Nevertheless, he could feel his skin burning with rage beneath the disguise as he passed behind Brown. The man had kidnapped Sara. He’d sent a hired killer after King in Arizona. And in his quest for—what exactly?—he’d very nearly eradicated all life on the planet, not once but twice.
But then he passed Brown and stood with the others—ten of them altogether—waiting to see what surprises the man had in store.
The host faced them, speaking once more into the microphone. “I’ve chosen you from the group because each of you manages a large power plant, and as such are in a unique position to benefit from my little gift.”
Plant managers, King thought. Was this part of Brainstorm’s master plan? Damn, I should have paid attention to the names.
With a flourish, Brown removed the domed covers to reveal ten small black rectangular boxes arrayed on swatches of red velvet. King blinked, tearing his gaze away from Brown, and glanced at the offering.
“Cell phones?” remarked one of the other men, with more than a trace of disappointment.
Brown smiled patiently and picked up one of the rectangles. “Appearances can be deceiving. This device may look like an ordinary cellular phone, but trust me when I say that it has as much in common with the iPhone or Droid in your pocket, as those devices do with an old-fashioned rotary dial telephone. Those devices have been called ‘smart phones.’ Well, gentleman, this…” He held it up, turning to the rest of the audience, “is a genius phone.
“It’s actually much more than just a telecommunications device. Don’t let its size fool you. Each of these little boxes holds more computing power than the mainframe networks that most of you are probably using at your plants.”
There were a few skeptical glances, but Brown continued without missing a beat. “Witness the next evolution of the computer: the quantum processor, courtesy of my new friends at Jovian technologies. Instead of using printed silicon chips, these devices carry out calculations at the atomic level. That’s how we’re able to get so much computational power into such a small package. But that’s only part of it. Quantum processing speeds also make it possible to utilize a remarkable new ‘stutter logic’ artificial intelligence interface.”
King raised an eyebrow at the mention of artificial intelligence, and recalled their original supposition about Brainstorm. Was that Brown’s game? Was he trying to create the independent computerized entity that he had, for so long, pretended to be?
“I can’t give you all the specifics,” Brown went on. “I’m not a ‘techie’ myself. But this AI application streamlines the user interface. No more logic errors or confusion about trying to figure out the correct sequence of operations. You just tell the computer what you want—it responds to either voice or text commands—and it can figure out what you’re really asking. It probably understands better than another human would.
“Gentleman, these devices aren’t just for checking your e-mail or downloading YouTube videos. With just one of these, linked to your existing mainframe, you could single-handedly run your power plants, at least insofar as the computerized systems are concerned. In fact, you could do it from anywhere in the world.” Brown smiled, then after a thoughtful pause, added: “And of course, they are fully functional phones, too.”
“Oh great,” said one of the other men with mock sarcasm. “Wouldn’t you know it? I just signed a two-year contract with T-Mobile.”
Brown swept up the quantum phones and began distributing them to the men. “Not to worry. They are completely compatible with your existing phone carriers. The quantum processor can wirelessly synch with the phone you are now using—just hold it next to your phone, turn it on and tell it what you want to do.”
King watched as the other men eagerly followed Brown’s advice, and took out their personal phones. For his part, he simply dropped the new acquisition into his pocket where it joined the cigars he had pilfered earlier. Aleman would get a kick out taking the gizmo apart.
With the presentation of the quantum phones complete, the recipients began folding back into the crowd, eager to show off the unique devices. The men closest to Brown managed to buttonhole their host, and were expounding on some of their pet ideas for retrofitting the power grid. King lined up behind them, absently twirling the ring, and waited for his chance. A few interminable minutes later, he heard Brown excuse himself, preparing to move away.
King seized the opportunity, pushed past the other guests and stuck out his hand.
11.
Less than fifty feet away, in a cramped room surrounded by flat screen monitors, Bandar Pradesh watched the live video feed of the ten power plant managers receiving their new quantum phones. He glanced to another monitor that displayed the status of the quantum network.
Brown had omitted mention of the fact that the phones themselves did not actually contain quantum processors, or rather, did not contain complete, independent processing units. In fact, it was a bit misleading to use standard computer jargon to explain the functionality of a quantum computer, but that was something Brown had never really been able to grasp. Like most people, the man was unable to conceive of a world that was not governed by Newtonian cause-and-effect mechanics. Conventional computers relied completely on principles of physical logic—if-then relationships, ones or zeroes—but quantum computers utilized an entirely different set of rules where those relationships had no meaning whatsoever.
Of course, it wasn’t necessary for Brown to understand the technology, any more than it was necessary for every automobile owner to understand the function of an internal combustion engine. In fact, Pradesh thought, it was probably better that he didn’t seem to want to know. That had made it so much easier for the Indian computer genius to accomplish his real objective.
