by J D Lasica
Was this not a chance to remake civilization in whatever form we choose? To redefine the roles of men and women? To rethink the very rules of engagement between the sexes? How often does history come knocking like this?
Three quick raps came at his door. This was what human interaction passed for in his life: door knocks, intercoms, phone calls, virtual meetings.
“Chairman?” An unfamiliar voice, deep and throaty.
“Yes.”
“It’s Savić, a captain on your crew. You put out word to contact you directly if our target surfaces.”
“Which target?”
“Kaden Baker. Chairman, she’s right here in Zug.”
25
Zug, Switzerland
Kaden entered the Theater Casino Zug for what was dubbed the Crypto Ball. She was expecting some gaudy monstrosity based on the couple of times she’d been to a casino. But this place was impressive in a retro kind of way. Set at the southern edge of old town, perched on the lake, the building had tasteful cream facade and wedding-cake trim. If Switzerland had royalty, this is where the princess would marry her prince.
“Jordan Wilkerson,” she said to the receptionist.
“Welcome, Miss Wilkerson.”
Thank God, no one was wearing smartglasses at this gala. But Kaden was wearing her smart contacts. Amelia was still busy crunching keywords from the spots around old town that Tosh had bugged. The surveillance had turned up zip so far. Either there was nothing too shady going on at the conference or the attendees had done a hell of a good job concealing it.
The grand ballroom was already wall to wall with people in white tie or evening wear. She glided past the buffet table with its spread of caviar and decided to fit in by accepting a glass of Champagne from a waiter in a white tuxedo and shavings of black winter truffles from another waiter.
She spotted Bo across the room and walked toward him.
“Well, don’t you look nice,” Bo said. “Maybe too nice.”
She wore her new outfit, a slinky V-neck sleeveless crepe evening gown in a shade of jet-set red that screamed, Available for scandal. Quite a change from her usual uniform of boy clothes and faded tees. But she figured it might give her an advantage if her targets got distracted. She hoped she wouldn’t run into any of the men she’d met today when she slipped them a business card with a room number and embedded bug.
Sorry, boys. No late-night hook-ups for this girl.
“Let’s step onto the patio,” Bo said. He led her through the arched doorway onto a large balcony. It was chilly outside, so only a few other guests were out here taking in the lights shimmering on the lake. Down at the lakeside she heard a few rowdy guests at a neighboring resort jump off the pier for a nighttime polar bear dip.
When the other guests turned away, he took a necklace out of his pocket. “Here, let me.” He fastened the clasp behind her neck.
“Diamonds?” She was surprised, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Fake diamonds,” he said. “But you can’t tell without a loupe. More important, you can’t see the miniature videocam.”
“Another Tosh special?”
“He’s monitoring the feed even as we speak. Hey, Tosh.” Bo tapped his earpiece and nodded. Then he looked at her again. “We’ll be doing facial recognition all night to see if we get any hits against our database. Let’s mingle.”
They reentered the ballroom. She saw Nico had arrived. Easy enough to spot him in the sea of white faces.
She passed through the crowd, smiling at strangers and pointing her chest at the men so Tosh could try to find a match. She hoped to sweep the room so everyone in here would be scanned by Tosh’s facial software. The task would be much harder during the second half of the event when guests peeled away to hit the slopes for Zug’s famous Full Moon Skiing Gala.
“Pardon, I don’t think we’ve met.” The voice came from her right. She turned to face a tall man with blond hair and a touch of gray and brilliant blue eyes. He was dressed in a cashmere wool blend suit and looked to be about thirty-five.
“I’m Jordan Wilkerson.”
“Jacques Bouchard, from Provence.” He tilted and bowed his head in a greeting she found oddly charming.
“And what brings you to the summit, Jacques Bouchard from Provence?”
“Opportunity. The chance to seize the future. And you?”
“Perhaps the same.”
He smiled and reached out to stop a passing waiter. He nudged a slice of a yellow-orange fruit onto a small plate and picked up a fork to feed it to her.
“You need to try one of these. Yubari King Melon. It is said to be the sweetest and most delicious on earth.”
Jacques was trying to flirt with her, but her feelings were too raw. Something about Jacques’s smile reminded her of Gabriel, and her heart panged.
“All right.” She opened her mouth and tried a bite from Jacques’ fork. Delicious, but she wouldn’t be adding it to her grocery list. She’d read about these—a single melon cost more than $20,000.
In the corner of her vision, she saw a new alert from Amelia. She excused herself, much to Jacques’s heartbreak. She passed him with a smile and nod and headed toward Nico, who was standing in a circle of women near the ice sculpture. He probably hasn’t let it slip that he’s gay. Good for him.
She stepped up onto a raised platform and into an alcove with a bank of spotlights overhead. Fewer guests up here, and she could have a word with Amelia. She put in her earpiece.
“Well, don’t you look smashing!” Amelia glided across the waxed floor wearing a sparkly ballroom gown that Kaden had uncovered in an old piece of footage.
“You look good, too, toots,” Kaden said, taking a stab at thirties lingo.
