WASHINGTON, D.C., AND SEATTLE
Jason Schmidt, the founder of Quantum Engineering Dynamics, was better at inventing new technology than at following government rules. He resented having to put his cell phone in a locker every time he went into his laboratory. He disliked the security officer who stopped him at the entrance and asked to see his badge every time he entered the headquarters of his own company. But this was the price of patronage from the intelligence community: Schmidt now worked in a “SCIF,” a Secure Compartmented Information Facility. He had an electrified steel fence around his building. His communications were monitored. His only customer was the government, which meant that he was a kept man.
Schmidt rebelled against the rules in small ways. He didn’t open letters. He didn’t answer messages. He left that to the new people he had been forced to hire, forgetting that they didn’t have the authority to respond on his behalf. So the communications piled up in his in-box. He figured that if anything were seriously wrong, the government would pull his chain. And Schmidt’s inattention might indeed have continued, if one of the messages he ignored hadn’t been monitored by the National Security Agency. It was from a supposed venture capital firm called “Parcourse Technology Partners,” which was on the NSA’s watch list as a front for China’s Ministry of State Security.
John Vandel telephoned Schmidt personally. He called himself “Mr. Green,” the alias he had used when he traveled to QED months before. Vandel began calmly, recalling his visit to Seattle and expressing hope that QED’s “breakthrough” research was progressing well. But when he asked Schmidt caustically if he had been opening his mail—and whether he understood the legal penalties for mishandling classified information—the conversation became acrimonious. Schmidt began raising his voice and talking about the First Amendment.
“Stop, right there,” said Vandel, an icy control in his voice. “We are not having this conversation over an open phone line. Do what I say, or I will send an agent from the FBI to your office immediately. I’m not joking. You signed an agreement. You have to abide by the rules.”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Green?” answered Schmidt meekly.
There was a pause, while Vandel considered his options. There was only one person he fully trusted in situations like this. He spoke slowly and carefully, in a way that allowed no dissent.
“I am sending my best security person out to see you tomorrow, Mr. Schmidt. Whatever she says, do it. While she’s there, I want you to brief her on where your research stands. Your work is very important to us. That’s why we have to protect it. Do we agree on this? Otherwise, I am calling the Bureau.”
Schmidt muttered his agreement and then said, under his breath, “Jesus Christ!”
So Kate Sturm was dispatched on an urgent trip to Seattle to review the operations of Quantum Engineering Dynamics. She protested when Vandel gave her the assignment. She was an administrator, not a technologist.
When Vandel insisted that she do it anyway, Sturm asked if she could bring along some help. Vandel wanted to know who, and she mentioned the first name that fell into her head, Denise Ford, the assistant deputy director for science and technology. She had all but offered Ford a role as informal technical adviser. She could help decode the QED problem, even if she wasn’t read into that compartment.
Vandel, who trusted Sturm’s judgment in almost everything, said fine, take whoever you want, just get it done. Sturm phoned Ford a few minutes later.
“What are you doing this week?” she asked.
“The usual,” answered Ford. “Meetings about reports. Reports about meetings.”
“Then come with me to Seattle. That consulting job I talked to you about is happening faster than I expected. Are you game?”
“Of course. Assistant deputy directors never say no to a new opportunity. What’s the rush?”
“We have a housekeeping problem with one of our contractors. Are you on the bigot list for a company called Quantum Engineering Dynamics, QED, in Seattle?”
“Not yet.” Ford’s voice dropped a notch.
“Well, I’ll put in a request. Come with me in the meantime. Part of their work is just ‘Secret.’ Come along. It will be fun, get you back in the mix. What do you say?”
“Are you sure?” There was surprise and slight apprehension in her voice.
“I’ll handle the parts that are ‘code word,’ where you don’t have access. We’ll make a good team. And Vandel’s fine with it. I already asked him.”
They made reservations to fly the next day.