Pradesh watched as the number of users on the network jumped from two to six…then to eight, then nine, and he waited for the tenth and final user to go active. The network relied on multiple inputs for operation. Moreover, the system was its most effective when those input nodes were linked randomly to existing conventional networks, so it was not enough to simply build several devices and turn them on. To make the quantum computer fulfill its purpose, Pradesh had designed the computer to utilize ten nodes, all connected to the worldwide communications network via their independent users. More would have been better, but given the prohibitive cost of producing the devices and the dictates of Brown’s original plan, ten would have to suffice.
The number on the screen did not change.
Pradesh watched it with growing impatience, and then turned his attention to the closed-circuit television screen where he saw the ten men were busily downloading new applications and exploring other features. No, Pradesh realized. Not all of them.
He isolated the one man in the group who was not holding one of the devices, and consulted the guest list. “Downey,” he muttered. “Why aren’t you playing with your new toy?”
On an impulse, he zoomed in on the man’s face and ran the image through a battery of tests. To his surprise, the facial recognition software—a variation of the same program used by casinos to identify card-counters and other troublemakers—indicated a less than seventy-percent probability that the man in the image was actually Bill Downey.
Frowning, Pradesh rolled back the footage to the moment where Downey walked onto the stage and tried a different program. This software ignored facial characteristics and focused instead on body mechanics, comparing the way the man moved to both the real Bill Downey and to an exhaustive database collected from security feeds in travel hubs around the world. If this man had taken a commercial flight anytime in the last five years, his distinctive gait and mannerisms would be in the database.
He immediately got a hit from a flight originating from New York less than twenty-four hours earlier. Not Downey though—the real Downey had been in Paris all week, and this man wasn’t a match anyway. Then another hit came up, and this time it was accompanied by an urgent message, flashing in red letters.
Pradesh stared in disbelief for a moment before following the instructions in that message. He took out his phone and made a call. “There is a complication,” he said as soon as the connection went through. “King is here.”
“King?” came the reply. “He’s still alive? Brown was a fool to think that piece could be so easily taken off the board. But this game between Brown and King has no bearing on our objective.”
“You don’t understand,” Pradesh persisted. “He is in disguise as one of the ten.”
There was a long silence. “So?”
“He isn’t activating his node. He appears to have no interest in it. He put the device in his pocket.”
“That is a complication,” admitted the man at the other end of the line. Another thoughtful pause. “But there is a simple solution. I’m sure Brown will be very interested to know that Jack Sigler has crashed his party.”
12.
King straightened his fingers so that his hand was completely flat, a necessary precaution to avoid accidentally injecting himself with the poison.
For a fleeting second, he saw success sitting squarely in his crosshairs. Brown took a phone call on his headset, raising an index finger to say he’d just be a minute. With the call completed, he turned back to King, his lips turning up ever so slightly in a smile. King thought he saw the man’s shoulders shift…was he about to extend his hand, accept the handshake? A moment later, he understood the reason for the smile. Then he felt powerful hands close around his biceps and forearms. King instinctively struggled against the grip, but now saw a pair of Alpha Dog guards on each side of him.
Brown’s smile transformed into something hard and grim. “Don’t make a scene, Sigler. I spent a lot of good money on this little soiree, and I’d hate for you to ruin it.”
King’s heart started pounding in his chest. This wasn’t merely a minor reversal; his mission had just gone from textbook to FUBAR. Somehow, Brown had discovered him.
They must have found the real Downey, he thought. But no, even if that were the case, he’d left no clues pointing back to his real identity. How then?
Brown leaned close to one of the hirelings and whispered: “Take him below and put a bullet in his head. Nothing clever, just kill him. We can dispose of the body later.”
Before King could even think about offering further resistance, the mercenaries lifted him a few inches off the ground and began walking him off the stage.
In desperation, King shouted: “You’re forgetting something, Brainstorm.”
His captors’ stride remained unfaltering as they stepped down from the dais and angled toward a door at the rear of the saloon.
“You should hear what I’ve got to say,” he shouted over his shoulder, but Brown was already turning away. “You think we don’t know what you’re really up to? My team is standing by, ready to shut you down.”
If Brown heard him there was no reaction.
He chose his next words very carefully, shouting them even as he was hustled through the door. “What’s the probability that I’m bluffing?”
His words seemed to echo in the now awkwardly quiet room, but then the door closed behind him and there was no one to hear his protests except for the four dour guards. He considered trying to reason with them, but one look told him that would be fruitless. He knew their ilk well: former military, probably separated under dubious circumstances. In love with guns and killing, but not so good at discipline or observing rules of engagement. Shaved heads, muscle-bound and faces a little puffy from steroid use. He wondered if they would draw straws for the privilege of administering the killing shot.
As soon as the door closed, they set him down, but before he could even think about trying to twist out of their collecting grasp—a plan unlikely to succeed, but better to go down fighting—something hard crashed into the back of his skull. His last thoughts were of Sara and Fiona—sadness over never seeing them again, and relief that they were safe at home—then darkness claimed his mind.
