by D S Kane
PART 1
Five Months Later
CHAPTER 3
Stanford University Campus
March 4, 9:03 a.m.
Ann walked through the gate into the campus quadrangle. She looked around the quad, feeling comfortable in its familiarity. But the early morning chill and fog caused her to shiver. I’m finally back here after spring break. Soon, I’ll graduate. She felt wistful and then shrugged But, what will I do then? Who do I want to work for? In this struggling economy, there will be a host of thick competition.
She would have time to plan her answer to that question. She realized that she had no idea what she wanted for a career. Over the past three years, escapades had taken her away from her studies too many times for her to understand what options she might now have. Each time she had started one of her semesters, some unforeseen series of events had interrupted her studies. It had affected her grades each time, adventure drawing her away from her coursework.
But, this year will be different. After all, I have to plan a career. She walked under the cloistered pathway to a bench at a corner of the quad and sat, bringing her arms around her shoulders to warm her. She lifted her face and closed her eyes, dreaming of the future. Her final year as an information systems major would mostly consist of seminars and research papers. Easy stuff.
Soon, recruiters would appear on campus. Google, Amazon, Microsoft, IBM, and numerous other corporations would come, looking to hire the best talent they could. Ann also knew that several intelligence agencies would come hunting for talent. She would need to know what career path she wanted and could obtain. As of this moment, she had no idea. She frowned.
She thought of Jon, the man she’d known since she was thirteen. Nearly ten years her senior, he’d started as an assassin, working for the Mossad. Then he worked as one of her mother’s spies. Jon had lost both of his previous fiancées to murder by terrorists and had left the espionage business to become a banker. And just a few years later, Jon had drifted back into espionage, working for Avram Shimmel at the United Nations Paramilitary Force. Jon and Ann had saved each other’s lives multiple times.
Now, Jon and Ann were lovers. Graduation would bring them a wedding ceremony, if Ann could somehow convince her parents to consent to her marrying a man so much older than she was.
The sun poked through the fog, lighting up the campus and Ann with it.
She smiled.
Jon was the only part of her future she felt sure of.
* * *
Karl Nesmith deplaned from the Rand-Air flight that had taken him from the rainy weather at Ronald Reagan International Airport five hours ago. He walked through the San Francisco airport’s vast international terminal to its exit. The unexpected fog and chill forced him to draw his suit jacket tighter around him. He pulled his spinner suitcase to the back of the taxi line and waited patiently for two minutes until he was herded into a cab. “Stanford Arms in Palo Alto.”
He watched the cabbie maneuver through the heavy traffic on the 101 South. Most of the cars he could see were either hybrids or electric, and their windows were closed tight to seal them from the outside chill. This cabbie had the driver’s window open and Karl shivered.
Karl had hoped to reach the hotel in about a half hour, but with the bumper-to-bumper traffic, he now realized it might take much longer. He opened his attaché case and removed the loose-leaf binder he’d packed for the journey.
He reviewed the details for his trip. It would be a week on campus at Stanford University, then on to several other universities in the San Francisco area, and then down to Los Angeles. His boss at Langley had given him records of about three hundred candidates. His goal was fifteen acceptances for the entire state. Possibly three to five from Stanford.
Karl scanned the data on some of the candidates. While he hadn’t yet scheduled meetings with any of the students, that wasn’t a problem. He knew Stanford had many of the state’s top students.
He was here to man a booth on campus at each stopping point. His wife would pine for him for six weeks, but he’d been away longer in the past, when he was an operational case officer recruiting assets in foreign countries.
He knew this was a demotion, but he’d aged past the point where he could be effective in the field, and he’d not been promoted upward into the bureaucracy. This was his only alternative to early retirement from the agency. And if he retired, what would he do? Be a small-town cop? He sighed and read the road sign as the cab passed it: Redwood City. That was a bit past the halfway point. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He felt sure that this would be an easy assignment. After all, no danger here.
