Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

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  18

  South-bound

  September 3

  What was eerily surreal as I drove on I-95 heading south, besides the fact that it was not a parking lot, was that nothing was different, at least from a physical perspective. I had heard the president say poisonous carbon particles were in the air I was breathing—but I didn’t see anything. I supposed it was similar to ingesting highly toxic chemicals found in the microscopic plastic we consume as part of the food chain, but unseen. Or the Grand Book’s assertion that there is a spiritual war going on behind the curtain of the physical, invisible to the human eye, although apparently visible to me, at least on occasion.

  My phone vibrated. The picture of my favorite person in the world appeared. Capucine. The customary smile crossed my face. “Salut beauté. C’est bon d’entendre ta voix.”

  “Aw, it’s good to hear your voice, too, Mason. Where are you?” asked Capucine in her pleasant French accent.

  “My GPS says I’m six hours out, given no traffic,” I said, referring to my distance from Cape Canaveral, Florida. I surveyed the short stretch of palm trees indicating I was in the South.

  “Nervous?”

  “Sort of, but not so much about the meeting as the future of America,” I said, putting her on the built-in speaker in order to return both hands to the wheel. Trees continued to whisk by on both sides as my speedometer registered 78 mph. “Or the fact that we’re all being poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Have you had a conversation with Dr. Hannah about Ahmez?” interrupted Capucine, diverting my thoughts to wondering if our government was secretly using human robots.

  “Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll clear that up. I may have been seeing things. You know I was drugged—a minor detail I was reminded of by the doctor who checked me out.” I took one hand off the wheel while shifting in my seat in an effort to get comfortable. Yeah, right, I thought to myself, remembering the empty maltodextrin bottle I’d found at CEDRA, which was the smoking gun of androids, since I was the guy who’d written the thesis on biobatteries before anyone had thought it possible to fuel batteries using plants.

  “I am personally dubious,” said Capucine.

  “Well, there you go,” I said. “How are you?” I moved the conversation along, since the only thing Dhilan, Dr. Hannah, had told me before our meeting was to keep my mouth shut about my suspicions—suspicions I had shared with Capucine in Iran, which made this harder to conceal.

  “I have nightmares. I see that van exploding as well as . . .” She stopped short.

  “I know, Capucine. Me, too. Nobody’s supposed to see what we witnessed. Are you getting counseling like I suggested?” Nobody could see scattered body parts after a bombing without suffering some impact.

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “I’m scheduled to see someone this week. Are you?”

  “Russ Keeney is my counselor; you know that. So you haven’t seen anyone?” I asked rhetorically, seeing brake lights ahead of me and slowing down.

  Silence. I changed the subject.

  “Do you sense that the people of France support their government’s détente regarding DIABLO 8-16?”

  “People on the streets are concerned about retaliation. The last time something like this happened, the US started a war that involved France. Nobody wants another war.

  “What about Eve?” she asked, broaching the subject for the first time since I had accidentally mentioned that name in Iran—a corporate secret of Phoenix Corporation, my employer.

  “You heard me?” I asked, surprised.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in Iran, since you appeared to slip, but that name sounds ominous. Eve is the mother of all mankind. Maybe your government has created the mother of all androids?”

  “Ahh, so you do believe in the Grand Book?” I asked.

  “Funny.”

  “EVE isn’t a government project. It’s an acronym, although that is an interesting thought, that the government might somehow be involved in Phoenix,” I said, never having considered that as a possibility.

  “That’s not what I was suggesting, Mason. You and I are involved in technology that is farther along than most people know, which is why you said you thought androids might be in play. Remember?”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, I was on drugs. Have you thought more about my question?” I asked, changing the subject again.

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “Nobody is flying without clearance, which I don’t have. But my boss did say I could go to the United States if I had a meeting at NASA. Like that could ever happen,” she said with emphasis.

  “Your minister of higher education and research is Dr. Pécresse, right?”

  “The director of the National Science Foundation? What about him? And how do you even know who he is?” she asked.

  “Your government signed an agreement with the United States. I think it’s more of a cooperation, encouraging shared projects between researchers. Former president Crumpler reinstated the United States National Space Council. Do any of your bosses have clout with the government?”

  “Of course. This is France; they own 14 percent. How do you know all this, Mason?”

  “Google. Makes anyone look like a genius, for a while anyway. We just have to figure out the timing.”

  “Well, ask Dr. Hannah if I can visit NASA, would you?” she asked, using her sweetest voice.

  “I’ll give it a shot, but I don’t work for him—”

  “Yet!” she interrupted. “I miss you, Mason. I hope your interview goes well.”

  “It’s just a meeting. I’ll call you when I can,” I said as I began fumbling with the radio.

  “Be careful, Mason. Don’t go off talking about religion or your aversion to chips. Fu-kus on the task at hand.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked as her accent caused me confusion.

  “Quoi? Fu-kus on your interview; don’t try to convert Dhilan, religiously or politically,” she restated with a slight attitude.

