Bartholomew did not flip through the material. He stared calmly at the paper spit out by the printer. "Is the child safe?"
"Of course. Dear father," the male voice replied. "No triggers are activated. The result output is a paper printout. Without reduction, 1048 pieces of A4 paper are needed. Regarding the anomalies in the results, I need my help. Can you point it out?"
"No. Erase your relevant memories. I don't want anyone to get hold of this information in any way." The old man gave the order in a calm tone.
Without any hesitation. The male synthesized voice sounded again: "I miss you very much. Dear father. Your heart rate is 15% higher than the normal value. Do you need me to call the doctor? Your current condition is slightly beyond the safe range."
"No need. Goodbye, kid." Bartholomew snapped his fingers.
"Goodbye, dear father." After saying goodbye without any emotion, the voice disappeared.
Muhammad placed the second book of query results on his desk and replaced it with new printing paper. This time less than half of the pack of A4 paper was used. The printer's work light went out. The bound third book of materials looked very thin. 1048 A4 sheets of paper filled with data were piled high in front of Brandon Bartholomew. The old man sighed: "Which operator discovered the abnormality."
"No. 3." Muhammad ignored the sweat on his forehead and bowed slightly to the doctor. He replied, "A very smart Arab girl. Lebanese. She has been employed for 4 years and 2 months. She has no relatives in Europe."
Bartholomew stared at the other party tiredly: "Make the necessary sacrifices. Remember Zola's famous saying."
"Just as a mother sometimes sacrifices for the dear creature she gives birth to, we should not love ourselves. We should be prepared to sacrifice our lives for its success." Muhammad recited respectfully. "I know what to do. Dr. ."
"Very good. I'm going back. I will be responsible for this matter. You don't need to follow up anymore." The old man stood up and patted the pile of printing paper: "Is there a suitable container?"
The head of the Alien Information Section nodded. He opened the closet and took out a Glenfiddich single malt whiskey box. He showed it to Bartholomew: "Look, there is a lead coating on the inside of the box. It can isolate the detection. It can guarantee you Back to the office safely. But the weight of the paper is very heavy. The weight detector in the main building requires you to find a way."
The doctor didn't say much. He put the information into the wine box, sealed the box, lifted the heavy box and walked out. Muhammad opened the door for him. A bright smile suddenly appeared on his face: "Very good whiskey. Yes." Doctor, these two bottles are the last ones I have in stock. It will be your turn to prepare the wine next time."
"After all, I'm still a fan of The Macallan." Bartholomew turned around and smiled. "I'm used to the sherry aroma in whiskey. I really can't get used to products brewed in oak barrels."
Muhammad laughed loudly: "Okay, okay. The Macallan in 2020 will be the theme of the next party. I'll see you off soon. Goodbye, Doctor."
"goodbye."
Brandon Bartholomew waved and walked alone through the quiet corridor. When he walked to the elevator door, the special elevator prepared for GTC important people had automatically descended to the 28th underground floor. He opened the door and waited for the distinguished guests to arrive. Doctor steps Entering the elegantly decorated elevator room, he pressed the button for the 5th floor above ground. The elevator door slowly closed. The old man closed his eyes and tried to slow down his heartbeat.
When the elevator reached the 13th floor underground, it slowed down and stopped. A thin, dry old man with sharp eyes like an eagle walked in. He looked a little surprised when he saw him: "Brandon, you are a rare visitor to hell. Are you coming down to play?" "
The last person Bartholomew wanted to see at this time was Guy Cookery, the director of the ninth division of GTC in front of him. The Gestapo within GTC compared the underground building of the "Genesis" headquarters building to hell. This was the responsibility of the top management of GTC. It's an old joke. The doctor smiled slightly: "I can't resist Mephisto's temptation." He then lifted up the wine box and showed it to the other party.
Bartholomew was talking about the allusion of the fallen devil in "Faust". Cuckrey grinned without disapproval, revealing his bright red gums: "Twelve years of Glenfiddich. An interesting choice. I guess it's communication. Mohammed from here. That chocolate-colored guy likes old world things best. I suspect he has a collection of Persian magic lamps in his little closet. Hee hee. This is a two-bottle wine case. Mind giving me one. ."
The white-haired doctor smiled calmly: "Of course I don't mind. Follow me back to my office. I'll find you a handbag."
"Then sell your Wagner arias and bad-tasting Earl Gray tea." The director of the Ninth Division wrinkled his whole face, as if he was worried about Bartholomew's taste. "If you ask me, the music should be more exciting than a metal band. Drinking tea is not as refreshing as drinking cold beer. It’s better to leave your aristocratic habits to the older bastards.”
At this time, the elevator slowly stopped. The lobby on the first floor arrived. Kukri walked out with his hands behind his back. The sliding door slowly closed. Bartholomew took a long breath. At this time, a thin hand grabbed the Locking the elevator door prevents the elevator from continuing to rise.