The derelict headquarters of QED had undergone a facelift in the last few months. The electric fence enclosed the perimeter, supplemented by cameras and electronic monitors. The QED sign out front had been removed; a visitor had to guess what went on inside. The haphazard greeting system in the front lobby had been replaced by a bulletproof glass barrier and the implacable guard who harassed even the CEO.
A few of the old employees remained, with piercings and outlandishly dyed hair. But the scruffy “Coldplay” era had ended at QED. Now it truly was Quantum Engineering Dynamics. A few new arrivals from back East even wore jackets and ties. The floors were spotless; paper shredders and burn bags were emptied regularly by the security officers, who also tended the metal lockers into which employees were required to place their personal electronics.
Jason Schmidt greeted his visitors from Washington. He had changed less than his surroundings. He was still round-faced, balding, with a graying fringe that needed a trim. He loyally wore a knit shirt with the company’s logo, though that was now a collector’s item because the “funders” (meaning the intelligence community) didn’t like to advertise the company’s name in public.
“Welcome,” called out Schmidt when the visitors had passed through the metal detector. He shook their hands and walked them down the corridor to an elegant office that an interior decorator had fashioned for the newly capitalized chief executive. Through a picture window behind Schmidt’s desk was the dark blue chop of Lake Washington, edged by the moss green of the fir trees that rimmed the far bank. A front was coming in from the Pacific. The clouds were underlined with the beginnings of rain.
“I’m in the doghouse, I gather,” said Schmidt. “Mr. Green sounded upset.”
“Mr. Green is worried about security,” answered Sturm calmly. “And he wants a progress report. That’s why we’re here. To make sure everything is shipshape.”
Schmidt shook his head. “If we get any more security here, people will have to get cleared to go to the bathroom. Did you see the array at the entrance? I barely recognize this place anymore.”
“We know it’s a nuisance, Mr. Schmidt. But it’s important. Please close the door, so we have some privacy, and I’ll explain why.” Schmidt dutifully closed his office door and returned to his desk. Sturm and Ford were seated opposite him.
“Mr. Green is worried that a foreign company has contacted you, for a second time, to get information about your research. The company is called Parcourse Technology. They claim to be a venture capital firm, but as Mr. Green told you when he first came to see you, we think they work for a foreign intelligence service. Have you had any recent contacts from them? We can track email, but what about regular mail? Have you heard from them?”
Schmidt looked flummoxed. Ford arched her back in the chair, as if she had a cramp.
“How would I know? I throw any inquiries in the circular file. That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Ignore them. So that’s what I do.”
“You don’t actually throw them away, do you?” asked Sturm, as gently as she could.
“Look, I’m a scientist. I don’t handle the paperwork. I leave that to my administrative assistant. She’s outside. You want me to ask?”
“Yes, please,” said Sturm. Ford was attentive but silent.
Schmidt buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Carla, can you come in here?”
A young woman quickly appeared. She was dressed in jeans and a billowy top. She looked to be about five months pregnant. She smiled genially at the visitors.
“Listen, Carla, these people want to know if we’ve kept any of those damned letters from VCs. I told you to ignore them, remember? Did you throw them away?”
“Of course not. I keep everything except junk mail, and I even save some of that. I keep them all in a file.”
Sturm stood and extended her hand.
“Hi, Carla, I’m from your funding consortium in Washington. This is my colleague.”
“Oh, goodness,” said the young woman, worried that she had said the wrong thing.
“Could I look at that file for a moment, the one with the venture capital letters?” asked Sturm.
The secretary looked at her boss, who nodded.
“I’ll get the file right away.” She vanished out the door and returned in thirty seconds with a thin folder, which she handed to Sturm.
“Is this all?” said Sturm, taking the handful of letters.
The secretary nodded. Schmidt reddened.
“For god’s sake! We’re not looking for money anymore, so we don’t get many offers. That’s the way it’s supposed to work now, right?”
