Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  Question’s boundaries too broad.

  Slattery said, “Dr. King, maybe you shouldn’t—”

  King waved him off. “Okay, PAM, if we don’t trade places, will Amanda remain unharmed?”

  14% affirmative.

  King jumped up. “Then our path is clear. We’re making the switch.”

  “We need to hear Dragunov’s final demands,” Slattery said. “He could want money, or this could be some kind of elaborate trap. I wouldn’t rule anything out. We’ll know for sure tomorrow, when he calls.”

  King whirled on him. “We have to get Amanda out of there. I don’t need your fancy computer program to tell me that. I’m trading places with her, and that’s that. End of discussion. You guys can run all the simulations and extrapolations you want, but that’s my daughter he has, and if I can do something to save her, you can bet your life I’ll do it.”

  Locraft raised his voice to be heard over King’s impassioned plea. “PAM. If we make no hostage exchange, what are the estimated future casualties of Dragunov?”

  King settled down and stared at the video screen. The spinning top spun, and to him, it seemed like an eternity before it disappeared and PAM’s estimate materialized. When it did, he slumped back into his seat as he digested the implication of PAM’s answer.

  Two casualties. The hostage and Dragunov. 91% probability.

  Locraft and Slattery stared at him. If they didn’t make the switch, they’d get Dragunov, but Amanda would likely perish as well. If they made the switch, odds were that Amanda would be okay, but more people would die, potentially a lot more.

  Bullshit. All bullshit. “These numbers don’t mean anything. How can they possibly take into account people’s judgment or reactions? What about accidents or luck? How could a computer model predict outcomes with so much variability involved?” King’s pulse pounded, and the heat rose in his cheeks.

  Slattery got up, gripped King by the shoulder. Spoke to him in a soft voice, a voice King associated with parents trying to negotiate with recalcitrant toddlers. “Dr. King. Mathias. Calm down. You’re right, to a large degree. As the colonel said, PAM is merely a tool. One of many tools we use to help guide us. We don’t follow what she says blindly.”

  “So what are you going to do? Allow me to switch places with Amanda? Huh?”

  “We have a lot of information yet to gather. Once we know more of the details from Dragunov—what he wants exactly, and when—we’ll be able to fine-tune our analysis. You’d be surprised at how much it can change due to a seemingly inconsequential detail. Sort of like the butterfly effect.”

  If Slattery’s quiet singsong delivery was meant to calm King, it wasn’t working. He had the feeling he was being placated for the moment, only to be railroaded when crunch time came. There was no getting around it. Wasn’t it better to sacrifice one person to nail a terrorist like Dragunov than to take the chance many more people would die?

  “I know the conclusions you must be drawing, but I assure you, we’ll take everything into consideration before we make our plans. Every single human life is valuable, and we’ll do all we can to ensure Amanda’s safety, as well as yours.” He patted King on the back. “Tomorrow is going to be an extremely stressful day. Why don’t you turn in? Get some rest. We’re not expecting anything else to happen tonight, but if we discover something, we’ll let you know.”

  King’s first instinct was to refuse; Amanda was still being held captive. But he knew he couldn’t stay up forever, and there was no telling how long this nightmare would continue. Better to be at least semicoherent when they needed him. “Okay. But promise me you’ll wake me with any news. And promise me you won’t make any decisions without my input.”

  “Of course.”

  Slattery escorted King through the secure part of the building, back up the elevators, and to his room. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him,” Slattery said. He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “And your daughter, too, of course. Good night.”

  King watched him leave, then got up and locked the door. He stripped down and flopped into bed, still trying to parse Dragunov’s words. Could a madman be trusted to keep his promise? Would he harm Amanda? Did Dragunov really want him to trade places with Amanda? He’d do it in a heartbeat, of course, but what was Dragunov after? What did King have that he could possibly want? Or would he demand a ransom instead? Dragunov would be sorely disappointed if he knew how much money King had in the bank, having squandered those six-figure advances a long time ago.

  So many questions and not a decent answer to be found anywhere.

  And now he had something else to worry about—Locraft and Slattery and that crazy computer modeling program. How could any sane men leave their decisions up to some computer algorithm? What had happened to humanity? To compassion? Intuition? Didn’t any of those things count anymore?

  King tried to put everything out of his mind so he could sleep. He pictured a white sandy beach lined with palm trees, fronds undulating in the breeze. The waves crashing in never-ending succession. But that image brought back memories of taking Amanda to Hawaii when she was six.

  He tried conjuring another peaceful place, a mountain cabin. No good. He remembered a ski trip he’d taken—with Amanda. A few other tranquil spots came to mind, and each time, his relaxation got derailed with memories of Amanda. Her angelic face looking up at his, a daughter’s love for her father.

  And he’d destroyed that over the years, with his infidelities and his drinking and his general irresponsible behavior, topped off with Rina’s murder. He’d tried to make amends, but Amanda hadn’t wanted much part of that. Too little, too late, she’d said. But he’d seen progress the past few years. And now . . .

  She was in mortal danger because of him. Because she had the bad luck to be his daughter.

