Phantom

by Ted Bell

“I was joking, Alex.”

  “So was I, Ambrose.”

  “So where does this all leave us?”

  “Completely in the dark?”

  “Precisely. Shall we go in to dinner? I believe there are candles. Perhaps we’ll find a modicum of illumination there.”

  After dinner, Alex Hawke climbed the wide staircase to the third floor to say good night to his son. Since he’d arrived so late, Ambrose and Diana had suggested he spend tonight at Brixden House and return home next morning after a hearty breakfast. Hawke agreed and was glad he’d done so. He and Ambrose might not have any answers, but he felt sure they were at the very least asking the right questions. Which, as Congreve had said, was more than half the battle.

  He saw a half-opened door down the corridor, yellow light spilling out onto the ancient Persian carpets. He approached slowly and peeked inside, not wishing to startle anyone. Alexei was already tucked into bed. Miss Spooner, her shadow looming on the wall beside the bed, was sitting by his bedside, her head bowed. She was reading to him from a large picture book, gently turning the pages and speaking barely above a whisper, her luxuriant hair of uproarious gold gleaming in the lamplight.

  He was about to enter, his hand against the door, and then paused and regarded the little scene before him. It was one of almost overwhelming sweetness and purity. These are the moments to treasure, he thought. These rare, quiet moments of peace and serenity, one’s own innocent child lost in the dreams of some fairy tale . . . transported by the words of a beautiful woman . . .

  The door creaked.

  She turned to look at him over her shoulder with a gesture so rapid it didn’t give him time to escape.

  “Oh, excuse me,” he managed, his heart in his mouth, as embarrassed as a naughty schoolboy caught peeking at something he shouldn’t.

  She smiled, turning toward him with the grace of a gazelle. The whole room felt saturated with intimacy, now destroyed by the blundering trespasser.

  “He’s fast asleep,” she whispered. “Do you wish to kiss him good night?”

  “Yes, yes, I would like that very much, thank you.”

  He crossed the room and bent to kiss his son, his warm, sleepy scent almost overpowering.

  He stood and looked down at her for the briefest moment. “Good night, Miss Spooner.”

  “Good night, sir,” she said, and he felt her eyes lingering upon him for just a fraction of a second too long before he turned abruptly and left the room.

  Twenty-seven

  Tehran

  Tehran was dead still, at least inside the baking grounds of the presidential palace. It was as though the hot day lay there out of breath. Darius had returned to the palace before—many times, in fact. He still relished the irony that this fine piece of architecture had once been called the “White House.” The Shah’s sister had lived here in splendor and luxury for many years. She had an adopted son, given up at birth by his natural mother because of his deformity.

  That child’s name was Darius. The Shah had been his benevolent uncle. This house had been his boyhood home. These grassy lawns and leafy trees had once been his playground.

  Then the Ayatollah Khomeini arrived and the Shah’s fate, and the nation’s, were sealed. Freedom collapsed under a tyranny of lies and mass executions. It still lay there, restive, seething, trampled beneath the feet of the mullahs who ruled through fear disguised as religion.

  His adoptive mother fled to America, taking all her real children, her vast amounts of treasure, gold, and jewels. But she did not take Darius to America. The cripple with the withered legs who was nothing but a bother. Would never amount to anything. Was an embarrassment.

  After the Revolution, his home had become a museum. Now it was home to the Iranian president, a man whom Darius had come to tolerate, but also distrust and dislike. He hated the fact that this pompous theocrat, this strutting tyrant, now reigned in the lovely house where all of his boyhood dreams had been crushed. The house from which he’d been carried bodily and thrown to the wolves who stalked the city of his birth.

  Alas, the president was a powerful ally in Tehran and thus had to be courted. He was useful, too, since the ayatollah had given him another vote of confidence after the recent election. As long as Darius visited the capital frequently and gave the powers that be extensive updates on his progress in the Perseus Project, they left him mercifully alone.

  The door to the white van was opened by his driver, and his chair was lowered to the pavement on a hydraulic platform. The two Revolutionary Guards standing on either side of the door didn’t even find him worthy of a glance, but he could see they were fascinated by his flying chair. The double doors were opened from within, and he zoomed inside the cavernous entry hall.

  The president received him in a gilded drawing room that had remained untouched since the Shah’s sister’s departure. The furniture, the carpets, even the chinaware and silver tea service were the same. Darius was often served tea in a cup recognizable by the chipped handle, a cup he himself had broken as a child.

  A tall, heavily muscled man, who was introduced only as the president’s military attaché, was standing nearby, uninterested, his back against the wall, clearly a personal bodyguard.

  The president was a small man whose teeth were big and white and separate, like tombstones designed for a much larger cemetery. He wore very thick reading glasses that made his eyes look like broken chips of quartz. His false joviality, even his scruffy little beard, made Darius want to grind his teeth. The large silk brocade armchair he had chosen for his throne made him look like an aging gnome whose tiny feet didn’t even reach the floor.

  Darius sipped his tea and beamed obsequiously at the politician until the small talk was exhausted. The president put his cup down and waved away the hovering servants. They scurried out and closed the doors behind them. It was time, at last, to get down to business.

