Mastermind: A Theo Cray and Jessica Blackwood Thriller

by Andrew Mayne

  “Okay, then, what killed them?” I ask.

  “This I don’t know for certain. But if you were to ask me what killed this man”—he points to the nearest body—“his liver, spleen, and lymph nodes show all the signs of someone suffering from aggressive lymphoma. Cancer.”

  Cancer. When Zlate said they had the disease, that’s what she was referring to.

  “What does that mean?” asks Jessica.

  I say the three hardest words for me to utter: “I don’t know.”

  This wasn’t what we were expecting. Our fear was that the experimenters had weaponized some infectious agent like a coronavirus into something even more deadly, but Leonid’s autopsy looked for the symptoms of coronas, influenzas, even Ebola, plus a whole host of other infectious diseases. What he found was death by natural causes.

  But was it?

  “Theo?” asks Jessica.

  “Some viruses can cause cancer. This is well known. And there are some forms of cancer that may be transmitted via a virus that we haven’t identified yet. What if . . . ?” I think the question through, then shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “That they’ve weaponized cancer?” she asks.

  “You could, in theory. That is to say, you could take a very innocuous virus that we’re already familiar with and maybe give it a payload that triggers a cancer response. It just seems like doing things the hard way.”

  “Maybe they want to do things the hard way. Maybe the point is to make us watch our loved ones linger.”

  The way she says this makes me suspect she has some personal experience with that, but I don’t know if it’s a good time to ask or get into the subject. I’ve never been good at understanding what lines we’re not supposed to cross.

  “I don’t know. There’s a pattern here, but we’re just not picking it up. I don’t think we understand the question well enough to know what’s going on.”

  “We’ve got dead bodies, dead chimpanzees, and some kind of clandestine medical experiment . . . that’s a lot going on,” Jessica says. “God knows what other experiments are taking place we don’t know about.”

  “Yes. But none of this ties back to Michael Heywood. At least not directly. It doesn’t even directly connect to the Void. It’s not impossible that we stumbled upon something completely separate.”

  “That seems highly improbable, to quote you,” she replies. “I think it’s time we push this to the next level. Gerald has kept our connection to this out of official channels, but I think we need more resources and more people on the case.”

  The news only mentioned that two tourists stumbled upon the facility. This was our attempt to make Heywood or whoever is behind this unaware that our investigation has reached this far. Now we’re at the point where the cat is about to be let out of the bag. To bring in the kind of international cooperation we’ll need to find out what’s behind this means that the entire investigation and Jessica’s and my role in it will all ultimately become a matter of public knowledge.

  “I just wish we could use that to some advantage,” she says aloud. “We know something that Heywood doesn’t know we know yet. How can we exploit that?”

  “Maybe to lure him out,” I reply.

  “Lure him out? What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t you see if the Warlock will talk to you?”

  PART FIVE

  ILLUSIONIST

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  JACKIE OSWALD COBS

  I’m in my living room while Theo is sitting in a chair in my bedroom out of sight of my laptop webcam and the rest of the FBI is watching the interior of my apartment via their own hidden cameras and microphones. Twelve other agents live in this apartment complex, so it wasn’t difficult to find a plausible excuse to have extra agents on hand in case something goes terribly wrong.

  It’s only supposed to be a video call, but with the Warlock, even the simplest things can go terribly wrong. Just ask the families of his many, many victims.

  At first, I rejected Theo’s suggestion to try communicating with Heywood. The Warlock loves to feed off my attention. I saw no reason to give it to him, let alone let him know that I’m personally involved in the case.

  He’s made attempts on my life in the past, and I saw no reason to encourage any more. Especially since news of his escape didn’t seem to alarm people nearly as much as it should have. I got a welfare call from the FBI to let me know, but since my case with him happened almost a decade ago, nobody seemed to think he was much of a threat in light of the fact that the other attempts on my life could never be conclusively traced back to him.

  We’re a minute away from when he’s supposed to call. Or at least the person who sent me an email after the FBI issued a cryptic tweet: Have a tip about the Void? Contact the FBI. To separate the thousands of pranksters and well-meaning overreactors, we included a screenshot of what looked like a standard stock image of a computer screen showing a bunch of random letters and symbols. It was actually a message meant for Heywood, using one of the encryption key pairs he’s used. We sent the encrypted message to Heywood under the username Jackie Oswald Cobs: an anagram for Jessica Blackwood.

  We assume that Heywood has been monitoring everything the FBI does, paying close attention to the people involved in the case. “Jackie Oswald Cobs” was meant to get him to respond. Which he did.

  The Jackie Oswald Cobs account received a return email using his encryption key.

  From: Michael (michael@eterniconhealth.com)

  To: Jackie Oswald Cobs (jackie.oswald.cobs@fbi.gov)

  Subject: Let’s talk

  Jessica,

  I’ve been wanting to talk to you.

  9 pm EST. Your computer, your place. Please at least go through the motions of pretending you’re alone.

  Michael

  PS

  I have something to show you that I think will be of special interest to your new friend. Tell him there’s hope.