Sturm flipped through the file, passing over brief notes from well-known Sand Hill Road firms that invested in Silicon Valley and Seattle companies, until she came to a particular letterhead. She read that message carefully. Ford, sitting next to her, peered over her shoulder.
Sturm turned the letter toward Schmidt so that he could see its face.
“This one is from Parcourse Technology Partners. That’s the same company that Mr. Green discussed with you. They want to come visit you. They say they are ready to increase their earlier offer. That’s not going to happen. As Mr. Green told you, we have concerns about this company. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes,” said Schmidt sourly.
“So, if you get any more communications from this company I want you to let us know right away. Not just from Parcourse, but from any VC or private-equity company you haven’t heard of. Got that? Carla, you seem to handle the mail around here, so I want you to pay special attention. And if you go on maternity leave anytime soon, sorry for noticing, I want you to tell your temp replacement the same thing. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered. Sturm was simple, direct, and intimidating.
“Could I have a copy of this?” asked Sturm, handing the letter back. “My colleague will come with you while you xerox it.”
Ford followed the secretary out and returned with her a minute later.
“I made two copies, just in case,” said Ford, handing one to Sturm and keeping the other in her hand.
“One is fine, but thanks.” She reached out her hand for the second copy, which Ford was starting to fold. Sturm took the two pages and put them in her briefcase and then turned back to the CEO.
“That takes care of that,” she said. “Now let’s hear your progress report. Carla, you can close the door on your way out.”
Schmidt turned warily toward Sturm when his secretary was gone. “Am I in serious trouble?”
“No. Try to look at your mail. You’re the only person here who has clearances to know why we’re so worried about Parcourse. So keep your eyes open.”
“Do I have to sign any more forms, god forbid?”
“No, not now.” Sturm reached out across the desk and gave his hand a friendly pat. “Just tell us how you’re doing. Are you making any progress? Can you get that machine powerful enough to crack any codes? That’s what Mr. Green wants to know.”
Schmidt brightened. The inquisition seemed to be over.
“I’ll take you into the lab,” he said. “That’s the easiest way to explain. The baseline is that we’re not there yet, but we’re getting closer. Come on. I’ll show you the coldest place in the universe, just about.”
But Schmidt had already risen from his chair and was heading out the office door toward the lab where QED did its real work, with Sturm and Ford bustling behind.
“Just what I said, the coldest place in the universe,” Schmidt repeated, talking over his shoulder.
“It’s cryogenics,” said Ford.
“Yes, very good. Someone has done her homework. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Schmidt led the two women down a corridor and through a locked door into a high-ceilinged room. It was a simple warehouse space with a spotless linoleum floor and bright fluorescent lights overhead. Employees were dressed in white lab coats, tinkering with machines that were arrayed in sixteen chambers. Schmidt took them to a small conference room, flanked on three sides by whiteboards covered with algorithms and equations. He gestured for them to sit.
“So, our concept at QED is adiabatic quantum computing, which people often call quantum annealing. Does that word mean anything to you?”
“Metallurgy,” said Ford.
“That’s where it originated, yes. Over thousands of years, artisans learned that they could make metal stronger by heating it up and then letting it cool slowly. The purest values emerge as the temperature falls. That’s what we do with our quantum chips, but we do it near absolute zero. We let the quantum bits settle into the least-disordered, lowest-energy state. We’ve shown that if we do it right, we can solve optimization problems that way.”
“Time out.” Sturm held up her hand, apologetically. “My colleague hasn’t been read into the compartmented parts of your research. So please keep this at ‘Secret’ or below. Sorry, Denise.”
“Fiddlesticks,” he said. “This was all published in academic journals before we were taken ‘black.’ I won’t say anything that your friend can’t find in the open literature.”
“Fine,” said Sturm. “Then go ahead.”
