The Utopia Experiment c-10

by Kyle Mills

  “All right,” Klein said, stuffing his phone back in his pocket after a brief conversation that consisted mostly of worried grunts on his end. “We have a positive ID on all three men.”

  “Mercs?” Randi said.

  He shook his head. “Active military. Two SEALs, one special ops marine.”

  “What the hell were they doing at my friend’s cabin?”

  “No one seems to know. The SEALs are posted to Afghanistan and the marine is an advisor in Iraq. I’m guessing they were supposed to be on their way back by now with no one the wiser.”

  “They didn’t just fly to the States on their own,” Smith said. “Someone gave the order.”

  “James Whitfield,” Klein said.

  “Who?”

  “He’s a retired military intelligence officer who consults for an organization that lobbies on behalf of the military. I think you’re familiar with him, Jon. Gray hair, scar on his neck?”

  “What do you mean by ‘lobbying for the military’?” Randi said. “You mean he’s in the pocket of defense contractors?”

  “No, actually. While he’s definitely been involved in making sure that our soldiers are well equipped, he’s also supported serious cuts in unnecessary bases and weapons systems. His goal is to make the military stronger, but also cheaper and more efficient — something that hasn’t won him many friends in Congress and the military industrial complex. I’ve only met him in passing, but I have to admit that I’ve always been an admirer.”

  “Well, I can tell you that those guys weren’t trying to lobby us,” Randi said.

  Klein crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind him. “I think there’s a good chance that Whitfield is the one behind the money disappearing from the Pentagon. It just never occurred to me to look at him. I was focused on criminal activity — someone embezzling or a contractor covering up a failing project. Not someone diverting money to fund an organization looking to help the military.”

  Smith finally turned away from the fire. His hands were thawing to the point that numbness was giving way to pain. “Am I the only one here who thinks it sounds a lot like you’re describing yourself? Whitfield sounds like your mirror image. Some kind of evil counterpart.”

  Klein considered that for a moment. “Counterpart? Possibly. Evil? I’m not sure. There’s nothing I know of in his background to suggest he’s anything but an incredibly patriotic and competent former soldier.”

  “It’s a hazy line, isn’t it?” Smith said. “Doing what you believe is right without any real authority. Killing people from the edges of democracy…”

  “We save lives,” Randi said, sounding a little indignant.

  “Maybe he does, too,” Smith responded. “Maybe he sees the importance of the Merge to our soldiers and thinks we’re poking our noses into places that could jeopardize that.”

  “At this point, his motivations are irrelevant,” Klein said. “What we know is that the man is smart, motivated, and well connected. Your transfers didn’t work only because Whitfield had no way of knowing about my involvement—”

  “And we aren’t dead because I’m one of the only people who really understands the control and command structure of the Merge’s military operating system.” Smith thumbed toward Randi, who was adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. “And of course because of the paranoia level of certain CIA operatives.”

  “Miscalculations I myself might have made,” Klein admitted. “But I wouldn’t make them again. And neither will he.”

  “Can we get him off our backs?” Randi said.

  “I honestly don’t know. It’s a dangerous fight for us to get into.”

  “Particularly in light of the glass house we live in,” Smith said.

  “Exactly. Going toe-to-toe with Whitfield could shine a very bright light into places that need to stay dark.”

  “And where does that leave us?” Randi said.

  “Our primary concern is the proliferation of the military version of the Merge. We need to understand how those Afghans got those head studs and what they were doing with them. Secondarily, we need to look into the behavioral issues that you’re concerned about and the possibility that the Merge has capabilities we’re not aware of or that it can be subverted in ways we don’t understand.”

  “But what’s Whitfield’s angle?” Randi said.

  “If I had to bet money, I’d say that he somehow got early access to the military units and what happened in Afghanistan was some kind of pre-release test.”

  “Maybe,” Smith said. “But maybe not. We found out that Christian Dresner was part of the athletics program in East Germany.”

  “Athletics? I don’t follow,” Klein said.

  “He has a history of experimenting on humans.”

  “You think he could be behind what happened there?”

  “The human brain is very different from a rat brain or even a chimp brain. I’d never given it a lot of thought until now but in order to get his system to integrate with the mind, there would have had to be a fair amount of direct experimentation.”

  Klein nodded, obviously seeing where he was headed. “But where are all the early test subjects? I’ve never heard anyone talking about being involved in those kinds of trials.”

  “And let’s not forget Craig Bailer,” Randi said. “It’s possible that his death was just a coincidence, but now I’m starting to doubt it.”

  “Do we have any information on that?” Smith asked.

  “Apparently his car missed a turn and rolled down an embankment. The bodies were badly burned, so information is shaky. Based on Bailer’s lungs, he was dead before the fire started, but there was no obvious trauma. Best bet is a heart attack. The passenger — a member of Dresner Industries’ board — appears to have been knocked unconscious and died in the fire. No obvious evidence of foul play.”

  “Doesn’t mean there wasn’t any,” Randi pointed out.

  “No it doesn’t,” Klein admitted. “Any thoughts on how to proceed?”