  He turned over and tried to think of absolutely nothing, but that was about as effective as telling someone not to think about dancing elephants.

  He was about to turn the light on to find something to read when his phone rang. He scrambled for it in the dark and knocked it off his nightstand. He found the switch for the lamp, turned it on, and practically dove out of bed to get the phone before it stopped ringing.

  Technically, it was “tomorrow.” What if Dragunov had gotten impatient and was calling with instructions about what he wanted to trade for Amanda? What if Amanda had escaped and was calling to let him know she was safe? He pressed the button and mashed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Dr. King? Mathias?”

  It wasn’t Dragunov. And it wasn’t Amanda, either, dashing his crazy fantasy. The voice seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Not at two a.m. “Who is this?”

  All he heard in response was static. The signal seemed to cut in and out, garbled snatches of a sentence or two, then buzzing. Probably interference due to all the high-tech equipment in the basement.

  “Mathias? Are you still there?” The static calmed.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “This is Peter. Peter Gosberg.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “What? Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No joke.”

  “I thought you were . . . dead.”

  “Nope. Still kicking.”

  King sat up. Had he fallen asleep? Was this a dream? “They said you’re dead. Locraft. Slattery.”

  “Dragunov blew up my house trying to kill me. It’s a long story. Now listen up.”

  King was having trouble focusing, unsure what to believe. There was one thing he did know, for certain. “He has Amanda. My daughter.”

  “I’m aware of that. I have a man there on the inside. He’s temporarily disabled the listening device planted in your room so we can speak freely.”

  King noodled things through, but nothing made sense. Was this some kind of trick? Something of Dragunov’s doing? “An inside man? Why didn’t this inside man tell me you were still alive and would be calling?”

  “Would you have believed
him? I didn’t want you telling Slattery or Locraft the truth. I want them to think I’m dead.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I need to be able to hunt Dragunov on my own, without their interference. Actually, I should thank him for setting the bomb. It created a smoke screen for me, and I fully plan to use it to my advantage.”

  “None of this makes any sense.”

  “Mathias, you need to get a grip. Please listen carefully. This is imperative.”

  King tried to control his breathing. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone about our conversation. Too many individual agendas. You need to understand that if Locraft heeds PAM’s predicted casualty numbers, and he will, there’s no way he’s going to let you trade places. Not if it jeopardizes a lot of people’s lives. He’ll hitch his wagon to the model. That way, it takes the responsibility out of his hands. Locraft’s spent a lot of money developing PAM, and he’ll listen to her.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Let me be clear. I’m not advocating you trade places with Amanda, but I think you might be able to negotiate better with Dragunov if you don’t have Locraft breathing down your neck. We need to get you out of there.”

  “I don’t know, Peter. It seems like they have a lot of resources at their disposal here.”

  Silence for a moment, then, “There’s your safety we need to think about.”

  “What do you mean? I’m in a secure facility, surrounded by twenty men with weapons.”

  “If this whole thing goes down the tubes, Locraft and Slattery and the rest are going to try to distance themselves from everything. And they’re not going to want any witnesses who’ll speak the truth.”

  “Are you saying they’d do something to keep me quiet?”

  “This is what I’m saying: bottom line, we need to get you out of there.”

  “Dragunov is going to call me tomorrow at noon with his demands. Shouldn’t I be here so they can track his call or whatever?”

  “His call is all the more reason to be gone. Once Locraft gets that information, he’ll no longer need you. At best, you’ll be locked away for the duration. At worst . . .” Gosberg let it hang.

  King wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his anxiety ratcheted up a notch. If they’d gone to the trouble to bug his room, King knew they wouldn’t be letting him waltz out the front door. “Okay, suppose I decided to leave. How?”

  “My man—let’s call him Hemingway—will help. Here’s what you need to do.” Gosberg explained his plan to King and had him repeat a few things to be sure he got them right. “This is the best option. You need to trust me.”

  King didn’t trust anyone at this point. He had the distinct feeling he was going to get screwed whether he stayed there or took off. But if he listened to Gosberg and left, at least he’d be more likely to get a chance to trade places with Amanda. Plus, he’d actually be doing something rather than sitting on his ass, relying on other people. “Okay. Let’s do it. Help me get out of here.”

  “You’ve made the right choice. I’d love to be the one to meet you, but I’ve got something vital to do. Don’t worry—Hemingway will take care of you. Good luck, Mathias.”

  #

  Gosberg hung up his phone, praying Ehreng, aka Hemingway, would take care of King. Was it asking too much if at least one thing in this entire disaster fell into place?

  Gosberg shifted in his chair. He didn’t mind sitting in the dark. He thought it enhanced his thinking not to be distracted by his surroundings. Not that his thinking at the moment needed much enhancement. He’d dug himself his own grave; now all he had to do was make sure he wouldn’t inhabit it alone.

