I was sure of it then: he knew I was a spy.
“The Looking Glass is the culmination of my life’s work. It’s in danger now. We’re entering a phase of the project where our work will be more exposed. There’s greater risk. I need someone to protect it. I think you might be that person.”
He stared at me a moment. “Will you come with me to Hong Kong?”
I agreed instantly. I felt pride that day—that he had asked me, that I had grown into someone who could help him, after everything he had done for me.
Hong Kong in 1965 was booming. The streets were clogged with people, and factories were springing up at every turn. More than half the population were young people about my age, in their mid-twenties and early thirties.
Walking the crowded sidewalks, with double-decker buses zooming by, belching heavy black smoke and releasing passengers every few blocks, I realized that Hong Kong in so many ways was an Asian facsimile of London: British-style government and capitalism, but with a fusion of culture from the East and West.
That night, my father and I strolled through the city, lit not by yellow streetlights like the London of my youth, but bathed in red and blue neon signs that stretched from street level to high above, featuring words written in Cantonese. Disco music wafted into the street as strongly as the scent of roasted pig and beef from the eateries. We’d had a drink at our hotel and another at dinner. I’ve forgotten the names of the hotel and the restaurant, but I remember how I felt about Hong Kong that night: as if I were seeing the future, as if every city would one day be like this blooming metropolis, a melting pot of human culture. Young people were flocking in from China and the rest of the world.
Hong Kong was the first trip I had taken with my father as an adult. Our relationship had changed, and that was evident now, as we embarked on this adventure together.
In the harbor lay the vessel that would change my life—and perhaps soon the world. It was a submarine, the largest non-military sub I had ever seen. It was nuclear-powered, with a diesel-electric backup. The tour of the vessel lasted an hour. I was shocked by what I saw: it was a massive laboratory capable of circling the globe. I paused at the nameplate, which read:
RSV Beagle
Hong Kong
1 May 1965
Ordo ab Chao
I translated the Latin words in my head: From chaos comes order.
My line of work had taken me behind the Iron Curtain routinely. Order existed there, but the price was high: freedom. I wondered what this vessel’s builders demanded for the order they sought. And what that order was.
Back in our hotel that night, my father told me the role I was to play.
“The Beagle’s mission will require it to travel to dangerous places. Some are hard to reach physically. Others are dangerous politically.”
“The Soviet Union. China.”
“Among others,” he said.
“I was in the army, not the navy.”
“Your role will be securing operations on the shore. That’s where the true danger lies. The sub will dock at ports all over the world. You’ll need to think fast, be ready for anything, negotiate with customs, get our people out of sticky situations.”
He paused, letting me consider the words.
“I know your current work is very important. But so is this. If I’m right, it’s the most important thing the human race has ever done. The world may well avoid a nuclear holocaust, but there will always be another device, another war. We are the enemy we face. The human race is on borrowed time. We are far too uncivilized to possess the weapons we do. We’re racing the clock, just as we were during the Manhattan Project. Will you help us?”
I agreed then and there in that hotel room. I wondered what sort of device the Looking Glass was. I assumed the answer would be revealed in those first days aboard the Beagle. What I found was far more intriguing.
Chapter 80
In the small cottage in Shetland, the sun had risen, driving the fog away. The wind still whipped across the stone, rattling the ancient windows every few minutes.
Desmond stood to stretch his legs. At the corkboard he scanned an article about the Invisible Sun Foundation donating ten million dollars to a genetics project at Stanford.
Peyton moved toward him, but he turned and motioned her back to the couch. “Let’s keep going.”
As he sat down, an object caught his eye. It was in the corner of the room, where the wall met the ceiling. It was well hidden by several trinkets at the top of a bookshelf, but there was no mistaking what it was: a camera. At the bottom, a small light glowed red.
Desmond hoped the camera was simply a left over security measure the cottage owner had installed. There wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment except run, and that would tip off anyone watching. He focused on the pages of the story and began reading again.
The Beagle was an incredible vessel, but most impressive to me were the people aboard. They were drawn from all over the world: American, British like myself, Germans, Chinese, Russians, Japanese. They were nearly all scientists, except for the staff who operated the submarine and me and my three security personnel. I must say, we non-scientists felt a bit out of place at first; on the mess deck, all the talk was of the experiments. I had expected there to be just one experiment. On that point, I was very wrong.