by Tom Wheeler
“Who is she?” asked President Tense.
“Another neurologist . . .”
“And Mason Thomas’s girlfriend,” added Crane. “She is also suspected—”
“Oh, right, of being Dominika . . . ,” interrupted the president.
“That is unconfirmed,” said Wesley. “However, since we are still uncertain of her identity, we could kill two birds with one stone—no pun intended. Invite her to NASA. The French would probably go along with it, especially if Leon Tuss is joining the discussion.”
“The French nixed a deal with Leon Tuss,” Crane supplied. “I doubt either one would care to join that meeting, particularly since Leon is an outspoken opponent of AI without boundaries. He’s not kidding when he says it will be our demise.”
“Except this isn’t political and he wants to be involved with technology to stay on top of its advances. Maybe he believes he can be the fail-safe. Everything changes when matters are private and off the radar,” responded Wesley, apparently having considered this from several angles.
“Why would the French want a partnership?” asked Crane.
“Everyone wants a meeting with NASA. Show them a fraction of Jerome’s capabilities . . .”
“Except they already know about the robot from CEDRA,” said Crane.
“They have not seen Mason’s biobattery technology. They’ll wet their pants,” Wesley replied as Crane’s mind raced. “And Leon is a genius, despite his idiosyncrasies.”
“Why not just tell her the truth?” the general asked.
“That we want to install a chip inside her brain?” asked Wesley. Crane nodded, acknowledging that it was a silly question since Anna wouldn’t go along with it.
“If Capucine is a Russian agent, you won’t have to convince her; she’ll want to come,” said Wesley. “If she isn’t, well then, it won’t matter.”
“Unless she catches wind we suspect her,” said Crane. “What do we tell Mason?”
“Nothing, except that we’re bringing in his girlfriend to a meeting,” Wesley said.
“And Dhilan?” asked Crane.
“Same, nothing; not yet. It’s better he not know, for the sake of Mason,” said Wesley.
“Why would Peugeot consider this, may I ask?” said the president, obviously listening to every word.
“Like I said, Leon Tuss,” Wesley said as Crane breathed deeply. “The French may have dissed him, but Peugeot may believe they can use him.”
“Sounds like it is worth a try, right, General?” asked Tense. “Having a Trojan horse in the Kremlin is a far cry from sleeper cells who have been paper pushers.”
The men looked at each other.
“So Operation Gemini Twin is a go, is that what I hear you saying?” asked the president. Wesley nodded.
“Can you even get Mescher from Area 51? They don’t exactly jump on planes randomly,” said Crane.
“Unless the president beckons,” said Wesley, looking at the president.
“I’ll get Mescher. Besides the fact that I’m president, he owes me. Good work, Wesley. Listen, I hate to cut you short, but I have a meeting with Ambassador Crumpler.”
Crane gave the president a look.
“Marína has some personal issues to discuss and asked if she could come to the Oval Office. She’s dealing with a lot these days; it’s the least I can do, particularly since the bombing of the UN.”
“Do you know why she ran after the Iranians when they left the General Assembly before the bombing?” asked Crane.
“I’m sorry, General?”
“When the Iranians walked out of the UN, she followed. Perhaps she was trying to talk some sense into them,” said Crane.
“Perhaps. She is our United Nations ambassador,” replied the president.
“Are you meeting with her regularly now?” asked Crane.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I realize these are difficult times for her, but . . .”
“But what?” the president prompted, now looking intensely at Crane.
“She doesn’t have top secret clearance, but appears to be involved in top secret issues.”
“She’s fine, General. Get some rest. Camp David will do you good,” he said. Crane and Wesley Masters exited the Oval Office. Crane wasn’t comfortable with the conversation, or the direction the intelligence community was going, but his head pounded and his thinking was a bit impaired. He knew he did need rest.
61
Camp David
September 26
Camp David
Crane watched a coyote move across the spacious and perfectly manicured greenery, a common sight in the woods of Thurmont, Maryland, where the presidential retreat known as Camp David was tucked away. He had arrived yesterday afternoon on the president’s orders. Crane stared at the coyote, which appeared unafraid as it loped across the soothing grounds. Crane consulted his watch, moseyed back over to the table, and dialed Dhilan’s number on his computer.
A moment later he heard the strange sounds made by the Pexip connection as his computer established a secure link with Dhilan’s.
“Hello, Dhilan,” said Chesty.
“Yes, sir, General, hello,” Dhilan answered. “How’s your time at Camp David?”
“Boring. And duty still calls. I need you to transform either Jerome or Nero into a petite woman. How much time will you need?
“Well,” he said, pausing, “I’ve been thinking about that since your first call. I would need to eliminate the android’s weaponry.”
“Understood. How long?”
“A few weeks, given I have Mason and access to some of the NASA engineers.”
“Why Mason?” Crane asked curiously.
“He knows more about the androids than anyone else.”
