Free The Singularity Race by Mark de Castrique Page A

to know where Sunday will go.”
    She laughed. “You’ll waste it on the plane playing your video games. Now scoot!”
    Peter flipped the cap backwards on his head and did as she ordered. Only when she heard him opening drawers did she examine the envelope. “Dr. Lisa Li” had been hand-printed in black block letters on the front. No address. No return address. It was sealed only by the metal clasp. She bent the prongs up and opened the flap.
    She extracted three pages. The first was an eight-by-ten photograph of her sister captured by a long lens as she emerged from her home. A thick red X had been scrawled over her face. Li felt her knees weaken. The second was a Chinese news article from eight years ago reporting her husband’s accidental death. The final sheet was a copy of the electronic ticket Lisa Li had purchased for Peter’s first-class return to Beijing. His seat number had been circled. Beside it, the name “Lu” had been written to show her that someone knew the Jué Dé executive who had offered to travel with Peter. A red arrow pointed to the edge of the page.
    Li turned it over. Three sentences had been written in the same red ink—“You know we know. When you’re approached, hear them out, then accept. Keep the boy.”
    Li suddenly felt nauseated. Panic rose in her faster than when Mullins had led her out of the ballroom. Her world spun upside down and there was nothing she could do to regain control. “When you’re approached, hear them out.” Who were they and what did they want? Was her sister’s life in danger? Had Jué Dé and the Chinese government had a major falling out and she would be pressured into returning to state-sponsored research? If that was the case, why wasn’t the message written in Chinese?
    All she knew for sure was Peter wouldn’t be on that flight tomorrow. She’d call her sister and tell her he was sick with a stomach bug. Then she would wait. But for what?
    ***
    Nine time zones and over five thousand eight hundred miles to the east of where Lisa Li stood trembling in her apartment, Heinrich Schmidt logged into his e-mail account. At two in the morning, the all-night Internet café in Zurich was doing a brisk business. Schmidt preferred it that way. The more people, the less likely he’d be remembered.
    He checked the drafts folder, not really expecting any communication. His client had been really pissed at the way the Washington job had gone. In Schmidt’s opinion, he bore no blame. The man should have told him there would be more than standard hotel security. Not some goddamned protection detail led by a Secret Service agent. The hits and extraction would have been handled differently, if at all.
    To his surprise, a new composition waited for his review. By sharing the same account, their e-mails were never sent. They always remained in draft mode and were deleted as soon as read. No travel between servers or accounts where intercepts would be more likely.
    The message was short with one attachment to be previewed, not downloaded. “If needed, be prepared to move fast. No subcontractors. Standard retainer plus travel. You’ll meet these new friends.”
    Schmidt opened the attachment. A composite photo of two head shots. They looked like government-issued IDs. A younger man and an older man, each identified by name. His new friends. Allen Woodson. Russell Mullins.
    He recognized the second name. The man who had shot his best agent and forced him to race away in the van and then fly to Montreal while his team lay in the D.C. morgue.
    Schmidt memorized the faces. They were good quality head shots. Head shots, he thought. How appropriate.

Chapter Ten
    The western sky was rapidly changing from red to purple. The shifting colors shimmered on the surface of the mountain lake and mesmerized Robert Brentwood. He sat in his chair at the end of his dock, sipping his Blanton’s and