by Kirk Russell
Either Dalz wasn’t inside, or the man who went into the hotel was not Frederic Dalz. How could anyone argue otherwise? And of all people, how could Desault, a rationalist and skeptic, believe anything else?
I put that night down to two bottles of wine and Desault’s coming retirement. It was an emotional good-bye. We were kindred spirits. In the months I was in France, he’d mentored me and introduced me to officers I would otherwise never have met. I owed him, and more than that, I admired him and should have thanked him more for his gracious generosity. But like only someone young can do, I assumed there would be another time for that.
“You don’t believe me,” he’d said, and it felt as if I was across the table from him again.
“What I believe is that there has to be a rational answer.”
“Not always.” When I didn’t respond and drank instead, he asked, “Do you believe in God?”
And just like that we arrived where we were always going.
“Have you ever lost someone and asked God to hold very close the soul of the one you loved?” he asked.
“I have,” I said.
“Then you’ve allowed the possibility of God, so you must allow the devil as well.”
“Here are my thoughts about where Dalz came from,” I’d answered. “An enemy intelligence agency—I hope it’s an enemy—was thinking long term. They found a child, erased what little past he had, raised him in seclusion, teaching him the sciences and the bomb making and the other techniques for killing we know he’s capable of. They chose him early for his aptitude and personality characteristics. They created a superagent with specific talents. They pay him well and keep him safe, and for that he owes them.”
“That’s a fantasy,” Desault said. “What’s true is he escaped us by running back into the hotel and he’s still alive. No one inside survived the heat. Even their bones became ash. Yet he is here. If you are honest about the facts, then you must question what you believe.”
***
I wondered why that conversation of so long ago had returned to me. I felt Jo stir. As she did, I saw Desault standing near the foot of the bed and for a moment the bedroom looked unfamiliar.
“What were you saying about a fire?” Jo asked. “You’ve been talking to someone. Were you dreaming?”
“I’ve been awake. I was remembering a conversation I had with a French agent long ago.”
“You must have been dreaming.”
“I don’t think so, but I’m sorry I woke you. It was a vivid memory.”
“I feel something here,” she said and slid close. We held each other and talked more, and whatever she’d felt in the room must have gone away.
9
August 6th
At nine o’clock the next morning I got an unexpected call from Kathy Tobias, head of DARPA. She caught me in my car on my way to pick up a prescription refill from my pharmacist. I’d never met her but I knew her name. Her voice carried a soft drawl. She said she could call back if this was a bad time.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m in my car, this is a good time to talk.”
“Well, first I have to tell you, you’re on speakerphone. I’m in a room in a meeting with DoD brass. We don’t mean to put you on the spot, but we’re discussing security at Independence Base. We’re told you’re investigating threats to the base, and I’ve heard good things about you, so I thought we’d give you a call. If this puts you too much on the spot, we can do it a different way.”
“I’m fine, go ahead.”
“What are your primary external threat concerns? Talk to us about the ones you’re worried about.”
“Okay, here’s one. This morning the National Security Agency passed phone intercepts of three people talking through the logistics of flying a cargo plane loaded with explosives into the building housing Indie. They talked about the road here as having a length of 1.87 miles of flat, then a gradual rise to the building.”
“That’s accurate on the road length,” a male voice said, “and we’re aware of that threat. I’m going to say something else. As far as I know, and I’ve got twenty-two years in, we have never once asked for help from the FBI to defend a base.”
He started to say more, and I was ready to get into it with him, but Tobias interrupted. “I’m taking you off speakerphone, Agent Grale. Keep talking. What other threats have the FBI’s focus?”
“A truck bomb at the guard gate followed by an attack with all-terrain vehicles. That comes from Interpol and a conversation intercepted in Belgium. That one could be a suicide mission where they kill everyone inside and destroy Indie before they’re killed. We’ve got as many threats from inside the US as outside. People are afraid of AI. The immediate general worry is an attack initiated outside the base.”
We talked through another four or five threats before she asked what may have been the true purpose of the call.
“You’ve met Dr. Ralin,” she said. “What’s your sense of him?”
“Are you speaking to loyalty?”
“Some in the room here are concerned.”
“I’m hearing that other places too, but I don’t really understand that.”
“Why not?”
“He’s devoted years of his life to AI, as have Indonal and Eckstrom. They left academia and went to work for DARPA, so that says they all knew it could and likely would get militarized. Ralin has testified before congressional committees. He’s on TV regularly arguing for AI, selling the public on why we need it. That the three of them have issues with some of the military application isn’t surprising. After all, they initially set out to improve medicine. I’m sure you know that.”
“I’ve heard them say that and I’d like to have a longer conversation with you,” she said. “Are you by chance the Agent Paul Grale of the Alagara bombing?”
“I am.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“But it does, and I’m going to give you my cell number. It will always get you to me.”
