by Andrew Watts
“We couldn’t count anyone out, Colt.”
“Except yourselves.”
Wilcox nodded. “Me and Rinaldi. We were the two senior members of the counterintelligence team for that area.”
Colt let out a huff of disbelief. “But you still used me for this Pax AI operation.”
“After Kozlov’s murder, we were desperate. We needed someone to see behind the curtain at Pax AI. You had your connection to Ava Klein, who was an insider. We needed to use that. I knew by the time you were in San Francisco, we could verify whether you had reported blue dye details to your Russian handler, if you had one.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was a calculated risk,” he said. “Rinaldi and I decided to run a blue dye experiment. We would speak to Kozlov, and then tell you what he said. But we would add a few details. Bit of intel that, if you were working with the Russians, you would have to tell them.”
They both stood in silence for a moment. Colt felt betrayed, but also knew it was far less likely that Wilcox was a traitor himself.
“The smudges on the video,” Colt said. “That night with Kozlov. I remember asking you about the surveillance video and saying the resolution was poor. But it was probably just an AI-created video, made to look and sound real. A deepfake.” Colt looked toward Kim, standing next to the two CIA guards. “I think it’s time for us to speak with him.”
“We probably should have picked a better meeting spot. This is a little secluded, and the egress will suck,” Wilcox replied.
Colt looked at him, confused. “Your choice, man.”
Wilcox furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What?”
Wilcox’s voice took on a wary tone. “You wanted to meet here . . . you texted me to meet here, at this location.”
Colt looked around, realizing they were standing out in the open, with a cliff to their back. Samantha’s words ran through his mind. Not a good meeting spot if you are worried about an escape route.
The first crack of gunfire rang out.
One of the CIA guards was flung backward and over the guard rail, a spray of crimson surrounding him as he disappeared over the cliff.
Then Colt’s world erupted into a haze of blood and shattered stone.
The two-man assault team moved with swift precision. Both mercenaries had years of experience operating in Syria and parts of Africa. They were hardened ex-Spetsnaz soldiers, and had been more than happy to take what they thought would be a cushy assignment on the shores of the Mediterranean.
Their orders were clear. They were a support element for an SVR officer who needed non-SVR operators who could handle weapons. Both men knew what that meant. They were expendable, and likely to be witness to—or partake in—something criminal in nature. Both men also understood they would be well compensated for the risk. And while they no longer fought under the banner of their motherland, they did share a sense of sentimental patriotism upon learning the client’s identity.
The two mercenaries were expecting to conduct surveillance operations. Possibly conduct an assault on a soft target. Maybe a kidnapping or interrogation. These were the types of jobs similar clients had hired them for before.
They had not expected this epic mess.
This job was a nightmare that grew progressively worse with each passing minute, every step pulling them further toward catastrophe. It would be a miracle if they weren’t arrested by the Italian police, who were now crawling over most of the island.
The toxic gas at the hotel wasn’t something either man was proud of. Both wanted nothing more than to get off this damn island and go underground.
But first, they needed to eliminate the Americans.
Their SVR client had just increased their payment by double if they did. He had also informed them the Americans were the only ones who could connect them to the crime scene. So this extension was about more than money. It was about self-preservation.
Just before the gunfire began, the first mercenary lay in the prone position, hidden among a line of cypress trees adjacent to the ruins of Villa Jovis. He was looking through his scope at the Americans in the courtyard, just where the SVR client had said they would be.
Two targets stood by themselves, talking and looking agitated. Two of the other Americans looked like they were holding a third—an Asian man—prisoner against his will.
The commencement of gunfire was earlier than expected. One of the guards took a round in the chest. He flew backward and over the rails, falling down the cliffs. The first mercenary called to his partner on his headset, trying to find out why he had begun shooting. No response. The courtyard was exploding with stone shrapnel and bullets. The Americans scattered for cover.
Then the gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
The mercenary looked through his scope again. He could see three of them hiding behind a section of the ruins. Easy targets. He thought about calling to his partner again but decided against it. The Americans might try to move in on him and his opportunity would be lost.
He lined up his reticle, controlled his breathing, and curled his pointer finger around the trigger.
“Uh-hum.”
The mercenary froze at the man’s voice. It sounded impossibly close. Right on top of him. If the man was armed, there was no way he could access a weapon or turn his gun quicker than the owner of the voice could fire back. If he wasn’t armed, it wouldn’t matter. He turned to see a curly-haired man with a dark complexion and cruel eyes aiming a suppressed pistol at the mercenary’s forehead.
“Buona notte,” said Moshe, before firing two rounds into the Russian’s head.
When the gunfire stopped, Colt heard Ava calling his name. She was jogging over to him, Samantha walking quickly behind her. “Are you hurt?”
Colt shook his head. “No, but they need medical attention. We need to call an ambulance.”
Samantha said, “We have help on the way.”
Colt looked around him. Wilcox clutched his arm, which was bleeding from the bicep. Jeff Kim and the CIA man were looking over the guard rail. Colt did the same. The body of the other CIA man was several hundred feet below, battered and bloody.
