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TO SEAN’S EYE the enormous brick and stone mansion ran at least two hundred feet in length and soared three stories into the overcast sky. It combined a number of architectural styles with at least eight chimney stacks that Sean could see; there was a proper British glass conservatory, gabled windows, a Tuscany-style veranda, mullioned windows, an Asian-influenced tower and a copper-plated domed wing. It had been built, according to Joan, by Isaac Rance Peterman, who’d made a fortune in the meatpacking industry. He’d named the place after his daughter, Gwendolyn. Her name was still on the entrance columns. To Sean’s mind the appellation could not have been more inappropriate as Gwendolyn looked like an overdressed fort with an identity crisis.
There was a cobblestone car park in front and the Hummer pulled through the gates where a uniformed guard was stationed and into an empty space next to a trim black Mercedes convertible.
A few minutes later, Sean’s bags were in his room and he was sitting alone in the office of Champ Pollion, the head of Babbage Town. The room was littered with books, laptops, charts, electronic gadgets and printouts containing symbols and formulas that Sean, even at a glance, knew he could never hope to decipher. Hanging on the back of the door was a white martial arts jacket and pants with a black belt attached. So a genius with lethal hands. Wonderful.
A moment later the door opened and Champ Pollion came in. In his late thirties he was as tall as Sean, but thinner. His brown hair had a small patch of gray on top and was neatly parted on the side. He wore a pair of khaki pants, tweed jacket with soft leather elbow patches, white button-down shirt, V-neck sweater and paisley bow tie. Sean half-expected to see a pipe swinging in one of the man’s hands to complete this picture of the 1940s-era scholar.
The man sat in his desk chair, leaned back, put his size-thirteen scuffed loafers up on the book-strewn desk, and glanced anxiously at Sean.
“I’m Champ Pollion. You’re Sean King.” Sean nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Champ ordered the coffee, then sat back in his chair.
“So the FBI’s involved in the case?” Sean asked.
Champ nodded. “Having the police and FBI running around, no one likes it.”
“And Turing was found on CIA property?”
“Why in the world would Monk have gone there? Those men have guns for God’s sake.”
“And you have men with guns here too,” Sean pointed out.
“If I had my way there wouldn’t be. But I merely run Babbage Town, so it’s not my call.”
“And you need guards here why?”
“Our work here has potentially enormous commercial application. We are in a sort of race against time. Others in the world would love to beat us. Hence, we have guards. Everywhere.” He waved his hand distractedly. “Everywhere.”
“Has the CIA been here yet?”
“Well, spies hardly ever walk up and say, ‘Hello, we’re the CIA, tell me all you know or we’ll kill you.’ ” Champ pulled from his jacket pocket what looked like a thin glass tube.
“Did you just come from your lab?” Sean asked.
Champ looked suspicious. “Why?”
“That little thing you’re holding. It looks like a big eyedropper although I’m sure you have some technical name for it.”
“This little thing could well be the greatest invention ever, leaving Bell’s telephone or Edison’s light bulb a distant second.”
Sean looked startled. “What the hell is it?”
“It might well be the fastest nonclassical computer in the history of the universe if we can only get the damn thing to work up to its enormous potential. This isn’t a working model, of course, only a conceptual prototype. Now getting back to what’s happened here. There have been lots of people through Babbage Town recently. That included the local police in the person of a doddering old duffer in a Stetson hat named Merkle Hayes who says, ‘Good Lord,’ a lot, and several stalwart members of the aforementioned FBI.” He put the tube down and looked up at Sean. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think there’s some massive conspiracy going on. Not involving the CIA. They’d be too obvious a choice, wouldn’t they? No, I believe it has to do with the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower warned the country about before he left office.”
Sean tried to hide his skepticism. “And how would that tie into Monk Turing’s body being found at Camp Peary?”
“Because right next to Camp Peary is the Naval Weapons Station. And Camp Peary used to belong to the Navy.”
“Does what you’re working on have military applications?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
