Solomon's Keepers

by J. H. Kavanagh

‘Okay, Lieutenant. Glad to have you on board. Pack for a trip. See you Monday.’

  The phone clicks and dies.

  Hal Dooley is pacing his office when Shaw arrives, ten minutes early, at the Fort Belvoir campus and the low rise complex that houses the US Army Special Operations Executive. He is a stocky man in his mid-fifties with big hands, short grey hair and a neck that bulges under his collar. He is dressed in a grey suit and red tie. Only the huge black shoes with their mirror shine look decidedly military. Shaw stands a head taller when they shake hands, lithe and fit and twenty five years younger. Dooley leads Shaw to a pair of leather arm chairs and gestures for him to sit. The older man continues to pace and asks about the flight and the drive and talks about what a good man Shaw’s boss, Curtis, is while his assistant, Mary-Beth, plants a tall coffee pot and an ashtray in the middle of a table in front of them. When they are alone again, Dooley leans his elbows on a chair back and looks down at Shaw. It seems to the younger man that Dooley is pleased with what he sees. He has the air of someone who has bought an animal at auction and can only now examine it at close range. Shaw offers to pour out cups of coffee and Dooley nods. He is already lighting a cigar.

  Thirty-five years of working with men under pressure has taught Hal Dooley the art of putting people at their ease, when he wants to. When he sits down and begins talking, it is as though to an old friend. Shaw feels that he is being drawn into a privileged circle where weighty issues are broached and a special set of unwritten rules applied. Somehow he has qualified to step up. Dooley smells like power.

  ‘I’m going to tell you in plain English what this is all about and then I’m going to let you read those.’ The cigar loops vaguely in the direction of a stack of beige folders on the corner of Dooley’s desk. ‘You’re Intelligence so I expect you’ll want to read something soon and from what I hear you might even understand it. But before you get into all the science of it and everyone’s official reports about this that and the other I want to give you a start point based on nothing stronger than my experience and my nose for bullshit. That okay?’ The cigar twitches and his eyes glint.

  ‘There’s a top secret programme called VIPOD,’ Dooley begins, ‘Versatile Intelligence at the Point Of Deployment. It came out of classified work on enhancing human intelligence with silicon devices – borrowing some out-of-the-box thinking at NASA and some bought-in external projects, notably a programme the Brits had going, called Solomon. Modern warfare needs some smarter people and this is the way to get them. We put chips in people’s brains, Lieutenant Shaw. I was on the oversight committee when it was first broached and it took a lot of persuading for me to back this project but eventually I realized it wasn’t science fiction and that we were falling behind and we had to do something about it. So I became an advocate and eventually its champion and now I find I’m in charge of the unit that owns it. And this is not a research project. The D is for deployment. In the last three years we have put twenty-five individuals through a procedure that plants a device in their brains that can communicate with an external computer. Of those twenty-five, about half have reached active deployment. It hasn’t been easy. We’ve had delays, we’ve had setbacks, and we’ve had fatalities. We are talking about something that is very new and extremely difficult.

  All of this has of course been conducted under the highest security classifications and great care has been taken in the selection of the individuals and in managing their progress and assignments. We believe we have got something that creates a real advantage. We have the results that prove it.’

  Dooley gauges the receptivity in Shaw’s eyes and pauses to take a puff of his cigar and blow the smoke out in a steady stream. ‘Fundamentally we have no choice; we’re not getting any smarter and machines are. It’s that simple. But the public isn’t ready; there are issues to work through. We’ve had to keep it covert, offshore. That’s the way it is.’

  Shaw clears his throat and nods understanding. Dooley stands up and begins to pace again.

  I now believe this programme has been breached. Hell I know it has, but I can’t prove it…yet. Someone has successfully gotten hold of our property. You’ll see it in those files. Someone has got it and I want it back. With an election coming, I don’t need to tell you the reception any possibility of an embarrassment over this gets upstairs. We are going to figure out how we get it back and how we restore this situation to some kind of order.’

