Mark Alpert - Extinction

Kirsten scrolled down the page. “There’s something about the tone of this document. It’s an analysis with a purpose. You get the feeling that some director in the Second Bureau asked this analyst, what are the pros and cons of the American drone program? Like the Guoanbu wanted to know if they should adopt something similar.”

Jim saw where Kirsten was going. “You mean, for surveillance inside China? Government surveillance of dissident groups?”

She nodded. “China’s internal problems are heating up. In Xinjiang, in Tibet. And the People’s Republic is the most paranoid government on earth. They’re installing millions of surveillance cameras across the country.”

“But why would the Chinese want to use Predator drones? They’re doing this surveillance on their own territory, so they can put their cameras right on the ground.”

“You’re right, they don’t need the Predator. But it looks like they’re exploring related technologies.” She returned to the list of documents and scrolled down the column of Mandarin file names. “Some of the other documents are analyses of Pentagon-funded research programs at American universities. Here’s a summary of the aerospace research at Princeton’s engineering school. And here’s a memo that describes the robotics programs at Cornell.”

Another thought occurred to Jim. “The agent who attacked me, he said Layla was investigating the arrest of several Chinese dissidents. Pro-democracy activists, he said. Do any of the Guoanbu files mention that?”

“No, there’s nothing here about dissidents. Nothing political. It’s all technical analysis.” She continued scrolling. “Here’s another memo about aerospace research, describing the programs at the University of Texas. And here’s something about Caltech, a summary of all the robotics programs there.”

“Wait a second.” The Caltech reference had caught Jim’s attention. He scanned the list of file names on the screen and recognized a pair of Mandarin characters, qí and yì . “Look at that.”

Kirsten stopped scrolling. “What?”

He pointed at the characters. “That’s Qíyì . It means ‘singularity,’ right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And those four characters next to it? That’s a phonetic spelling of a Western name. It’s Arvin Conway. The Caltech professor. And chief executive of Singularity, Inc.” He leaned toward Kirsten and tapped the frames of her glasses.

She was silent for a few seconds, struck by the coincidence. “Well, whaddya know. Nice catch, Pierce.”

“The Guoanbu agent mentioned him, too. He said he knew I worked with Conway.”

“Let’s see what the file says.” She clicked on Qíyì and called up the document. “Okay, it’s another Second Bureau analysis. A summary of the operations of Singularity, Inc. Headquarters in Pasadena, California. Revenue of 120 million dollars in 2012, annual R&D investment of 100 million, blah, blah, blah. This is boilerplate. Nothing that you couldn’t get from a business magazine or a…” She paused. “Wait a second. This is strange.”

“What?”

“Hold on, I’m still reading.” Kirsten leaned forward, training her eyeglass-cameras on the screen. “There’s something here about export controls. The microprocessors in some of Singularity’s devices have possible military uses, so normally they can’t be exported to China. But Singularity received an exemption from the dual-use controls.”

“Why is that strange? Doesn’t that happen pretty often?”

“Yeah, but it usually takes forever. The Commerce Department has to sign off on every exemption. But in Singularity’s case, another agency expedited the process.”

“Which agency?”

Kirsten stopped herself. She turned away from the screen.

Jim felt a rush of adrenaline. “Come on, Kir. Don’t hold back on me.”

After a few seconds, she nodded. “The file says there was a request from the CIA. The agency asked Commerce to approve the exemption immediately.” She scrolled through the rest of the document. “That’s all it says. No further explanation.”

It was more than strange, Jim thought. It was positively bizarre. “Since when does the CIA get involved in exemptions from export controls? I never heard of such a thing.”

“You’re right. They’re usually trying to stop the Chinese from getting any dual-use technologies. But in this case it looks like they made a special effort to push it through.”

“So that’s why the Guoanbu is so interested in Layla? Because she uncovered some deal involving Arvin’s technology?”

Kirsten shrugged. “Hard to say. But it does look suspicious.”

Jim ran his hand through his hair. He needed to think. The evidence was sketchy and he couldn’t see how it fit together. It would be nice to get some more information on the export exemption, but unfortunately he couldn’t go to the CIA headquarters at Langley and start asking questions. He used to have some contacts there, but they’d left the agency long ago. So that meant he had to go to Arvin. Jim felt some trepidation at this prospect—he hadn’t spoken to his old professor in four years. They’d had a falling-out when Jim left Singularity to start his prosthetics work at Walter Reed. The argument got so heated that Jim vowed never to speak to Arvin again. But he was going to have to break that promise.

He looked at his watch. It was almost 10:00 A.M. If he hurried, he could catch a flight that would land in Los Angeles before the end of the day. He needed to do this in person.

“I gotta go,” he said, stepping away from Kirsten. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

She frowned. “Let me handle this, Jim. I know a few people at Langley. They might tell me something.”

Jim appreciated the offer, but he knew how the intelligence community worked. Each agency was a closed shop. Despite all the calls for greater cooperation since 9/11, they still kept secrets from each other. He looked over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “Thanks for the help, Kir. I owe you one.”

After Layla left New York City she had one overriding desire: to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Guoanbu agents.

She started by taking a train to Montclair, New Jersey, where she went to the home of the most fervent InfoLeaks supporter in the area, a Marxist history professor named Max Verlaine. Last winter Professor Verlaine had let Layla crash on his couch for two months, and now he was even more generous. Without asking any questions, he gave her six hundred dollars and let her borrow an ancient Honda Civic with a full tank of gas. Even better, he handed her a driver’s license belonging to one of his ex-girlfriends, a brunette who roughly resembled Layla, at least judging from the fuzzy photo on the license. Layla thanked him profusely, then got on the interstate and headed south.

She didn’t stop until she reached Philadelphia, where she found an all-night copy shop. After buying an hour of time on one of the shop’s computers, she examined the files from the flash drive Dragon Fire had given her. There were only two documents and they weren’t encrypted, but they were in Mandarin. She downloaded a program to translate the files, but the results were gibberish—the text was too technical. One of the files was accompanied by thirty-three illustrations, thirty-two of which were circuit diagrams with Mandarin labels she couldn’t even begin to fathom. But the thirty-third illustration was more helpful. It was a line drawing of the thing she’d seen in the specimen jar, a housefly with electronic devices attached to its head, thorax, and abdomen.

Layla was too afraid to stay at the copy shop for the full hour. If Dragon Fire was right and the CIA was cooperating with the Guoanbu, she wasn’t safe anywhere. Using an anonymous sign-in, she logged on to the InfoLeaks network and quickly searched for someone who could help her understand the files and the specimen. Reviewing the list of InfoLeaks supporters and volunteers, she saw two people with the necessary expertise, but one of them lived in Manhattan. Layla had no intention of going back there, so she sent an e-mail to the other guy and returned to her car.