  “Well, Darius, my government certainly cannot complain about your lack of progress. These recent—what shall we call them?—demonstrations of yours have everyone in the capital buzzing. Especially the attack on Air Force One. The ayatollah, may Allah bless his soul, is beside himself over that one.

  “Even the mullahs are positively giddy with delight. Our Supreme Leader is only sorry the American devils have managed to suppress the entire episode from the media. He longs to see this bumbling pilot beamed around the world on CNN and Al Jazeera.”

  “Mr. President, I am humbled by your words. I will convey them to my team of scientists. They will be most deeply gratified.”

  “Can you give me some insight into these technical marvels? Obviously, you are making great progress. UFOs? Traveling at the speed of light over Alaska? I would like to see one of these things. Can you arrange it?”

  Darius thought before he spoke. The president’s background was engineering. He had to tread lightly here.

  “Ah, well, that is a most interesting one, Mr. President. You see, the UFOs tracked by the Americans do not actually exist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that just because something appears on radar screens doesn’t mean it exists in physical reality. If you have the scientific means, which we do, you can ‘project’ objects onto enemy screens. Moving in any direction, at any speed you wish. Make them stop in midflight and appear to hover, as we did over the American antimissile launch facility in Alaska.”

  “Fascinating. And this ability to seize control of submarines and jet fighters? Destroy missiles in their silos? Can you tell me about that?”

  “Indeed I can. We have spent the last year or so reverse-engineering the Stuxnet worm, the Israeli cyberweapon that invaded our nuclear facility at Natanz and destroyed our centrifuges. That was our starting point. We’ve developed a way to invade and control electromechanical systems at a great distance, half a world away. The technology is . . . too . . . involved for
discussion here. Suffice it to say, we’ve proven unequivocally that it works.”

  A cloud passed over his host’s face.

  “Stuxnet! Completely undetected! And untraceable. These fucking Israelis and their American blood brothers. Their time will come, believe me. I will not rest until Israel is reduced to blood-soaked sand. And Washington to a pile of smoking rubble.”

  “I am thinking of sending these infidels a special message, Mr. President. Israel, but also Britain if you agree. I think both could use a deadly display of Iranian fireworks.”

  “Agree? I was going to insist on precisely that, my dear Darius. We need to project our power in the West well beyond the U.S. in light of what’s happened in Egypt, Libya, and Yemen, this so-called Arab Spring. Israel, yes, definitely. But also Britain. And perhaps France. Yes, I think they need a message as well.”

  “I shall make it so.”

  “Good. Demonstrate our power in creative ways. Dramatic, you understand? Our population is restive once more. We don’t want to have to suppress another rebellion in the streets. Blood, even when necessary, makes for bad publicity on CNN.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Our secret service, I still call them SAVAK for nostalgic reasons, has recently brought me some interesting intelligence about a new Israeli aerial weapon being tested at their secret scientific compound in the Negev Desert.”

  “Another major step forward for our sworn enemy, I suppose?”

  “Or, my dear friend, a major step backward. I happen to know they are planning a demonstration of this new weapon for the top government and military officials. The aircraft will execute a bombing run in the desert near the facility. I can provide you with the exact date and time. Is this something of interest?”

  “I would say it presents a spectacular opportunity for a fireworks display, Mr. President. I will begin work on both the Israeli and British fronts as soon as I return home.”

  The president paused and rang a small silver bell, and a servant entered with a fresh tray of tea and sweetmeats. When the two men had been served and the servant removed himself, the little man leaned forward, summoning energy for the speech he’d been ordered to deliver by the real powers in Tehran.

  “Darius, your progress in the south is more vital than ever. As you well know, our nuclear weapons program was dealt a severe blow by that cyberattack on Natanz. A setback of possibly five years. And so the UN and multinational sanctions weigh even more heavily upon the Supreme Leader’s shoulders. The ban on nuclear, missile, and military exports to our country is becoming intolerable. The bans targeting investments in oil, gas, and petrochemicals, our exports of refined petroleum products, are a millstone around our necks that could sink us.”

  “Mr. President, I am all too aware of these facts.”

  “And now they target financial transactions, banks, insurance, and shipping. It is insupportable. We must act soon to reassert our dominance in the Arab world, and . . . with our nuclear aspirations effectively nullified . . . we must turn to you and your research into achieving the ultimate breakthrough in artificial intelligence and the cyberwarfare it makes possible. The survival of our beloved Iranian homeland is at stake.”

  “I am honored that you and the Supreme Leader have placed such trust in my abilities. And I hope I have demonstrated that much progress has been made.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Of course. I have not withheld our enthusiasm for what you’ve done. Nor our treasure. But it is not enough. We need you and your team to make the dream come true, and soon. I am speaking, of course, about achieving this, what do you call it, the Singularity. This machine capable of surpassing human intelligence with cyberintelligence. We know other countries are competing with us. The United States, China, Japan, Britain, Israel. We must get there first, do you understand me? And it cannot come too soon.”

  “I fully understand, Mr. President.”

  “Do you? Then look me in the eye and tell me that the Singularity is near.”