13.
The sound of voices drew King back to consciousness—one voice in particular. The return to consciousness was a pleasant surprise and almost made up for his splitting headache. If he was still alive, then maybe Brown had fallen for his last ditch ploy.
But all he had accomplished was to postpone the inevitable; he needed a plan.
“You are not hearing what I’m saying,” came one voice—a man, but high pitched, with a faintly sing-song accent that suggested the speaker might be from India or one of the surrounding countries. “All we need to do is turn it on and sync it to another phone. Any phone will do.”
“There is a sixty-two point three percent probability of success if the network is brought to active status in that configuration. The probability increases to eighty-eight point seven if the desired configuration is achieved.”
Although this second voice—flat, almost mechanical in its intonations—was not familiar to King, he immediately recognized it from what was said. This was what had brought him out of the darkness. The statements of probability, seemingly generated by a computer… This was the electronically generated voice of Brainstorm.
He remained motionless with his eyes closed, trying to hide the fact that he was now awake. He was seated and the ache in his arms told him that his hands were bound, his arms wrapped around the back of a chair. Something felt different about his face, and when he worked his jaw experimentally, he realized that the disguise had been removed. Thank goodness for small favors, he thought. If I get out of this, I swear, no more Mission: Impossible shit.
“If we don’t bring the network on-line, then the probability of success is zero,” protested the first voice. “We shouldn’t wait.”
“Your concern is noted, Mr. Pradesh. However, the timeline does not indicate a necessity for precipitous action.”
“I think he’s waking up.” A third voice intruded into the conversation, this one low and rough, and King surmised that one of the mercenary guards had noticed him stirring. Still feigning disorientation, King raised his head and looked around.
He was in an office, richly appointed in a style similar to the casino, but without any personal touches that might have offered insights into the man who now held him captive. Graham Brown, still looking dapper in his tuxedo, sat behind a solid looking desk a few feet away, his fingertips steepled together as if in deep thought. The desktop was uncluttered, as though the office had never been used, but King noted two conspicuous objects: the quantum computer device he had been given earlier and his own cell phone, his lifeline to Endgame HQ.
Three other men occupied the office. Two were burly figures in formal wear—security personnel—one of them sitting casually on the edge of the desk, the other in a chair to King’s left. The third, sitting to King’s right, was a small, lean man with black curly hair and dark skin, dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. That would be Pradesh, King thought. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where he had heard it.
King brought his gaze back to Brown. “So much for just killing me,” he remarked.
Brown evinced no reaction whatsoever. His eyes did not flicker and he did not speak. A moment later, the flat electronic voice issued from a speakerphone on one corner of the desktop. “A cost-benefit analysis determined that you are of more value alive, Mr. Sigler.”
King laughed, sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. “I certainly think so.”
“Point one,” the voice continued, as if King’s quip had been an inquiry. “Your actions here are offensive in nature. There is only a thirty-four point two percent probability that you would undertake such action without support. You are, in all likelihood, only one member of a team, perhaps similarly disguised and currently moving freely about the interior of this vessel. It is a further likelihood that your death would bring about an immediate reprisal, whereas concern for your health and safety may presently be a factor in preventing an incursion.”
There was no little irony in the fa
ct that he was alive only because Brainstorm had overestimated him. The truth was, it had been foolish to go in without back-up. God damned Mission: Impossible shit. “That’s a lot of words to say I’m more valuable as a hostage.”
“Point two: You employed a disguise to infiltrate this location. The probability that this action is sanctioned by French law enforcement authorities is twelve point one percent. In other words, Mr. Sigler, you are trespassing. Your death, while imminently justifiable, would lead to undesirable legal entanglements.”
King studied Brown as the voice droned on. The man was absolutely unflappable. “Amazing,” King interjected. “I can’t even see your lips move.”
In fact, Brown’s implacability was troubling. The entire mission had been conceived with the belief that Brown was Brainstorm; that the artificial intelligence was just a clever distraction—a ventriloquist’s dummy, as King had just intimated. Yet, Brown was sitting there, almost completely motionless, while Brainstorm carried on independently. How was that possible? Had Aleman and Deep Blue erred in their assessment of the true nature of Brainstorm?
“Point three: You are impersonating William Maxwell Downey, a guest of the Global Energy Future conference. I would like to know what happened to Mr. Downey.”
King didn’t answer. He recalled the earlier conversation between Brainstorm and Pradesh. All we need to do is turn it on and synch it to another phone, Pradesh had said. Any phone will do.
The quantum phone had been meant for Downey.
King recalled the rest: There is a sixty-two point three percent probability of success if the network is brought to active status in that configuration. The probability increases to eighty-eight point seven if the desired configuration is achieved.
Downey. The quantum phones. What was the connection? He let this point slide, curious to see what else Brainstorm would reveal.
Callsign: King - Book 3 - Blackout (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 6