  “Get our hands on Dresner?” Randi said.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Klein said. “Beyond his obvious wealth and connections to more world leaders than I can count, he’s a German national who tends to move constantly between compounds set up all over the world. I’m not sure I could even find him, let alone get you access to him.”

  “What about the psychologist he escaped East Germany with?” Randi said.

  “Gerhard Eichmann?” Klein said. “You think he might be involved?”

  “We Googled him on the way back from Germany,” Smith said. “He worked for a few years after making it to the West and then pretty much disappeared. A guy that brilliant should be at a top university or at least have a trail of publications in academic journals. Instead, there’s nothing.”

  “And you think he was working on the Merge project?”

  “He wouldn’t be a bad guy to have around if you wanted to integrate machine and mind.”

  “Any idea where he is?” Klein said.

  “Maybe Morocco, but we need Star to do some digging.”

  Klein nodded. “We have to move fast on this. I’ve managed to postpone both your transfers but doing any more could generate tracks that I can’t cover. Talk to Eichmann and see what you can find out. But — and I want to be very clear on this — you’re not to take any direct action without my authorization. For now, we’re just gathering intel.”

  “What about Whitfield?” Randi said.

  “I’ll see what I can do to keep him off you, but I can’t promise anything. My advice is to watch your back.”

  His phone rang and he pulled it from his jacket again. “Yes? ETA? Okay, I’ll be ready.

  “Time for me to go,” he said. “We need to get the chopper in and out of here before the sun comes up. Good luck.”

  48

  Marrakech

  Morocco

  Jon Smith narrowly dodged a moped coming up behind him and then watched it weaving aggressively thro
ugh the people packed into the alley. Overhead, tarps had been hung to keep out the sun but seemed more effective at holding in the heat, enveloping him in humidity scented with sweat, urine, and cooking meat. Along the sides of the narrow corridor, shops sold everything from food to clothing to hand-carved doors, supplied by an endless procession of animal-drawn carts.

  Despite his dark complexion and hair, Smith had no hope of passing for Moroccan so he’d opted for the baseball hat, camera, and khakis of the inexperienced tourist. Randi, shuffling along behind him, had disappeared into a chador that revealed only her eyes.

  This time, they’d traveled by private jet, giving him a chance to get some sleep. Despite that, he still wasn’t fully recovered from the episode in the woods. His ankle had turned out to be much less of a problem than he’d anticipated but his use of Corporal Jeff Miller’s Merge had taken a lasting toll. Network records put his total connect time at a minute thirty-two. It was a record that would undoubtedly stand for a very long time.

  He adjusted his sunglasses and pulled the brim of his hat down a bit, searching for people using Merges and finding only one tourist busy negotiating for a set of silver earrings. Dresner’s invention had gone from being a miracle to a threat with amazing speed — something that was more depressing than surprising. How many times had humankind made the mistake of thinking it could control complex technology? Anticipate how it would be used? How it could be subverted.

  Was it possible that every Merge on the planet was searching for his face? Hell, had he already been tagged with a GPS coordinate?

  Randi pulled ahead and turned down an empty side street with him close behind. Feral cats watched from a high wall as they skirted along it, finally stopping in front of a massive wood-and-copper door.

  Star had tracked Eichmann down almost before their jet’s wheels left the ground. He led a private life, but didn’t seem to be making any special effort at anonymity. Who would be interested in an aging psychologist living out his golden years in sunny Morocco?

  Randi, instead of immediately going to work on the lock like he was accustomed to, just stood there staring down at it. Smith glanced back at the narrow alley to confirm they were still alone.

  “Problem?”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Your usual magic. Didn’t you once tell me there wasn’t a lock on the planet you couldn’t open?”

  “This thing’s probably three hundred years old. What do I look like? Some kind of lock historian?

  “So laser-cut keys, computer encryption, thumbprint activation — all a piece of cake to you. But this bucket of rust has stopped you dead.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe we should just knock?”

  Smith scowled and jerked a finger toward the mouth of the alley. Randi retraced their steps and peeked around the corner, giving him a thumbs-up, but with an urgency that suggested faster would be better than slower.

  Smith grabbed a pipe running down the wall and began going up it hand-over-hand, keeping his eye on the rusty straps holding it to the stone. A few pulled out as he passed, but it held long enough to get him to the roof. He crept across it until he was at the inside edge, looking down onto three interconnected courtyards two stories below.

  There was a passage below him protected only by a meter-high railing and he swung off the roof, landing on an elaborately tiled floor and nearly falling over the back of a sofa that made up one side of a conversation nook.

  He pulled the pistol from his waistband and listened to something that sounded like pans banging downstairs. Beyond that, though, the massive riad-style house was silent. His initial urge was to go straight for the noise, but instead he decided to carry out a systematic search from the top down that would hopefully minimize surprises.

  The floor he was on turned out to contain little more than three unused bedrooms. A winding stone staircase took him to the ground floor and he moved in the opposite direction of the noise through interior courtyards dominated by orange-tree-shaded fountains and a lap pool.

