Brains

  “That's why we need to get more manpower on this.” Cameron leaned forward. “We just have to get a firm link between Perez and ServCorp, and the rest will unravel.”

  “Perhaps, but I still need something to tell the NYPD about firefights in Morningside Heights. They hate that.”

  “Terrorists, national security, classified operations. You know, the usual,” suggested Mitzi. He gave her a pained look. He was just about to blast her, when an aide tapped on the door.

  “What?” Crawley snapped.

  “I have a woman asking for agent Hansen, says she has urgent information about Juan Carlos Perez. Says her name is Cathy Holland.”

  Crawley turned to Cameron. “And who is Cathy Holland?”

  “A woman I knew back in the day. Ran Alexander Lake's foundation in Central America. Perez blocked one of their humanitarian projects. She actually provided a lot of the information I used when I went undercover.”

  “Another one of your conquests?” Crawley raised his eyebrows.

  “Not likely. Not that I would have objected. She just never showed interest. I haven't heard from her for years. She is someone I would consider extremely reliable.”

  “Put her through,” Crawley directed, punching the button to put her on speaker.

  “Agent Hansen here. How are you Cathy? Long time, no see.”

  “No time for chit chat. Perez is in New York, he just had surgery to implant something in his brain that will allow him to take control of cyberspace. He has killed two OR workers in the past twelve hours, tried to kill another, and I believe my husband and I are in personal danger as well.”

  Crawley broke in. “Where are you? This is Special Agent in Charge Kevin Crawley. You need to come in. Meet Agent Hansen at this address.” He rattled off a street address in lower Manhattan. “Get there as soon as you can.”

  “On our way,” Cathy said, disconnecting.

  Crawley turned towards Cameron. “This better not be someone you set up to convince me about your crazy ideas,” he growled. He pulled open his drawer and handed Cameron and Mitzi their credentials and weapons. “We'll get back to the suspensions later.”

  Mitzi was quiet. It was all making far too much sense.

  ◆◆◆

  As Cameron, Mitzi, and Crawley were walking down the steps to their car, Arthur Terrence blocked their path. “Agent Hansen, I have some questions for you.”

  The SAC stepped in front of him. “That will have to wait. We have a situation here.”

  “Indeed we do,” agreed Terrence. “I have one homicide at Agent Hansen's apartment, and video of him fleeing the scene of a second homicide.”

  Cameron started to say something, when Terrence shot out his hand and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. The wounded shoulder. Cameron almost collapsed with the sudden pain. Terrence smiled.

  “Bring him with us,” Mitzi snapped, “there's no time, and he seems like a sharp guy. We may need backup from NYPD.”

  Terrence turned her way. “You look just the right size and shape to be my shooter.”

  “Of course I'm your shooter. Let's go!”

  Intrigued, Detective Terrence decided he would indeed go with the federal agents.

  ◆◆◆

  “So, Overbridge did not tell you where this lab was located?” Cameron, Crawley, Mitzi, and Terrence had listened to the whole story.

  “A veterinary hospital in Queens. Sorry, that's all I've got,” said Felix.

  It was about 10:30. Hansen showed them a bag of cell phones. “With this guy, we will only use one-time phones for calls to numbers he may be monitoring. And we will use the special feature of the apartment.” He took them to the back. The window overlooked a UPS facility, and a steady stream of trucks was going up the alley behind the building. There was a box full of what looked like bags of gelatin.”After you make a call, leave the phone on, put it in the gelatin, and drop it on a truck. It will stick for about fifteen minutes, then fall off. That will keep anyone monitoring the phones confused about our whereabouts.” He laughed. “Just like in the movies.”

  He then had Jack call Overbridge's office. The nurse said he was there, but could not be disturbed. Jack insisted, and she went to pull him out. She came back, apologetic. “I'm sorry, but he says he can't talk to you, and that he wishes you the best. It was very odd.”

  Jack disposed of the phone.