The curly-haired Israeli man walked down from a nearby hillside and the CIA guard went to reach for his sidearm. Samantha said, “He’s on your side.”
Wilcox grimaced. “What the hell just happened?”
Samantha said, “We believe the SVR sent these two contractors to kill you. We caught word of it as you were about to have your meeting.”
“How did you catch word of it?” Wilcox asked.
Samantha looked insulted. “You don’t need to know that. But you are welcome for saving your life.”
Colt said, “Thank you.”
The curly-haired man pointed up at the dusk sky and said something in Hebrew.
“Here is our ride,” said Samantha. She looked at Wilcox. “We should probably discuss some things. I think it is best for you—for all of us—if we leave together now. It would be best if the Russians are not aware of the result of this attack.”
Colt and Wilcox both understood. Samantha was saying they should let the Russians think they might be dead. That gave them more options, and the benefit of surprise when they made their next move. Colt could hear the low, thick echo of helicopter rotors in the distance. Looking to the south, he could now make out the aircraft silhouette approaching their cliff.
Wilcox looked at Colt and the other CIA man, who said, “I’m staying here. I need to see to him.” He nodded to the corpse on the rocks below.
Samantha turned to face Wilcox and Colt. “I have a team coming here. They will dispose of the bodies and clean up most evidence. They will be gone before the police arrive.”
The three CIA men traded looks. Wilcox said, “Okay.” He turned to the CIA guard. “Try to keep as low a profile as possible. Don’t admit you were here, if you can help it. You know what to do.”
The CIA man
nodded and left them.
The helicopter arrived, landing in the courtyard just next to the cliff. Ava, Colt, Samantha, Wilcox, and Jeff Kim were escorted inside the aircraft. The cabin door slid shut, and it took off, flying toward the mainland.
44
The helicopter cabin was cramped and noisy. The engine and rotors made it difficult to hear conversation. A single pilot sat up front. A medical technician in the back was patching up Wilcox’s wounded arm.
Samantha handed each of them a pair of headphones and the noise died down. Through the headphone intercom system, Samantha said, “The aircrew are ours. We may speak freely. You need to read this.” She handed Wilcox her phone. It was a news story. Both Wilcox’s and Colt’s faces were above the fold.
AMERICANS WANTED FOR QUESTIONING OVER TRINITY TERRORIST PLOT
Colt read the article over Wilcox’s shoulder. It described a fire in a small shop in San Francisco. The picture showed the tech counterintelligence unit’s operations center.
Two dead at the scene.
“Does it say the names?” Colt asked, his insides turning to mush.
Wilcox said, “No. But we can assume the worst.”
“Rinaldi is setting us up.”
Colt turned to Kim. “Jeff, it’s time for you to tell us everything.”
Kim looked ill, but nodded agreement. “What do you want to know?”
“Did you set up this meeting in Capri?”
Kim stared back. “No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I have a guess. Sheryl Hawkinson.”
The intelligence officers in the cabin shared a look.
Samantha said, “We can discuss that later. Right now we need to know where to tell our plane to fly. We’ll be at the airport in five minutes. I would like to be off the ground shortly after that.”
Wilcox said, “Where do you think we should go?”
Samantha turned to Kim. “I think Sheryl Hawkinson helped arrange this so-called Trinity sale. And it allowed the Russians to eliminate all their competition for Pax AI’s intellectual property. I think they had help from a member of the US government. Someone high up in their counterintelligence operation. Now, is it possible they could access your Mountain Research Facility and steal your AGI technology?”
Kim shook his head. “It would be nearly impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because they would need me to approve access to the site.”
“What if you were killed or kicked out of the company by your board of directors? Are you saying that no one in your company could access the technology?”
“They would need at least one lead team member to go along with it. And they would need some way to get by government security. We have multiple classified projects at the site. There are US Air Force security personnel who actively patrol our perimeter. If someone tried to access The Facility without authorization, they would stop them.”
Samantha looked unconvinced. “I would assume they have a plan to gain access. Otherwise they would not have moved on you. Now please answer the question. If they got into that research facility, what could they do?”
Kim’s face was solemn. “Then they could win the war.”
The Israeli helicopter landed at the airport and the group shuffled into a charter jet, which began taxiing as soon as they were in their seats. The jet headed west on a journey across the Atlantic, courtesy of the Israeli government. Everyone was exhausted, pushing through days of intense stress, a gunfight, and the ominous words that Jeff Kim had left them with on the helicopter.
After takeoff the group came together in the jet’s central lounge area. Colt asked Kim to expand on what he meant by win the war. “What is so valuable about your technology that the SVR is willing to behave this way?”
“You already know,” Kim said to Colt, sounding annoyed and shaken from his recent near-death experiences. “I showed you.”
Wilcox said, “For the rest of us, could you please elaborate? What is so important that people are publicly killing each other to steal it?”
