Knowing she needed to temper what was maturing inside Xénese, Mara glanced to the side of the screen. Streams of words flowed there, blurring too swiftly to read, millions of words in hundreds of different languages and dialects, marking the progress of the infiltration and incorporation of her second subroutine into Eve.
The second module was coded with a version of Mara’s original translation program, AllTongues. To be able to communicate with Eve, the program needed to learn a language—and not just one, but all of them. Still, that was not the primary purpose of this subroutine. It traced back to why Mara had first developed this application. She had wanted to showcase and offer proof of the commonality of all languages, to demonstrate how at the fundamental level there was a root code that connected human thought to communication. The subroutine’s intent was to reverse-engineer this process for Eve. In other words, to teach it all human languages—all tongues—so it could begin to comprehend human thought.
The first time Mara had run this subroutine, it had taken nearly a day to complete due to the massive data set of this module. From the clock counting down at the top, it appeared it would only take half that time.
Why?
She felt an icy touch of dread as she came to one possible answer. When she had fled the lab, she had stripped the Xénese programming down to its base code, basically returning it to square one, to its simplest form.
But now she wondered.
Had some part of what she created earlier and tried to demonstrate to Dr. Carson and the others survived? Was there some ghost within the ghost, some trace of the original intelligence from before?
If so, what does that mean?
And if she was right, how might such an unknown variable corrupt her project? Without knowing the answer, she considered shutting the project down. Her hands reached out, fingertips hovering over the keyboard.
The abort code was known only to her.
Still, she hesitated.
She stared at the figure moving through a verdant forest, Eve’s face a mirror of her mother’s. She also pictured Dr. Carson and the others. The women had died so Mara might live to carry on her work. Charlotte had encouraged her to be bold, to take chances, to push boundaries.
At the window, the black cat meowed in complaint.
She glanced over, her gaze meeting the stray’s huge yellow eyes. Maybe the creature was some messenger from Dr. Carson.
Mara lowered her hands to her lap and let the subroutine continue to run.
I’ll simply need to be more vigilant from here.
Focused on this goal, she heard her name called. Startled, she turned to the low drone of the television. Her face glowed on the screen. The newscaster described her as a “person of interest” in the deaths of the U.S. ambassador and four other women. Before she could react, the segment shifted to an airfield in Lisbon. A casket, draped in an American flag, sat in a hangar. A clutch of men and women gathered around it. Through the open hangar door, a gray-bodied jet waited to carry the body back home.
Stunned, Mara failed to hear what was being said—until the view shifted to a stately young blond woman in a crisp black suit, her features ashen, her eyes haunted. It was Dr. Carson’s daughter, Laura. She stood before a cluster of microphones.
Mara moved closer to the screen to better hear her words.
“If anyone knows anything about the murder of my mother—of the whereabouts of her student, Mara Silviera—please contact the authorities.” A series of phone numbers scrolled the bottom of the screen. “Please, we need answers.”
Laura looked like she wanted to say more. She stood, shoulders trembling, staring straight at the camera. Then she seemed to collapse in on herself, covering her face and turning away. Another came up and hugged her, a near twin to the other.
“Carly . . .”
Mara reached to the screen, as if trying to console her best friend.
I’m so sorry.
The newscast lingered on the mourning pair for what seemed an eternity, then finally cut away. The anchor behind the desk filled in a few more details. Dr. Carson’s body was scheduled to be airlifted back to the States this afternoon, accompanied by her family.
As the news moved on to other matters, Mara turned off the set.
She remained in place for two more strained breaths, daring herself to take the chance, suddenly all too aware of the weight on her shoulders.
I can’t do this alone.
The international airport was only twenty minutes away by taxi. She glanced to her laptop, to the subroutine’s clock counting down.
I should have enough time.
She grabbed her coat and headed for the door.
10:18 A.M.
Carly paced the length of the airport’s empty private lounge. She tugged at the edges of her gray blouse, chafed at the tightness of her black jacket. With each step, the stiff leather of her new shoes cut into her ankles.
Nothing felt like it fit right.
Then again, nothing felt right.
It’s Christmas, and I’m taking my mother home in a casket.
Or at least, her ashes.
That was all that remained of her mother after the firebombing of the library’s brick vault. The flames had turned the enclosed space into a gruesome crematorium. The five victims’ bodies were identified only by bits of metal—rings, fillings in teeth, a titanium hip implant.
Carly took a deep breath, forcing her thoughts away.
She felt the eyes of the Diplomatic Security Service agent who stood guard at the door. He followed her path across the small private space. Following the murder of a U.S. ambassador, protection for the family had been heightened. This also didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t care to be babysat. Her mother had ingrained a fierce independence into both her daughters.
She also suspected the new guards were more show than real concern, a pageantry of security that was too little and too late. Where was that protection four days ago? Whoever had murdered her mother was likely long gone. She had seen still shots of the culprits, taken from a video she was not allowed to view. With their robes, sashes, and blindfolds, they looked like some fundamentalist cult who had ambushed a group of unarmed women, spouting religious nonsense. She imagined them running away, high-fiving each other for their bravery, before going into hiding.
Bastards.
She eyed the door, feeling trapped. She wanted to get out of here. Or at least find a bar open on Christmas that knew how to pour a Jack and Coke. Though, to be honest, she could do without the Coke.
Laura, at least, had escaped the room. She was with their father attending to some final details, keeping him company. He was rightfully a wreck. He taught English at a junior college—Essex County—located roughly between Princeton, where Laura went to school, and NYU, which Carly attended. He had barely managed to get through their mother’s breast cancer scare last year.
And now this.
She should have gone with Laura, but anger kept her agitated, making her poor company. Laura was better suited for this, more even tempered. As the older sister, one who always had to look after Carly, she was always more serious and certainly less volatile.
Still, Carly eyed the door again, feeling guilty for not being with them.
Her cell phone chimed in her pocket with an incoming text message.
Probably Laura saying they were headed back.
She pulled out the phone and looked at the notification screen, then halted in midstep. A single word shone there.
Bangkok
She continued her pacing, so as not to draw attention. The word was code, taken from the rock musical Chess, and the song “One Night in Bangkok.” She and Mara had seen it on Broadway the first time they met, some five years ago, when Mara had accompanied her mother to the States. Since then, they used the code whenever they wanted to talk, inquiring if the other was free.
Mara’s alive . . . thank god.
She sent back a thumb-up emoji. She could barely contain her impatience, waiting for a response. When it came, the flurry of texts was cryptic.
Terminal 1 bathroom @ baggage claim
Stall 4
Turning phone off, yanking battery
Not Safe
Carly absorbed the intent of her friend’s texts. Mara was hiding in the women’s restroom on the landside of the terminal. She must be terrified and justifiably paranoid. Yet she still risked reaching out to Carly. And from the code word used, it had to be Mara.
Carly feared that her friend, as frightened as she must be, might not wait long.
I have to get to her.
She considered calling Laura or her father, but both would likely rouse the police, which risked drawing undue attention to Mara or scaring her off. Still, Carly had one problem to address first.
She placed a palm on her stomach and crossed to the DSS agent. “Need to go to the bathroom. Think I’m gonna be sick.”
At least the first part of her story was true.
“Follow me,” he said, turning to open the door.
She ducked past him and out into the corridor. “I know where it is.”
“Ms. Carson, wait . . .”
“Sick . . . can’t . . .” she groaned loudly.
She ran down the hall and around the corner. The women’s bathroom was four steps away. She kicked the door open, then sprinted down the corridor to the stairs that led to the main concourse. She ducked out of sight and pressed her back to the wall of the stairwell.