“As soon as she agrees to join us. I can offer you two thousand dollars.”
“A week?”
“A day.”
Mullins made the calculation. Over half a million dollars a year to be a bodyguard. Overpayment, for sure. As soon as she agrees.
“I’m a lure,” Mullins said.
Brentwood chuckled. “You can call yourself that, but you more than proved your value at the Marriott shootings. I believe Dr. Li still needs protection and Silicon Valley isn’t the place for her. You saved her life once. There’s no one else who will make her feel more secure.”
The limo turned onto South Columbus and Mullins saw the brick building where Kayli lived in one of its four condos. Half a million dollars would more than pay for his grandson’s education.
“Why her?” Mullins asked. “You’ve got the connections and bankroll to snap up any scientist you want. Why is she so special?”
“Are you interested in the job?”
“Not without more information.”
Brentwood frowned and tapped his fingers while he mulled over how much to reveal and how much to conceal. Mullins was living up to his reputation. “How much of the ‘secret’ in Secret Service defined your career?”
“Everything that wasn’t illegal. I’ve no interest in spreading confidential information, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I have your word?”
“Under the condition I just stated.”
Brentwood checked the driver to make sure the man’s eyes were on the road and not reading lips through the rearview mirror.
“Do you read science fiction, Mr. Mullins?”
“Not really. Some as a kid. Mostly the ones that were shoot-’em-up Westerns, except in space.”
Brentwood pulled a latch on the back of the driver’s seat and a shelf dropped into place just above his knees. Mullins saw a glowing keyboard with a milk-glass screen mounted perpendicular to it. A three-dimensional image of cumulus clouds and blue sky materialized and seemed to hover on the screen.
“When I was a kid, all I read was science fiction. Maybe I was trying to escape my surroundings, maybe I had a hyperactive imagination, maybe both. That’s for a shrink to decide. But science fiction is the reason we’re in this limousine, the reason there’s Blanton’s in the bar and a jet at BWI. Because I had my head in the clouds, I anticipated the Cloud before it had a name.” He gestured to the clouds in front of him. “And I built my company based on its evolution and now the accelerating revolution. Even I’m shocked at the speed with which mankind’s knowledge is being captured in cyberspace. But that’s mere storage and data archiving. The real power is accessing, connecting, and applying that knowledge in ways never before imagined.”
“Super computers?” Mullins ventured.
“No. That’s limiting development to hardware. You know what the arms race of the twenty-first century is, Mr. Mullins?”
Mullins shook his head, not even bothering to guess.
“The quest for artificial intelligence. A race where there might be no second place.”
“Why’s that? In the Cold War, mutually assured destruction kept the Soviet Union and us from using nuclear weapons.”
“Because we’re not talking physical destruction.” Brentwood leaned forward, his face flush with a sudden burst of energy. “Have you heard of the singularity?”
“Something to do with black holes?”
“In cosmic theory, yes. The center of a black hole where matter is crushed to infinite density and the laws of physics break down. But I’m talking about the field of computer science. The singularity is a point in time when artificial intelligence becomes super intelligence, the technical achievement of cognitive abilities beyond human capacity. Then its intelligence will increase exponentially, leaving us poor mortals far behind. Uncharted waters, my friend, because we will no longer be able to control or protect the outcomes of our thinking machine.”
Brentwood clicked a few keys and the clouds turned into a night sky of stars and then swirling galaxies. “People like me see infinite benefits, especially for human problems like disease and even death. Yet there is a dark, dark side. What if our computer servants develop self-awareness that becomes self-preservation? A goal that finds humanity expendable?”
Mullins flashed back to his childhood, not to the sci-fi novels but to the bad sci-fi movies he loved to watch on Saturday mornings. “An army of robots?”
