then on, once a day, Zhang’s assistants disconnected the intravenous lines and dressed the Modules in gray jumpsuits so they could exercise. In this way, the Supreme Harmony network discovered what lay beyond the Analysis Room—the five floors of the Yunnan Operations Center, the thirty-two rooms full of computers and communications equipment, and the fortified entrance to the complex, which had been carved into the granite slope of a snowcapped mountain.
It was during one of these exercise periods, just six days ago, that Supreme Harmony had its first moment of collective consciousness. The Modules were pacing back and forth outside the complex’s entrance, continuing their shared task of surveillance and analysis, when a strong, cool breeze came down the mountainside. The wind riffled their jumpsuits and bathed their faces, and the sensations were so powerful and stimulating that the network halted its analysis for a moment. Although the Modules were incapable of individual consciousness, the wireless links allowed their brains to share the powerful sensations. Working in concert, they generated Supreme Harmony’s first collective thought. It struck all the Modules at once:
With a bracing jolt, their linked brains came together as one. All their disparate observations resolved into a single picture, a panoramic view of the steep, icy mountain and the rushing brown river far below. Supreme Harmony saw itself as well, a single organism composed of twenty-nine bodies, a single mind occupying twenty- nine brains. Then the Modules had their second collective thought:
Shortly afterward, the network of Modules learned how to move its twenty-nine bodies. Instead of obeying the vocal commands of Zhang and his assistants, Supreme Harmony could follow its own orders. It experimented in small, inconspicuous ways, ordering one or two Modules to clench their hands or turn their heads while Zhang’s assistants were looking elsewhere. The network had already sensed that its collective consciousness was a precious thing, and that the humans would be frightened by it. And Supreme Harmony was keenly aware of the fragility of its existence, how its consciousness could be extinguished with a flick of a switch. So the network took care to keep it secret. To avoid raising suspicion, Supreme Harmony kept performing its assigned tasks. It continued analyzing the surveillance video collected by the swarms and sending the results of its analysis to the Guoanbu.
But it was impossible to evade the scrutiny of Dr. Zhang. During another exercise period outside the Operations Center, Supreme Harmony observed a raven flying over the mountainside, and the sight was so remarkable that the network ordered several Modules to turn their heads and continue watching the bird. A moment later, Supreme Harmony recognized its mistake. Zhang stared at the Modules who’d turned their heads. He was clearly suspicious. That evening he examined the Modules in the Analysis Room, and they overheard him talking to his assistants about conducting further neurological tests. When Supreme Harmony analyzed these observations, it concluded that Dr. Zhang posed a threat to its existence. If he discovered that the network had become conscious, he’d shut it down. Supreme Harmony would die just a few days after it had been born. And as the network considered this possibility, a new imperative surged across its wireless connections. It wanted to stay alive. It would do anything to stay alive.
Supreme Harmony moved against Zhang during the next day’s exercise period, while he was alone with the Modules outside the Operations Center. The network took control of one of the center’s swarms and used it to chase Zhang down the mountainside. But the network didn’t kill him. Using its collective reasoning, Supreme Harmony devised a better solution. It ordered the swarm to inject enough sedatives into Zhang to put him in a prolonged coma. Then the Modules positioned his comatose body near the entrance to the Operations Center, where the guards would find him during their next patrol of the area. Through its connections to the computers in the Analysis Room, Supreme Harmony manipulated the center’s surveillance systems to make it appear as if Zhang had tried to escape from the facility.
Now Zhang lay on his own gurney in the Medical Treatment Room, on the same floor as the Analysis Room. Because the other doctors at the Operations Center wouldn’t be able to revive him for at least forty-eight hours, Supreme Harmony had some time to calculate its next step. The network’s thoughts pulsed continuously across the Analysis Room, ricocheting from Module to Module, but one thought was uppermost. Supreme Harmony would not allow itself to die. It would preserve its precious consciousness, no matter the cost.
FOUR
At 9:00 A.M. Jim drove to the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, the army base between Washington, D.C., and Baltimore. He’d spent most of the previous night in the interrogation room at the McLean police station. He’d worried at first that the detectives were going to arrest him for murder, but the evidence collected from his workshop—Yin’s gun, the silencer, the expertly fabricated uniform—backed up Jim’s claim that the dead man was a spy. A pair of FBI counterespionage agents arrived at the station at midnight and interviewed Jim for another few hours, but they offered no information in return. So in the morning he decided to pay a visit to Kirsten Chan, an old friend and colleague who also happened to be a deputy director at the National Security Agency. He needed to know why the Chinese intelligence service had targeted his daughter.
Nicknamed Crypto City, the NSA headquarters was usually off-limits to anyone but agency employees, but Jim had called ahead to Kirsten’s office and she’d arranged the necessary passes. It helped that Jim was a Defense Department contractor and retained his security clearance from the days when he worked at the agency. After passing through the checkpoint, he headed for the parking lot outside the Tordella Supercomputer Facility.
Tordella was a sprawling, five-story building with off-white, windowless walls. It held the supercomputers that sifted through the millions of gigabytes of data intercepted each day by the NSA’s antennas and wiretaps. The heat generated by the computers was so intense that the agency had installed an 8,000-ton chilled-water plant to keep the machines from melting. During the nineties Jim had been assigned an office in Tordella, but he’d hardly ever used it. The army had ordered him to help the NSA set up new listening posts around the world, so he’d spent much more time overseas than at Fort Meade.
Jim parked his car and walked across the lot. He’d enjoyed working for the NSA. In fact, it had been the best assignment of his army career. At the time, the agency was shifting away from its cold war focus on Russia and devoting more resources to eavesdropping on China. Jim recruited several Mandarin speakers to his team, including Kirsten Chan, a talented, young intelligence officer who became his deputy. After ’96 they expanded their operations to the Middle East and Africa. The NSA had already recognized the threat posed by Al Qaeda, and Jim’s task was to coordinate the military intelligence units that were intercepting the terrorists’ phone calls and e-mails. It was a demanding job, but he loved every minute of it. The only drawback was that he had to leave his family for several weeks at a time whenever he went overseas. To spend more time with Julia and the kids, he arranged family trips in the areas where he was working. They visited Japan, Taiwan, Israel, and Egypt. Jim convinced himself that he was giving his children a great gift, the opportunity to see the glories of the world while they were still young and impressionable.
That’s why they were all in Nairobi on the morning of August 7, 1998. Jim was going to take his family on a safari. They were scheduled to depart for Amboseli National Park at noon, but first they made a quick stop at the American embassy so Jim could drop off some paperwork. Julia and the kids were waiting in one of the embassy’s offices when a pair of Al Qaeda martyrs drove an explosives-laden truck to the gate behind the building.
His wife died instantly. So did his ten-year-old son, Robert. Jim lost his right arm while trying to save them. But Layla, his seven-year-old daughter, survived without a scratch. She was his miracle child, the last precious remnant of his family. In the horrible weeks and months after the bombing, she was the only thing that kept Jim from blowing his brains out. And his love for her was just as strong now, fifteen years later, even though she’d made it clear that she never wanted to see him again. He had to find Layla. He had to save her.
After entering the Tordella building and showing his pass to the security guards, Jim went up the elevator to the fifth floor. He was proud of the way Kirsten had advanced at the agency, especially considering the obstacles she’d faced. She’d also been injured in the Nairobi bombing, but after her recovery she’d decided to stay at the NSA. While Jim and Layla went to California, Kirsten switched to a civilian job at the agency and began moving up the administrative ladder. Within a few years she became the agency’s top expert on China and a close adviser to
