Free Any Minute Now by Eric Van Lustbader

suspected it would be robots. The Singularity was almost upon mankind—the latest estimation as early as 2045—the moment when robots equaled and then surpassed humans in intelligence.
    What would happen then? Renaissance or Armageddon?
    He was brought out of his reverie; someone was calling his name. He looked toward the street and saw Valerie Revere, King Cutler’s assistant. She was watching him from the sidewalk, her fingers curled through the cyclone fence that demarked the ball field.
    His thin lips curled into a semblance of a smile. He adored secrets; especially the one he shared with Valerie.
    Calling a halt to the game, he waited until his people had collected their gear, crossed the street, and entered the secure DARPA building before he approached her.
    â€œMorning,” he said. “You’re up early.” That was for anyone who might be listening, though he saw no one in the vicinity, no suspicious-looking vans that might house surveillance, both human and electronic. Still, you never knew; it paid to take every precaution.
    â€œDo you have time for a walk?” she asked.
    He made a show of checking his watch. “Sure,” he nodded. He gathered up his glove and ball, stuffed them into a nylon backpack, which he slung over his shoulder. As he emerged from the park, he pulled the bill of his Nationals cap lower on his forehead. They crossed two streets to the parking lot catty-corner to the ball field.
    Valerie had driven over in a dark-blue ten-year-old BMW. Though they met fairly regularly, she never arrived in the same car twice. They were not rentals, she had assured him early on in the relationship; all of them were completely secure.
    She unlocked the car and they got in—she behind the wheel, him sitting in the shotgun seat. Now he had a moment to look at her naturally, rather than keeping her in the corner of his vision. She was a pleasant-looking woman, he supposed, though he was far from the one to ask about those things, rather full-figured, but all in the right places, so far as he knew. She was a redhead—natural, he surmised, from her pale coloring. Were he any other kind of male he would have liked her—perhaps he even did—though, again, he was hardly the person to ask about such things.
    â€œHow’s tricks?” he asked.
    She laughed, leaned forward, stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it halfway. She flicked on the radio. Country music filled the interior to the brim and then some. Lindstrom didn’t much care for Toby Keith—Bach was more his speed, the mathematical notes falling on his ears like the parts of a physics equation—but he understood that the raucous noise was more beneficial for blocking their conversation from any electronic surveillance that might be in the area.
    â€œI require your help,” Valerie said.
    â€œWhatever I can do,” Lindstrom replied, “within reason.”
    Valerie peered through the windshield and at her side and rearview mirrors before continuing. “The NSA doesn’t have its house in order.”
    Lindstrom appeared to roll this around in his brain for a time before he said. “That’s not good.”
    â€œNosiree, not for anyone.”
    â€œShould I worry? I mean, Mobius is an NSA initiative. It’s completely shielded from the clowns on Capitol Hill. It’s also shielded from DOD, CIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup agencies inside the Beltway.”
    â€œIt should be shielded from us, as well,” Valerie said, “but you’re paid a small fortune into an anonymous overseas account to make sure Mobius runs smoothly, despite any government interference you might encounter. If NSA is compromised, then so might be Mobius.”
    Lindstrom frowned. “You mean it might be shut down?”
    â€œOr worse. If one or more pieces of your … project were to find their way into hostile hands—”
    Lindstrom shuddered.