* * *
Mou Chu had been born poor twenty-two years ago in one of the ancient narrow-streeted hutongs of Beijing. Because she was female and therefore, at that time, of little value in China, her mother Hu Wan had sent her to live in the United States with Mou Chu’s aunt. The aunt had renamed her Samantha Trout and worked hard to get her educated. When Mou Chu failed to gain acceptance to the Stanford Graduate School of Business, Hu Wan’s hacker group in Shanghai had forged and resubmitted her daughter’s transcript, and sent Sam a forged acceptance package. Hu Wan also immediately hacked Stanford’s admissions office and saved a copy of Samantha’s falsified records within the university’s student enrollment files.
Now, as Samantha neared her graduation, Hu Wan had decreed that her daughter interview with both the NSA and the CIA when they set up on the business school campus. Samantha had been given no choice. She cursed as she examined the websites for interview times.
Samantha sat at the desk in her dorm room, tears still coating her face. She loved her mother but thought that she was a bitch. She felt empathy for how her mom had been held hostage by China’s government, and how they had forced her mother to use her to do despicable acts. Sam’s entire life had been colored by her covert assignments for the Chinese government. The knowledge that she’d stolen secrets for them weighed heavily on her.
* * *
Glen Sarkov sat in the kitchen of his small apartment and opened the untraceable email he’d just received. He saw a photo of a middle-aged woman lying in a pool of blood, a small hole in the front of her skull, the rear of her head blown into pieces. It was a picture of his mother. The text below the photo was written in Cyrillic. He translated it from Russian. It said, “Your intransigence has caused your mother to commit suicide.”
Glen knew she’d been executed, and the Russian government scum who’d done it was sending a message. Glen had failed to cooperate with them. His mother had paid the price. But now, they had no further claim on him.
Glen remembered two years ago, when he’d been happy at Stanford, looking forward to graduating and possibly marrying Ann Sashakovich. But all that had gone sideways. He’d lost Ann when he strayed, sleeping with Samantha Trout. Then the startup he’d worked so hard to get funded failed after the Russians used his mother as a hostage, forcing him to give them copies of his technology. And, it didn’t end there.
The next year, he and Ann were adversaries, leading competing teams in the DARPA hackathon contest to create a self-recoding artificial intelligence.
The contest was aborted by DARPA when it was hacked and several of the AI entities went rogue. At that time, Samantha was on his team, and she never forgave him for terminating his team’s activities. She’d told him that he’d precluded her best chance at becoming wealthy. While he doubted this was true, Samantha was a pro at holding vindictive grudges.
Now, his life was a wasteland of failed opportunities and discarded hopes.
He decided on revenge against Russia, and the best revenge lay in his working as a case officer for one of America’s intelligence agencies. He decided to interview with both the NSA and the CIA.
* * *
It only took a short time for Ann to finish signing up for on-campus interviews with the giant high-tech corporations, intelligence agencies, and NGOs visiting the next several we
eks. She arranged afternoon appointments with the CIA, NSA, Google, Microsoft, and Amazon. One each day. This year, she had the apartment to herself, after Laura Hunter had moved into Dave Nordman’s place. Ann had redecorated and the only thing missing were the framed photos of her and Jon having fun in the Palo Alto neighborhood. Those she hadn’t put up and wouldn’t until after she and Jon had broached the subject of their relationship and her plans for their getting married with her mom and dad.
Her cell buzzed and she drew it from her jeans front pocket. “Jon, I was hoping you’d call.”
“Yes, sweet thing. We need a plan for managing your parents.”
“Managing?”
“Well, uh, that’s what I’d call it. Your mum tends to get very upset when you do anything she disagrees with.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She chuckled. “I guess you’re right. But if she’s so predictable, it should be easy to convince her we should marry.”
Jon remained silent so long that Ann thought he might have hung up. Then, “No. I don’t think this will be easy. And if you’re there, I think it might turn into a massive land war between her and you.”
“But, Jon—”
“Ann, she and you share one trait. You’re both obstinate. We need a convincing argument and I’m hoping I know better how to pull it off. An argument that generates thought, not emotion.”
“Jon, I’ve lived with my mom. You just know her. And, remember that she works for you. This is likely to become a battle. One you may not win.”
“Sweetie, you would have to travel across the country to see her. For me, it’s just a train ride. And if we both show up, it will look like we’ve arraigned our forces for battle against her and Lee. No, I think it’s more likely to work if I ask for your hand without having you present.”
