Read an Excerpt
The Singularity Race
By Mark de Castrique Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2016 Mark de Castrique
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4642-0599-6
CHAPTER 1
Over four years later —
Rusty Mullins handed his parking credentials and Prime Protection photo ID to the uniformed security guard at the entrance of the JW Marriott's parking garage. The officer studied Mullins' photograph like he was looking for a message spelled out in grains of dust. Then he held it close to the flesh and blood original.
"You going blind, Jake?" Mullins asked.
"Nah. I've got perfect vision. That's why I can't believe it's you. You've gotten so damned old."
Mullins laughed and snatched back his creds. Jake Murphy was a retired Capitol Hill cop and the two men had frequently crossed paths during Mullins' Secret Service stint with the presidential detail.
"You're one to talk," Mullins said. "My hair might be gray but at least it's still stuck on my head."
The bald guard tapped his temple. "It's what's on the inside that counts."
"Oh, you can count now?" Mullins drove on before his friend could have the last word.
He found the spaces that the hotel had reserved for his team and parked beside a black Chevy Tahoe. Although Mullins was an hour early, his boss had still beaten him to the assignment.
Before getting out of the Prius, he checked his surroundings, then slid his Glock out of its holster, chambered a round, and returned it under his left arm. He flipped his windshield visor down and angled its courtesy mirror until he could see his face. No food on his chin, nothing stuck between his teeth. He eyed his hair. It was definitely grayer. Approaching fifty, Mullins conceded that soon only old photographs would be proof his head had once been rusty red.
He tilted the mirror to the knot in his navy blue tie. He tightened and centered it, always the last thing he did before "showtime," as he liked to call it. Not showtime for him, but for the person whose life would be in his hands.
He stepped out of the car and buttoned his suit coat to ensure the shoulder holster wouldn't be seen. As he pushed through the revolving door, he reviewed the key details from the briefing the day before.
Prime Protection had been contracted to provide personal security for participants in a two-day symposium at the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania Avenue. Sponsored in cooperation with Georgetown University, the University of Maryland, and Johns Hopkins University, the event featured scientists and researchers from around the world who worked in the fields of computer engineering, neuroscience, and bio-technology. Mullins didn't understand the content, just that the three speakers tonight were tops in their respective fields. Someone on the organizing committee felt the three were more than preeminent scientists. They were potential targets.
In addition to standard hotel security, each speaker would be accompanied by an armed bodyguard while moving through the public areas of the hotel. Registration had been required to attend the evening's banquet in the Grand Ballroom, a more than 36,000-square-foot space capable of feting over 1,100 guests. The three scientists would then appear on a panel discussing how their areas of research were merging. Mullins would be with a Dr. Oskar Brecht from Germany.
Mullins had scanned his bio and knew Brecht held an endowed chair at the Interdisciplinary Center for Scientific Computing at the Ruprecht-Karls University of Heidelberg. The confidential background dossier included the note that Oskar Brecht had an eye for the fräuleins. Just what Mullins didn't need — to be a former Secret Service agent caught up in an international call-girl scandal. He would make sure Herr Brecht remained protected from all dangers, lethal and lustful.
Mullins identified himself at the registration desk and picked up a card key to the suite Prime Protection was using for onsite operations. He rode to the twelfth floor, nodded to the guard positioned adjacent to the elevator doors, and flashed his ID. "All quiet?"
"Yes, sir. The German arrived about thirty minutes ago."
"With a new lady friend?"
The guard smiled. "No. Just his security escort from the airport. He's your package now."
"And the others?"
"Sitting tight." The guard checked his watch. "They expect to be contacted at six-thirty to go down for cocktails. That's in ninety minutes."
"How about 1247?"
"Your man's been there since four."
"Thanks. I'll check in and then move around a bit. The rest of the team should be here by six if not before."
Suite 1247 was located in the middle of the hall, equidistant to the rooms of the three scientists. Mullins rapped twice on the door.
"If you've got a key, use it," came the reply.
Mullins placed the black passkey against the lock pad and the bolt clicked open.
Ted Lewison lounged on a small sofa, his stocking feet resting on a glass-top coffee table, his dark suit coat and empty shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair. A Colt M1911 semi-automatic lay on the cushion beside him. The pistol was a holdover preference from Lewison's days as an MP.
The six-foot-three president of Prime Protection dropped his feet to the floor, sat erect, and placed a half-empty glass of Perrier beside the bottle on the table.
He gestured to an adjacent chair. "Sit down. There have been some changes."
"Aren't there always?" Mullins sat.
"You want something from the minibar?"
"No. Bring me up to speed. Then I want to do my own walkthrough."
Lewison nodded. He expected nothing less of his top employee.
