Kirsten nodded. “Specifically, they’re reports by analysts in the Guoanbu’s Second Bureau. Nothing’s changed since the old days. The Second Bureau is still spying on our defense industry, and the Chinese army is getting better every year.”
Jim thought of what Yin told him in his workshop. “Is there anything about unmanned surveillance drones on that list?”
“Bingo.” Kirsten clicked on a row of characters to call up the file. “That’s the longest document in the bunch. The most interesting one, too.” The Mandarin document appeared on the screen. “It’s the Guoanbu’s analysis of the CIA surveillance-drone program operating in northwest Pakistan. Very detailed. Describes the capabilities of all our unmanned aircraft—the Predator, the Reaper, the Global Hawk—and how well they’ve performed against the Taliban. The Chinese must have some good agents on the ground in Pakistan. Better than what we have, that’s for sure.” She shook her head. “But the best part is the last section, the conclusion. It’s dead-on, more honest than any of the assessments our own agencies have written. It says that, long-term, the drone program is a disaster. The high-altitude surveillance video taken by the drones is often confusing and incomplete, so the CIA sometimes mistakes civilians for terrorists. The missiles launched from the drones kill a few jihadis each month, but the Taliban get more than enough new recruits to replace them. Essentially, we’re shooting in the dark. The drones may have the world’s best cameras, but you can’t make good operational decisions from ten thousand feet in the air.”
Jim thought for a moment. “Okay, it’s an interesting document. And it’s possible that Layla had something to do with disclosing it. But why would the Chinese get so upset about it that they start hunting her down? This assessment is more embarrassing for the U.S. than for China. And look at that.” Jim pointed to a group of characters that he recognized as a date. “The report’s almost two years old.”
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.”
FIVE
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.
Over the next twenty-four hours she drove 1,500 miles, stopping only three times to refuel, load up on junk food, and take catnaps in the backseat. It was one in the morning when she arrived at the University of Texas in Austin and parked in the lot behind the Engineering Science building. The campus was dark and deserted, but at the arranged meeting spot—the Engineering building’s emergency exit—she saw the man she’d contacted. Tom Ottersley, a graduate student in the aerospace engineering department, leaned against the exit door, keeping it propped open. He was several years older than Layla and a foot-and-a-half taller, but they had something in common. In his spare time, when he wasn’t pursuing his Ph.D., Tom hacked for InfoLeaks. Even though she’d exchanged only a couple of e-mails with the guy, she sensed he was a kindred spirit.
He waved at her as she got out of her car. Then he looked left and right, surveying the area. When she reached the emergency exit, he nudged her inside and swiftly shut the door behind her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here this late and the campus security guards are always snooping around.” He held out his right hand. “It’s good to meet you. You don’t have to tell me your name. It’s probably better if you don’t, right?”
Layla shook his hand. He didn’t fit her image of an engineering grad student. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw and long hair the color of corn silk. He looked like he could pose for one of the university’s promotional brochures. She wasn’t usually impressed with physical beauty, but this guy was a phenomenon. “Thanks for doing this,” she said. “Are you sure the lab’s empty? No one working late?”
“Yeah, we’re good. Everyone else in the research group is at a conference in Seattle.” He led Layla down the corridor. “I’m the low man on the totem pole, so I couldn’t go. But now I’m glad I stayed home.” He glanced at the zippered pouch in Layla’s left hand.
“I’m sorry for being so vague in my e-mails. The truth is, I’m not sure what I have here.”
“Don’t worry. You described it well enough. I think I know what’s going on.”
They came to a door that read
AEROSPACE DESIGN LAB
. Removing a key from his pocket, Tom unlocked the door and hit the light switch. The room was large and the furniture oddly arranged. All the desks were lined up against the walls, leaving the center of the lab as clear as a dance floor. Someone had used strips of duct tape to mark several
X
’s on the linoleum, making it look like a giant tic-tac-toe board. When Layla stepped closer she saw a strange contraption sitting on one of the
X
’s. It resembled a small, diaphanous bird.
Tom shut the door and locked it behind them. Then, noticing what Layla was staring at, he went to the
X
and gently picked up the contraption. “This is Texas Flier Nine,” he said, cupping it in his hands. “Our latest ornithopter.”
Up close, the thing looked more like a robotic dragonfly than a bird. Its body was a stiff black wire, four inches long. At one end of the wire was a microchip connected to an antenna and a tiny motor. The motor, in turn, was connected to the wings, which were made of a cellophane-like material stretched between shorter wires. At the other end was a horizontal stabilizing wing and something that looked like a rudder. It was so fascinating that Layla had to restrain herself from plucking it out of Tom’s hands. “Ornithopter?” she asked. “Why do you call it that?”
“Because it doesn’t fly like a fixed-wing craft or a helicopter. It flaps its wings like a bird.” He stroked his thumb along the edge of one of the diaphanous wings. “Actually, we used insect flight as the primary model for the Flier. At very small scales, the laws of aerodynamics are completely different. To a bug flying through the air, the forces are similar to what we feel when we’re treading water. The viscosity of the air becomes an important factor.”
Layla had studied physics at MIT before dropping out, so she was pretty familiar with aerodynamics. She pointed at the Flier’s antenna. “You operate it by radio control?”
“Yeah, like a model airplane. We transmit instructions from the base station. The radio system we built is powerful enough to control the Flier from ten miles away.”