“No.” Brentwood swept a hand through the air between them as if to cast the very concept from the car. “An infiltration by the first super intelligent entity into every network, every software program, every smartphone, laptop, mainframe, or even the world’s weapon systems. A hacking of unprecedented speed and power. There will be no second place super intelligence because the first to reach the singularity will overpower and absorb all rivals.”
“Absolute power,” Mullins murmured.
“Corrupts absolutely. Why should that axiom not apply to a self-aware thinking machine?”
“Or to the human beings who might manage to control it?” Mullins said.
“Precisely. God only knows which would be worse.”
Brentwood’s bright eyes lost focus as a new idea sparked in his brain. Mullins got the feeling the man truly was a genius, able to envision possibilities others couldn’t imagine.
“Maybe that’s what we’re doing—creating God. A super intelligent being who can peel back the secrets of time and space in some infinitely looping Möbius strip where man is created by God so that God can be created by man.” Brentwood felt himself slipping into one of his trances and blinked a few times to clear his over-revving mind. “Sorry. Do you get the picture?”
“I believe so,” Mullins said. “You want to be the person controlling the machine.”
“No. I want to be the person programming the machine. Programming the machine with self-control, a safeguard against both human and computer tyranny.”
Mullins saw a glimmer of where Brentwood was heading. “That’s the role for Dr. Li, isn’t it?”
The CEO beamed like his three-year-old had just pronounced two plus two equals four. “A vital step is teaching a computer to find solutions to problems on its own. The field is called deep learning and the most promising model is proving to be blatantly obvious. The human brain. We’ve mapped the human genome. Now we’re attempting to map every neuron cluster, synapse connection, and sensory input to reproduce the intellectual functionality developed by evolution.”
“The marriage of neuroscience and computer science,” Mullins said. “Dr. Li’s topic at the conference.”
Brentwood couldn’t restrain himself. He reached out and grabbed Mullins’ good arm. “Yes. Yes. But her brilliance is being wasted—overlooked by focusing on the human brain as a model of learning, a super intelligent problem-solver.”
Mullins had to admit he was intrigued by what the man was saying. He was also confused. “What then?”
“It’s not the discovery of answers that will propel IA into unknown dimensions, it’s the ability to imagine the questions in the first place. To dream of things beyond the mind of us poor mortals.”
“And that’s not the model of the brain?”
Brentwood tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Not the conscious brain. Not the problem-solving mind. I firmly believe we’re looking at the role of the subconscious, the walled up, secretive partitioned space where seeds of ideas, unique connections, and fresh perspectives bubble and percolate until rising to conscious awareness in an ah-ha moment. Like the one I experienced envisioning the power of the Cloud.
“If I’d been consciously thinking of that too soon, I’d have dismissed it for all the reasons it wouldn’t work. But my subconscious nurtured it in safety until it was ready to be born, too powerful to be ignored.”
The man didn’t sou
nd crazy, Mullins thought. Fanatical, yes, but not crazy. He’d read about people saying their revolutionary ideas popped into their heads fully formed. He’d experienced it to some degree when pieces of an investigation suddenly gelled and he’d awaken in the middle of the night with an unexpected insight. No, the man wasn’t crazy.
“That’s Dr. Li’s area,” Mullins said. “She’ll map it for you?”
“Not just map it. She’s the most qualified person in the world to create both the complex algorithms and partitioning protocols to truly make an artificial mind with that undervalued component, a subconscious seat of imagination.”
Mullins couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Surely you don’t think Dr. Li will join your company because of me?”
Brentwood’s face remained deadly serious. “No, I don’t. You’re a fringe benefit at best. It’s the cumulative effect I’m after. There are other carrots I won’t go into. You might be a fringe benefit to her, but you’re a critical factor for me. The woman is a valuable asset deserving the best protection.”
“What’s to stop the Chinese from surrounding her with guards and whisking her home?”