“Okay, Quantum 101. Cold is good. Heat is noise. It’s friction. It destroys coherence. You’ve both heard of Moore’s Law. Well, heat is sabotaging it. If you keep doubling a normal supercomputer’s speed and memory, it gets too damned hot.”
“So you’ve gone the other way, to super-cold,” said Ford.
“Precisely. We use tiny loops of a metal called niobium. At very, very low temperatures, electrons behave differently. They become superconductors, and the current flows clockwise and counter-clockwise at the same time. They take on quantum properties, in other words. Do you understand that, a little bit?”
“No,” said Sturm. “I need to see a diagram or something, or I’m not going to get this.”
“Better than a diagram. I’ll show you the machine. Come on!”
“Hold up,” said Sturm. “Is the lab an SCI compartmented area? Because if it is, my colleague can’t come.”
“Nope. Just ‘Secret.’ These are the same damned machines we used when our research wasn’t classified at all. The only juicy stuff is on some of the readouts, but they’re shielded.”
“Okay,” said Sturm. “Lead on.”
Schmidt walked them out of the equation-filled conference room back into the main workroom. He stopped at one of the bays. A conical device that looked like a huge metal ice cream cone was suspended from the ceiling. Nearby stood several technicians, checking screens that registered the temperature inside.
“This is a dilution refrigerator,” said Schmidt. “The quantum chip is right there at the bottom.” He pointed to a small casing at the lowest point of the cone. “That’s what we’re trying to cool. It’s now thirty milli-kelvin, or three-hundredths of one degree kelvin. The temperature in deep space, by comparison, is nearly a hundred times warmer. But even that is way too hot for our chip. We have to cut the heat almost in half.”
Ford studied the computer array, but there were coverings obscuring the digital monitors.
“Maybe you’re wondering how we make it so cold,” said Schmidt, hopefully.
“Yes, please,” said Ford.
Schmidt took a step toward Ford. At least someone from Washington cared about the details of his research.
“Actually, we pump in a mix of helium-3 and helium-4. These are very cold gases. Helium-4 is the stuff in those balloons that make your voice squeaky. But helium-3 is very rare and costs about three thousand dollars a liter. When these two interact, it gets very cold, less than 450 degrees below zero, Fahrenheit.”
“That’s cold,” said Sturm.
“Quite cold. What happens is that our helium mixture pulls the heat away from the objects we are cooling. It gets colder and colder, and down we go.”
“Are your qubits stable at that temperature?” pressed Ford.
“Briefly. And they’re not just protected from heat; we shield them from any magnetism, too. They survive for nanoseconds, but then poof: They ‘de-cohere.’ But it’s long enough for them to do our work.”
“You folks want to watch it happen?” asked one of the technicians. “We’re just testing the cooling cycle on the next machine down.”
They walked to the next bay, where a dilution refrigerator was encased in a sealed black vacuum box to prevent any “noise”—heat, light, magnetism—from entering. Schmidt removed a cover from one of the digital readouts. It registered eleven millikelvin. As they watched, the temperature inside the array fell to ten, then nine, and settled at eight point five. Eight point five hundredths of a degree above absolute zero.
“There it is!” said the CEO. “The coldest point in the universe. Actually, that’s not quite true, I think a lab in Italy has gone down to six, but close enough.”
“Is that where you normally operate?” asked Ford, peering toward the device.
“No. We usually do our quantum annealing at about…” He stopped and looked at Ford. “Oops. I think the exact number is in the SCI compartment.”
Sturm gently placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder. She hated to exclude her female colleague. But rules were rules.
“Sorry, Denise, but I’m going to finish this up with Mr. Schmidt by myself. We’ll go back to the conference room. Wait for us by the door. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“I’ll stay here with the refrigerators,” said Ford amiably.
Sturm and Schmidt filed off toward the conference room. Sturm closed the door firmly and turned to the CEO.
“This conference room is secure, right?”
“Of course,” said an exasperated Schmidt. “Your people check the whole facility every month.”