  He sits down again and leans across towards Shaw. ‘Before I tell you what I think I know, let me tell you what I know I know:

  One: We’ve been breached before. My predecessor bought in simulation technology from the commercial sector. That’s all the cleverness that recreates the outside world in software. It underpins the training suites, recreates all the complicated mechanics of how things work. It was done under normal secure contracts but last year our intelligence reported that much of that code was turning up in gaming products supposedly developed in Asia. You remember the flight simulator stories and all the hoo-hah about yellow flight code?

  Two: We start hearing rumours about new devices trialling in Europe seemingly capable of recreating experiences in the mind and operating with a sophistication we’d need a full on simulation suite for. It’s all dedicated to the creation of various entertaining sensations, frequently of a pornographic nature, for a media venture backed by Reuben Matzov. All this is crammed into a consumer helmet device also manufactured in the Far East. When we take a look at these things we find it works a whole lot like the base end of the Solomon system we’d bought in from the Brits. Now, my people keep telling me it just isn’t possible that we’ve been breached but I haven’t had one person explain to me how the hell anyone could get that far on a brain interface device from any of the start points out there that we know about. Either someone has gotten hold of the complete works or they’ve built something similar that we didn’t even know existed! I don’t like either of those options.

  Three: This is the part that is most disturbing. The service that I’m talking about is capturing sensations from one individual and sending that experience in every detail so that it can be shared, actually experienced by someone else, through one of these devices. It’s live capture. That means they have an implant chip up and running and installed out there in someone doing all this stuff. Now, at this point I consider all the research, the time, the money, damn it the lives lost in learning how to handle these implants, which God knows is the hardest thing, and getting them to the stage where we can deploy. Again, I talk to our best people and they assure me that there is no way, absolutely no way, that anyone in the world even if they somehow got the raw technology could implant it successfully into an active individual. We’ve learned too much. It’s the most highly specialised surgical technique, it’s complex, only a handful of people know anything about it and we know who they are. Which brings us, Lieutenant, to another possibility I am advised could absolutely in no way on God’s earth have happened. That someone has not only gotten hold of the device and the code; they’ve gotten hold of one of our people.’

  Dooley pauses to see if this has gone over. Shaw’s eyes say it has but he doesn’t speak. The two men hold the contact for a moment and then Dooley goes on.

  ‘That’s what I know I know. And this is where I go right out on a limb. I gave you the numbers because even the army can count to twenty-five. You lose one; you know about it, right? And sadly we have lost some, several in fact. We had fatalities on the operating table. We had fatalities after a seemingly successful procedure, where something went wrong later. We had a soldier on the programme kill himself while on leave in Florida – name of Martinez, poor bastard. It’s all in those files. He shot himself with a twelve gauge and wasn’t found till a month later, floating in a swamp and so badly eaten away they could only identify him by lab tests. Helluva mess and a real job to keep quiet but we did it. We never had a live one go missing and, apart from Martinez, in every case of a fatality the grafted chip was recov
ered. Under the VIPOD protocol there are rules. The graft is removed, the body is cremated. The family is informed of a loss on active service. Dooley waves his hand and stops. ‘Am I making sense to you, Shaw?’ Shaw watches the older man revive his cigar.

  ‘Yes, Sir. You’re saying that all of the implanted individuals still alive are accounted for, that even where there are fatalities the device itself is recovered, removing any doubt as to the…I presume there is a ‘but’ coming?’

  ‘Damn right.’ Dooley munches the end of the cigar, frowns and shuffles in his seat.