  Six years ago, when he’d embarked on his memory project, he’d had such lofty goals. And despite what some of his colleagues thought, he didn’t set out to create some type of hyperintelligent superhuman. His mission had been more modest, yet, in his mind, more important. He’d wanted to offer patients with impaired memory—through trauma or disease—a better way of life. His father had suffered from Alzheimer’s, and Gosberg knew firsthand what a terrible and debilitating disease that was—a disease that affected not only the patients themselves but their entire families.

  Although Alzheimer’s funding had been growing, it still paled compared to the dollars thrown at just about any DoD program. So Gosberg had gotten into bed with Beelzebub. He pitched his ideas to DARPA, putting a supersoldier spin on things. Telling those who held the purse strings how valuable soldiers would be if they carried virtually every known fact around in their heads, able to recall that information in a nanosecond and apply good ol’ human reasoning to it all.

  Supersoldier, indeed.

  Locraft had come through with the project funding, and at the time, Gosberg had quashed his misgivings and forged ahead—full speed. He’d put together a crack research team, and they’d outfitted their lab with the latest and greatest equipment, building much of what they needed from the ground up.

  They’d made some astounding breakthroughs. Their Optic Nerve Adapter was revolutionary, and if they’d been a private concern and able to license it, they could have made billions. Gosberg would have plowed those profits right back into research, and by now he would have built the largest memory/cognition research and development concern in the world. He was convinced that, if things had gone differently, they would have already claimed some serious progress in curing Alzheimer’s.

  But he was beholden to the Department of Defense. No commercialization. Too risky, Locraft had said. Too much chance of a foreign power replicating his work. So they’d had to keep the Optic Nerve Adapter under wraps.

  And now that things had gotten out of control with Dragunov, Gosberg’s options were limited. Sometimes you just had to cut your losses.

  He thought about his sister Jane. When they were kids, she’d always been shy, withdrawn, and that hadn’t changed much. In college, she’d had a severe bout of depression, and she’d confided in him that she sometimes thought about ending it all. That had been about the time of their father’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, and Gosberg had been afraid all the stress would drive her to carry out her intentions. He’d pleaded with her to get some help, and she had, and she’d seemed to do better for a while. Then their father died, and she went into a tailspin. Then . . . then Cole came along.

  Gosberg had never seen such a transformation. Within months, Jane had blossomed. Cole had the temperament and personality to bring out the best in Jane, and throughout their marriage, they’d been great together.

  Of course, the many months at a time Cole spent away from home caused their share of strife, and on occasion, Jane would lean on Gosberg for support. He did what he could, but even the worst of those times was better than Jane had been in college.

  And the credit for that went to Cole.

  Unfortunately, Cole had his own troubles with depression and PTSD, and if Gosberg had only known, maybe he could have done something for him, too. Gotten him the help he needed, and the tragedy could have been averted. Cole would still be Cole. Jane wouldn’t be devastated. And all those innocent people would still be alive.

  If only Gosberg had known . . .

  But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and Gosberg had always prided himself on staying in the now, reacting in the moment. And right now, he needed to put a stop to this tragedy before it grew any larger. He’d started it, first by accepting DoD funding, then by accepting Cole as a subject.

  He’d end it, too. Or die trying.

  He waited in the dark, a syringe full of haloperidol in one hand.

  A gun in the other.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Two hours and forty minutes after he’d gotten the call from Gosberg, King rolled out of bed. He hadn’t gone to sleep, hadn’t tried, knowing he’d have to get up and get going well before sunrise. He got dressed and sat on the side of his bed, watching the clock, worrying about what he was about to do.

  If they caught him leaving,
he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen, but he knew they wouldn’t be happy. After all, Dragunov was going to be calling him with details about the ransom drop or hostage switch or whatever, and if he wasn’t around, they wouldn’t have a clue where to begin looking for the fugitive. For the umpteenth time, King wondered if he was doing the right thing, ditching Locraft and the considerable resources of the US government for the earnest Dr. Gosberg.

  If all else were equal, he’d stand pat and try his luck with Locraft and those in the Op Center. But he was convinced they would readily sacrifice Amanda for the greater good of nailing Dragunov, and King wasn’t about to give her up without fighting to the death. His death, if that’s what it took.

  So it was running off under cover of night to join up with Gosberg. Heaven help everyone if he was making the wrong decision.

  Another glance at the clock told King it was time.

  He rose and crept to the door. Cracked it open and peered out. All quiet. If anyone stopped him, he’d spin some story about not being able to sleep—who could, with all the stress?—and how he needed some air. That excuse might work as long as he was inside, in the residential side of the house, but he wasn’t sure if he could pull it off if they spotted him walking out the front gate. Or climbing a fence.

  Maybe he could play the sleepwalking card.

  He slipped from his room, moving at a good pace but not quite running. It was fairly dark, but there was enough ambient light for him to see where he was going without bumping into things. He made it to the open central area and slowed, ready to bluff his way past anyone else who might be out for a dead-of-night stroll.

  He was alone.

  King crossed the main living area, reminding himself not to hunch over; he wasn’t sneaking around, he was just seeking some fresh air. He stopped near the entrance to the secure hallway. Once he left the living quarters and crossed into the secure area, his potential excuse would evaporate.