"I said. Brandon..." Kukri stared at the people in the elevator with eyes deeply sunk in wrinkles. His pupils, which were so shallow that they were almost colorless, revealed the ferocious light of a predator when preying: "I heard .You have a good relationship with Muhammad.”
"We just drink together occasionally. He also likes jazz." Bartholomew replied calmly, with a smile on his face: "You are also interested in listening to Diana Crow's first vinyl record together."
Kukri closed his knife-like lips tightly and looked at the white-haired doctor up and down for a long time. He left a message: "Stay away from him. There is an internal problem in the Communications Department. I don't want to see it when I figure everything out." Your old face is standing among the suspects holding a sign."
The dry paws were withdrawn. The elevator door was closed. Bartholomew tried his best to calm his pounding heart. He handed the wine box to his left hand and wiped the sweaty palm of his right hand on his pants.
We arrived on the fifth floor. As soon as we stepped out of the elevator door, Dr. Bartholomew exclaimed. He staggered and almost fell. The full-time secretary behind the desk at the door immediately left his seat and came forward. "Doctor, are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just have rheumatism. Bring my wheelchair." The doctor waved his hand and leaned on the elevator door to rest for a while. The secretary quickly pushed the wheelchair and helped Dr. Bartholomew sit down. The old man put the heavy weight on his hands. He held the wine box in his arms and ordered: "Push me into the office."
"Are you sure? In this case, you should go home and rest." The secretary asked with concern.
"I just have leg pain. I'm not an old fool anymore. Move forward." The doctor pointed forward.
There are only two offices on the fifth floor of the GTC headquarters building. The east wing belongs to Brandon Bartholomew. The owner of the west wing is Dr. Mark Thompson, the current GTC executive chairman. Like the director of the Communications Office, Thompson also flew in early at this moment. Malaysia is very worried about the core routing issue in East Asia.
The secretary's footsteps and the sound of rolling rubber tires echoed in the quiet corridor. "Wait a minute." The doctor suddenly raised his hand to signal a pause. Before the secretary leaned over to ask the reason, Bartholomew issued the next instruction: "Nothing. .I’m sorry.Just move on.”
The two elegantly decorated doors opened automatically. The secretary's toes stepped on the fluffy and soft wool carpet. He stopped cautiously. "Doctor, are you sure there is nothing wrong with you?"
"Of course. Thank you." Bartholomew nodded gratefully to him and pushed the wheelchair into the office. The oak door slowly closed. "If you need anything..." The secretary's respectful bow was isolated outside the two-foot-thick door.
The doctor stood up, carried the wine box and walked to his desk. He fell into his comfortable swivel chair and breathed a complete sigh of relief. His office is his refuge. His bunker. His fortress. With the help of Genesis Next. There is no sound and light detection method known to mankind that can spy on the information in the east wing office on the fifth floor of GTC headquarters. This is the only place in the whole world where he can put down his disguise and rest completely.
GTC Executive Chairman Mark Thompson's first move after taking office was to launch the "Executive Security Plan", which included 49 GTC senior managers, including Brandon Bartholomew and himself, under surveillance. In response to the threat of counter-terrorism, the plan to protect the high-level security banner of GTC was unanimously approved by the twelve executive members of GTC. From then on, no matter where he was, the doctor was surrounded by countless cameras, sound probes, and thermal radiation sensors at any time. Even the corridors of GTC headquarters are equipped with various detection equipment such as audio, video, body temperature, heartbeat, perspective, weight, air composition and posture judgment. If Bartholomew hadn't been prepared, he would have built his own office. It has become a fortress with copper walls and iron walls. I am afraid that every move now is also in the hands of the Director of the Ninth Division.
Pretending to be sick and riding in a wheelchair, being pushed through the corridor by the secretary, and pausing at the position of the weight sensor. These are all means of interfering with weight detection. As long as the added weight and volume are logically reasonable, the abnormal alarm will not be triggered.
"Endless struggle..." The doctor leaned back in his chair and murmured to himself. He grabbed half a glass of whiskey on the table and drank it in one gulp. "The greatest success in my life is also the most regretful thing. Let's do it together. After a lifetime of hard work, countless people finally opened the door to hell for mankind..."
Bartholomew recited the famous sayings of Wernher von Braun, the father of rocketry, the inventor of the German Nazi V1 rocket, and the creator of the concept of long-range nuclear strike. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyebrows tiredly. This action triggered An automatic mechanism in the office. A pleasant synthetic male voice sounded: "You are tired. Dear father."
Bartholomew nodded.
The intercom phone on the desk automatically turned on the red light for hands-free calling. A second later, the secretary picked up the phone: "Any instructions, doctor."
Dr. Bartholomew's voice, synthesized by a quantum computer, instructed on the phone: "Cancel everything. No one's calling except Mark. I won't be leaving the office for three days. Call my apartment. Ask them to take care of me."
dog."
"Okay, doctor...please don't forget to take your medicine."
The call ended. Bartholomew sighed. He opened the wine box and took out the thick data report. He put on his glasses and began to read slowly.