Kill Decision

by Daniel Suarez

  Evans cast an incredulous look at Odin. “Is she for real?”

  Odin nodded.

  Evans turned back to McKinney. “Ah. Right. Let me just hook you up. . . .”

  “Mr. Evans—”

  “No, let me just confirm this: You want to eavesdrop on the eavesdroppers—have I got that right? Which pretty much means you need root access to whatever the NSA developed Project ThinThread into, not to mention AT&T’s Aurora database—quite possibly the biggest data store on earth.”

  McKinney held up her hands. “Look, I know that—”

  “No problem. I figure we can knock this out in a few minutes.”

  Odin interjected. “Mort, this is no joke. My mission is to identify whoever’s behind the drone attacks—and when we got close, somebody inside the system sent drones after us.”

  Evans just rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. “I’m not hearing this.”

  “Someone in the establishment might be behind the drones. I need to find out who.”

  “Fuck! Why the hell did you come down here? Goddammit, man! I finally have my life together.”

  Odin leveled the pistol at Evans. “I guess we’re through, then. . . .”

  Evans raised his hands to hold him off. “And if by some miracle I manage to do this? What then—you kill me and dump me in the Everglades?”

  “Is there anything in my past behavior that leads you to believe I would kill for no reason? You know damn well that shopkeeper in Dushanbe was a bomb maker. That he strapped bombs to kids.”

  They sat staring at each other for several moments, Evans breathing heavily.

  “There are big issues on the line—not just national defense, but the future of the human race, and I’m convinced you can point us in the right direction. Someone has hijacked at least part of the national security apparatus, and I think it’s related to the multibillion-dollar autonomous drone bill being fast-tracked through Congress. How do we find out who?”

  Evans looked horrified. “Oh, man! You’ve got to be shitting me. These are not people I want to tangle with.”

  Odin raised the gun again. “I’m going to make you do the right thing, even if it kills you.”

  McKinney nudged it aside. “He’s going to help us.”

  “This is why you shouldn’t get involved in the underworld, Mort. What’s to stop me from letting them know you helped us, even if you haven’t? I could just pick up your phone and speak over the line in my voice. That should do it.” Odin reached for the receiver.

  “Don’t!” Evans slid the phone away. “What you’re asking is hopeless, but I’ll see what I can do. But we can’t do it here. I need access to real equipment.”

  * * *

  McKinney glanced around the huge condo with its tall windows and wide view of the bay. It was a penthouse unit in a quasi-Mediterranean twenty-story tower on Bayshore Boulevard. The condo was new and looked relatively unlived in—there was no clutter or dirty dishes. It was coherently, if a bit enthusiastically, decorated. There was an L-shaped sectional sofa on a zebra carpet, wide expanses of wood floor, a full bar, mirrors, brushed steel lamps, urns, bold modernist paintings that said nothing, but loudly, as well as petrified blowfish and other bric-a-brac on shelving units that McKinney couldn’t quite map to the urban cowboy who presumably owned it.

  Once he’d conceded defeat, Evans didn’t put up much fuss about being hijacked by Odin. He seemed resigned to his fate. McKinney had followed Evans’s Jaguar in her domestic rental car, watching as he chatted constantly at Odin sitting in the passenger seat. Now Evans seemed almost jovial, humming to himself as he fixed a drink at the bar just off the living area.

  “Want anything, Professor?”

  She shook her head.

  “I make a mean mai tai.”

  “I said no. Thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. You know, you’re pretty cute, in a tomboyish sort of way. What kind of chick joins CIA, anyway?”

  “I’m not CIA. Let’s just stick to business, Mr. Evans.” She joined Odin, who stood at the glass wall overlooking the glittering water of the bay. “Do you really think this goombah can get us access to anything?”

  Odin remained poker-faced. “No, but he can get us to the people who can. I’m just waiting for him to make his move.”