  “Ah, focus!” I said, chuckling.

  “That’s what I said!”

  “Okay, I’ll fu-kus. I’ll call you later, Capucine,” I said, still smiling.

  “Au revoir, Mason,” she said as the call disconnected, my radio landing on NPR catching my immediate attention.

  Are chip implants the imagination of far-fetched sci-fi enthusiasts like the Scottish author Iain Banks, a step toward the invasive dystopian future envisioned by George Orwell’s 1984 or Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale? Or are chips simply another step in convenience for a culture longing to be liberated from redundant and laborious tasks in order to focus on what is most important—building and controlling their perfect bubble? Most know smartphones already track their movements, so why not add the convenience of a chip? With thousands of people around the world already having implanted microchips, it appears to be just a matter of time before we will find out the answer to this question. We asked our listeners what they thought about DECREE 2020. Here are some of the responses left in our in-box:

  “I used to think it was the devil’s curse. But once there was a hepatitis A outbreak, a resurgence of measles, and now the coronavirus, I understood why it can help. I mean, if people have been exposed to the public dog, well, I don’t need none of their cooties. The sooner they can identify them, the better. There’s not going to be a GPS in those chips, is there?”

  “I’m for it! I don’t have outside pockets, so I carry a purse for my keys and phone and other things. With a chip I wouldn’t lose things, could pay for things, open my car doors, so many options. People may think I’m mad, but I’m going to get one! Dogs have had them for years.”

  “It’s the ma
rk of the devil, the beginning of the end—straight out of the Book of Revelation. If you hear about a united world government, get ready, the end is near. Emmanuel is coming back in our generation.”

  “I heard they will have our vaccination history included. I like that. Too many idiots refuse to get vaccinated, putting my children at risk. I think they should be locked up.”

  This is NPR. We’ll be right back. Stay close.

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  19

  Phoenix

  September 4

  His alarm woke him at the usual 5 a.m., but this morning he dressed slowly in his dark suit, white shirt, and yellow tie, considering the job in front of him. He looked out the window overlooking the mountains of Sunnyvale, California. The tempestuous weather had come in fast and hard, relentless wind and sheets of rain ravaging the normally dry area before the heavy rains abated. Fortunately, the winds were blowing east and, since Sunnyvale was more than 200 miles from Avila Beach, where the bomb had been detonated just three weeks ago, they were still safe from the fallout. As for the storm, it had passed by the time Jonah made it to Phoenix Corporation. He pulled his black Mercedes AMG 63 sedan into the parking lot, taking his normal space marked “Chairman.” He grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, taking a large whiff of the leather interior, stuffed the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and carefully removed his fresh cup of coffee from the cup holder before he kicked the dripping door shut. Clicking the locks sounded off a pleasant beep as he took the short trip to the back entrance on the wet pavement.

  He walked intentionally into the conference room, taking a deep breath, trying to project his normal confidence although his nerves were on edge. He gazed at the white walls of the room, admiring the light-oak-stained, oval-shaped conference table he had personally picked out, with 14 off-white leather chairs around the circumference. He put his coffee on the table, squeezed his briefcase into one of the chairs, angling the chair out a bit so it would fit, pulled out the end chair, his usual, and gently sat down. He unfolded the Wall Street Journal, spread it out on the table, and began reading. He liked being early to meetings, particularly the first meeting of the day, since it gave him time to contemplate how things would go, even though he had already planned that to a T. It also gave him time to read the paper from cover to cover. Jonah folded his paper while reading the article about Leon Tuss’s advances with neural prosthetics and his belief that delaying testing was “mind-bogglingly stupid” because of the threat of advances in artificial intelligence. His phone buzzed three times.

  “I don’t follow,” responded Jonah Soul to the man he knew as General Troyanskiy, or simply Troy. “Who called you?”

  “Rihanna Zeva,” said Troy in a mysterious-sounding voice. “Ahmadi’s pilot. She’s looking for money.”

  “For what?”

  “Transporting Mason to Afghanistan.”

  “Except Mason didn’t make it to the mosque,” Jonah replied.

  “She said she can’t be held responsible for being pulled out of the air by some mysterious force at the same time the mosque exploded.”

  “What the hell does she mean?”

  “That she was pulled out of the sky?” asked Troy. “Seems far-fetched, but something is being kept hush-hush in Washington. I’ve only been able to catch bits and pieces, but according to Mason, he was in a helicopter that was forced from the sky. I have my suspicions as to how it happened.”

  “So, who is she?”

  “Besides Ahmadi’s helicopter pilot? Her nickname is Ninja.”

  “You know her?”

  “You could say that,” replied Troy.

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “She shouldn’t know me. I’ve considered this from every angle. The only way she could have heard of me is through you or Carlos,” he said with attitude.

  “Except I don’t know who the hell she is, nor do I appreciate the accusation,” Jonah snapped. “Where did she call you from?

  “Iran.”

