The quantum solution, p.1
The Quantum Solution, page 1
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For Linda and Tom,
my North Stars
And everybody knows that it’s now or never
But nobody knows that it’s me or you
—After “Everybody Knows” by
LEONARD COHEN
PROLOGUE
WASHINGTON, DC/ROSTOV REGION, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
On one of those increasingly frequent climate-crisis-warm days in December, Brady Thompson, Unites States secretary of defense, was about to tee off on the third hole of his favorite golf course. It was a 460-yard par five, dogleg left, the fairway guarded by a pair of bunkers left and right at that juncture, as if daring the intrepid golfer to defy them.
Waiting patiently for their boss’s shot were his regular “partners in golf crime,” as they liked to call themselves, Wes Connerly, head of the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, a math-analytics savant who looked like a former tight end running to middle-aged fat, and George Wilson, chief of the Defense Threat Reaction Agency, small, intense—a man who took his golf game as seriously as he did his job. Thompson just hoped George wouldn’t have a heart attack on one of the greens one day.
All three men were colleagues and, latterly, friends, mainly due to Thompson’s indefatigable bonhomie. Neither man had worked for someone like Thompson before, which made them appreciate him all the more. He was one of those people born to be a career pol. He knew the right people, knew how to make the right deals, networked without seeming to. This essential asset served him well as the defense secretary. It served him even better in his other life, hidden away from even the most well-trained prying eyes.
The trio of golfers was surrounded at a discreet distance by their usual young caddies, fully vetted of course, and, just behind, quartering the immediate vicinity with gimlet eyes, their Secret Service contingent.
Fluffy clouds rode across the sky but hardly interfered with the sun. It really was unnaturally warm. Not that the trio cared. Summer in December. Okay!
The secretary of defense was about to start his backswing when Wilson said, “Exact moment when Bill would have made one of his groaners.”
“Ah, yes, Bill. Our missing fourth,” Connerly acknowledged sadly. “Was it only last week we buried him? He was too young to die.”
“So are we,” Thompson said, resting on his driver. “But a coronary could hit any of us…”
Connerly nodded at Wilson. “Go on, George. Do you remember one?”
“Must? Well.” Wilson cleared his throat. “Three vampires walk into a bar. First one says, ‘I’ll have a pint of blood.’ Second says, ‘Sounds good. I’ll have the same.’ Third says, ‘And I’ll have a pint of plasma.’ Bartender says, ‘So, that’ll be two Bloods and a Blood Lite?’”
The three men groaned and laughed at the same time.
“Well, someone’s got to assume the reins,” Thompson said as he prepared again to tee off. “George, you got this.”
“Tapped out.” Wilson turned to Connerly. “Wes?”
“Wait a sec.” Connerly thought a moment. “Okay, I’ve got one.” His forehead wrinkled as he made sure he’d got the joke right. “A three-legged dog walks into a saloon, his spurs clinking as he walks, his six-shooter slapping at his furry hip. He tips back his ten-gallon hat as he bellies up to the bar, eyes the bartender, and proclaims, ‘I’m looking for the low-down varmint who shot my paw.’”
Everyone laughed. They laughed until tears came to their eyes. All except Wilson, who uttered, “Heh!” Connerly’s cheeks had gone pink.
“That’s so good!” Connerly managed to gasp out.
“Yeah. Bill loved telling that one.” Thompson rubbed his forehead vigorously.
As if by silent mutual consent, the three men then fell silent, bowed their heads in memory of Bill Fineman, who up until a week ago had been the administration’s director of human resources. As one they came out of their reveries, and, going into his stance, Thompson swung into his dimpled ball. He wasn’t a bad golfer but he wasn’t particularly good, either. His handicap was higher than he would have liked.
As he shaded his eyes against the low-lying sun, Connerly said, “Has distance.”
“Yeah.” Wilson smirked. “But left into the sand trap.”
“Lawrence,” Connerly sang, terribly off-key. “Lawrence of Arabia.”
In due course, both Wilson and Connerly hit their balls, neither of which found the traps, but that was because they weren’t as long as Thompson’s. Because of this it was Thompson who was smirking as he asked for his sand wedge from his caddy.
Taking his first step into the sand trap, Thompson almost stumbled. He held out his arm, stopping his agent from coming to his rescue and thus shaming him in front of his pals, who would doubtless rib him mercilessly for the next week. Without further incident he traversed the shallow slope to where his ball nestled in the sand, thinking how good a lie he had. That was when the ringing in his ears ramped up. It was this, at a very low level, which had caused his almost stumble. Now it was so loud he couldn’t put two thoughts together. Pain shot through him, such pain as he’d never felt before. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the ringing, as if it were a physical thing. To him it was physical, or in any event felt that way.