“So now, give me the code-word part of the briefing. Mr. Green wants to know whether you’re anywhere near getting these machines to solve encryption problems.”
“Slowly, slowly. We just started using a new chip with 512 qubits. The old chip had 128 qubits. So that’s progress. Our latest machine has about 2,000 qubits. Next stop, 4,000.”
“But will it crack codes? It’s dark out there. We need some light.”
“I am working as hard as I can,” said Schmidt emphatically. “I’ve found a way to program my machine so that the annealing function can also factor numbers, but it keeps crashing. Tell Mr. Green that I think I know how to do it, even though I can’t actually do it yet, if that’s comprehensible.”
“Is there anything you need from us? Do you have enough money? Are you able to hire the people you want?”
“Money is fine. People, well, let’s be honest, there aren’t enough smart Americans. Life would be easier if I could hire more foreigners. But we know that, right?”
“Yes, we know that. And on the subject of the Chinese, for goodness sakes, don’t forget to let us know if Parcourse tries again. And recheck your suppliers, please. Trusted foundries, only.”
“Christ, I hate security. It is the enemy of science. But yes, I’ve got it.”
Sturm shook his hand. That was what she needed to hear.
Out in the corridor, Ford waited. The moment brought a sense of isolation. In this business, access was everything. And she needed to know, if she was going to do her job. Ford stood by the doorway. The technicians and scientists had gone back to work on machines down the corridor. She stepped a few feet into the first bay and entered the darkened recess. What a beautiful machine it was, a universe in miniature. She wanted to understand it.
The door to Schmidt’s conference room was still closed. He and Sturm would be talking a few more minutes, at least. Ford tiptoed near the edge of the machine and the control module that recorded the mysteries inside. So many questions: What were the parameters within which this machine produced its quantum effects? How cold was the chip, precisely? How fast was the processor that ran the machine? What was the architecture of the processor?
Ford edged soundlessly closer to the machine. The digital display panel that monitored the machine’s performance was covered by a plastic sheath overlaid with TS/SCI classification warnings. She gently tugged at the plastic cover. As it fell away, she quickly began studying the categories and numbers on the digital displays: precise temperature; active qubits in the attached chip; power required to achieve quantum effects; target time for problem solution.
The machine began a loud, regular electronic beep. Ford bit her lip. She quickly reattached the cap. The beeping stopped, but a red warning light was flashing behind the machine. She stepped away. The technicians were busy at their work, and Ford hoped that nobody had noticed. She eased toward the entrance to the bay, hoping now that Sturm’s meeting would end soon.
A technician was striding toward the bay where she was standing. He was wearing a badge that said “Security.” He marched past Ford to the machine and its flashing light. He quickly typed a command on the keyboard and waited until the machine reported the nature of the violation of its electronic space.
“Ma’am!” the security officer said sharply as he approached Ford. She paused and then took a step toward him. Nothing looks as guilty as a frightened woman trying to deny what’s obvious. She straightened her skirt. She pulled a wisp of hair away from her forehead.
“Did you touch the machine, ma’am?”
Ford opened her palms, in a gesture of mute apology. She was shaking her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I think I may have bumped it accidentally. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”
“Someone tried to remove the protective seal. Was that you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I certainly didn’t intend to. Maybe the casing was loose. I feel terrible. I know how important security is.”
Ford removed her green CIA badge from her purse and showed it to the security officer. He studied it, a puzzled look on his face.
“Ma’am, did you see anyone else approach this machine?”
“No, but I wasn’t paying close attention.”
The security officer’s face was impassive. It was impossible to read whether he believed her or not. He hesitated a moment more and then strode to Schmidt’s conference room, twenty yards away, and rapped on the door. When Schmidt emerged, the security man whispered in his ear.
“What?” roared Schmidt. “The display access panel? Are you kidding me? Who did it?”
