of a nuclear blast, it took old Blue four months of crunching numbers.”
“Not exactly blazing speed,” Sean commented.
“They’re working on another supercomputer that will render Blue obsolete, a thirty teraops machine code-named Q spread out over an acre of ground. It will be able to perform more calculations in a minute than a human with a calculator could in a billion years and there are plans to build even faster ones. Yet all these computers are no better than the Turing machine; they just take up far more space and cost far more to run. That was the best we could do.” He held up the tube. “Until now.”
“And you’re saying that’s a computer?”
“In its current state it’s a rudimentary device that can do a few calculations, yet that’s quite beside the point. A computer talks in languages of 1s and 0s. Now with a classic computer you’re either a 1 or a 0. You’re not both. In the quantum world those limiting rules do not apply. An atom, in fact, can be both a 1 and a 0 at the same time, and therein lies the beauty of the whole concept. A classical computer plods through a problem mostly in a linear fashion until it gets to the right answer. With a quantum computer every single atom searches for the right answer in parallel. So, say if you want to know the square root of all numbers from 1 to 100,000, you place all the numbers on a line of atoms, manipulate the atoms with energy, and then collapse it very carefully because once it’s observed the whole thing tumbles down like a house of cards. And voilà, you’ll have all the correct answers at the same time, in milliseconds.”
“I’m not seeing how that’s possible.”
Champ’s face clouded. “Of course you can’t! You’re not a genius. But let’s bring it back to something you can understand. A supercomputer like the behemoth Q feeds on data in sixty-four-bit chunks. So let’s string a row of sixty-four atoms together. Remember, Q takes up an acre; sixty-four atoms are microscopic. The sixty-four-atom quantum computer can theoretically perform eighteen quintillion calculations simultaneously compared to Q’s rather meager thirty trillion per second.”
Sean gaped. “Eighteen quintillion? That’s an actual number?”
“I’ll try to give you some context. To equal the computing power of those sixty-four microscopic bits of energy, Q the supercomputer would need the surface space equal to five hundred suns to house all the required computer chips.” He smiled impishly. “If you could figure out how to deal with the heat issue, of course. Or you can just use molecules. As you can see they take up far less space. And as I said that’s why size matters in the computing world; only small rather than large is far better.”
“And Monk Turing was familiar with all of this?” Sean asked.
“Yes. He was a very gifted physicist.”
“And what he knew might have been something that could be sold?”
“There certainly might be people out there willing to pay for it.”
“Anyone ever mention to you that there might be spies at Babbage Town?”
Sean had thrown this comment out offhand to gauge the man’s reaction.
“Who told you that?”
“So you knew about possible spies here?”
“No, I mean, well, it’s always possible,” Champ said haltingly, his face very pale.
“Okay, calm down, and tell me the truth.”
The other man bristled. “I can’t say for sure whether there are or aren’t spies here. That’s the truth.”
“If there are what would they be after?”
“We have years of data, of research, of trial and error, of progress, of possibilities. We are closing in on the answer.”
“And that’s valuable?”
“Enormously valuable.”
“Worth going to war for?”
Champ stared at him. “I hope to God not, but—”
“Monk Turing apparently went out of the country about nine months ago. You must have approved the leave. Do you know where he went?”
“No, but he said it was family-related. You don’t think Monk Turing was a spy, do you?”
Sean didn’t answer. He glanced over at a worker who was leaving the hut. As she passed through the doorway, a small panel next to the door blinked. Sean hadn’t noticed it when they’d come in.
“What’s that?”
“A scanner,” Champ said. “It automatically records who leaves and when.”
“That’s right. Len Rivest told me about the computer log. They were able to track Monk Turing’s movements that way. So we can just ask the computer when you came here last night and when you left.”
Champ was about to respond when both men’s attention turned to the door as it banged open. Sheriff Hayes hustled in with a harried-looking security guard in his wake.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” an out-of-breath Hayes said to Sean. “We’re wanted at a meeting,” he added. “Right now. With Ian Whitfield. Well, he asked me to come, but I want you with me.”
“Who the hell is Ian Whitfield?” a surprised Sean asked.
“He runs Camp Peary,” Hayes answered. “We better get going.” He glanced sharply at Sean. “You’re coming, right?”
“I’m coming.”
Chapter 37
After suffering through an early dinner and attending the eating disorder session with Cheryl, Michelle checked herself out of the facility. Before leaving she visited with Sandy.
“I checked with my buddy at the U.S. Marshals. He said they’re sick of Barry pulling this crap. They’re kicking him out of Witness Protection and told the prosecutors to go for the max.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Michelle. I don’t know what would’ve happened if that gun had been loaded.”