  This surprised her. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Evans worked a silver martini shaker, then tapped the top on the edge of the bar, deftly pulling the halves apart. He poured through a strainer into a chilled martini glass.

  Odin spoke while facing the window. “You’ve gone up in the world, Mordecai. How much did this place set you back?”

  “A million five—only half a million more than it’s worth now, which actually passes for real estate acumen in Florida nowadays. But I don’t give a shit. Zion’s doing booming business.” He took a sip and let out a satisfied “Aaaahhh.”

  “Interesting that your company has no website—given your mad technical skills.” Odin turned to him. “What does Zion Group do exactly?”

  “We work under contract to public relations firms. Boring stuff, but it pays well.”

  Odin just stared at him. “I’m not going to ask twice.”

  “Jesus, Odin. Chill out, man. I just didn’t want to bore your hot little friend here.”

  “Cut that shit out right now. The professor’s smarter than you. Now tell me what Zion’s a front for.”

  Evans held up his hands. “It’s not a front for anything. We—”

  Odin gripped the edge of a mango-wood shelving unit dotted with vases and small sculptures.

  “Oh. Come on, Odin—”

  He tipped it over and it crashed across the floor, shattering the edge of a glass coffee table.

  “What the hell, man? I paid somebody to buy that.”

  Odin stepped over the wreckage toward the bar. “When I ask you a question, I want a prompt, thorough, and accurate response.”

  “What about elicitation? You’re supposed to start with elicitation, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I don’t have time to pussyfoot around with you. You’re a scumbag. You’ve always been a scumbag, and you’ll always be a scumbag. What’s Zion’s real business?”

  Evans was looking at his wrecked living room. “Dammit.” He focused on Odin. “Fine. We do personae management. A gorilla like you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Evans searched for the words. “We harness social media for multinational clients—help push brands.”

  “Do you do intelligence work? DOD influence operations?”

  Evans shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

  “Who were the ‘official’ friends you mentioned back at the office—the ones who supposedly have your back?”

  “I don’t know. I have a number to call if there are problems. I’ve never had a reason to use it.”

  Odin studied him. “So let me parse this into something I know Mordecai would be involved in. Let’s see. . . . You game social media to make it lie to the world. Does that about sum it up?”

  “It’s a bit more sophisticated than that, and it requires engineering skill. They’re called sock puppets. We create armies of artificial online personas—user accounts that espouse views certain interested parties want espoused. We flood forums, online comment sections, social media. It requires good software to manage it all—to automate the messaging while maintaining uniqueness, and to keep all the fictional personalities and causes straight. I took the logic from my bot-herding software—from the gold-farming operation in China.”

  “Where do you get your contracts?”

  “I told you: public relations firms—or at least their secret ‘whisper marketing’ subsidiaries. In the old days they used armies of paid shills to sing the praises of products and causes online, but human beings are unreliable. We’re more cost-effective. You want a million ‘people’ to say the same thing online, on a certain day, at a certain hour? I’m your man.”

  “Politica
l work?”

  “Sure. We have political clients. Beltway lobbying firms—but they’re all public relations subsidiaries of big parents. They use scores of front companies.”

  McKinney looked to Odin to register her disgust. “They’re undermining the democracy of the Internet is what they’re doing.”

  “Oh, please. Look, we’re using our technical savvy to promote a point of view. That’s not illegal. And we’ve created some pretty popular personas—puppets with hundreds of thousands of followers. I’ve got actual goddamned fans for some of my personas.”

  “How many people in your organization?”

  “It’s way bigger than what you saw. I’m not a nobody, Odin. We manage operatives all around the world.” Evans smiled at the thought. “I remember getting a thrill penetrating government networks, but this . . . hell. Nothing like the thrill of influencing events. It’s amazing what a few people and a little money can accomplish online. Our puppets have turned whole elections. Especially when the oppo-research people give us something to go public with. And then our puppets up-vote the shit out of it, even if it’s no big deal. We can create public outrage from almost nothing.”