Ted Lewison valued professionalism and hard work. He'd escaped the poverty of his neighborhood in Baltimore by joining the U.S. Army straight out of high school. He'd done his twenty, mostly as an MP and later as a chief warrant officer. He'd founded Prime Protection, hired ex-military, and nurtured his fledgling company into the top personal security firm in D.C. But along the way, he'd come to realize the Secret Service instilled traits beyond the normal skill sets of law enforcement. Rusty Mullins always had a plan and several backup options. That's why nothing seemed to rattle the man. And Mullins could read a face like no one else Lewison had ever met. When you had only seconds to identify a potential assailant, that gift meant the difference between life and death.
They worked together so well that Lewison didn't think of Mullins as an employee. More like a brother from another mother, and he knew he was damned fortunate that Mullins had returned to work after his leave of absence, a leave of absence following Mullins' rogue operation that prevented a terrorist assault on the Federal Reserve and garnered a personal commendation from the President of the United States. Lewison knew Mullins could work anywhere he wanted, and he intended to make sure that place continued to be his company.
"All right, Grandpa," Lewison said. "First, you're not on Brecht."
Mullins cocked his head, weighing the meaning of the "Grandpa" remark. "What? The guy thinks I'm too old to keep up with him?"
"No. Your talents are needed for Lisa Li."
Mullins couldn't mask his surprise. "Why? I thought Nicole was on her. Am I supposed to clear the restroom if she wants to pee?"
"How old's your grandson now?"
"Three."
"Then it might be a stretch for you."
Mullins stared at his boss. He didn't know what was going on with the strange assortment of unrelated questions other than Lewison was amusing himself. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of another question.
"Lisa Li showed up with her nephew," Lewison said. "He's seven. Nicole has as much experience with a seven-year-old boy as a virgin has with a brothel."
"So, I'm babysitting?"
"Come on, Rusty. We're all babysitting. The kid's here, the situation has changed, and I need you to cover both of them."
"The boy's coming to the banquet?"
"Yes. I'm told he's well behaved. He'll sit with Dr. Li and the other scientists at the head table. Take up your position wherever you think best." Lewison rose from the sofa and walked in his stocking feet to a desk by the window. He picked up a manila envelope. "Here's more background on her."
"Then who's covering Brecht?"
"I'm putting Nicole on him. I'll keep the Pakistani, Ahmad."
"Brecht could try to put himself on Nicole, and you wind up with a castrated scientist."
Lewison laughed. "You've got a point." He tossed the envelope into Mullins' lap. "Look at Li's background while you've got the chance. Maybe you'll find something in common to talk about."
"Yeah. Probably hemorrhoids. We can compare notes about pains in our asses we have known, present company included." Mullins flipped open the clasp and dumped the envelope's contents into his palm. On top were three tickets. He stared at them, speechless.
Lewison grinned. "Did I mention that Li and her nephew are baseball fans?"
Mullins fanned out the tickets. "But these are for tomorrow afternoon. What about the symposium?"
"Li's not on the program then. Her employer made the arrangements. The three of you will be behind home plate at the Washington Nationals opening game. Unless you'd rather keep your original assignment?"
"I couldn't do that to poor Nicole. She hates baseball."
Lewison clapped Mullins on the shoulder. "You're all heart."
Mullins stuck the tickets in his pocket. "Be sure and put that in my personnel file."
CHAPTER 2
"Who is it?" The soft voice asked the question in response to the double knock on the hotel door.
"Russell Mullins with Prime Protection." He held his photo ID next to his face in front of the peep hole.
The door opened immediately. A slim, attractive Chinese woman stood just inside. She wore a dark blue dress with a conservative neckline. A single strand of pearls was her only jewelry.
Mullins looked beyond her to where a boy sat on the suite's sofa, his attention fully focused on his iPad. He was dressed in a white shirt, red tie, and blue knee pants. The U.S. color scheme was topped off by a red Washington Nationals baseball cap pushed back far enough to reveal thick black hair.
Mullins knew from the background dossier that the child was named Wang Ping, the son of Dr. Lisa Li's sister. In the U.S. he was called Peter Wang, shifting his surname to secondary position to avoid confusing Americans unfamiliar with the Chinese custom of surname first. Mullins had read that Lisa Li's Chinese name was actually Li Li, meaning beautiful. His gaze returned to her. She lived up to the description.
"You shouldn't open the door so fast," he said gently. "I don't think you checked my credentials first."
"I was expecting you."
"Which is why someone would have claimed to be me."
She dropped her head. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be sorry. It's about being safe. Are you ready?"
She sighed. "Not really. I'm not good at cocktail talk." She glanced over her shoulder. "I thought maybe we could wait till closer to the dinner. Peter will be lost in a sea of grownups wandering around holding wineglasses."
Mullins wasn't good at cocktail talk either, and the less time Dr. Li spent in a public crowd, the safer she would be.