“Hey, that’s what psycho friends are for.”
“Now stop worrying about me and go get that man of yours.”
“Sandy, we’re just friends.”
“But you are going to see him?”
“Hell yes. I miss him.”
“Good, then you can see if you still want to be just friends.”
As Michelle was heading out, Sandy called after her, “Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding. And if I were you I’d invest in a metal detector. With your line of work you never know who might show up to your nuptials.”
On the way out Michelle left a message for Horatio Barnes with the head nurse. “Tell Mr. Harley-Davidson he can check me off his to-do list. I’m cured.”
“I’m glad our treatment plan was so effective for you.”
“Oh, it had nothing to do with your treatment plan. It was all about nailing that weasel Barry. I’d take that over happy pills any day.” Michelle slammed the door on her way out.
She breathed in the fresh evening air and took a cab to the new apartment. Using the set of keys Sean had left her, she went inside and proceeded to mess up her part of the digs. She even tossed a few of Sean’s things around. He’d pick them up when he got back of course, sick neatnik that the man was, but she’d at least force him to make the effort.
Then she nearly sprinted to her truck and drove around for a half-hour with the windows down, Aerosmith blasting in the CD chute and the comforting feel of her junk underfoot. All she had needed was a little R&R, she told herself. Sure the sessions with Barnes had been a real bitch, but she’d survived them too. In a war of wills, she had had little doubt who was going to prevail.
And then all thoughts of Horatio Barnes left her mind as she focused on her next plan of action: joining Sean. She should probably call him and let him know she was coming. Yet Michelle hardly ever opted for the proper thing. And though she didn’t want to admit it, a little piece of her was afraid that if she did call Sean, he would tell her not to come.
When she got back to her apartment Michelle found what she needed after a quick search of Sean’s things: a file copy on Babbage Town complete with directions. Sean had said he was taking a small plane there, no doubt courtesy of little Miss Joan the pain-in-the-ass. Michelle opted to drive. She gauged the trip would take about four hours for normal drivers but with her illegal radar detector and her foot mashed to the floorboard she was confident she could drive it in under three. The fact that she was not employed by Joan’s company did not deter her in the slightest. The case was the thing. And if she knew one thing, Michelle understood quite clearly that together on the hunt she and Sean were nearly unstoppable. That’s what it was really all about. Not her. Them.
She packed a bag and hit the road, stopping only for a twenty-four-ounce high-octane coffee and three PowerBars. Her adrenaline was sky-high. God, it felt so good to be alive. And free.
Horatio went straight from the airport to the psychiatric facility to find his star patient had flown the coop.
“Did she say where she was going?” he asked the head nurse.
“No, but she asked me to tell you that she’s cured.”
“Oh, really? She’s into self-diagnosis now?”
“I don’t know, but let me tell you what she did while she was here.” The nurse quickly explained about Barry and Sandy, Witness Protection and the drug bust.
“She did all that in the time I was away? Hell, I wasn’t gone that long!”
“That lady doesn’t let grass or apparently anything else grow under her feet. I heard she kicked Barry’s butt pretty good. You know, I never liked him.”
“Isn’t hindsight wonderful,” Horatio grumbled as he walked away.
“Good night to you too, Mr. Harley-Davidson,” the nurse muttered. Horatio thought things over. He had to make deductions about what Michelle would do now. Actually, it wasn’t that difficult. She would without a doubt want to hook up with Sean. She might be headed there right now. Legally, there was nothing Horatio could do to stop her. But he also knew that the woman was not cured. The incident that had happened at the bar could happen again, manifesting itself in a different and more deadly form.
He was debating whether to alert Sean when his phone rang.
“Speak of the devil, I was just about to call you,” Horatio said.
Sean chuckled. “I’d make that quip about great minds, but I’m actually surrounded by big brains down here, so I’ll forgo the opportunity. I’m on my way to meet with the head of Camp Peary but I wanted to ask you something.”
“Camp Peary? As in the CIA Farm?”
“The one and only. I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He explained about Viggie. “I know it’s a pain wanting you to come down because you’re busy with Michelle and the rest of your practice.”
Horatio cut in. “Actually, I’m not. My favorite patient went AWOL on me.” He brought Sean up to date on both Michelle’s adventure at the facility and her checking herself out.
“Damn, leave it to her to find trouble wherever she goes,” Sean said, but there was a touch of pride in his voice at what she’d done.
“And my best guess is she’s on the way to see you.”
