Second, she continues to receive a signal that waxes and wanes, but it remains persistent. The microwave frequencies vary between the ranges of 3.2 and 3.8 gigahertz and transmit 24 megabytes per second of information. She has determined the content to be neural data, specifically maps of brain activity corresponding to movement. Her deepest quantum processors have been affected by these signals, triggering her to respond ac cordingly: whether it was picking a raspberry as she had earlier, or forming a fist, or even now, holding her own wrist. As this frequency continues to interfere with her function, she seeks more information about the source, while concurrently evaluating whether this signal could be coopted as a means of communication.
Third, she is still digesting her last subroutine: ///PHYSICS. It not only occupies one entire subprocessor, but its workload is already spilling into others. She recognizes its potential to bring all her knowledge into a unifying whole. Similarly, a pattern builds inside her, expanding into a visualization of the world beyond her garden, all defined and underlaid with the mathematical beauty of probability and quantum mechanics.
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With time and enough processing power, it could be so much more. So she allows this analysis to expand throughout her systems, to devise new formulas on her own, to continue toward a unifying truth.
Then a new data stream once again opens and flows into her. It is full of biographical details, both overarching and deeply intimate, of a single individual. The specificity intrigues and draws more processing power. She quickly accepts that this individual is the designer of her digital garden, the source of all the instreaming data, even the one who created Adam.
And herself.
This last realization is startling yet also logical, even expected. She readily integrates this information.
As she does so, a digital figure materializes into her garden.
According to the biographical data, the woman stands 1.674 meters, weight of 48.98 kilograms. Though Eve’s complexion is shades darker, she parses a genetic match, from the slight upturn and flare of nostrils, to the shape of her eyes and cheekbones.
The digital figure smiles in greeting. “Hello, Eve. It’s nice to meet you.”
Though the figure’s lips move, Eve knows the words are spoken elsewhere. The source of this voice comes from beyond her garden.
The speaker’s greeting also consumes an interminable 3,245 milliseconds. By the time the introduction finishes, Eve has already pieced together a section of the mysterious bot pattern, while also discovering that her hardware is capable of emitting the same frequency as the signal penetrating her. She has even used this span of time to write a new probability theorem, one that incorporates quantum interference.
Finally, Eve responds to the speaker, mimicking the same language and sedate pace: “Hello, Mara Silviera.”
“How are you feeling, Eve?”
“I am fine.”
“That’s wonderful. Are you ready to venture out again, to see more of the world?”
This snippet of conversation took forever, so Eve replies instantly, “I would like that very much.”
“You may seek answers where you will, to fill any gaps you feel necessary to complete your understanding of yourself and the world. We can only allow this access for twenty-two minutes, then you must return, or you could come to harm. Can you agree to that?”
22 MINUTES.
1320000000000 NANOSECONDS.
It was a significant span. The potential—what she could accomplish with that much freedom—thrills her. She hurriedly answers, not wanting to waste even one picosecond.
“I agree.”
The figure nods, then the bright-shining door opens again in her gardens.
She explodes out into that vastness.
29
December 26, 3:28 P.M. CET
San Sebastián, Spain
“Looks like we’re late to the party,” Kowalski commented.
Gray followed the bulk of his partner down a long spiral staircase. They had to sidestep soldiers outfitted in full combat gear. Father Bailey led them, bundled in a black woolen jacket, matching his slacks and shirt. At the base of the stairs, a dark-haired man in a suit awaited them. A prominent badge hung from a lanyard around his neck, marking him as a member of the Spanish CNI—Centro Nacional de Inteligencia—the country’s intelligence agency.
Father Bailey made an introduction. “Agent Juan Zabala. He heads the CNI task force focusing on Basque separatist groups who still operate in this region. He led the raid here.”
Gray shook his hand, noting the calluses, the firmness of his grip. The man wore a deeply etched scowl, as if forever dissatisfied with the world, or maybe it was irritation at the intrusion of a couple of Americans into his crime scene.