  McKinney gestured to Evans. “How can you be proud of this? What you’re doing is creating false consensus. A ‘popular’ movement that doesn’t exist.”

  “The term is astroturfing, and, yes, it’s quite a challenge.”

  Odin nudged McKinney back as she started getting angry. “Focus on the mission, Professor.”

  Evans chuckled as he sipped his mai tai. “Is she really upset?”

  “People need to know what these guys are doing.”

  “Pffftttt! Give me a break. Everyone knows. Why do you think they all want a piece of it? Detecting and neutralizing opposition or promoting your agenda—that’s what social media’s for.”

  “The purpose was to get around media gatekeepers.”

  He waved her off. “Yeah, and look how that turned out. Everyone on the Internet is talking about television and everyone on television is talking about the Internet. The whole damned thing is a self-licking ice cream cone, and you’re blaming me? The big boys have taken over. They’re fencing the Net off. Hell, even the CIA has a social media desk with hip young intelligence analysts ‘monitoring the threat/opportunity profile’ and reporting back in 140-character bursts of TWITINT.”

  Odin stepped between them. “Who are these PR firms that hire you?”

  “Big. Owned by D.C. law firms. Powerful. Jacked into everything—all the data moving through society. Cell phone geolocation. Purchase records. E-mail, IM, social networks. They’re mining it all in real time to find opposition to their clients’ interests. To spot trouble and opportunities. If someone’s talking about something they’re interested in—they know about it. And they can change the public conversation if necessary, modify public perceptions—rewrite reality in real time. It’s impressive. They could make Mother Teresa into the devil and Adolf Hitler into Saint Francis of Assisi if they wanted to.”

  McKinney stared at him with utter contempt.

  He started making another drink. “Don’t hate the playa, Professor. Hate the game. At least I’m not a bottom-feeder like the data cosmeticians and trash consultants—monitoring celebrity effluent to tell a consistent ‘brand story.’ Everything the public sees is managed. If there’s a valuable brand to protect—whether it’s a person or a dish soap—these fuckers are out there protecting it, shaping the narrative. I mean . . . who the hell follows dish soap on Twitter? How does anyone believe that shit’s real?”

  Just then McKinney noticed one of Odin’s ravens alight upon the balcony railing beyond the glass. It looked agitated, cawing silently beyond the double-insulated panes and hopping along the metal railing in alarm.

  Odin stopped cold, and then turned to Evans. “You never disappoint, do you?”

  Evans looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Odin pulled the pistol again. “You sent out a distress signal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Odin grabbed him by the collar and pulled him completely over the bar, sending barstools scattering as Evans landed on the floor with a thud. “When did you make the call, Morty? When!” Odin ground his knee into the back of the guy’s neck, pinning his face to the wooden floor.

  “Ahhh! Fuck! I didn’t! Odin!”

  McKinney shouted, “Odin, for godsakes—”

  “Who did you call, Morty?”

  After a moment of gasping, Evans held up a hand in submission. “My handler. Back at the office—when you broke in. I own the building. I get an alert when my floor button is pressed. I recognized you on the elevator camera—beard or no beard. For chrissake, Odin, we spent a year and a half in the asshole of the world—you think you’re not burned into my memory? I should have taken the jail time.”

  Odin cast a see-I-told-you-so look at McKinney, then slammed Evans into the floor again. “You’re about to find out why that was stupid.”

  McKinney could see that the raven had flown off. “Enough! Whatever it is, it’s going to be here momentarily.”

  Odin got up and pulled Evans to his feet. “Where’s your escape route?” He reached around behind the bar and opened drawers until he came up with a nickel-plated Colt .45. “I see you didn’t have the balls to try and cap us yourself. Who are they sending?”

  He nodded at the gun. “That’s for personal protection.”

  Odin checked to see that it was loaded and set the safety. He handed it to McKinney. “Here. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  McKinney took the gun but shook her head. “I’m not killing anyone.”

