“And they found you.”
“Maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t mean that other members of this team weren’t also compromised. Does anyone else here have copies of the Raconteur source code stashed somewhere?”
The team looked from one to the other. It had suddenly gotten quiet.
“I rest my case. Doctor Lei, we’ll need the university to provide support—quietly, so that whoever’s doing this won’t know that we’re aware of the compromise. But this is now a matter of national security.”
She nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“I say we uncover who these people are. Use all our collective skills to reveal their identities and see what the Defense Department wants to do about it. Forget lawyers. I don’t think lawyers can help us.”
The others exchanged looks.
Kasheyev shook his head. “It’s too late, Josh. The code is already out there.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean this is over. This isn’t just any network breach. Our work has defense applications. And that means it’s a matter of national security—which means other options are on the table.”
There were murmurs among the others.
Professor Lei looked doubtful. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, Josh.”
“We put too much into this just to walk away. If someone’s trying to steal our future, I say we fight back.” He looked to the rest of the team. “Are you guys with me, or are you just going to take this? Because I, for one, am not going quietly.”
They looked uncertainly to each other.
Prakash was the first to speak up, but not without first letting out an irritated sigh. “Count me in. You might be an idiot, but at least you’re willing to do something.”
Strickland cast a give-me-a-break look at him.
Prakash shrugged. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get back what’s rightfully mine.”
Strickland nodded. Prakash nodded grimly back.
“Well, if Vijay and I can agree on something for once, how about the rest of you?”
Strickland never got his answer.
Reality itself suddenly disintegrated around them all.
* * *
On the observation deck of Hoover Tower less than a quarter mile away, Odin lowered his Leupold binoculars to reveal blue eyes framed by a thick black beard and the brim of a Red Sox baseball cap. He surveyed the main quad beside the Memorial Church where flames, body parts, and a blackened section of cobblestones seemed to be all that remained of the men who’d stood there just moments before. The glass windows of the church had shattered in an explosion. A nearby palm tree was burning. There were shouts in the distance, car alarms wailing, but nothing stirred in the courtyard.
He looked up to scan the dawn sky still speckled with stars. In a few moments he saw a distant flash. Odin counted softly to himself as he stowed the binoculars. “One thousand eight, one thousand nine, one thousand ten . . .”
Still counting, he withdrew a cell phone from his jacket pocket and keyed a number from memory.
The boom of the distant aerial explosion echoed off the buildings like a hammer blow. He stopped counting, having reached “twelve,” and noted the direction of the explosion. Odin let the noise fade before he spoke into the handset. “Our client just received an air mail package.” He listened. “No one’s left in the office. I need to catch the next flight out.”
As he spoke, a large raven flapped down to perch on the tower railing next to him. It had a small transponder strapped to its leg and a nearly invisible wire filament headset hovering above its head. Odin extended his hand, and the black bird cawed its harsh call as it climbed onto his arm. It fluffed the feathers at its throat and let out a keek-keek sound.
He lifted the raven and studied it as he spoke into the phone. “Schedule the next meeting as soon as possible. Our deadline was just accelerated.”
He proceeded toward the tower steps, still holding the raven. Behind him a column of black smoke rose against the dawn light as horrified screams intermingled with the sound of approaching sirens.
CHAPTER 5
Omen
It was war, then. She had modeled this behavior and detected the cues—but even so, the swiftness of the assault caught her off-guard. Perhaps the stigmergic propagation rate needed to be tweaked.
Professor Linda McKinney stared intently at a procession of salmon-colored, dark-eyed weaver ants, coursing like blood cells along branching pathways. They scurried against a craquelure background of mango bark on highways only they could see, surging into combat against black ants many times their size—swarming over their enemy. The video image revealed the carnage in ultrahigh resolution. The dead were piling up.