“Already?” Crane noticed the coyote darting back across the grounds, either chasing something or being chased.
“Only a handful of people have seen the schematics of Jerome and Nero,” Dhilan explained. “But Mason is also uniquely qualified, similar to me.”
“President Tense needs them in about two weeks. Evidently Russian president Crutin wants her back.”
“Wants who back?” asked Dhilan, his eyes narrowed.
“Anna Butwina.”
“The Russian NRA aficionado?”
“Spy, yes,” answered Crane, picking up his laptop and moving it to another table.
“Do you have her specs?” Dhilan asked, leaning slightly away from the screen.
“Specs?”
“Forgive me, her physical dimensions.”
“Right, no, I don’t.”
“You do understand that making someone look like a person is 50 percent of the issue, depending on your plans,” said Dhilan, sniffing as General Crane nodded.
“Yes. I also need you to schedule a meeting with Leon Tuss,” Crane added.
“For what?”
“To get the other 50 percent. We want to implant a chip.”
Dhilan leaned in to the camera. “A prosthetic microchip? Into whom?”
“Anna. Who else?”
“You want to install a neural prosthetic into Anna’s brain? Now?” asked Dhilan, whose demeanor reflected his surprise.
“You’re the neuroscientist. Hasn’t Dr. Mescher been experimenting with implants?”
“I’m impressed. For a moment I thought we had secretly given you an implant,” Dhilan said stoically. “Although Mescher is stuck in a cave some refer to as Area 51, that is off base even for me.”
“Well, not for this,” Crane said, folding his arms across his chest and sitting back in his chair, thinking about Wesley’s suggestion that Dominika might already have a chip in her brain.
“Do you know anything about a human test with a microchip implant?”
Crane asked.
“Someone anonymously wrote an article on the resulting self-destruction of AI, citing a test in Russia by MIPT,” he said. “Sorry, Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. You’ll have to talk to Mescher about that.”
“Well, what if someone had the implant? What would that mean?”
“If Anna had a neural prosthetic, a microchip implanted on one of her neurons, we could read her thoughts, given we reverse-engineered the Telepathic Auditor. What about the Geneva Convention?” asked Dhilan.
“We aren’t torturing anyone, just implanting a chip. Let me worry about any ethical questions.” Crane paused. “I thought Leon Tuss was the one insisting the biggest existential threat to humanity was artificial intelligence?”
“Not the only one. Once that article got out suggesting MIPT is experimenting on humans, others joined the entourage. Back to your request; why would she go along with your plan, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She won’t. Nor will she know.”
“Excuse me?”
“She will have an accident,” said Crane. “Don’t worry; it won’t kill her, just knock her out.”
62
The Remaking of Anna
Dhilan was silent.
“I hired someone from Hollywood to set it up,” Crane went on. “They think the president is making a television ad about the ramifications of a lawless society by showing someone without a seat belt having an accident.”
“The president thinks wearing a seat belt is analogous to wearing a chip? Injecting a chip into the hand is a lot different than implanting one on a neuron,” said Dhilan. “What about Leon Tuss?”
“He’s already in the loop on much of this. But tell him it’s a quid pro quo; just don’t use those words.”
“Since when do you care about political correctness?”
“Since the former president made a mockery out of bribery,” Crane groused. “Tell Leon if he gives us a chip to implant, we will help shrink the batteries on his fleet of cars while giving him authorization to utilize some of Jerome’s capabilities.”
Dhilan remained silent for a moment. “He’s never seen Jerome.”
“But he’s seen Cedra and Robonaut. The guy’s been to Area 51; he likely won’t need convincing. On a good day, he considers us a partner, particularly since he is so bent on getting to Mars. Besides, he’s probably already got one,” said Crane. “Invite Capucine Foushé as well. Doesn’t she work in this area?” he asked, knowing full well she did, but unable to tell Dhilan the entire story.
“Capucine works with electroencephalograms, EEG.”
“So that’s a yes?” asked Crane.
“Sort of. It works in conjunction with the Telepathic Auditor. But why Capucine?”
“Leon was dissed by the French. He’ll take her presence as a potential open door with France,” said Crane.
“Or he’ll tell you to take a hike,” Dhilan countered.
“I doubt it. As for Mason, ask him if he wants to see his girlfriend. If he says yes, tell him you’ve got an idea. Make this your deal.”
“Won’t have to.”
“Oh?” said Crane, leaning forward.
“It’s already Mason’s idea. He figured it was the only way he could see Capucine with the flight restrictions. He just didn’t believe it was a real possibility.”
“You’re saying he asked you?”
“He did.”
“Even better,” said Crane.
“Will Peugeot allow it?”
“I’ve been authorized by the president to make this happen. Few organizations are in a position to deny the US what it wants when it is a priority.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is driving this?” Dhilan asked.
“President Tense suspects President Crutin is attempting to infiltrate our government,” said Crane, knowing he had to give Dhilan an answer without telling him about Capucine.