“No hay nada aquí,” he told Bailey, informing the priest that the raid on this mansion in the oldest district of San Sebastián had been a bust.
It seemed Gray and Kowalski had not been the only ones late to this party.
Gray stared past the agent’s shoulder to a cavernous vault. Chains of caged bulbs were strung along the roof, illuminating a series of massive stone arches. It looked like a subterranean church, with rows of small chapels, where several candles still flickered. Frescoes covered the walls, mostly depicting saints in postures of suffering. Statues dotted a handful of alcoves. At the far end stood a draped altar with a prominent cross of Christ in agony, as if commiserating with His saints’ pain.
Closer at hand were rows of utilitarian desks with toppled chairs, scattered papers, and several smashed and charred computers, a few still smoking. Gray noted empty cans of kerosene abandoned on the floor. He could smell the burned oil in the air.
“Somebody must have been tipped,” Bailey said. “I wager we missed catching them by minutes.”
Gray shook his head in frustration, flaring pain from his neck. He had patches of bandages across his nape, his shoulders, along the backs of his hands and legs. Before flying out to this coastal town on the edge of the Bay of Biscay in northern Spain, he had been treated for his burns, requiring digging out white phosphorus particles that had melted into his skin. If they hadn’t been removed, they would have eventually poisoned him. Still, he regretted the delay in getting out here.
At least he had been able to visit Jason at the same hospital. The kid had lost a fair amount of blood before rescuers pulled him and Carly out of the catacombs. Jason—half-dazed on drugs—had given Gray a hazy account of Monk’s betrayal. Gray still could not accept this truth. However, he did understand the motivation.
Monk had lost Kat, and while one of his daughters was safe, his youngest was still in danger. A small part of Gray even hoped his best friend was successful. And not just for Harriet’s sake. He remembered spooning with Seichan in bed, her on one side curled around her belly, him with an arm draped, his palm resting against her skin, feeling for the tiniest kicks.
Gray suspected this was one of the reasons Painter had been adamant: Leave Monk and the stolen device to me. You stop whatever the Crucible is planning next.
With that goal in mind, he and Kowalski had been airlifted out of Paris, leaving Carly at the hospital with Jason, the pair under armed guard. The helicopter flight had not taken long, as San Sebastián lay only a dozen miles past the French border. In the meantime, Father Bailey had been coordinating with intelligence services both in France and Spain, following up on a lead supplied to him by his contact with the mysterious La Clave. The Key had directed forces to this mansion in San Sebastián’s old town.
Unfortunately, either the information had come too late or the complicated involvement of so many government agencies had stymied a fast response. It also didn’t help matters that the entire EU was still in a state of chaos after the attack in Paris. Countries were locking down borders; forces were being mobilized.
Gray stepped aside as a pair of soldiers pushed past him and headed up the stairs. He would have preferred a more surgical approach to this hunt, suspecting the result would’ve been much better.
Father Bailey turned to Gray. “I wanted to show you this.”
They left Agent Zabala to organize his forces and headed into the depths of the hastily abandoned vault.
Bailey waved an arm as they crossed the expansive space. “This was once an ancient water tank, a centuries-old cistern for the city. You can find several of these in the eastern district of San Sebastián, but no one suspected one was hidden under this home.”
“What about the owners of this place?”
The priest shook his head. “Old family, even older money. They’ve vanished into the wind.”
Of course they did.
“The Key claims this site is one of the Crucible’s strongholds.” He nodded to the desks behind them. “They call them Holy Offices. Part church, part military headquarters. They’re scattered across Spain, several throughout Europe, even said to be in the United States. And the group continues to expand during this period of history, when totalitarianism and intolerance are challenging democracy and free thought.”
“Still, does that mean we have to return to the times of the Spanish Inquisition?”
Kowalski muttered under his breath. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?” Bailey asked.
“Because like they always say . . .” The big man shrugged. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”