  “Then Ahmadi told her,” Jonah opined, since Troy had implied some sort of a mole.

  “He’s not that stupid. He’s also dead,” replied Troy.

  “Too bad. Hassan?”

  Troy didn’t answer.

  “What did you tell her?” asked Jonah.

  “I told her I wouldn’t pay her, but I would use my contacts to get her a French passport to flee the country, since that was her primary concern, at least after getting her money. I also told her I could help her when she got to France if she helped me the way she helped Ahmadi.”

  “Helped you with what?”

  “She’s an assassin.” Troy paused. “If she won’t work with us . . .”

  Jonah’s mind raced. “How will I find her?”

  “She’s likely to be in Ahmadi’s helicopter, looking for a buyer in the black market, since that chopper will bring her too much attention. At least if she took my advice. That’s how you’ll connect with her. The alias she’ll be using is Émilie du Châtelet.”

  “You talking about Ahmadi’s Euro?” asked Jonah.

  “Yes.”

  “Since when do you care about a helicopter?”

  “Since Obama gave it to the SOB as part of the Iranian nuclear deal. It’s personal. It was always the objective of my . . . the Americans, to get it back.”

  “ ‘The objective of my—’?” asked Jonah, probing for what he’d missed.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said, ‘It was always the objective of my—’ Then you stopped.”

  “The Americans,” Troy reiterated as if a slip had occurred.

  “Anything else? I’m about to head into a meeting with Adam and Jack,” said Jonah skeptically.

  “Hassan told me you haven’t given him the updated actuator. What’s the holdup?” asked Troy.

  “You called Hassan?”

  “Hassan called me after your rendezvous. Apparently you made him nervous.”

  “I made him nervous? Please. He put a gun to my head. To answer your question, Mason is the holdup, but he should be back soon,” said Jonah.

  “Rumor has it Mason is going to be offered a job with NASA,” Troy offered.

  “How can Mason get us a new actuator if he works for NASA? You know that missile won’t hit its target without it.” Jonah scowled.

  “That’s why I’m telling you. Demand that Mason complete it as a last act. I’ll deliver it to Anacostia. Just don’t ruffle any feathers, Jonah.”

  “Like what?” came the sarcastic reply. “Tell him the work he’s doing is to ensure the nuke hits the White House?”

  “Just be discreet,” said General Troy. “Don’t say anything about NASA to Adam or Jack, either, not yet. We’ll cross that bridge when it is public.”

  “My plan was to tell Adam and Jack that China wants us to manufacture their latest car.”

  “NIO? You think they’ll buy that news?”

  “They have no reason to doubt me.” Jonah lifted his chin a fraction of an inch. “Besides, I know what I’m doing.”

  “When are you meeting with Jonathan?” asked Troy.

  “The 15th,” Jonah answered.

  “At the UN? You know security will be . . .”

  “I remember what you said. Just do your part and I will do what we agreed to. And yes, we’re on schedule. Jonathan will have the vest as planned.”

  “I didn’t ask if you were on schedule.”

  “You would have.”

  “True. Very well. Keep me posted,” said Troy, disconnecting.

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  20

  Jonah’s Subterfuge

  Jonah put his phone gently on the table just as Adam entered in his typical gray suit. “Good morning, Jonah.”

  “Adam, how’s the family?” Jonah said, distracted by General Troy’s call as he won
dered if Troy thought he had somehow given out his number to a strange woman in Iran. Then he considered that one strange line Troy had uttered in his mysteriously disguised voice. He said, “of my . . . the Americans.” For the first time, Jonah felt compelled to determine Troy’s real identity.

  “Oh, you know,” Adam replied, apparently wanting to avoid small talk.

  Jonah paused, realizing he needed to leave that phone call behind.

  “No, I don’t,” he said, taking a deep breath and moving his hand over his head.

  “Maggie’s upset because Timmy’s having nightmares. She wants to take him to a psychiatrist.”

  “Everyone has nightmares,” said Jonah, sitting back in his chair as it tilted backward, adjusting to his weight.

  “Maggie doesn’t. Besides, these are really bad ones. Our neighbor said we need to start reading the Grand Book and praying. Maggie wants us to start going to church.”

  “Maybe you need an exorcist,” Jonah quipped, trying to lighten the mood, although that line didn’t seem to help.

  “Please. Where’s Jack?” asked Adam, dropping the subject. “It’s not like him to be late.” He checked his watch.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Jonah. “No pun intended,” he added, with a wry glance at Adam.

  “Come in, Jack,” said Jonah, standing up. Jack walked in casually in his white chinos and black button-up shirt, carefully shutting the door behind him. After shaking hands, Jonah sat.

  “Sorry I’m late—got caught in that downpour,” said Jack.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Jonah said, not mincing words. He pushed his finger along the side of his nose.

  “I thought Mason’s last code had fixed the problem with the battery,” Jack said, pulling out one of the leather chairs and sitting down, apparently assuming the issue Jonah was referring to was about the battery life.