“Okay, but do something for me before we hang up. Can you put Indie into some sort of context I can grasp? What’s so special about this particular machine? How does it differ from other AI?”
“Big picture, it’s just another step along the way, but a transformational one. It’s part of what’s called the third wave of AI. Do you remember when IBM’s Deep Blue beat Garry Kasparov, the chess champion, in 1997?”
“Kind of, and Dr. Ralin told me an AI advancement story yesterday where the machine is better than any human. Is that a good thing?”
“Not necessarily, but hear me out,” she said. “You remember Kasparov versus Deep Blue? That was a big deal, right?”
“At the time.”
“Exactly, at the time, and that’s really the point I want to make. Fast forward to 2017 when a machine in Google’s AlphaZero program played against the 2016 computer chess champion. That’s machine on machine. The machine AlphaZero played against had everything known about chess, all of chess history, everything. For years it had been the world champion.”
“Okay, world computer chess champ.”
“Of the one hundred games AlphaZero played against it, AlphaZero won twenty-eight and tied seventy-two.”
“So a new champion.”
“Yes, but here’s the takeaway. AlphaZero started from scratch, taught itself chess, and in four hours became the best in the world. Four hours, Agent Grale, zero to best. What’s in the basement of the Indie building you’re looking at is another level up again from that, and it’s out there worming its way into their war machines.”
“They can’t stop it on their end, so they’re coming for it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if they get to it?”
“If they destroy it, we could lose our lead.”
&nb
sp; “Then what?”
“I don’t like to speculate and I’m not big on drama, but if we fall behind and a hostile power confronts us and demands the US surrenders, I don’t think we’ll have a choice. The days of wars being fought only on a distant battlefront are ending. In future wars our infrastructure in the US may come under attack at the same time our bases are being attacked elsewhere. Water, power, communications, banking, everything could be attacked simultaneously. We do not want to lose the lead. We can’t risk it. I’ll send you my contacts. Call me anytime, day or night. Do you go by Paul or your last name?”
“My last name.”
“I thought so. I look forward to meeting you in person,” she said, then was gone.
10
Dalz
That morning at a freeway rest stop outside Las Vegas, Frederic Dalz met with the man running the operation. The rest stop was empty. It was windy, and the man waved him over to get in his car.
“Call me Sean,” the man said as Dalz got in. “I’m your point of contact for all things.”
“Even assembly questions?”
“Everything, and you need to know I didn’t want you here. I was against using you. I don’t like mercenaries and freelancers.”
“Do we have to like each other?”
Dalz didn’t stare at him but took enough of a look and could hear him. Sean spoke English scrubbed of any accent, but he was unmistakably Eastern European, like Dalz. Sean was blue eyed, dark haired, square shouldered, and confident in the way fools are. He was probably the product of a midlevel military unit focused on espionage and intelligence gathering.
“All questions go through me. I want to hear you say that you’ll follow that order.”
“Everything goes through you,” Dalz said.
“That includes telemetry, fuel burn variance and ratios, secondary explosions mechanics, all things, whether I understand the questions or not. Other than the assembly team, I am the only one you talk to. Follow me in your car. I’ll take you first to where we’ll assemble, then to where you do preassembly and stay.”
Dalz followed. In the building where he would run the assembly team, the windows were taped and covered. If anyone asked questions, they were foreign filmmakers making a documentary. Questions were to be referred to the “producer” who, of course, was Sean.
“The rest of your work will be at a leased ranch nine miles from here,” Sean said. “We’ll go there next, and you’ll stay there.”
“When does work begin?”
“Tomorrow.”
The ranch was well back from a two-lane highway. There was an aged house and four outbuildings on arid land. Sean showed him the building he’d use for preassembly of components and for storage, and then where he would eat and sleep.
“Two of your assembly team in the other building will be Americans,” Sean said. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not if you’ve vetted them.”
“Do you have a problem with anything I’ve told you?”
“No.”
“Okay, good, but remember I don’t like you. I don’t want you here. If I have trouble with you, they’ll send a replacement, and I’ll dispose of your body in the desert. Show me the same dead eyes tomorrow morning, and I’ll ask for a replacement. I want obedience and efficiency until the operation is over. That is all I want from you.”
“You’ll get that from me.”
“Good. Now, give me the keys to your car.”
“Is there food here?”
“None.”
“I need to eat,” Dalz said as he handed Sean his keys.
“Tonight, you think about what I said. Tomorrow you eat.”
11
My prescriptions refills are delivered by an ex-big-box-pharmacist named Gary Potello, who once worked in a mall a few miles from my house. For years, my prescriptions were refilled there, often by him. That was before the chain he worked for cut back. When they closed the mall store, Potello was laid off, and he came up with the idea of starting a small mobile pharmacy.