Amelia laughed that heart-dropping laugh of hers. “Not exactly the right term of endearment, but we’re both learning. I have two updates for you. I’ve allotted enough memory for sixty seconds, so let’s get to it.”
She knew Amelia had to get back to scanning scores of conversations being fed to her by Tosh.
“First, you’ll be happy to know we finally decrypted the Ezekiel file. Shoutout to my AI network. Is that the right term, ‘shoutout’? What fun! The bad news is, I think you’ll find the file more than a bit disturbing. Sending it to you now.”
“Thanks. What’s the other news?”
“We have a keyword hit from one of the local conversations we were monitoring.”
“Awesome. Which keyword?”
“Kaden, it’s you, dear. You’re the keyword match.”
26
Samana Cay
Alex peered at the stretch of beach ahead of them. In the distance he saw kids darting into the surf and adults lolling along the water’s edge—tourists who were restricted from accessing this section of private beach.
“Come on, let’s go!” he urged.
“I don’t think I can.” Bailey Finnerty backed away, on the verge of tears.
“Why not? We can get help!”
“Because. Because of what they’ll do.”
He looked around. Still no signs of security goons. He wasn’t even sure if they were being surveilled. No sign of the transponders he spotted earlier.
“Why? What will they do?”
“Hurt my parents.”
Alex knew this changed everything. The undercover reporting assignment he’d been pursuing was no longer a priority. I’ve got to help Bailey Finnerty get off this damn island.
But how? The authorities controlled the airport. They’d have to leave by boat. Maybe he could get her to the marina and commandeer that superyacht. It was a smartship—would it follow my instructions? Unlikely.
He reached into his pocket for his phone. He’d try to call the U.S. Coast Guard. But he now saw his phone had no signal even though it had five bars near here yesterday. Were they jamming him?
“You can’t stay here. Your parents would want you to get free. Those tourists up ahead, that’s our best shot.”
She
stood there, shoulders hunched up in a knot, head lowered, as if to ward off an ominous threat that was about to descend at any moment.
He’d try one last thing. “Look, I’m not Andrew Bayless. I’m not even a real guest of Fantasy Live. My name is Alex Wyatt, I’m a journalist, and I’m here to uncover all the shady shit going on with this outfit. But nothing’s more important than getting you to safety.”
She looked up and relaxed her shoulders. She nodded.
“Let’s go!”
“Wait!” She bent over and plucked out one contact lens and then the other.
“Why’d you do that?”
“They can see everything.”
“Maybe you could have mentioned that earlier.” All right, deal with it, Wyatt. My cover is now officially blown.
They raced down the beach. The throng of tourists was only a few hundred yards ahead. They galloped past a blur of palm trees, sending a pair of shore birds scooting over the water. The surf lashed at their bare feet. The hot tropical air burned in his lungs, but he didn’t dare look back.
He needed a plan. Find a tourist with a phone. Call the States for help. Someone he knew and trusted. Kaden? She was traveling out of the country. The Axom newsroom!
“Aargh!” Bailey dropped to her knees in agony. Her fingers grasped at the choke collar around her neck. She couldn’t remove it.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
She grimaced, struggling for the words to form. “It’s like I touched an electric socket or something. There’s pain shooting down my entire chest.”
He leaned over her and inspected the back of her choker, a solid white strip of leather that fit snugly around her throat. For some reason, the clasp wouldn’t unfasten. The neckband wouldn’t come off.
Alex realized what was happening. Bailey was geofenced.
27
Zug, Switzerland
Maxim Volkov settled into his chair in the pitch blackness. He would have to trust that Lucid and the advance team had gotten this set-up right. His entire reputation—perhaps his entire empire—depended on it.
He watched as members of the Compact gathered on the other side of the plexiglass barrier. One after another, they entered the room for the Summit.
“I find this entire process humiliating and degrading,” growled Walid Abdullin. The blustery Uzbek was known for his hot temper, child porn empire, and crypto investments. He was said to be worth more than $40 billion, though the real number was probably double that.
“I agree. This is an insult to us all!” Radovan Broz, the beetle-browed Serbian, all but spit out the words. He had made the bulk of his fortune in black market arms dealing.
The security process for admittance to their exclusive gathering was brutal: Staff was not permitted inside the sealed-off conference room. No phones or recording devices were allowed. To enter, each man had to pass through a gauntlet of steps to authenticate his identity, ending with a full body scan and facial recognition scan.
No wonder they were in a foul mood.
“Relax. Security is the price of admission.” Jaco Kruger, the portly South African who made his fortune in blood diamonds, stood at the long table replete with delicacies. Beluga caviar, specialty foods, liqueurs, and fine wines were flown in for the occasion. Kruger grabbed a pair of whiskey glasses and a bottle of fifty-year-old single malt Scotch whisky and set them down next to the nameplate at his seat.
Most of the Compact’s members had never met each other. None had met Volkov in person. For the moment, he could view them while they didn’t know he sat only feet away. It gave him a chance to see how the principals might interact when all their accoutrements of prestige and power were stripped away and all that remained was the man himself.