“Me? I told her a little about the case, but not where it was.”
“Did you leave anything back at the apartment?”
Sean groaned. “Oh, hell, I left a file copy there because I don’t have an office.”
“Your organizational instincts are commendable, but that means she’ll probably be there by morning if not sooner.”
“Joan will pitch a fit. They don’t really get along.”
“Astonishing. I’ll head down tomorrow. Is there a place to stay nearby?”
“I can probably get you a bunk at Babbage Town. So what do I do when Michelle shows up?”
“Act normal, she certainly will seem to be.”
“Have you made any progress on her case?”
“I had an interesting trip to Tennessee that I’ll fill you in on when I see you. I have to thank you for bringing me in on what has been a fascinating case. This Viggie sounds interesting too.”
“Horatio, this whole place is interesting. And more than a little dangerous right now, so if you want to respectfully decline I won’t hold it against you.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Is Michelle any better?”
“We need to help her clean up her soul, Sean, so she won’t have to worry about a bomb ever going off again. And I’m not letting go until we get her to that point.”
“I’ll be right there with you, Horatio.”
“Good, because from what I’ve seen of that woman, there’s not a man alive who can take her by himself.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Chapter 38
As they pulled through the college town of William and Mary and its neatly laid out brick buildings, Sean glanced over at Hayes. The good sheriff was hunched forward gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were the color of an eggshell.
“Sheriff Hayes, if you break the steering wheel in half we won’t be able to get back.”
Hayes’s face reddened and he loosened his grip. “Just call me Merk, everybody does. I guess I’m not acting like a proper law enforcement officer, am I?”
“Most cops don’t get summoned to meet with the big bad wolf in the middle of an investigation.”
“What do you think he’s going to say?”
“I doubt anything we really want to hear. And I can tell you straight out, the C does not stand for cooperation.”
“My day just keeps getting better and better!” Hayes exclaimed.
“So did you talk to Alicia?”
Hayes nodded. “After you told me she was seeing Rivest, I had to.”
“Was it serious between them?”
“She seemed to think so.”
They parked in front of the address Hayes had been given. It was a three-story brick building that appeared to Sean to be made up of residential units.
A man dressed in a polo shirt and khaki pants met them inside the lobby area. Sean sized up the fellow as Ian Whitfield’s security. The guy wasn’t as tall as Sean, and lacked bulging muscles, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body; the man’s six-pack abs were visible through the shirt. And to Sean’s informed eye, the guy carried himself with the air of someone who could kill you a dozen different ways without breaking a sweat.
The first thing he did was show them his ID, then confiscate Hayes’s sidearm. He next frisked Sean, all without saying a word.
They rode the elevator up to the third floor and were soon seated in comfortable chairs around an oval table inside one of the corner unit
s. Six-Pack disappeared for a moment and then returned with another gent. This guy also wore a polo shirt and khakis and was in nearly as good condition as the other, even though he had close-cropped gray hair and was probably nearing sixty. However, Sean noted the man limped. There was something wrong with his right leg.
A flick of a gaze by the man at Six-Pack and a manila file folder appeared in Whitfield’s hand, for this was Ian Whitfield, Sean assumed.
There followed a few minutes of silence while their host methodically read through the file. Then he finally turned his attention to them.
“There have been four confirmed suicides in the vicinity of our installation over the last twenty-seven months,” Whitfield said.
Sean hadn’t expected this opening line and obviously neither had Hayes.
Whitfield continued: “For some reason we’ve become the whipping boy for the depressed and suicidal. I don’t know why, but it seems there could be many reasons, including wanting notoriety or causing trouble. It goes without saying that I’m growing a little tired of these stunts.”
“Someone dying hardly qualifies as a stunt, does it?” Sean asked while the blood drained from Hayes’s face. “The circumstances of Monk Turing’s death have not been fully uncovered yet. Suicide, murder, we don’t know yet.”
Whitfield tapped the file. “All facts point to suicide.” He looked at Hayes.
“Don’t you agree, Sheriff?”
Hayes stammered, “I guess you could say that.”
“There was no evidence that Monk had been depressed enough to take his own life,” Sean pointed out.
“Aren’t all geniuses depressed?” Whitfield answered.
“How do you know he was a genius?”
“When people move into my neighborhood I like to get to know them.”
“You’ve been to Babbage Town, have you?” Sean pressed.
Whitfield turned back to Hayes. “I trust I’ve made my position clear. Four suicides and now five. My patience is at an end.”
“A man has died,” Hayes said, apparently screwing up his courage in the face of the other man’s patronizing tone.
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