  “Well, at least we know where he is. I'll talk to the boss.” There was a secure scrambled land line. Hansen went through a series of codes, then arranged for satellite surveillance of Our Lady, and got a mobile team on the way. “Follow him,” he instructed the dispatcher, “find out where the lab is, but remember he is probably under surveillance. Make sure they don't spot you.”

  “It's on the list,” Mitzi broke in.

  “What do you mean? What list?” asked Crawley.

  “The FBI list of sites with unusual power and broadband service. A veterinary hospital in Queens. I had sorted it to the pile to check out, but by the time we got to Queens, we were concentrating on the ServCorp locations.” She jumped up. “Come on, let's go!”

  “Go and do what?”

  “Take them out! They are killing people and pose an imminent cyberthreat! We can't let this madman take over the world!”

  Terrence tilted his head. “Actually, YOU are the one I have proof is killing people. All we really have is a bunch of hearsay and circumstantial evidence. You need a lot more to send an assault team into a veterinary hospital.”

  A conference call was set up with the DDO, an Assistant FBI Director, and an NYPD Deputy Chief. The DDO reminded Cameron that the last time they went in, guns blazing, they lost almost twenty men, and had nothing to show for it except a crater where a facility had been.

  They got plans from the city on the veterinary hospital. It was a large building, four stories above ground, an underground parking, and two deeper basement levels. Phone, power, and cable were from a common conduit with an access tunnel off of the street, but, like most hospitals, it also had a large backup generator. Interestingly, the plans also showed a cremation oven for disposing of animal remains. “Convenient,” commented Mitzi.

  Google Earth had a nice view of the roof, which showed that two thirds of the top floor was covered in glass.

  “Must be a swimming pool,” remarked Cameron. “All of Perez's places have a pool. That nails it.”

  “CIA clearly has a different standard of proof than the rest of us,” said Crawley, shaking his head. “This is not some third-world country where we can slip in and out and do whatever we want. We need more.”

  In the end, the Deputy Chief agreed that they could set up a team in the tunnel, ready to interrupt the utilities, and set up radio jammers on surrounding structures so as to be able to isolate the building from cell service, and have a SWAT team at the ready two blocks away. IF Overbridge did go to that building, THEN someone could knock on the door and investigate, but there was still no hard evidence of a crime.

  “I'll go,” Cameron said. “They know me. They hate me. If I show up, I am sure that enough criminal activity will ensue to give you all probable cause.”

  “I'll go with you,” Terrence added, “to represent NYPD. I'd like to keep this as legal as possible.”

  “Me, too,” said Mitzi, “FBI.”

  “No,” replied Crawley, “that would be me. You can join us after things are secure. That's when your expertise is likely to be needed.”

  They staged to a vacant apartment a block away from the veterinary hospital, and settled in to wait. The team at Our Lady checked in. “We are set up in the neighborhood watching all the hospital's exits. They have people at all the exits, too. Amateurs. Effective for soft targets like Overbridge, but easily identified. We'll let you know as soon as they move.”

  Chapter 38

  Monday, November 7

  New York

  A black town car pulled up at 11:55, and Overbridge emerged precisely at noon. They picked him up on satel
lite coverage, and as the car moved east, the tail team trailed them as they headed onto the Triborough Bridge.

  Inside the car, Overbridge was wondering exactly why Jack had tried to call him. He could not imagine. Probably inviting him to dinner or something to do with that church of his, he thought. He put that out of his mind. Time to focus. He let his mind go to the place where it had lived month after long month in Vietnam. He was the warrior. This was his mission. He was going to accomplish it, or die trying. Perhaps AND die trying.

  They pulled up underneath the lab building and went in. There was a new feature, a metal detector. Overbridge was glad he had not obtained a gun. The Mont Blanc passed scrutiny, the guard remarking on its beauty. Maxwell met them, and escorted him to a room on the third floor that exactly mimicked any first-class ICU. Except that, in addition to the patient and the nurse, there were two very fit-looking, very alert men with AR-15's slung over their shoulders. They stood at the doorway. Blaylock was also there, manning a workstation on the side of a tower with several large monitors, the largest facing the bed in view of the supposedly blind patient.