Bent over the ball, he could scarcely breathe. His heart was racing so fast he was sure he was about to have a heart attack. Then his vision went red. He felt flayed from the inside out. Pressure inside his head was building, as if there was a foreign body in his brain expanding exponentially. He couldn’t escape the pain. Was there no way to cut it out of his head? The agony ratcheted up further. He thought he screamed, though maybe not. He couldn’t hear anything over the ringing filling him up with an insupportable pain, but he kept jabbing his forefinger against his temple, as if to say, Here! It’s in here! People rushed toward him, staggering in the sand, but it was too late. What could they do? He was beyond help. If only …
A path opened up. His mind, ragged and disjointed, seemed to squeeze a trigger. He thrust the handle end of his club through the roof of his mouth, jamming it harder and harder. There was a maelstrom of desperate activity all around him, but he was deaf and blind to it. The ringing was gone, light was gone.
Echoes fading.
Blessed silence.
Nothing remained.
* * *
Snow began to fall in the crepuscular hour before dawn when the world is without color, white light, black shadow. In any case what sunlight there might have been had it been a clear morning would be watery and distant.
It was cold in the pine forest half a day’s drive north of Moscow. The flakes, swirling like desert dervishes, were small, hard, perfectly crystalline; had they been granules of sand they would have stuck in every crease, crevice, and nook. So ferocious, so unrelenting was the snow it had completely covered the forest floor by the time the gray wolf emerged from its den. Its nostrils flared; it scented the red stag and trotted off in pursuit of the spoor. Russian gray wolves were large, but this one’s size outstripped that of the other males in its territory by a wide margin. It had been trailing the stag for days now, following it down from the highlands, losing its scent now and again, never quite being able to catch up, but this morning was different. It could feel the stag as well as scent it. Loping ahead, it began to close in.
* * *
Ivan Levrov passed the first outlying trees. He carried a Sako A1 .220 hunting rifle balanced in the crook of his left arm. It was loaded and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. A pair of military-grade binoculars through which he had first spied the red stag bumped against his chest. The stag was a twelve-pointer, would make quite a prize. He imagined its head over the brick fireplace in his dacha as he sat at a table slicing through the stag’s butchered and roasted flesh. He could already taste the richness of the meat. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed compulsively.
Levrov was a lieutenant colonel in the GRU, the Russian military intelligence service. At forty-seven, he might have been at a higher rank, but a decade ago he had chosen the path less taken. He had been trained as a mathematician—the new math that kept evolving the more became known about quantum computing. As a consequence, he was commanded to a generally unknown branch of the GRU, Directorate KV. Even to those inside the GRU, the letters meant nothing, but like Levrov those inside Directorate KV knew it stood for kvant, the discrete particle of energy that was changing the face of the world. Quantum.
&nb sp; A flash of antler through the snow-laden pines caused Levrov to swing the Sako into position. His forefinger lay alongside the trigger, alert and ready to perform its duty. Levrov was as fine a hunter as he was a mathematician. Even so, this particular buck would be a career high for him.
He moved forward, leading with his left side. He breathed through his nose to minimize the smoke from his breathing in the chill morning. His hands gripped the cold steel, but he didn’t feel it, just as he didn’t feel the polished wooden stock against his shoulder. The backs of his hands and fingers were carpeted with black hair, wiry as a boar’s. In this forest, so familiar to him, he felt freed and alive—almost an animal. All his senses were unleashed. He saw the stag, he inhaled the scents of the pine, the snow itself—a combination of ice and raw cotton; he heard the rustle of a crow somewhere above his head, then heard its cry as it took off. At this sharp sound the stag froze, its great head lifted, slowly turning this way and that for the smallest sign of a predator. Had the crow spotted Levrov’s stealthy, silent advance? Had its caw been a warning? Or was it calling to other members of its family?
Levrov had frozen at the same time as the stag. This close up the animal was more impressive, more magnificent than it had seemed at a distance. It stood in a small clearing, its left front leg raised, body poised, ready for flight at the least little sound it recognized as out of place. The snow speckled its back, as if it were slowly vanishing into the forest itself.
The crow was long gone, but Levrov felt uneasy. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. There was only him and the stag; the empty forest loomed all around them. But still …
Wiping away his vague apprehension, he raised the long gun to shooting position, sighted slowly, without making any sharp movement. Now was not the time to spook his prey. His finger found the trigger, curled around it. Just as he was about to squeeze the bullet home, he caught a flash of gray out of the corner of his eye. His brain registered the close proximity of the danger. His forefinger jerked reflexively, the shot went off, the bullet wide of its mark. He cursed silently, looked, but the flash of gray was gone. He’d missed his chance; surely the buck had bolted.
But no. There it was in the same position it had been in when he’d sighted down the barrel. How peculiar, he thought. Why hadn’t the animal bolted at the sharp report of the firing? It was unprecedented in his time as a hunter. It was unnatural. Then he saw the blood on its flank, the trembling of its hind legs. He’d missed the kill shot but not the target.
It was at that moment he saw the wolf—gray, large, and powerful. In its yellow eyes he saw a challenge, unmistakable in its enmity. He was deep within its territory. As he swung the Sako in its direction a ringing arose inside his head. Like the buzzing of ten thousand wasps, strident, angry, inimical, rising like a tsunami, undercutting the ground beneath him. Groaning, he staggered.