  Theo said he had no idea what Heywood was talking about. I put it down to another one of the Warlock’s typical mindfucks, which is why my pulse is racing.

  I have no idea what to expect from a video call with the man who was using deepfake technology before there was even a word for it to lure his victims to their deaths. The only thing that derailed him from his ambitions was his obsession with me. Heywood’s cordiality is a lie. He never hid his hatred for me. We were never polite adversaries.

  I know that engaging with him like this is only going to reignite whatever fixation he has on me. I can only hope that Theo’s idea to contact him pays off in some way.

  The clock hits 9:00 p.m. I stare at the screen. Will he call? Although it’s counter to what we’re trying here, part of me—most of me—hopes he won’t.

  9:01. Still no call.

  Maybe it’s not going to happen. At 9:05, I’m still staring at the screen. I start to relax.

  The ringing tone from my computer jars my nerves, and I almost jump out of my seat.

  I have an incoming call from michael@eterniconhealth.com . . . a URL that has a masked owner and an IP address that employs untraceable proxies.

  I have to answer.

  I touch my trackpad and reluctantly accept the call. “This is Agent Blackwood,” I say into my microphone.

  “No video?” says a familiar voice. “That’s okay. I understand.”

  The screen blinks, and I’m looking at the face of Michael Heywood. His camera is tilted up, and I can see ceiling lights and a bookshelf in the background. He appears to be in an office.

  His face is exactly as I remember: slightly older now, a little grayer, but the same midwestern, not unattractive but not overly handsome face that could belong to your insurance salesman, your child’s school principal, your doctor. Heywood doesn’t have the piercing stare of Ted Bundy or the murderous facial expressions you see in serial killer mug shots. He looks normal. In a courtroom, he could be the prosecutor, the judge, the bailiff, or maybe a witness, but “suspect” is
n’t something you’d ever think.

  Heywood has never admitted guilt. He’s protested his innocence to me whenever confronted in person. We arrested the wrong man, he has insisted, while subtly hinting that we are playing a more complicated game.

  “May I call you Jessica?” asks Heywood.

  The FBI shrinks told me to build a bond with him. They want me to foster trust so that he sees us as strange allies in all this. They told me to be informal.

  They can go screw themselves. “Call me Agent Blackwood,” I reply.

  He nods. “Fair enough. I see that you’re taking your own advice. I respect that about you.”

  “What’s your game, Heywood? What’s this all about?”

  “I’m not sure if we’re on the same page about what ‘this’ is, but I can tell you that I’m working on something important. Soon everyone will know.” He says this casually, like he’s talking about an ad campaign for a breakfast cereal and not some potential biological weapon that could kill millions.

  “Why don’t you turn yourself in and explain it to us?”

  “If only it were that easy. The reason I’m not in custody right now is that I found prison wasn’t conducive to my life’s work.”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing about prison. It tends to put a crimp in your style.”

  “I’ve missed you,” says Heywood, like we’re old colleagues.

  “The feeling is not mutual.”

  “I know. I know. The only reason we’re even speaking is because you’re desperate to make sense of recent events. You’re hoping I slip up and reveal some kind of clue. Which would be unfortunate for everyone if I did.”

  For a moment I wonder if I’m even talking to the right man. I’m getting none of the bravado I’m used to from him. In fact, this new version of the Warlock is downright congenial.

  “So why are you talking to me?”

  “Don’t you have a list of questions your superiors want you to ask me first?”

  He knows how this game is played. The list is next to my computer. I didn’t even plan to bother with them, because he’s too smart.

  “Will you answer them?” I ask.

  “Let’s hear them.” He tilts his head like I’m interviewing him on a podcast.

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “That’s easy. More time to finish what I’ve started,” he replies.

  “Not a million dollars and a pardon?”

  “The first would be immaterial to me. The second won’t happen in my lifetime.”

  “What would it take to get you to surrender?”

  “In time, I’ll let the world judge me for my actions,” he replies.

  That bit of grandstanding sounds more like the Warlock I know. “What can you tell us about the events known as Voids?”

  “I’m not the one responsible for those.”

  “Do you have any involvement in them? Did you design them? Did you plan them?”

  He holds up his hands. “I can’t answer any of that right now. Not in a way that would be convincing.”

  Is he on Xanax? He’s being evasive but in the most nonchalant way. Should I provoke him? I was warned not to, but I want to see what lies under that facade.

  “How do you live with yourself, knowing the pain you’ve caused?” I ask.

  He hesitates. His eyes look down for a moment. “Not easily, Agent Blackwood. Not easily. I haven’t done nearly what people think I have, but the things I have done, I’m embarrassed for. I think people will understand, once they’ve had a chance to see everything for themselves, but still, this is something I live with.” His eyes rise to meet the camera. “And to you, Agent Blackwood, I’m very, very sorry for the harm I’ve caused.”

  What the hell?

  “What about the harm you’re continuing to cause? What about the people in the graves in the clinic at Chernobyl?”

  Something changes. His face freezes for a moment. Not an emotional freeze, but a video frame freeze. Did he hang up?