  ‘We had our first loss in action a while back. This guy is on a trial deployment with Special Forces, takes a bullet but survives and is taken for treatment. He recovers but is acting strange, the chip and his behaviour all out of whack, and they try to fix him up. It looks like he’s going to make it but then he has a relapse and dies. After Martinez, everyone is pleased he’s out there in Europe under wraps and can be quickly and quietly dealt with, a hero just to the family and largely kept out of the press, out of a law suit.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘The chip comes back, code matches, DNA matches, the works…’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  ‘I was until now, when, guess what, some young woman starts poking around and stirring up all sorts of rumours that this guy is alive and well. She’s absolutely certain that it’s him. I have some of my people check her out. She’s not a nutter; she’s a research scientist, good Spanish family, works for some biosciences outfit in Cambridge, England. It turns out she was his girlfriend while he was on the Brits’ Solomon programme. Don’t ask me how the hell…and she’s convinced he’s acting as the centrepiece in this latest big new Reuben Matzov thing – a goddam entertainment service for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘And you can’t discount that idea?’

  ‘I could if I believed a damn word of what I’m being told. But it’s all out of a secret facility in Poland. I don’t know who half these people are. This stuff is not on official requisitions. The geeks tell me they track the codes. But all that comes back is a bucket of ashes, a handful of bits and a ticket like a garage service record. They tell me that’s conclusive. What I say is conclusive is that there’s evidently someone running around out there who seems to resemble our man closely and who has a way to transmit every fricking detail of what he’s up to anyone who buys their service.’

  ‘And still no one is offering any plausible explanation as to how else this service is possible other than using stolen technology? What does the company itself say?’

  Dooley is on his feet and pacing the room again. ‘I can’t exactly ask Matzov if he’s bought off one of my soldiers. He has people dreaming up bullshit to cover himself faster than my people can read it.’

  ‘There are no commercial precedents, no patents, no R&D history, no footprints at all?’

  ‘Squat. Just a signpost to China and a lot of bullshit about groundbreaking private research and intellectual property.’

  ‘And when you say that the prior breach resulted in code turning up in Asian devices, was that ever pursued? Was anything done? Was anything ever proved?’

  ‘It was Baytran Technologies selling the Asian consoles with our software. They are Matzov too. We could never close the loop on him though. At one point there were investigators all over his US defence supply business and several of his labs but a prosecution there would have meant him pulling out and probably would have cost Keeley Massachusetts. Baytran alone has fifteen thousand people around Lexington. And believe me, that bastard is devious enough to have had another go. In the end, Keeley blinked.’

  ‘There’s no way he could have taken it forward from that point himself?’

  ‘Oh, he’s trying. You don’t build that expertise overnight and he’s certainly been trying to buy it. He’s been sniffing around the market for neurosurgical talent for a while. We’ve tracked a few moves recently. Couple of guys from Mount Sinai we think went over to him, out of sight, reportedly: Korea then China. Frankly, there’s no doubt Matzov’s into this in a big way. He was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. And I think he came and got it. You’ll see it all in the files.’

  ‘What is The President’s disposition to it this time around?’

  ‘Good question. No one is happy about getting ripped off. Trouble is Keeley and all the National Security Council remember what my predecessor said; he was the one who claimed we were so far ahead in the early days and then had to buy in a billion dollar simulation programme from Europe that was obviously ahead of us. That’s how this whole mess got started, why we’re where we are. It didn’t make him a hero, kind of rocked the faith. So they’re cautious. Most of them know that Matzov is a snake but he has his influence there too. Keeley doesn’t want publicity, there’s no upside, but he will act on evidence. No committees, no time wasting. He’s prepared to issue a Presidential Directive. That, Lieutenant, as I’m sure you appreciate, means we have to fix it; quickly, quietly and completely, no matter what it takes.’

  ‘So, what, realistically, is a good outcome here, Sir?’

  Dooley recognizes a lawyer’s manoeuvre and gives a knowing smile. ‘I need a positive ID that it’s our man in the middle of this. I need a confirmation of what happened. I need this cleaned up. We’ll deploy the right team to recover that boy one way or another and leave whoever is responsible one hundred percent incapable of doing any such thing again or of publicising what they have done. Best case is we do all that and we keep the lid on. We clear up behind us and you go on leave.

  ‘I suppose I don’t need to ask about the worst case.’