  “Do you know how to use a pistol?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I had a boyfriend who was a cop. He taught—”

  “Christ, how many guys have you dated?”

  “Oh, you’re going to turn this into a double-standard debate now?”

  He held up his hands. “Forget it.”

  Evans looked at them both. “What’s the deal with you two? Are you actually a couple?”

  Odin grabbed Evans by the shoulder again. “Back exit. Where is it?”

  “What do you mean, back exit? What am I, Pablo Escobar? It’s a Florida condo. Look, I can make a call. I can. I promise. I’ll call off the hit. I swear.”

  Odin was looking around for anything useful. “You don’t seem to understand, Morty. They’re not going to reward you for turning us in. You know too much now.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  McKinney stepped between them. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

  Odin paced. “Special Operations Command is here in Tampa. These people might have anticipated I’d go there looking for help—which is why I avoided it. But it also means they probably have assets close by.”

  Just then Evans’s eyes grew wide as shadows appeared around the window. “What the hell is that?”

  McKinney and Odin turned to see a swarm of black dots—like a flock of birds approaching the tall windows.

  Evans pointed. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s the future, Morty. And I don’t think it cares what side you’re on.” He glanced at McKinney. “Do you recognize your algorithm, Professor?”

  She studied their behavior as the cloud kept growing outside. “I don’t know yet.”

  Evans watched the swarm gathering. “You’re shitting me! That’s what you do? Design swarms of robot birds?”

  Suddenly one of the fluttering bots outside bumped against the window glass and exploded with the force of a shotgun shell—blasting the safety glass apart into a million beads that collapsed and spread across the floor, creating a six-foot-wide, twelve-foot-tall opening. A fresh breeze and the buzzing sound of ten thousand beating mechanical plastic wings filled the living room. The creatures spilled through the opening and into the room, blocking the path to the front door.

  Evans shouted, “This way!” and motioned for them to follow. He headed down an adjacent hallway, deeper
into the cavernous condo, as the swarm continued to pour through the opening. Evans raced down a wood-floored hallway, past expensive-looking but sterile artwork and closed doors. “What the hell are those things?”

  Odin pushed McKinney ahead of him as he took rear guard. “They’re a swarming weapon.”

  “No kidding—”

  “Don’t let them near you. They’re flying handguns. They’ll try to get right on top of you. If they corner you, you’re dead.”

  “What the hell have you done to me! I finally had a good situation!”

  McKinney pounded Evans in the shoulder as they reached the end of the hallway. “You did this to yourself, Mr. Evans. You were trying to have us killed.”

  Evans was struggling with a key ring to get a locked door open. Oddly it had a keyed dead bolt even though it looked to be an internal door.

  “Heads up!” Odin aimed his HK pistol and fired at a swarm of bot birds surging into the far end of the hallway. With the suppressor off, the shots should have been deafeningly loud, but McKinney’s adrenaline was pumping her heart so fast, she didn’t even hear it. Several bots shattered without exploding and dropped in pieces to the floor—and only then exploded like a shotgun blast. But the swarm itself continued unaffected.

  Evans was still struggling with the door keys.

  “Dammit, Morty, get that door open!”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Try harder! Linda! Shoot!”

  She raised the .45 and used the two-hand grip her ex had taught her. Squeezed the trigger. “Dammit!” She flicked off the safety, and squeezed off several booming shots. It had been a long time since she’d fired a pistol, and she had no idea if she was hitting anything.

  The swarm was already halfway down the hall—the droning buzz getting louder.

  “Got it!” Evans unlocked the door and pushed inside. McKinney and Odin followed—Odin last, firing off several last shots. Evans slammed the door as he crossed inside what appeared to be a computer lab. It was a server room lined with rack-mounted servers and a dozen large flat-panel monitors above two separate desks. The place was littered with DVDs, technical white papers, and colorful hentai posters involving seminude Japanese schoolgirls and tentacled monsters.