Kim said, “All of us are in a technology race. And whoever wins will control everything.” He looked around the aircraft cabin. “Can’t you people see it? Colt, I showed you AI programs that could influence, with precision, how people think. My God, don’t you understand the power in that? We have AI programs that can predict what people will do and say. Do you understand the implications? Do you know what a language-prediction program will become in a few more generations?”
Colt shook his head. “I don’t know, what?”
“It becomes a program that can see into the future. It will be able to predict everything. No business can compete with that. No army can either. Therefore, businesses and armies will become obsolete.”
Wilcox looked skeptical.
Kim said, “Our AI programs are getting better and better at writing their own code. But the real advancement is in the creativity space. Soon the bots won’t need us to tell them what to think or write next. Our AGI breakthroughs, made possible from our neural AI-human augmentation interface, will allow the technology to take off like a rocket ship. Whoever is in control when that happens will control the rest of us. It boggles my mind how few people are aware of this. We are on the precipice of a massive industrial revolution. A massive societal shift. The power my company holds is greater than all of America’s nuclear weapons combined.”
The group looked unconvinced. Colt could understand why. Kim sounded desperate and exasperated, as if explaining things to children incapable of understanding something crucially important.
Kim said, “The history of technology parallels the history of war and empires. When one army gains technological superiority, it almost always wins. Steel blades. Gunpowder. Smart bombs. There are programs in my facility that would give a decade leap in AI superiority to whoever holds them. If this person or organization or nation state doesn’t have a benevolent purpose, the results could be very bad. Imagine all the world’s electronic money suddenly transferred into the account of one man. Stock markets and banks stop functioning. Imagine electricity and internet grids suddenly held captive by a far-off master. We can bargain with our ruler, but he may not want to bargain. He may just want to dictate terms. Or maybe let us starve, in mind or body. This is the kind of future that could await us if we lose the AI race.” Kim sighed, his hands clasped together. “But there is an even worse scenario, if someone doesn’t control the AGI explosion properly.”
“How could it be worse?” Wilcox said.
Kim replied, “If we screw up the control problem, it will be worse. Think of a super-intelligent machine as you would think of a God. But creating a God, as it turns out, is a tricky and dangerous thing. Particularly when it comes to proper values programming. The famous example is Bostrom’s paperclip apocalypse. An AI program is developed with the prime directive of creating paperclips. The AI is at some point made super-intelligent. It is magnitudes smarter than any human being. Soon the world is flooded with paperclips. Even if we program it to value human life and happiness, its primary objective is to make paperclips, and that takes precedence. It begins transforming every visible surface of the earth into a paperclip factory. Clouds cover the sky from paperclip factories, which now dominate the landscape. Humans are ground up and transformed into paperclip parts or fuel for the factories. The machine, predicting that humans will have a problem with this future, creates swarms of nanobots that envelop cities and destroy every bit of non-paperclip-useful flesh, leaving a massacre in their wake. That is the danger of creating an AGI before we are ready.”
Colt looked around the group. Now they were worried.
Wilcox cleared his throat. “Jeff, would you be so kind as to take us through everything you know about Sheryl Hawkinson and Trinity.”
“This is off the record?” Kim straightened in his seat.
Wilcox said, “Correct. This conversation won’t be used against you in court. This is for national security. W
e need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Kim said, “I’m ashamed to say I first learned of Kozlov’s death three days before his supposed killing in Seattle.”
The group was deathly quiet. The truth was coming out, finally.
“I received a call from our security contractors at The Facility. Kozlov’s body had been found in one of our secure research labs. There was no apparent cause of death. And when we checked, the security cameras had erased everything from the previous twenty-four hours. My chief scientist, Luke Pace, discovered his body during the shift change. There were double the usual number of people inside The Facility, but none of them were made aware. The suspect list is long, however.”
Wilcox said, “Does the FBI know . . .?”
Kim said, “No one knows what I’m telling you except myself, and three other members of my leadership team. Nader, our CTO, now deceased. Miller, my head of security. And Pace, who has struggled with the ethical compromise we made thereafter.”
Colt’s and Ava’s eyes met, but neither betrayed their emotions.
Colt said, “You contacted Sheryl Hawkinson?”
Kim looked up at him. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“I needed a solution. I was afraid of what would happen if Kozlov’s death was announced. Our next round of funding was coming up, but it wasn’t approved yet, and Pax AI has huge debts coming due. The competition in our industry is monumentally fierce. We don’t just compete with other companies. We compete with nation states. And the classified government programs in our Mountain Research Facility mean that when Kozlov’s death was uncovered, we would be subject to intense scrutiny from the CIA and DOD. We would have been destroyed from every direction. The best-case scenario would be we were turned into a black box. A classified government-controlled company where I would be little more than a glorified researcher. The worst case would be that we would be completely shut down. Either way, Pace and I agreed we would lose the AI race if we went public with Kozlov’s death on the premises. I told you the consequences of losing the AI race. To me, that wasn’t acceptable.”