“I don’t know, sir.” He gestured toward Ford. “The visitor was standing in the bay where the intrusion happened. She said she may have bumped the machine, by accident.”
“I am so sorry,” Ford repeated, walking toward Schmidt. “I was looking at that amazing machine, and I stumbled, and I must have set something off. Forgive me. This is so embarrassing.”
Ford turned to Sturm, who had been watching from the conference room door. “This is my fault,” she said earnestly. “I had no business being near that machine. Please apologize to everyone.”
Sturm pulled her colleague aside, out of earshot of the others.
“Did you try to access the machine? Come on. This is serious.”
“No, Kate. As I said, I was taking a look, I was curious. I must have bumped the wrong thing, or something was loose. I don’t know. I didn’t take anything. Check my pockets.”
Before Sturm could answer, Ford turned the pockets of her jacket inside out, showing each empty one to her CIA colleague.
“Thank you. That wasn’t necessary.” Sturm turned back to the group.
“My colleague has extensive TS/SCI clearances, even though she has not been read into the details of this program. Please check the computer and file the proper security-intrusion notice. The seal may be defective. It may be sending false signals. Figure that out. Send the Bureau a report. They’ll brief me on whatever you find.”
“If this is QED’s fault, I’m sorry,” said Schmidt, shaking his head. “Please understand, we take security seriously. Forget my griping earlier. I know it matters. We’ll find out what happened here and let you know, as soon as we can.”
Sturm and Ford shook the CEO’s hand and walked slowly back down the hall to the door. Schmidt apologized again. Sturm reassured him and gave him a card with her direct number at work; Ford was silent.
Before Sturm boarded the flight back to Washington, she got a text message advising her to call Headquarters. Her deputy at Support said that a man named Jason Schmidt had called to report that he had notified the FBI of the security breech.
Sturm excused herself, showed an airline official her badge, and went to a quiet room. She called the head of the FBI’s Seattle office and explained the sequence of events that day. The special agent in charge said that forensics would check for fingerprints on the protective casing as soon as it could, but the lab was swamped and it might take a day or so.
Sturm said she could wait. As soon as the lab could find time. She didn’t want a flap. Ford had already suffered enough from rushed judgments.
Ford tried to chat on the flight back. She mentioned a novel she had been reading and a favorite new restaurant. Sturm said she was tired. She closed her eyes and was silent for most of the long overnight trip back across the country.
Kate Sturm debated with herself through those sleepless hours whether to call Vandel when she got back. She was fastidious about security, but she was torn: Denise Ford had been the victim of hasty and unfair treatment in the past. Sturm didn’t want to add to that history. Women fought against the odds in the agency; if the “house” could extend them a little credit for once, then that was only fair. Sturm decided to wait until she’d heard more from the FBI forensics team.
When they landed at Dulles early the next morning, Sturm gave a bleary-eyed Ford a sisterly hug and said good-bye.
Sturm was just dozing off at her town house in Reston at 7:30 a.m. that morning when she was roused by an insistent phone call. She had hoped to ignore it and get a little more sleep before going into the office, but the same number called back immediately. This person badly wanted to talk.
Sturm answered her phone with a sleepy hello. It was John Vandel. His usually modulated voice was a breathy shout.
“We got him,” he said.
“What are you talking about? Got who?”
“We got him!” Vandel repeated. “It’s Kronholz, that son of a bitch from IARPA. We need to lock this down. Meet me at Courthouse at 9:00.”
“I just got home,” murmured Sturm. “Can we make it 10:00? Or 11:00?”
“Chang and I will be there at 9:00. Mark Flanagan has come back, too, to help with surveillance. Big day! You can sleep later.”
“I’ll be there,” she said wearily. “Of course, I will.”
Sturm quickly showered and dressed and by 8:00 she was on the road, fighting the morning traffic to Arlington. She was very glad that John Vandel had found his mole. That meant, among other things, that she could put aside her worry about Denise Ford.