“Nothing. Other than the secrecy I stressed, Mr. Secret Service. If you buy the analogy to the arms race, say World War II’s Manhattan Project, then you also need to understand how this is so drastically different. Back then it was a war between aligned nations. The Manhattan Project was a huge, secret crash effort to develop the atomic bomb first. Today other wars rage—wars of culture, ethnicity, religion, nations, and the newest front, multi-national corporations. It’s no secret that Google, China’s Baidu and Jué Dé, Microsoft billionaire Paul Allen, and an alliance of universities are all striving to be first in the race for artificial intelligence.”
“In which there is no second place,” Mullins echoed.
Brentwood relaxed. “Yes, you understand. There’s no greater challenge on the face of the planet. The race has to be won by people of high moral character with the common good of humanity as their priority. The original prediction for the singularity was 2045. I tell you, Mr. Mullins, the singularity will be a reality within twelve months. I believe we’re ahead, but others are close behind. If they reach the singularity first, then my work amounts to nothing.”
Mullins nodded gravely. He knew it was the response Brentwood wanted. Now was the time to press for what had motivated him to get in the car.
“If I agree to guard Dr. Li, then I must have latitude in deciding what to do and how to do it.”
“As long as it doesn’t compromise the secrecy of our work.”
“That means I must know what we’re up against. I need your resources and the operational support to investigate this Double H and any other threats that might exist.”
Brentwood hesitated. An investigation outside his full control could be a problem. Yet if he balked, he’d undercut the very argument that he would do anything to protect Dr. Li.
“All right,” he said. “As long as it’s not illegal.”
“We might have to push the envelope,” Mullins stipulated.
“Just don’t push me in front of a goddamned congressional hearing.” Brentwood offered his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Mullins found the other man’s palm was drenched with sweat. “One other thing. I’d like a mailing address for Dr. Li. I’m going to add something to your cumulative effect.”
Brentwood arched his eyebrows but didn’t ask for an explanation. “I’ll e-mail it to you while we drive back to your apartment.”
The limo dropped Mullins at the building’s front entrance. He gave a slight wave, and then turned his attention to his next move—shipping a new Washington Nationals baseball cap to Dr. Li.
Before the limo was out of the parking lot, Brentwood speed-dialed his phone. “He’s in.”
“Any problems?” Ned Farino asked.
“Nothing unexpected. Play your card.”
***
Across the Potomac in the Office of Naval Intelligence in southeast Washington, Vice Admiral Louis MacArthur hung up the phone. President Brighton had been so hyped up MacArthur figured he could have heard the man from the Oval Office without needing the phone.
The message had been loud and clear: give Rusty Mullins all updates on the Marriott shootings. The disregard for the protocols of security clearance was unprecedented and MacArthur couldn’t help but marvel at what must be Mullins’ influence. Was the man some kind of intelligence genius?
MacArthur summoned his chief communications officer. The cable would be short and only for the eyes of the commander of surveillance operations in the Indian Ocean. He gave one name, the name of the man he wanted in his office within thirty-six hours, no questions asked.
The vice admiral smiled to himself. The more he thought about it, the more he liked his idea. Two separate objectives carried out by the same operative. President Brighton would have the link to Mullins he wanted. MacArthur would have the informant he needed.
Things could work out quite well.
Chapter Eight
“Paw Paw.”
Mullins loved hearing the two syllables spoken by his grandson. He couldn’t help but smile at the name christening his grandfather status.
“Paw Paw,” Josh repeated. “Done.” The three-year-old pointed a stubby finger at the bowl now empty of Cheerios.
“Good job, Josh. Paw Paw just has a few more bites.”
The child and grandfather sat side by side at Kayli’s dining room table in what had become a Saturday morning ritual. Mullins entertained Josh while Kayli talked with her husband stationed somewhere in the Indian Ocean. In port, Kayli and Allen could Skype, but, at sea, video communication was forbidden. This morning their prearranged call would be by POTS—a naval acronym standing for the highly technical term, Plain Old Telephone System.