"Then I'll wait here in the hall," he said. "Just let me know when you want to go to dinner."
"I've had enough guards at my door. Please come in."
Mullins caught a subtle bitterness in her tone. But nothing in Li's background hinted at any trouble with the Chinese government or university officials. She had been an outstanding researcher and theorist, specializing in the neuroscience of subconscious brain activity. She had married an older professor whose field had been computer database management, a critical area for seeking innovative and more efficient ways for processors to access and make connections with data and its interpretation and extrapolation. Way over Mullins' head. The layman's note he had read in her dossier compared it to building more neurons and synapses in a human brain.
Lisa Li was forty, although she looked younger. She had a fifteen-year-old son in school in Beijing. Nearly eight years ago, her scientist husband had been killed in a freak accident in his computer lab when a malfunctioning circuit sent lethal power to an electronic security keypad. Li withdrew from the public eye for nearly a year, evidently too grief-stricken to continue her work.
She was lured back into active research by a Chinese company named Jué Dé.
The English translation was "to think" or "to sense." The company was so successful, it had opened an artificial intelligence lab in Silicon Valley. Dr. Li had obtained the clearance from both the Chinese and American governments to transfer her work to the new facility.
The nephew had come to visit his aunt, and, thanks to Jué Dé, to take in a baseball game. Mullins didn't know what Jué Dé sold, but with three tickets in his pocket, he was inclined to buy it.
"Peter, say hello to Mr. Mullins," Li said. "He's going to be our guide while we're in Washington."
Guide was probably a better euphemism for a seven-year-old than saying guard. Mullins played along.
Peter Wang looked up. "Hello." He immediately returned his attention to the iPad.
"I've got a hat just like that," Mullins said. "So does my grandson."
The boy studied Mullins more carefully. "You go to ball games?" His English was excellent.
"Yes. Or watch them on TV. My grandson's only three. He just likes his hat. Tomorrow, you and I and your aunt will go to the game."
Peter's eyes widened. He bounced up and down on the sofa. "Really? Can I go? Can I go?"
Evidently Li hadn't told him. Mullins hoped he hadn't spoken too soon.
Dr. Li raised her palm and the child immediately calmed. "If you behave and do everything Mr. Mullins instructs you to do."
"I will. I promise."
Mullins stepped closer to the boy. "How did you learn to speak English so well?"
Peter shrugged. "I've studied it for years."
"But you're only seven."
"Seven and a half. And I started when I was three," he explained, and flipped the iPad around to show Mullins the screen. "The Nats lineup for tomorrow. I'm still working on the stats, but I think the Nats are a two-run favorite."
Mullins stared at the kid. If he had his aunt's brains, then before he was twenty he'd be either a World Series team manager or a multimillion-dollar bookie. "Two runs sound good to me," Mullins said. "Who's starting?"
"Fernandez. And the temperature's supposed to be above twenty-six."
"Twenty-six?"
Peter seemed confused by Mullins' question. Then he smiled. "Sorry. Celsius." He squinted his eyes shut and calculated. "Eighty Fahrenheit. Fernandez pitches his best games when the temperature goes above eighty."
"Of course," Mullins said, as if it had slipped his mind. He wouldn't have thought to connect temperature to a pitcher's performance. It dawned on him that he should have waited in the hall rather than prove to himself he was the dumbest one in the room.
"You and Mr. Mullins can talk baseball tomorrow," Li said.
"Take off your hat and go to the bathroom. Mr. Mullins won't want to have to escort you to the restroom once we're downstairs."
Peter turned off his iPad and did as he was told.
"I'll wait in the hall," Mullins said.
* * *
Mullins stood against the wall and watched the diners eat their way through a three-course meal. His stomach growled, but it would have to go unsatisfied until he was off-duty.
Dr. Li and her nephew ate at a round table about twenty feet away. The boy kept looking at Mullins as if hoping he would come sit and talk baseball. Li, unfortunately, had been placed beside the amorous Dr. Brecht who was leaning so close to her that he could have used her silverware.
Mullins shifted his gaze across the banquet hall to the opposite wall. Nicole Parsons stood alert, her eyes constantly moving. Ted Lewison was stationed at the main entrance where he was near the three other Prime Protection employees located in the outside corridors. Their job was to scan all approaching individuals and give warning of anything suspicious. All six were tied into wireless communication.
Mullins paid particular attention to the waitstaff. In his walkthrough before escorting Dr. Li and her nephew, he had gone through all the connecting hallways, memorizing shortcuts for exiting and also potential places where an outsider might breach security, especially between the kitchen and the ballroom. That was why he'd picked a spot nearest the primary access door for the meal delivery.
The dinner service had progressed to the removal of the main course in preparation for dessert and coffee.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Singularity Race by Mark de Castrique. Copyright © 2016 Mark de Castrique. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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