  ‘Hell, worst case is you don’t make it to Poland!’ Dooley laughs out loud and pushes forward a hand as big as a dinner plate. ‘Glad to meet you, Lieutenant. Read those files, there’s a cover story for your visit in there, talk to me tomorrow morning and we’ll get you up and running. You get me what I need. We have a lot of faith in you, son.’

  Fifteen

  He speaks slowly in good English, despite the heavy Spanish accent.

  ‘He’s been in here for three years. He could ask to be repatriated but he knows what to expect if he ever goes home. Lives like a king, bastard! Here he has connections, what we call enchufe, you understand? He knows people. In your country they know what he did – but…’

  Slow walk up the long straight drive, flanked by wire. Pause at the big sign, La Roca, Prision. Take in the sky, hard with sunlight and the flat surround, bleached, swimming in heat. Into the courtyard and across the cobbles to the gatehouse. You walk slowly behind the squat, bull-necked figure of the duty officer. The officer marches on rubber-soled shoes that squawk a warning at each step. The guards behind are a mock-festive percussion of keys and metal accoutrements. You turn into a long multilevel gallery with wire nets slung along like ceilings between the floors.

  ‘This is D Block, Grade One,’ he says, ‘where they keep the high security prisoners: Algerian hit men, rapists, drug dealers, murderers…’

  On the ground level you can count cell doors side by side, too close, like toilets. Now you mount the first level of metal staircase. The noise of clanging, banging metal is overwhelming. From this point on there are open sided cells on the first level and inmates hanging on the bars like baboons, two, maybe three in each cell. The guards bark out for silence, are ignored and press on with indifference. You are being paraded in your newly issued orange dungarees and the inmates clatter their appreciation on the bars, whistle and shout. You take the second staircase and the cacophony increases. These are the chosen ones and they get to take a closer look. You scan their faces, the studied attitudes, the leers, the enticements, the revelations, the threats, and the poses they strike for their second of contact. A steady stream of inscribed paper cups, rolled pieces of paper and assorted debris showers you as you pass. The body heat climbs out between the bars. The guards crack their sticks against the metal and at one point the duty officer ahead of you lunges sideways and pokes the tip of his stick savage
ly into shadow. He is obviously satisfied with the corresponding yelp of pain. We are headed for the end of the corridor and the last row of doors.

  For anyone who’d seen the photos and footage of Charlie Two in the various earlier stages of his criminal and domestic career, the Charlie Two sitting on the bed in the gloomy two-man would be familiar but still a surprise. He has aged since the last pictures and the smooth tanned face and swell of muscles (pushing the swing, sprawled on the beach, posing on the Roller) has wrinkled, knotted and faded to an institutional grey. His face is deeply lined and his lips bluish. The come on then eyes that had stared out of the pictures now swim in guile and compromise. He doesn’t seem surprised to see you, doesn’t seem surprisable by anything.

  ‘So you’re the guy they’re so keen to make space for. Got a name?’ There’s the predictable smoker’s misfire in the delivery and, there it is, a hint of apprehension.

  ‘Joe,’ you say.

  Charlie laughs. ‘Joe? Okay, Joe, how do you think it works around here? Did they tell you that? This isn’t the fucking West End. What’s with the mask? They never normally put two English in together. They can’t tell what you’re on about, see.’

  ‘I’m not in here for the conversation,’ you say and swing your legs up on to the bed. The room is just big enough to house the two beds, three feet apart and a wash basin and bucket in the recess by the door. Charlie has papered his side of the cell with magazine spreads and a smaller cluster of family pictures low down near his pillow. Your side is grimy blanks, where the wall has been stripped bare. You sit on the bed, draw your knees up and lean your head back against the wall. The room is humming. The background is still filled with the excited voices from along the corridor, now slowly fading.

  Charlie is watching you. ‘They stripped you on the way in, right? Signed bits of paper? Promised to give it you back: money, fags? Course…they don’t. Unless you pay, savvy? I get anything I want in here. Here. You can pay me back later.’