Josh started squirming in his booster chair.
“Wait. Be polite. Let me finish.” Mullins hurried his last few bites of cereal.
“Paw Paw, PAW Patrol. Josh’s urgent demand to watch his favorite cartoon, PAW Patrol, sent an involuntary shiver down Mullins’ spine. The TV show featured a pack of super hero dogs and started every episode with a theme song that infected the brain. Mullins likened it to the mind-numbing effect of Disney World’s “It’s a Small World” ride and the title song that looped incessantly. When he and Laurie had taken Kayli as a child, it took weeks to knock the tune out of his head.
“Paw Paw, PAW Patrol.” The demand turned into giggles as Josh delighted in the multiple “Paws.”
“Kayli!”
“I’m brewing another pot,” came her reply from the kitchen.
“Your call’s at ten, right?”
Kayli walked into the room. She wore a terry cloth bathrobe loosely cinched around her pajamas and clutched a mug of steaming coffee. “Don’t shout, Dad. We have neighbors, you know. And, yes, ten.”
“Well, I can’t endure another episode of PAW Patrol. I’ll take Josh to the playground and we’ll be back in time for him to talk to Allen.”
“PAW Patrol,” Josh petitioned his mother.
“No PAW Patrol,” Kayli said. “You’re going on Paw Paw Patrol. Show Paw Paw how you can use the big boy slide.”
“Paw Paw Patrol,” Josh squealed.
Mullins feared Kayli had just created the name for every outing he and his grandson would ever take. “Let me help you down so your mom can change you out of your pjs.”
Kayli set her mug on the table. “I’ll do it. You’re not to lift anything with that arm yet.”
Mullins ignored her and maneuvered his sling enough to grasp the tow-haired boy around the waist with both hands. As far as he was concerned, his grandson could never be too heavy. Two months premature, Josh had weighed less than three pounds and spent his first Christmas in a neonatal intensive care unit.
Mullins gently set t
he boy on the floor. “Believe me, honey, that was less painful than the TV show.”
Ten minutes later, Mullins and Josh walked hand in hand toward the neighborhood playground a few blocks away. Josh had to stop and examine every stone he found on the sidewalk and wave to every car that passed. Mullins didn’t mind. A warm spring morning. A tiny hand clutching his finger. He wished the moment could go on forever.
It didn’t. When Josh saw the other kids on the playground, he ran to them, leaving Paw Paw behind.
It wasn’t so long ago that was Kayli, Mullins thought. “He’s growing up too fast, Laurie,” he whispered. “What will his world be like?”
Mullins found an empty bench where he could watch Josh yet maintain the pensive mood that had descended upon him. His thoughts turned from his dead wife to Elizabeth Lewison. He knew the terrible grief she suffered. He wondered if she talked to Ted the way he did with Laurie. He hoped so.
If Robert Brentwood did hire him, Mullins would have to have a conversation with Elizabeth. No details. Just find a way to reassure her that he was working the investigation and might be out of touch for periods of time.
Kayli would be a bigger challenge. There had been no further discussion since those early hours in the hospital. He knew she was waiting for him to make the first move. He couldn’t lie to her, but he could be vague. Tell her he wasn’t going back to Prime Protection, but he was undertaking a private investigation for Elizabeth Lewison, a woman Kayli admired and respected. Investigations were far less dangerous than being on the front line. At least that’s how he’d sell it. Dr. Lisa Li might not have to be mentioned at all.
Mullins turned his thoughts to other priorities. If Sam Dawkins delivered his message to President Brighton, it might prompt him to start the flow of information. He didn’t know how it would come to him. That wasn’t his problem. He did have expectations as to the quality of what he was being told, and he’d run enough cases during his time in the Secret Service’s counterfeit division to know the prime avenue of pursuit—follow the money. The dead assassins were mercenaries, not jihadists. Somewhere out there lurked a paymaster.
The Singularity Race Page 5