“I have had my doubts that this man, Incognito, even exists.” Zhang Lee, an investor from China, took his seat. He looked like a mild-mannered accountant. Behind his back he was known as the King of Human Trafficking.
“Oh, he exists, all right.” The host, Zaven Kasparian, nodded and shot him a glance through the darkened glass. “Arrived with his entourage six hours ago.”
Volkov felt relieved Kasparian left it there and didn’t mention his son’s encounter. Lucid must have made an impression.
“Amigos!” Luis Alcivar, an Ecuadoran business mogul and retired general, stepped into the room and loosened his silk tie. “It appears I’m overdressed. Stuffy in here. Can we open the window?”
Kasparian stood and played with the thermostat next to the digital screen mounted on the wall to get some ventilation going. He’d had the conference room windows bolted shut earlier today as a security precaution.
With Alcivar’s entry, the last of the billionaires had arrived. Counting Volkov, that made seven. Seven kings for seven spheres of influence.
All of them had engaged in dubious cryptocurrency trading, exploiting market volatility. And while none of the seven would be found on the pages of Forbes or Fortune, they wielded influence beyond their wealth. These were the most powerful men on earth who made things happen in the shadows.
Volkov leaned forward. It was time to reveal his presence. He spoke into a small microphone. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming.” His voice sounded from all sides via the mobile speakers set up by his team. The billionaires looked up and around, as if searching for the voice of God.
“Show yourself, Incognito,” Broz said. “I agreed to come because they said you would be here in person. No more magic tricks.”
Volkov had feared as much. Here he was, the convener of the Compact, the man who would be ushering in a new era for humanity, and they questioned how he chose to present himself. What did it matter?
He would try his first fallback. Volkov put on his black head covering and pressed the button on the end table to his right. A soft light turned on and glowed to his right and left. It illuminated the enclosed space.
“I would prefer not to reveal myself,” he said through the mic in front of him.
“We know the legend,” Broz said. “But how do we know that’s you?”
"I do not trust a man I cannot look in the eye,” Abdullin added.
All six members were now peering into the dimly lit space behind the partition. Their severe expressions signaled they were in no mood for anything less than a face to face.
Volkov removed his head covering and swept his fingers through his hair and newly cropped beard, once a chestnut brown but now mottled with gray. He was dressed in a classic black cotton sateen suit jacket and open-collar white shirt he thought conveyed the right mix of deadly seriousness yet confident informality.
The attendees looked at each other, seeming triumphant in their unmasking of the legend. It was true they could see him. But they were seeing six versions of him.
A team of scientists at the Lab had been working on this contingency plan for months. A new generation of spatial augmented reality showed one could use projectors to change the appearance of physical objects in an enclosed space—say, materials stacked on top of a table or the color of a couch—without the observers needing to wear glasses. Bashir’s lab coats took it a step further so that each member of the Compact would see a somewhat different variation of the man called Incognito. A sort of high-tech face masking.
“The mythical Incognito.” Zhang looked gleeful. “In the flesh at long last.”
“A bit anticlimactic, if you ask me.” Kruger filled a glass of Scotch to the brim. Then he filled a second one. “I was expecting an abomination from the gates of hell. You look normal enough.”
“Sorry to disappoint. I take my privacy seriously.” Volkov stroked his beard. From their reactions, the face masking appeared to be working.
“I’ve heard of germaphobes, but this takes things to a whole new level,” Alcivar said in a thick Spanish accent. He shook his head and surveyed the room. “Is this everyone? I notice the American is not here.”
“Randolph Blackburn will not be joining us.” Volkov was still debating how much to reveal
. The glue that held the Compact together was greed, not trust. They had not yet earned each other’s trust, and they had not yet been assured their avarice was warranted.
“I understand he is in declining health,” Kasparian offered.
“That,” Volkov said, “plus a reason that will soon be apparent. This may be a fitting time to advise you: You should liquidate or transfer your U.S. holdings at once.”
The room went silent as his words sank in.
“You’ll also want to take a cash position against the euro and British pound.”
“Good God, man. What are you planning?” Kruger put his drink down.
Volkov’s mind returned to the fateful day when his mother lashed out in a pique of madness, weary of her second son’s insolence and worried about their secret coming out. How he wished she’d lived to see the revenge he was about to unleash on the world. His entire life’s work has been building to this crescendo.
“Gentlemen. Tonight I am here to announce we’ve found a way to vanquish our enemies once and for all, without firing a single shot. Our Lab has developed the ultimate secret weapon.” He decided that sounded less scary than biological pathogen.
The billionaires looked at each other, trying to assess this news. He had been coy about it in the executive summary, describing the technology in only the broadest strokes.
Finally Abdullin asked, “What kind of weapon?”
“A personal doomsday clock. We are about to set it off.”
28
Zug, Switzerland
The most connected man in the world was feeling disconnected. Lucid surveyed the drawing room, decorated with lifeless paintings, antique settees, and rosewood side tables with their tasteless grape carvings and leaf patterns to reflect Kasparian’s fetish for all things Rococo. Second-rate talents from each billionaire’s entourage were seated around the room in the classic chairs with curved, ballooning backs.