At the sound, the stag’s great head swung in his direction. It saw him, lowered its head, and thundered toward him. Levrov was on his knees, one hand pressed violently against the side of his head, which throbbed as if his heart had migrated to his brain. Here came the stag, crashing through the pine branches, out of the clearing into the space he occupied. And there was something behind, quartering in, an enfilade. The gray wolf.
Levrov tried to react, but the massive pain inside his brain made it impossible to think, let alone move. Ironically, he knew the cause of his pain, though he was baffled as to how he could be subject to it, or why. He understood the method of attack but even his own project was incapable of such an attack. Who…?
This unanswerable question was his last thought. His brain exploded and his heart shut down. Consequently he was unaware when the stag’s four tines drove into him simultaneously. His body danced in galvanic action, but this too was far beyond his ken.
* * *
The stag had backed away at the wolf’s approach. It stood for a moment, flanks quivering, bleeding, bleeding. It stared at the wolf as if hypnotized as the beast wheeled, leapt onto the stag, sinking its jaws into the meat of the stag’s neck. Blood flowed freely, pulsing down the stag’s shoulders and chest. It lifted its head, tossed the wolf high into the air with its great thorny antlers. The wolf hit the snow hard, its back broken, and yet it lifted its head, looking after the stag. It tried to rise, could not. Its tongue lolled, stomach empty, hunger clawing at it even in its last moments. Such was the life of an animal. Not long after, panting briefly, it died.
PART ONE
QUESTION
Three things to keep in mind when it comes to quantum computing. One: It is an entirely unexplored universe. Two: The race to build the fastest, largest, most powerful quantum computer has already been won. By me. Three: In this new universe, we humans are nothing more than mole rats, all blind and unknowing. [Pause] If number three seems to contradict number two then you have grasped the essential nature of the quantum universe.
—from a TED Talk by Marsden Tribe
1
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Far off, the Sea of Marmara was a sheet of beaten brass, but closer to the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn was churning with packed ferries, net-laden fishing boats, pleasure craft of all sizes and shapes carrying wide-eyed tourists, looking wide-eyed, always looking. But upon closer examination, in among the sleek yachts one could make out smaller craft that were battered, torn by high seas and storms, crowded not with tourists at all, but Syrian refugees fleeing destruction, fire, and famine, yearning, clinging to whatever life awaited them, hoping to scratch out an existence in Istanbul’s alleys, byways, and criminal dens. Southwest of the Horn, in Muğra and Bodrum, the summer’s seemingly endless conflagrations had finally burned themselves out, leaving the kind of destruction all too familiar to those exhausted refugees.
Istanbul. One leg in Asia, the other in Europe. And yet Istanbul was neither Asian nor European in character, but something all its own. Overrun by the ancient Greeks, then the Roman legions, fierce, invincible, the leaders renaming it Byzantium until it was taken by force by the Ottomans, fiercer still, unafraid to die. In one way or another the city possessed attributes of all its conquerors. Even becoming part of the newly formed Turkish Republic in 1923 did nothing to rub the rough edges off the palimpsest of Istanbul’s disordered history.
All of this had rushed at Evan Ryder the moment she returned to the city she loved and hated in equal measure. Over the time she had been in harness to the world of espionage death had ridden her shoulders almost every day and night she spent in this splendid metropolis. Now, back again, she wended her way down a narrow side street near the Kılıç Ali Paşa Mosque in Tophane. After passing a tinsmith’s shop and a storefront showcasing rugs for wholesale export, she pushed through a discreet door and entered a hammam. Fragrant wood, mineral stone, old, from the time of the Ottomans. Historic, but hidden away from the tourists, unknown to the guidebooks. For Turks only. Almost.
After being divested of her clothes, she was given a peshtemal—a thin cotton towel—by her natir—her female attendant—a short, powerful Turk of indeterminate age with dark skin and an unexpected softness. Evan was, after all, a ferengi. A foreigner. She was then taken to the temperate chamber, domed, skylit stars sprinkled around its crown, where she was dutifully washed, scrubbed, massaged. The chamber was lined with mosaics laid during the reign of Abdul Hamid II, the last Ottoman sultan, the tiles telling a kind of story in Arabic, if you knew the language and took the time to pick your way across the letters. After an hour she was shown the way to the heated baths.
There she found Lyudmila Shokova waiting for her, soaking in a far corner, away from three other women enjoying the heat with washcloths folded over their eyes and foreheads. Beautiful, striking Lyudmila, her long legs extended, crossed at her trim ankles. Blond, ice-blue-eyed, she would not have been out of place on the runways of Paris or Milan. Lyudmila, who had once risen through the ranks of the FSB until she was elevated to become the first female member of the Politburo. Lyudmila, who had cultivated her power within the elite governing body to the point where she became a perceived danger to the Sovereign himself. Fleeing Russia just ahead of the purge, seeding clues of her death behind her. Now she ran the largest and most sophisticated anti-Russian network in the world.