“What else is new? Okay, get me a CT scan of Anna’s entire body. That will allow me to replicate her dimensions.”
“Where do I get a CT scan?”
“The hospital. Tell the doctor at the facility where she is being held. She’s in Alexandria, right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them you need a full-body scan for security reasons,” Dhilan said. “Or do it after her accident. But if you’re serious about having this in a couple weeks, I need it yesterday.”
“One last detail,” said Crane.
“Sir?”
“Nero will need to pass a polygraph. President Crutin will check her out when she returns to Russia.”
“You mean Anna?” said Dhilan with a slight smile. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can give Nero a heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, and skin close enough to fool even the most precise equipment. I’ll just have to program the heart rate to change based on questions that would likely raise anyone’s BP.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing really, except I am coding vulnerabilities into their system. Remember when Jerome called Nero by his name in Afghanistan?”
“I almost crapped in my pants, of course I remember,” said Crane, recalling the incident clearly.
“That is one of the inherent risks,” said Dhilan. “I can’t determine when the code might intersect with other code I haven’t considered.”
Crane took a deep breath.
“Worked last time,” Dhilan said smugly.
“Did it?” asked Crane.
“Has CIA Rae talked?”
“Not yet, but that’s because he’s under strict restrictions. We threatened his security clearance. He’s still waiting.”
“I call that a success.”
“You sound more and more like a CIA operative every day, Dhilan,” said Crane.
“If that was meant to be a compliment . . .”
“I know—you aren’t a fan of politicians or the art of deception. But what choice do we have? We are damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
“I know, sir. I just don’t like the undeniable fact that I am becoming the very type of person I once loathed.”
“Reality is different from speculation. You are fortunate to have been given the opportunity to discover that truth firsthand, as have I. The challenge we have, as do all those with the kind of authority we have been granted, is to honor our commitments without abusing the trust we’ve been given by exploiting it for personal gain or political capital.”
“Tell that to the president,” Dhilan said.
“Which one?” asked Crane.
63
Carlos DaSilva & Jonah Soul
October 1
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
It was 6:45 a.m. Crane had been on the go since 4:00 that morning when he had left Camp David, drudging through paperwork and security briefings before he walked through the halls of Langley and into a conference room where CIA analyst Tom Kallam sat with Wesley Masters. Tom had a mug of coffee; Wesley was drinking water. The lights were dimmed.
“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” said General Crane, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the white conference-room table.
“We just got here, General,” said Wesley. “Did you enjoy your vacation at Camp David?”
“For about 3 hours, yes, I did,” said Crane smiling. “Have you ever been?”
“No, sir, can’t say I have,” said Wesley. “Maybe one day the president will force me to go,” he said with a stoic smile Crane interpreted as code for something disparaging, although Wesley remained an enigma. “I’m going to have Tom lead the briefing, since he has some new information,” said Wesley as the screen filled up with an obscure picture of a man walking. “Go ahead, Tom,” he said, nodding to the analyst to begin.
“We saw this guy at the Russian consul
ate yesterday morning,” said Tom, switching the image on the monitor to a video of an older man with gray hair walking into the Russian consulate in New York City.
“Sorry, I can’t see who he is; he’s avoiding the camera. Was that the same person as in the photograph?” asked Wesley as Crane looked on.
“Yes, he was hiding his face. But I got a partial and was able to match it to Carlos DaSilva,” said Tom, gesturing to the new slide, which showed the face of Carlos. Crane smiled at Tom, well aware that he was the best analyst the CIA had. Wesley grabbed his water and took a sip.
“That’s DaSilva?” Wesley asked.
“Yes,” said Tom. “According to our records, he works for the French DGSI.”
Wesley asked, “The General Directorate for Internal Security of France was at the Russian embassy?”
Tom nodded as Crane’s demeanor shifted.
“How recent are these pictures?” asked Crane.
“They were taken two weeks ago,” Tom said. “We also traced the license plate Ralph Duncan gave the police before he was shot.”
“Who? Oh, right, the assassinated wacko. What’s that got to do with DaSilva?” asked Crane.
“Getting there,” said Tom. “The plate was a phony. Wasn’t registered to anybody.”
Crane sipped his coffee.
“Perhaps he misread it or made it up,” said Wesley.
“Perhaps,” Tom agreed.
“So why are we discussing a made-up or misread plate?” asked Crane, confused.
“By itself it’s of no significance, but since the guy who gave us the bogus plate had his head blown off, and we have a photo of a girl at the United Nations that fits the description given to us by the same dead guy, well, we have granted it more thought,” said Tom with pursed lips as Crane’s forehead wrinkled. “Ralph Duncan, our dead witness, said it was a California plate, yellow on a dark blue background. Not one of the white ones or the sky-blue color, but dark.”
“I suppose that would be interesting to the DMV,” Crane surmised. “Not so much to me, though.” He looked at Wesley. “Wesley, does this make sense to you?”
