Page 132 of The Secret of Secrets

zSpace—3D holographic sculpting

The list went on and on.

“This looks like what I’d expect,” Alex said, quickly scanning the list. “What I recognize is mostly cybersecurity, data analytics, imaging, computing…”

“How about neuroscience or consciousness—that sort of thing?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. We need to throw this list into a da—” Alex’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the caller ID, drawing a fortifying breath before answering. “Allison, good morning. I was just—”

Faukman could hear the data security director yelling on the other end of the line.

“I understand,” Alex said calmly. “I’ll be right there.” He ended the call and stood up. “Sorry, interrogation time.”

Faukman felt for the kid. Considering PRH had been hacked by a global intelligence agency, this was not exactly a fair fight, and Alex had handled the crisis admirably.

“I’ll be back when I can,” the tech said, before appearing to have another thought and typing quickly on his laptop. “I just copied and sent you that list; throw it into a DAP and look for any crossover.”

“Wait! What? What’s DAP! I don’t have one!”

“Yes, you do,” Alex said patiently, heading for the door. “There’s an entire suite of data analytics platforms on the PRH server for your use.”

Faukman had no idea even where to look.

“Never mind,” Alex said, “just use an online engine—ChatGPT or Bard or something. Tell it to analyze Q’s investments and cross-reference them with whatever topics you think are relevant to Dr. Solomon’s book. I’ll be back when I can.”

With that, Alex rushed off.

Faukman stood alone in his office, casting a wary eye at his computer. He’d seen artificial intelligence apps, of course, but he’d sworn publicly never to use them. An existential threat to the noble craft of writing! PRH was already receiving submissions that clearly had been written by robots, but they were getting alarmingly harder and harder to spot. Faukman had taken a defiant stand—urging his fellow editors to boycott all AI products in the face of the coming literary apocalypse.

Now, however, Faukman found himself at a crossroads. As he opened the email Alex had sent him and eyed the list of Q’s investments, he pictured the egregious abuses the shadowy organization had imposed on Katherine…on Robert…and on Faukman himself.

Screw ethical fortitude, he decided, sitting down at his machine. This is war.

Chapter 84

The “personal use” SUV provided with the ambassador’s residence was a nondescript, cream-colored Hyundai Tucson with Czech plates, which Heide Nagel occasionally used for private weekends to escape the city. Her most recent outing had been to Tisá Rocks Labyrinth in Bohemian Switzerland, a maze of hiking trails through breathtaking sandstone formations that were so otherworldly as to have made an appearance in the fantasy film The Chronicles of Narnia.

I wish I were there right now, Nagel thought, still feeling sickened over the death of Michael Harris.

As she pulled out of the residence, alone now in her SUV, she felt the weight of the treachery she was committing by helping these two Americans. She genuinely hoped Langdon knew what he was doing.

If this doesn’t work, Finch will bury me…probably literally.

Nagel approached the security gate, and she tapped her horn twice. The Marine guard in the sentry booth jumped up from his bank of security monitors and hurried to the window, looking surprised. The ambassador seldom departed unannounced, seldom in her own vehicle, and she never beeped her horn.

“Sorry, Carlton,” she said, lowering her window. “Just zipping back to the embassy. Forgot my Enbrel shot. Damn snow is wreaking havoc with my arthritis.”

“Ma’am, I’d be happy to send—”

“Simpler to do it myself. Meds are locked in my desk drawer, and I have to grab some paperwork too. I’ll be right back.”

“Of course, ma’am.” The guard pressed a button, and the gate swung open. He turned back toward the security monitors that covered the grounds, but Nagel called him back.

“One more thing, Carlton,” she said. “I’m sorry—I have two American guests waiting in the library, and I’m expecting another guest shortly, a Mr. Finch. I’ll be back before he arrives, but if for some reason he beats me here, I’ve asked my staff to make him comfortable in the living room until I’m back to make introductions. I just wanted to be sure you know he’s expected.”

“I do now, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “Thank you. I’ll see you shortly.”

Nagel thanked the Marine and prepared to pull forward, but as she planned, the gate timed out and began swinging closed again. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Espresso always make me chatty!”