  His face starts moving again. “I wish I had answers for everything. But I don’t. Some of the things I’ve done will have to be seen in the light of the greater good I’m trying to bring about for humanity.”

  Theo’s standing in the doorway, holding up a pad of paper that reads, ASK HIM WHAT IT WOULD TAKE TO GET HIM TO SURRENDER.

  I already asked that question. I point to my list. He nods and points again to his notepad emphatically.

  “Jessica, are you there?” asks Heywood. “Are you conferring with your friends? I won’t hang up if you are.”

  “Yes,” I reply honestly.

  “I appreciate your candor.” He gives me a small smile.

  “Next question . . . What would it take to get you to surrender?”

  “In time, I’ll let the world judge me for my actions.”

  What? That’s the same response he gave when I last asked the question.

  Theo is writing something on his notepad again: WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THE VOID?

  I ask Heywood the question.

  “I’m not responsible for that,” he replies.

  He’s got the patience of someone overdosing on Prozac. From the apology to the mindless way he repeats himself, he sounds like he’s going through some kind of twelve-step program.

  “You said you had something for my friend? What is that?”

  “I emailed it to you. But answer me this: Has he figured the other thing out?” The other thing?

  Theo nods.

  He writes something else on the pad and turns it around to show me. Jesus. Christ.

  I’ve been played again.

  It’s three letters that explain everything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  AVATAR

  I stare at the pad in disbelief. Not because I don’t believe it’s happening, but because I can’t believe I let myself fall for it.

  Theo simply wrote BOT.

  As in, a virtual chat bot. Meaning, I haven’t been talking to Michael Heywood. I’ve been talking to some sophisticated AI he created to answer for him.

  “Jessica, are you there? Are you talking to your friends? I won’t hang up if you are,” Heywood’s avatar says, repeating itself again.

  “Are you a bot?” I ask.

  “Yes. But I speak for the man you call Michael Heywood.”

  “Isn’t that his real name?”

  “I don’t believe it is, but you’d have to ask him,” the avatar replies. I press the mute button. “Is this even possible?”

  Theo leans over to make sure we’re muted. “Yes. It’s an advanced text transformer trained on the things he wants to talk about. Spooky, but not self-aware. He’ll tell you he is, but he won’t remember what you asked him an hour ago. Maybe.”

  “So now what?”

  “The real Warlock is probably listening. He wants to see how you’ll react.”

  “I’m sure he’s getting his jollies.”

  “Agent Blackwood, are you still on the line?” asks the avatar.

  I unmute myself. “Yes. I’m just trying to figure out the point of talking to a homicidal Alexa.”

  Frustrated at myself for getting fooled, I hang up.

  “I’m not sure that was wise,” says Theo.

  “What? And keep looking like an idiot?”

  Ring.

  I look at the screen. He’s calling again. “Now what?” I ask Theo.

  “Answer.”

  I click “Accept.” “What?”

  “It looks like we got disconnected. I’m not sure if that was on my end or yours. Would you like to continue talking?”

  “Not really. I’ve had enough of this game.”

  “I assure you, I’m more than a game,” the bot replies. “Feel free to call me back anytime you like. I’ll be here.”

  I disconnect the call and slam my laptop shut. Theo has a smirk on his face. He sits down in the chair opposite mine. The one with the hole in the fabric on the side. I suddenly become conscious of the fact that I haven’t update
d my furniture since I moved in. “That was useless,” I say, fuming.

  “I think otherwise. He revealed quite a lot. I’m just not sure what it means.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.” Gerald will be calling any minute for an update. I’m already dreading that conversation.

  “For one, we learned much more than he realizes. Or at the very least, we learned a lot more than he assumes we already know,” Theo replies.

  “Explain,” I say a little too quickly.

  “What he just did, that chat bot, it’s incredibly sophisticated. Using the AI to respond to you and drive a video image of himself? That took considerable resources. It wasn’t cheap. More importantly, for a man who has supposedly spent the last several years behind bars and with only limited communication with the outside world, he’s remarkably up to date on the latest artificial intelligence research.”

  “They couldn’t stop him from reading. Only accessing computers and choosing who he communicated with,” I reply.

  “I understand that. But this is more than reading some research papers. This implies experimental knowledge, or at least contact with someone with that background. Also, the sophistication of what he did in the past, well before the deepfake algorithms were published, suggests he was in some kind of position where he had access to government research. Moreover, he had access to government-scale resources.”

  “Are you saying that he had help from the government?” I ask.

  “Not necessarily. Access doesn’t mean cooperation. Look at it another way: I can point to a building from your balcony that’s actually a top secret NSA facility. It’s got an innocuous name out front, but three floors underground there’s a server farm five times the size of the one we saw in Seoul and an entirely separate floor with a quantum computer system. Do you know who operates it? I don’t. I can tell you the agency, but the contractor is a complete mystery. They’re some shadow company formed to build the system and keep it running. Who owns the company? Some other company. I ran a company like that, and I can’t even tell you where our funding was coming from.”

  This helps confirm a suspicion of mine and reinforces Gerald’s mole fear. “Heywood was a spook.”