  Hinges were all well oiled and he carefully opened every door, finding dens, bathrooms, storage areas, and two bedrooms that looked a bit more lived-in. The last door turned out to be the most interesting. Closed, it looked like all the others. When opened, though, it revealed not a room but another door — thick steel and with a high-tech lock that would be more to Randi’s liking.

  He backtracked to the entry and eased the front entrance open. Randi immediately slipped inside and he signaled toward the kitchen. A Glock appeared from her chador and she took point, stopping in the archway at the end of the hall. Smith moved up behind her and saw a young woman arranging food on a silver tray. Lunch. But for whom?

  The Glock disappeared again, replaced by a roll of duct tape. It was another reason she loved that particular disguise — the hardware and weapons store she could carry with no one the wiser.

  He hung back as she slipped up behind the girl and clamped a hand over her mouth. Randi spoke soothing Arabic as she eased the terrified girl to the floor and began going to work with the tape.

  He’d have helped, but since Muslim women were particularly resistant to being pawed by strange men, he padded over to the tray and began grazing on olives and hummus. It took only a few seconds for the girl to be completely silenced and immobilized — barely enough time for him to drizzle a little honey into a bowl of yogurt.

  Randi whispered a few more reassuring words into the girl’s ear before standing and turning toward him. “Am I disturbing your lunch?”

  “You should try this. She must make it herself.”

  Randi let out an impatient breath and headed back toward the archway. He followed, but took the bowl and spoon with him.

  “Check out the door to your left,” he said when he caught up.

  She opened it and, spotting the second door inside, dropped to her knees to insert a key-shaped card with what looked like circuits imprinted on it. Less than thirty seconds after connecting it to her iPhone, the mechanical bolt slid obediently back.

  “Good thing it wasn’t secured by a rope with a knot in it,” he commented. “We’d have been here all day.”

  She scowled as they entered a small room packed with books, papers, and computer equipment. Randi took the chair in front of the terminal and stuck a thumb drive in the USB port while he browsed the hundreds of German and English titles on psychology and neurology.

  “Damn!” Randi muttered.

  “Problems again?”

  “His encryption isn’t anything I’ve run into before.”

  Smith came to a table stacked with loose papers and began scanning the statistical analyses, graphs, and endless columns of data. He finally dug up a partially completed abstract written in German and used it as a key to figure out the abbreviations on a poster-sized collection of charts.

  “I don’t think I’m going to get anywhere, Jon. If we want into this thing, we’re going to have to pile it on a donkey and take it with us.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said absently, continuing to dig through the papers on the table.

  “Do you have something?”

  “I’m not really sure. This looks like a long-term study of behavior and intelligence. The subjects were all adopted at birth…”

  “And this is interesting to me how?”

  He didn’t respond, continuing to try to decipher what he was reading but finding it increasingly hard to believe. Where would Eichmann have gotten this kind of data? While it was vaguely possible that he would be able to track thousands of cross-cultural adoptions, it seemed like every aspect of the children’s lives — from education to nutrition to parenting — had been meticulously controlled. Admittedly, the study design was impeccable, but it was also wildly unethical and completely illegal. And then there was the astronomical cost of micromanaging and recording every aspect of people’s lives over the better part of a quarter century.

  “Jon? Are you—”

  Randi went silent whe
n the sound of a key being inserted in the massive lock on the front entrance floated in to them.

  She made it into the courtyard first and he ran after her, skidding into the entryway just as the heavy door was swinging open. He pressed himself against the wall and watched a frail-looking man cross the threshold.

  “Hafeza?” he said in heavily accented French. “Where are you?”

  Randi slipped up behind him and pressed her pistol against the back of his head. “She’s indisposed.”

  Smith stepped out of hiding and the man froze. He didn’t look like much of a threat — more like a composite of every aging professor he’d ever had in college and medical school.

  “Gerhard Eichmann?”

  “Who are you?” he said, the confusion on his face deepening. Home invasions weren’t unheard of in Marrakech but camera-toting tourists and women in traditional dress generally weren’t the perpetrators. “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk,” Smith said, taking him by the arm and leading him toward the office they’d broken into.

  “Where is Hafeza? What have you done with her?”

  “She’s fine,” Randi answered, still covering him from behind.

  He stopped short when he saw the open door, but Smith dragged him through. Once inside, Eichmann broke free and ran to the obviously rifled-through papers on the table. “You have no right to look at these! They are of no interest to you!”

  “Don’t rush to judgment,” Smith said. “My field is microbiology but I read my share of behavioral studies in school. Children from all over the world, primarily poor countries that don’t keep very good records and are amenable to bribes. Identical twins, fraternal twins, siblings, all split up, often adopted by foreigners with very different backgrounds. And all completely ignorant that you were pulling the strings.”

  “They…they weren’t harmed,” Eichmann stammered.

  “Please, Doctor. You stole these children. You separated them from their families, you shipped them all over the world through bogus adoption agencies—”

  “They had better lives! Girls taken from rural China where they aren’t valued were given to parents in Europe and—”