eleven. At fourteen, he was the youngest ever to graduate from Cal Berkeley, earning summa cum laude and salutatorian honors. He would’ve been valedictorian if it hadn’t been for a B+ in comparative Russian literature. Even geniuses have their blind spots.
Next up were combined MD and PhD degrees from Harvard Medical School and MIT at age seventeen, after which Owen spent nearly two years at Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule Zürich, aka the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich, studying what had become his true passion: artificial neural networks.
That was when the two men first approached him, one night as he was leaving the library. They were Americans.
“How would you like to help save the world?” one asked.
Owen laughed, not taking him seriously at first. “Only if I get to wear a cape,” he said.
A predilection for sarcasm commensurate with sapience
, read the extensive psych profile of Owen that the two men had already seen.
“No, I’m afraid there’s no cape or even a skintight suit,” said the other man. “However, you will get to be a part of the digital age’s equivalent of the Manhattan Project.”
Owen liked the sound of that. Loved it, to be more precise. It was his chance to make history. And who doesn’t want to do that?
But that was then.
Now, less than a year later, here he was hiding out in a cramped hotel room—in Manhattan, no less—hoping against hope that he’d live to see another sunrise.
Turned out, Owen Lewis had the one problem he never thought he’d have. Not in a million years. Or certainly, at least, not before his twenty-first birthday.
It was why they wanted to kill him, the Boy Genius.
He knew too much.
CHAPTER 10
WITHOUT ONCE taking his eyes off his scuffed-up laptop and the live feed from the hallway, Owen bit off another triangle of the twelve-dollar Toblerone from his minibar and dialed Claire Parker’s cell for a third time. And for the third time the call went straight to voice mail.
Something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. There were a few plausible explanations as to why she hadn’t shown up at his room, ranging from the relatively harmless to the absolute worst-case scenario. He could speculate all he wanted, but that was all it would be. Speculation. The important thing now was whether or not she was the only one who knew his location.
She wasn’t.
Two minutes later, the image of the man stepping off the elevator at the other end of the hallway told Owen so much at once that his brain tingled with overload, which was no small feat.
Male … solo … decent physique … running shoes … baseball cap with curled bill … no room key in hand … no suitcase or carryon …
The man paused by the elevator bank to look at the directional sign for the rooms on the floor. If he’d just been checking in, thought Owen, he’d almost certainly have had luggage. If he’d been staying at the hotel already, he’d have had no need to look at the sign.
Plus, with that curled bill on his baseball cap, he could shield his face from any security cameras in the hotel.
But most incriminating of all?
None of that mattered.
The guy could’ve been a blind midget wearing a clown suit, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. It was four in the morning and he was heading straight toward room 1701. Thirty yards away and closing.
As if his chair had springs, Owen jumped up and slap-closed his laptop, stuffing it in his already packed backpack along with the wireless receiver for the transmitting camera outside in the hallway.
He sprinted into the bathroom, where he’d already filled the tub to the brim with water, not an inch of porcelain left dry. With a hard yank, he turned the shower on full blast.
As for the hotel’s hair dryer, it was already plugged in, the surge protector dismantled and the outlet rewired to deliver the maximum current possible. Suffice it to say, that sort of thing doesn’t get a chapter in
Electrical Wiring
Next up were combined MD and PhD degrees from Harvard Medical School and MIT at age seventeen, after which Owen spent nearly two years at Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule Zürich, aka the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich, studying what had become his true passion: artificial neural networks.
That was when the two men first approached him, one night as he was leaving the library. They were Americans.
“How would you like to help save the world?” one asked.
Owen laughed, not taking him seriously at first. “Only if I get to wear a cape,” he said.
A predilection for sarcasm commensurate with sapience
, read the extensive psych profile of Owen that the two men had already seen.
“No, I’m afraid there’s no cape or even a skintight suit,” said the other man. “However, you will get to be a part of the digital age’s equivalent of the Manhattan Project.”
Owen liked the sound of that. Loved it, to be more precise. It was his chance to make history. And who doesn’t want to do that?
But that was then.
Now, less than a year later, here he was hiding out in a cramped hotel room—in Manhattan, no less—hoping against hope that he’d live to see another sunrise.
Turned out, Owen Lewis had the one problem he never thought he’d have. Not in a million years. Or certainly, at least, not before his twenty-first birthday.
It was why they wanted to kill him, the Boy Genius.
He knew too much.
CHAPTER 10
WITHOUT ONCE taking his eyes off his scuffed-up laptop and the live feed from the hallway, Owen bit off another triangle of the twelve-dollar Toblerone from his minibar and dialed Claire Parker’s cell for a third time. And for the third time the call went straight to voice mail.
Something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. There were a few plausible explanations as to why she hadn’t shown up at his room, ranging from the relatively harmless to the absolute worst-case scenario. He could speculate all he wanted, but that was all it would be. Speculation. The important thing now was whether or not she was the only one who knew his location.
She wasn’t.
Two minutes later, the image of the man stepping off the elevator at the other end of the hallway told Owen so much at once that his brain tingled with overload, which was no small feat.
Male … solo … decent physique … running shoes … baseball cap with curled bill … no room key in hand … no suitcase or carryon …
The man paused by the elevator bank to look at the directional sign for the rooms on the floor. If he’d just been checking in, thought Owen, he’d almost certainly have had luggage. If he’d been staying at the hotel already, he’d have had no need to look at the sign.
Plus, with that curled bill on his baseball cap, he could shield his face from any security cameras in the hotel.
But most incriminating of all?
None of that mattered.
The guy could’ve been a blind midget wearing a clown suit, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. It was four in the morning and he was heading straight toward room 1701. Thirty yards away and closing.
As if his chair had springs, Owen jumped up and slap-closed his laptop, stuffing it in his already packed backpack along with the wireless receiver for the transmitting camera outside in the hallway.
He sprinted into the bathroom, where he’d already filled the tub to the brim with water, not an inch of porcelain left dry. With a hard yank, he turned the shower on full blast.
As for the hotel’s hair dryer, it was already plugged in, the surge protector dismantled and the outlet rewired to deliver the maximum current possible. Suffice it to say, that sort of thing doesn’t get a chapter in
Electrical Wiring
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