Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“They were two of the most important researchers at Google’s AI quantum labs in Mountain View. They were found murdered just four days ago. Some kind of crazy satanic ritual.”

“That’s sick.”

“Yeah, it is. And apparently they left their entire thirty-million-dollar estate to a no-kill animal shelter in San Francisco. That’s what the board was buzzing about, bitching that it should’ve gone to the homeless instead.

“But their murders got me to thinking so I started nosing around, and then I found an NSA internal memo on the suicide of Dr. Stanley Hopkins. That really bummed me out. I actually met him once at a London conference a few years ago. He was lecturing on the challenges of cryptography in a post-quantum world. Dude was spooky smart, emphasis on spooky.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he was a spook. Or at least, working at GCHQ.”

“Keep going.”

“Yeah. Two points make a line. So I followed the line. And you know what else I found? There are five other world-class researchers all connected in one way or another to quantum cybersecurity that have died in the last year.”

“And no one else has made that connection?”

Gavin shrugged. “They all happened in different countries, and all the deaths were completely different. Ritualistic murder, suicide, motorcycle accident, drowning, accidental overdose, an armed robbery gone bad, and carbon monoxide poisoning. Even if you were looking for a connection, you wouldn’t have necessarily found it. But then again, genius is seeing the obvious.”

“Well then, friend genius, who’s the obvious culprit behind these killings?”

“Still working on that one.”

They rode along for a moment. Jack said, “Do you think Runtso could be another link in that chain of killings?”

“Depends on whatever it was he was doing at ORNL with the RAPTURE project.”

“Given his background, do you think he could have been working in cybersecurity?”

“I don’t see why not. He could have been working on the hardware side of things, since he was a physicist.”

“And if Sammler is behind Runtso’s death, then maybe they might be responsible for these other deaths, too.”

“I can see that.”

“But Sammler is just a crew of hired guns. We definitely need to find them, but we really need to find who hired them.”

Jack sighed, frustrated. It was déjà vu all over again. He was right back where he started with van Delden, his first dead end, then Bykov. Also a dead end.

“We don’t have any more links in the Sammler chain,” Gavin said. “It’s like we’re free-climbing the face of El Capitan. No way to get to the top.”

“No, but we’ve got Runtso. If we can figure out exactly why he was killed, that might be a handhold we can work with.”

“And if Runtso is just another dead end?”

“Then I start pulling out pitons and driving them into somebody’s skull.”

59

ALCOA, TENNESSEE

MCGHEE TYSON AIRPORT

After they landed and Captain Reid secured the G2 at the Cirrus maintenance hangar, Jack and Gavin grabbed the rental waiting for them outside the Cirrus offices. It was a four-door silver Jeep Wrangler soft-top with a high-end Warn Zeon winch fixed to the front bumper.

“I picked the Wrangler in case we want to explore the Smoky Mountains while we’re here,” Gavin offered. “And I thought we’d look cool in it.”

Jack climbed in behind the wheel and Gavin punched the business address he’d found from Runtso’s tax records into the Garmin GPS navigator. The Garmin sent them north on the 129 Alcoa Highway toward Knoxville. Runtso’s office was just fifteen miles distant. But the roads were red-lined all the way up because they were hitting morning rush hour traffic, miles of construction slowdowns, and navigating at least one wreck on the highway. Add to that the stop-and-go traffic on Kingston Pike, and what should have taken twenty-four minutes was now costing them more than an hour.

Jack checked his frustration. It wasn’t as if they were in a rush. There wasn’t a ticking clock pointed like a gun at their heads. They were just chasing the one lead they had, not even exactly sure of what they were looking for, let alone what they might find when they got there.

—

What they found when they finally arrived was entirely underwhelming.

The address led them directly to a UPS Store. As expected, when they went inside, Jack and Gavin found that the suite number of Runtso’s business address was just the number on a mailbox, one of dozens. There was no window on the mailbox and therefore no way to tell if it was full, empty, or or even in use.

“Now what?” Gavin said.

“Follow my lead,” Jack said, ginning up his seductive powers. He approached the middle-aged, heavyset woman behind the counter. She wore black stretch pants, a blue oxford work shirt, and bright green eye shadow.

“May I help you?” she asked behind a pair of thick glasses.

Jack smiled broadly, locking eyes with her. “A friend of mine has a business address that’s located here, in one of your mailboxes. His name is Dr. Dylan Runtso. He owns a consulting firm.”

“Synergy Solutions,” Gavin said, standing just behind Jack.

“This Runtso fella must have a lot of friends.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?” Jack asked.

“’Cuz you’re not the first ones to stop by and ask about him. What is it that you want exactly?”

“He’s out of town and he’s asked me to come down and fetch his mail out of his box.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what I told the others. Unless you’re on his paperwork as an authorized user, I can’t let you do that.”

“What if I told you he gave me permission?”

“Do you have anything in writing?”

“He called me. Just a few minutes ago.”

“Then how about you call him right back and I’ll talk to him?”

“I wish I could. He just went into an important meeting and can’t be reached.”

The woman parked her big fists on her even bigger hips. “Honey, do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

Gavin barked a laugh, like a circus seal. The woman glanced over Jack’s shoulder and gave Gavin the stink eye. He withered and turned aside.

“No, ma’am, you don’t,” Jack said. “But this is really important.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Jack pulled out a billfold and flashed a fake ID, along with a fake badge. He held it up to her face and she grabbed it with both of her red-nailed hands and read it while he was still holding it.

“U.S. Department of Homeland Investigations.” She let go of Jack’s billfold. “Another Fed.”

Another?

“Can we see the contents of that mailbox?”

“I’ll tell you what I told those FBI people. Unless you have a warrant signed by a judge, I can’t let you in there.”

Jack pocketed his phony credentials. “Then I guess I’ll have to go and get one.”

“No use, hon.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you Feds talk to each other? The FBI already came back with one and emptied out that box two days ago. Wasn’t much in it, near as I can tell. Not that I read my customers’ mail, mind you.”

Jack shook his head, feigning disgust. “You know how it is back in D.C. It’s just one giant goat rodeo.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” she said, nodding in agreement. “Wait a minute.” The woman searched beneath her counter, then came up with a business card and handed it to Jack. “That was the FBI lady in charge. She and another fella came in here.”

The woman touched her red index nail to the name. “She spells it K-a-n-g but she pronounces it ‘Kong.’ Give her a call. She was nice enough.”