He talked me into signing up, and why not? There were larger prescription delivery businesses already. The idea wasn’t new, and for me, it was about convenience. It was also more discreet, although “cowardice” and “embarrassment” are better words than “discreet.” I didn’t want anyone who knew I was an FBI agent to overhear me refilling a painkiller prescription. Probably no one listened or cared, but I was sensitive about it and lived with a worry that my back flare-ups would get me pulled from active duty.
I’ve grown used to Potello’s deliveries. That’s not to say I wasn’t aware the deliveries could look like a drug buy, but I’ve been careful with that. More often than not, I’ll meet him at his tiny shop or on a street corner. His business is registered with the State of Nevada, and once a year I check to see he’s current.
Lately, I’ve grown warier. Potello has become flighty and diffident and barely apologetic when he screws up.
After the call with Kathy Tobias, I drove to Potello’s shop, a tiny storefront with nothing more than a steel door and a bulletproof window and a tray where credit cards and cash go in and prescriptions come out. A Nevada State Board of Pharmacy license taped to one corner of the window. There’s a bakery with good coffee down the street. I bought a double espresso, and Potello looked like he’d just gotten back from there. He was eating from a box of cookies and drinking sugared coffee out on the sidewalk when I walked up. He’d put his box of cookies down on somebody’s car.
“You’re hurting,” he said. “I watched you limp down the sidewalk.”
“Same old thing.”
“Looks worse and you’re pale. You okay, man?”
“I’m hurting and I’m running late. I’ve got to get going.”
“There’s a problem with your prescription.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m trying to get it refilled.”
Potello was midforties, with a paunch. He favored golfer dress, slacks and a lightweight short-sleeved shirt. At times he was friendly, but there was often a distance between us, some disconnect. I got the feeling sometimes he finds something comic in a limping FBI agent. That’s fair, I suppose, but he was also one of those guys who out of habit look first for what’s wrong with you.
“Your NORCO 5 order isn’t happening. I didn’t get a delivery,” Potello said. “The good news is I’ve got something else you should try. It’ll work a lot better. It’s stronger.”
“No thanks. Call me when the NORCOs come in.”
“What about Percocet? I know you use that. I’ve got it right here, and you haven’t reordered OxyContin in a while. I can give you a few right now that you can swallow before you get back in your car. They’re on me for not having the NORCOs ready for you.”
“I’ve got a nearly full Percocet bottle at home, and I hardly use the OxyContin.”
“Well, use it now. Here. It’ll get it for. It’ll get you through the day.”
He went through the door into his tiny pharmacy space and rooted around for some pills. I wasn’t going to take them but I sure hurt. I needed something. The pain was very sharp when I turned to my left.
He came out and offered two pills on his open palm. That was unusual and a little strange.
“Come on,” Potello said. “You’re being too hard on yourself. OxyContin lasts a lot longer than the Percocet. Take these two. Like I said, it’ll get you through the day, and I’m expecting a delivery later this afternoon of everything else. I’ll bring what I owe you tomorrow. But come on, take these. There’s no reason to go through the day in agony.”
Potello’s attitude was new, half chiding, half pushing, and it bothered me. I could have taken those pills on his palm, but I didn’t. Instead, I left and drove to the office with my back hurting so much that tiny beads of swe
at covered my forehead. After parking I sat for ten minutes with the car door open before lifting my left leg out.
Two agents on the DT squad, Murray and Edelstein, must have spotted me having trouble and came over. They helped me out of my car. It was that bad.
“It’s temporary,” I said. “A flare-up.”
Neither said anything to that, and we walked in together. When I stopped, they continued on as I wiped my forehead in the cooler air and straightened. I got something like a normal walk going before reaching my desk. My back problems were worsening. I just didn’t know what to do about it yet. I kept thinking, Give it more time. You’ve had flare-ups before, I reasoned. They come and go. This was just a particularly bad one.
I stopped in the DT bullpen and sent the photos of Ellen Kinas off to Karen Chine at headquarters. If you were an agent in the field and knew Karen, it was very likely you were indebted to her. She was always somewhere out in front of the main cogwheels of the Bureau. She worked in the same system as everyone but had figured out ways to up the quality and speed of results.
Chine was a connector and aggregator and very good on the phone. She was piped into the FBI’s exploratory programs. Street agents, investigators, they all knew Karen. I loved working with her. She was very into results and got as excited as an investigator type when we scored a hit. Karen was one of us.
When she got the photos with my explanation, she wrote back, Really?
You tell me, I typed.
Have you tried calling?
I’ve been out in the field but will today.
We’re back and forth with Aussies all the time, she texted. Want me to?
You have a connection?
A good one.
Go for it and I’m buying you lunch next time I’m in DC.
Nah, I’m as curious as you.
I hadn’t expected anything for a couple of days, but while I met with Mara, another text came back from Chine: Australian Federal Police know her and have interviewed her. They confirmed dates match and her escape from a fringe religious group in the outback years ago. She has a family and three kids in Sydney. She changed her name to Ellen Goodwin after escaping.
