Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

He wondered if Betts would appreciate that irony.

Now they broke down the set a third time, moving their shoot deeper within the mausoleum. Unspooling power cables from the generator, they brought the lights inside. A fogger was moved up to the door, pumping mist into the yawning cavity. Night had fallen: a black night, the moon hidden behind clouds. A chill wind began to blow. Wellstone wondered how they were all going to fit into the little stone temple. But when the lights inside grew fainter, he realized with surprise that the mausoleum must have a second level, with a passageway going down to a larger space below. This must be why Betts had been so pleased: it was like a ready-made set for his sham production.

When the entire crew was inside, Wellstone moved swiftly up through the trees, pressing himself against the rear wall of the mausoleum. Obviously, this was where the biggest fraud of all would take place: where Moller and his bogus equipment would film the fake vampire, or whatever other images he’d prepared for this evening’s work.

Standing on tiptoe at one of the windows, looking in at an awkward angle, he began shooting video of what was going on inside.

Coldmoon awoke from a nightmare involving large trees, toboggans, and lumberjacks in plaid work shirts chasing him with axes. A hand was gently shaking his shoulder. He came partially awake — Christ, he was tired — but was pleased to find it had been only a dream. The figure silhouetted in golden light, gently prodding him with soft fingers, was extremely attractive. Perhaps he could dive from one kind of dream into a very different one.

But the silhouette wouldn’t let him alone, and with a groan and a mumbled curse, Coldmoon became fully conscious. In the gloom, he could see that the sylphlike figure waking him was Constance Greene.

“Yes?” he croaked.

“Pendergast needs you,” came the contralto voice. “Both of us.”

Coldmoon checked his watch. “Now? I just finished two cross-country flights for the guy.”

“Get dressed, please, and come down to the hotel’s library.”

Coldmoon sat up, then flopped back down again with another groan.

“If you’re there in five minutes,” Constance said, “and sufficiently presentable, I’ll get you some pejúta sápa .”

“The way I like it prepared?”

“For God’s sake, no.” She turned with a rustle of expensive silk and left his room.

It was ten minutes later that Coldmoon — now dressed and fully awake — stepped into the library of the Chandler House: a narrow room overlooking Taylor Street. The room held wall-to-wall bookcases, with a few tables and several comfortable reading chairs. In one corner sat Pendergast and Constance. They had pulled a sofa and two armchairs away from the other furniture in a kind of defensive posture. Coldmoon walked over and sat down. As promised, there was a large pitcher of coffee and some cups with saucers. Without speaking, Coldmoon poured himself a cup and sipped suspiciously. He put the cup down on the table between them and sat back.

Pendergast, so drawn and pale he might have been a candidate for Moller’s monster-diagnosing equipment, sat across from him. “I’m going to tell you both a story,” he said.

“Oh, goody,” Coldmoon replied sarcastically. He had looked up D. B. Cooper on Wikipedia and been as entertained as Pendergast promised, yet he’d been unable to figure out how that celebrated cold case could be linked to the current killings — although he could see a number of possible links to their trip west.

“Both of you know different pieces of the story,” Pendergast went on. “Neither of you knows it all. Our trip west answered half of it. The other half belongs to Constance. I tasked her with a most difficult undertaking... and she has followed through.”

“What was that?” Coldmoon asked.

“Asking the proprietress of the Chandler House four questions.”

Four questions? Coldmoon glanced at Constance. She was sitting on the sofa between Pendergast and Coldmoon, utterly still and — apparently — emotionless. Coldmoon knew from personal experience this might be a bad sign, and he discreetly edged his chair away from the couch.

“I’ll tell the story, as reconstructed with the help of Constance, as efficiently as possible. Time is of the essence.” Pendergast drew in a breath. “A little over fifty years ago, a young woman named Alicia Rime was employed as an airframe designer at the Boeing aerospace complex in Portland, Oregon. She was a brilliant young engineer, and she had been moved from the company’s headquarters in Chicago to the advanced operations facility. This was a secret location, not unlike Lockheed’s ‘Skunk Works,’ where employees worked to develop new technologies. Beginning in 1970, important steps were being taken toward fly-by-wire systems, as well as novel approaches for improving safety. At that time, Rime was the only female engineer at Boeing.

“Soon, Rime began to learn that the more senior engineers in her department were poaching her work and taking credit for it themselves. Given her lack of seniority, and — alas — the fact that she was a woman, management circled the wagons and turned a blind eye to what was happening. And it wasn’t long before Rime’s excitement turned to disenchantment, then bitterness.

“At this point, she gravitated toward an older engineer working in advanced operations. He had been a rising star in earlier years, but — as his ideas became perceived as more and more impracticable, even bizarre — his work was disparaged or, worse, dismissed. By the time Rime met him, such treatment had driven him to work alone, not sharing with the others. He was a widower, with no family to speak of. He’d been laughed at one too many times, and now he kept his projects secret, locked in a safe when he went home for the night.

“Not surprisingly, the old man and Alicia Rime, the two outcasts of the department, forged a friendship. Eventually the older man began to share the secret of his work with her.

“His idea had been to develop hardware and software that could model human behavior. He took a dazzlingly unconventional approach, using a computer language of his own invention, far more advanced than LISP. His goal was to predict pilot behavior using AI. If a computer could predict, even a minute in advance, what a pilot might do given a set of circumstances, it would be an extremely powerful tool in avoiding pilot error.

“Alas, his efforts to create predictive AI ended in failure. The world is ruled by chaos, and human behavior is too complex.”

Pendergast allowed this observation to settle over the small group before he continued.

“But this scientist was a true genius, and he was not yet ready to admit defeat. After abandoning AI as a tool, he hit upon another idea — an insight based on the Schrödinger’s cat effect and the many-worlds theory of the physicist Hugh Everett, proposed in 1957.”

“What the hell does a cat have to do with anything?” Coldmoon interrupted.

“Never mind the cat. The many-worlds theory is a phenomenon of quantum mechanics, which says that all possible worlds are physically realized in countless universes parallel to our own.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not surprised. The important thing is that our elderly engineer succeeded in building a device that employed quantum effects to predict the future.”

Coldmoon shook his head. “I’m going back to bed,” he announced.

“Don’t be so hasty; I think you’ll find the rest of the story worth your time. That engineer’s machine used quantum mechanics in a very original, very practical way. Most physicists spend their time speculating and theorizing; he actually built something.”