  The man who Overbridge now knew was Perez was awake. He did not LOOK awake, to be sure, as he still had a breathing tube in his throat, and his eyes were closed. However, a small video camera over the head of the bed turned towards him as he entered the room. From a speaker on the ceiling, the same voice that had spoken for Pierre called out, “Hello, you must be Dr. Overbridge. I am so happy to finally see you. Please take this tube out of my windpipe.” Despite his mission, he could not help but be both surprised and even thrilled that the mesh connection was working so well. A part of him was arguing that this work was important enough that it needed to continue. He gave a tiny physical shrug, and cleared his mind. He was a marine on a mission.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Other than my splitting headache,” said the voice, “remarkably well. It is such a pleasure to see and hear again.” The camera panned around the room, finally coming back to rest on Overbridge. “I can never repay you.”

  Overbridge checked the scalp incision carefully. It was healing beautifully, no sign of infection, no fluid leak. Likewise the connector exit point on the back of the skull. He was more than a little self-impressed. Despite the long surgery, and having been moved across town, his patient was awake, alert, and looking generally far better than would be expected.

  The nurse turned towards him and gave the report. “Vitals have been stable, oxygenating well, no problems with urine output, everything’s smooth as silk.”

  This was going to complicate matters. Overbridge had counted on a heavily sedated patient. He was, however, definitely willing to remove the tube. His patient would be far easier to kill off of the machine.

  With Perez awake, his original idea of simply disconnecting the EKG to simulate a cardiac arrest would clearly not work. He had hoped to simulate the arrest, and then destroy the interface by “accidentally” catching the cable under one of the paddles delivering the shock from the defibrillator. Then they would have needed to keep him alive for the eventual implant repair. There was also the chance that the shock would have not only damaged the mesh, but the cortex itself. Which was also acceptable.

  That option was now gone. The kill option would be needed. Overbridge checked out the configuration of the IV. There was an injection port just at the level of the head of the bed.

  “It would seem like you could be extubated. Let me just make a few calculations.” He pulled out his pen and tried to write on the clipboard hanging from the ventilator. He turned to Blaylock. “My pen doesn't work. Could I borrow yours?”

  Blaylock didn't have much use for such archaic instruments, and said so. He went out to get one from the desk in the next room.

  As soon as he left, Overbridge pulled off the nib, and injected the digoxin into the IV line. The port was behind the head of the bed, not within the view of Perez, the camera, the nurse, or the guards. He slowed the IV rate down to a trickle, and figured that it would take about twenty minutes for enough to get into Perez's bloodstream to cause what he hoped would be a fatal arrhythmia.

  Blaylock returned with the pen and Overbridge feigned some calculations. “Everything looks good.” He suctioned the breathing tube, deflated the cuff, and pulled it smoothly out.

  Perez coughed, and then said hoarsely, “Ah, that's much better. I'm starving.” The voice from the speaker said the same thing. There was about a quarter second delay, which was most annoying. Blaylock turned off the speaker.

  “How long to upload my entire memory?”

  Blaylock studied his screen. “Hard to say. Can you sense the difference between your brain memory and the machine? Can you recall them for us independently?”

  “I think so.” The main display monitor showed what was clearly a child's birthday party. The resolution was excellent. “This is from my brain,” said Perez, “and this,” he continued, as the screen showed the same scene but grainy, almost pixelated,” is from the computer.”

  “Perfect!” enthused Blaylock, typing rapidly. “It tests out as nearly ninety percent concordance. We should get to the limits of the mesh's resolution in about another twenty to thirty minutes of stimulation.”

  “I still do not sense thoughts from the machine side,” remarked Perez. “That is really the essence. Without my consciousness moving, all of this will be for naught. Resume.”

  Overbridge watched, enthralled despite himself, as the screen flashed through images far too quickly to be recognized, more like a colorful, muddy, flowing river. Perez was twitching slightly, his pulse and blood pressure elevated, his breathing labored.