  “We are close.”

  “How close?”

  “Well, that is a difficult question.”

  “Why? You are a scientist. Artificial intelligence is your lifelong chosen field. How can you expect me to believe you do not know where you stand?”

  “Because we are walking down a long dark passage. We are dealing with the theory of uncertain reasoning, literally feeling our way along with our genetic algorithms. Sometimes a room will appear ahead that seems filled with light. Eureka. We enter—and the room is well lit, but empty. Or we come to a division, a fork; one path leads left, one right. We choose the most promising. We make great progress. And come to the end to find not a triumphant portal but a dead end, nothing but a waste, a waste of six months, or a year. We never know how—”

  The president hopped up and down in his ornate chair, shouting, his face red, spittle flying from his lips, “How close are we, my brilliant scientist? Tell me! How close?”

  “At best, two years.”

  “At worst?”

  “Five.”

  The man regarded him with big dim eyes.

  “No! No! No! We don’t have five years! You must redouble your efforts. Do you need more funding? We’ll double your budget! Hire more scientists, steal them from the enemy, kidnap them, forced labor—we can help with all that. Work around the clock, whatever it takes.”

  “We already work around the clock, Mr. President. But I hear you clearly. I will see what I can do. I understand the urgency.”

  “Then why are you sitting here on your shriveled ass drinking my tea! Go! Go back to your work! If it is necessary, I will send a cadre of Revolutionary Guards to patrol your compound, see that you and your team are undisturbed. And working as hard as you say you are.”

  “The presence of your spying soldiers will not speed the process, Mr. President. It will impede it. My workers are not slaves who need watching. They are scholars, they are brilliant, but they are easily intimidated. Let me handle this. I will perform at the highest level. If you lose patience with my progress, the answer is simple: replace me.”

  “It’s simpler than that. I’ll have you shot. As an example for your worthy successor.”

  Darius smiled easily. He was watching the “attaché” move slowly along the wall, clearly to position himself behind the hover-chair.

  Then Darius’s smile faded and he said coldly, “Let me warn you not to ever threaten me again. The software I have created can never be replicated without me! Never! You think I fear you? Threaten me again and I shall wreak havoc upon you and your capital such as you cannot imagine.”

  Darius saw the little man’s eyes glance behind Darius for an instant and knew what it meant.

  The president had blinked.

  Darius moved his left index finger to the hidden button in the arm of his chair. He spun his chair 180 degrees in a millisecond. He stared into the eyes of the attaché who had a large pistol pointed at Darius’s head. Then he depressed a second button and the two .50-caliber machine guns hidden in the arms of his chair erupted in a thunderous explosion of lead and fiery smoke.

  The attaché was now a large lump of shredded red meat on the floor, the walls behind him spattered with blood, brains, and gore. The air tasted of copper on Darius’s tongue.

  He spun the chair again, facing the horrified and wide-eyed president.

  “Thank you for your time and gracious reception. I must be getting my shriveled ass back to work—and I think I’ve had just about enough of—”

  “Wait! You must continue your—”

  “Let this be a lesson to you.”

  He toggled his thrusters and about-faced 180 degrees, headed for the door, furious.

  “Darius, wait. You must forgive my outburst. I am deeply sorry. I am under so much pressure myself that I sometimes let my emotions get the best of me. I beg your forgiveness. Go and c
omplete your work. I will not bother you. I will keep the mullahs at bay. You have my utmost trust and my confidence in your genius. You represent the salvation of our country. Our last, best hope. You are the answer to—”

  Darius stopped and swiveled his chair back to face his antagonist.

  “You listen to me, then, you jumped-up little cretin. How dare you patronize me? Think, for a second, if that is even possible. You need me far more than I need you. If you ever, ever insult or threaten me again, I can promise you this. You have seen demonstrations of my power. Do not think that I am afraid to use it to defend myself. I can turn Tehran into a parking lot with the flip of a switch. You do not, I repeat, do not want to become my enemy. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Darius, you must—”

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now open these doors, tell your palace guard to step back, and have my car brought around. I’ve had all I can stand of your infamous hospitality. And tell your beloved Supreme Ruler what I have said about our progress. I am proceeding at a pace commensurate with the task before me. I make no promises I cannot keep. And if I am threatened, in any way, I will take whatever actions I deem appropriate.”

  Darius swung around to face the doors. On either side were two priceless Greco-Roman marble statues, one male, one female, that had belonged to his mother. He opened fire, reducing both to piles of dusty rubble.

  And with that Darius left the room in a huff and a puff of gases from the nozzles beneath his chair, passing directly over the late attaché’s pile of steaming flesh and bone. He paused briefly and inhaled deeply.

  Darius had a lifelong secret.

  He simply adored the smell of hot blood.

  Twenty-eight

  Temple of Perseus

  The next morning, early, Darius descended to the ocean floor and paid Perseus a visit.

  “Good morning, my dear Perseus.”

  “You seem rested. You were upset upon your return from Tehran last night. You let that idiot Mahmoud get beneath your skin when in fact he is beneath contempt. Yet you slept very well last night.”