  “What is happening?” Overbridge asked Blaylock.

  Blaylock smiled. “We are uploading his memory. I have created an algorithm to simultaneously stimulate and record from the cortex. It is an accelerating process. The first hour, we only got through about two percent of the stored memories, as the machine learning calibrated and verified, then another ten percent the second hour, then another forty percent the third hour. The screen is showing the feed from the visual cortex, but the LCD monitor has a refresh rate of only six hundred screens per second, whereas, at this point, we are processing data at about a million times that speed. And your eye can only resolve a tiny fraction of what the display shows. I just like to watch. For him, of course, the psychic strain is immense.”

  ◆◆◆

  Hansen, Terrence, and Crawley entered the lobby of the facility. It was clearly a veterinary hospital. There were fifteen or twenty dogs and cats with their owners in a large waiting area, a long reception counter, and a door leading behind the counter. “Take a number,” called a young woman from behind the counter, waving towards a dispenser. Cameron took a number. While doing so, he looked up at the security camera and stuck out his tongue. They sat down. Terrence sent a text to the men in the utility van. “Ready?”

  The response came back immediately. “Negative – wrong equipment. ETA 20 minutes. Hold.” He showed the text to Crawley and Cameron.

  “It would have been good to have seen that before I rattled their chain,” Cameron remarked.

  ◆◆◆

  After about ten minutes, with Perez's heart rate at 180 and his blood pressure 240/145, Blaylock shut it down. Perez was limp for a half minute, and his pulse slowed back to something approaching normal.

  “Why did you stop? I can take it.” His voice was strangled, gasping. He was drenched in sweat, and pale.

  “We don't succeed if we kill you,” Blaylock replied. “Take a break. We have plenty of time.”

  They went through the exercise of recall of an event, this time a reception at the White House when Perez had been given an award for “humanitarian contributions.” “Ninety-five percent!” Blaylock enthused.

  “I still don't sense thoughts from the machine.”

  Blaylock was studying the monitors. “I don't know why not. It worked for the boy. Worst case we will just leave you co
nnected. That should accomplish most of your goals, anyway.”

  “Until I am dead. Which is not acceptable. Resume.”

  Santiago ran in, a radio pressed to his ear. “Hansen's here, in the lobby,” he said to Maxwell. He motioned to one of the guards, and they went over to the elevator. He ignored Overbridge, no longer concerned with the masquerade.

  ◆◆◆

  As the program resumed, Overbridge felt hopeful. As long as the digoxin worked, which should be any minute now, the process could be stopped. The EKG started showing some irregularity in the rapid heart rate, then suddenly Perez went into ventricular fibrillation, and slumped over.

  Overbridge rushed to the bedside. “Get the crash cart!” he yelled. He had seen one in the corner. The nurse wheeled it over. He tore the gown off Perez's chest, grabbed the shock paddles, switched the defibrillator from automatic to manual, and charged it up to 360 joules. He then placed one paddle on the right side of Perez's chest, and the other under the left armpit, being careful to catch the thick cable under the paddle as it ran down the side of the bed.

  “CLEAR!” he shouted, and pushed the button. Perez's back arched, and the heart rate returned to normal. Perez opened his eyes, staring blankly into space.

  Blaylock was frantically pounding on his keyboard, but the monitor above him was blank. “What do you think you are doing, you idiot!” he screamed at Overbridge. “You fried the computer!” He powered it down, then restarted it. While it was booting up, he shook Perez, trying to get a response. Perez was breathing fitfully, staring into space, and drooling slightly. He was completely unresponsive. “And his brain!”

  Overbridge remained calm. “He was in arrest. I saved his life.” Internally, he was extremely gratified. It would appear he had successfully destroyed both the man and the machine. He was just beginning to try to figure out his next move when Perez went back into ventricular tachycardia. Overbridge grabbed the paddles again, and shocked Perez again. No good. The nurse was doing chest compressions. Overbridge intubated the patient, and the ventilator was turned on. They worked furiously.