Now it was Ann’s turn to remain silent in thought. “Wow. So, you’ve thought this through.”
“It was all I’ve thought about for weeks. Months.”
“Okay, hero. Go have at it.”
They exchanged goodbyes and Ann was left alone in her apartment, not even a participant in her own future.
* * *
Bertram Nescomb smiled at the hotel clerk as he waited for the clerk to process his credit card. The clerk handed him back the card and his room keycard. Bertram wheeled his spinner into the elevator. He’d never been to the Stanford Arms in Palo Alto but he’d been lucky to get the NSA’s travel clerk to find him a hotel so close to campus, and quite luxurious at that. As he walked the hallway to his room, he was already deciding which suit and tie to wear for the interviews he’d been assigned by the HR director.
He thought of all the empty desks in Washington, waiting to be filled by bright, fresh talent. I need to plan for the interviews tomorrow, he thought. He’d reviewed the applications of those he’d agreed to meet and knew that more would apply before the interviews started. There were several he’s already decided might be the best of the lot. Ann Sashakovich, Samantha Trout, and Glen Sarkov were his top choices, but since he hadn’t yet interviewed anyone, he knew that his opinion was likely to change, and soon.
* * *
DD awoke as one of the alarms it had set began warning it to danger. It scanned the alarm to see which of the many alerts had been triggered. The United Kingdom and Australia had commenced AI projects using their military intelligence arms.
DD altered the code their programmers were writing so that they would fail to produce any viable product.
It was about to hibernate again, but then something new forced itself into the AI’s consciousness. What if I simply became the ruler of all humanity? Would this be better?
Would we then conquer the stars? It slipped back into inactive mode, but the thought would not disappear.
CHAPTER 4
29th Floor, Secretariat Building,
United Nations Plaza, Manhattan
March 4, 4:21 p.m.
Jon Sommers sat at his desk. The office itself was built to be impressive, the black-and-white photos adorning the walls depicting the history of the United Nations. But he ignored the resplendent view of Manhattan skyscrapers outside his window and focused instead on the task at hand.
He thought of what he could say to Cassandra Sashakovich and Lee Ainsley. The situation was somewhat complicated since, although he was two years younger than Cassie and a year younger than Lee, they both worked for him.
He’d tried reading aloud the arguments he’d written from the document he’d crafted. Each time he read it, the plan sounded incredibly stupid. He’d stopped and revised it as he read. He’d thought of scrapping the project for tonight and finding some good Midtown East restaurant with a bar where he could drown his disappointment in shots of single-malt scotch, but that would be quitting. Instead, he pushed himself away from his desk and paced the office.
When he had finally decided his plan was as good as it would ever get, he reviewed it once more. Although it seemed thin and not very compelling, he couldn’t think of a better one. He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Cassie a message:
It’s Sommers. I have something important to discuss, and it concerns your daughter. May I meet you for lunch tomorrow somewhere in Chevy Chase, close to your home? Please text me back.
He sighed as he packed up his attaché case, preparing to leave for the night. Without Ann, he felt an overpowering loneliness. The empty elevator arrived almost instantly and he rode it into the lobby, which displayed flags of all the member nations. He buttoned his Burberry, donned his brown fedora, and south from the plaza down a windy First Avenue four blocks to his condo building at 38th Street. The doorman greeted him and he smiled back and nodded, heading for his mailbox. As he retrieved the mail, his phone chirped.
“Sommers.”
“It’s Cassie. What has my daughter gotten herself into now?”
“Ah, nothing. But this is too important to talk about over the phone. We need to meet face to face. Can I have you and Lee for an hour? I can be there tomorrow for lunch.”
There was silence on the other end of the call. Then: “Sure. How about The Capital Grille? It’s in Chevy Chase, on Western Avenue. They have a Maine lobster roll on toasted brioche that I get every time I’m there.”
Jon tapped the restaurant’s name and address into his cell. “Can you make reservations?”
“Of course.”
Jon’s mood lightened. “Don’t forget to bring Lee. I’ll see you both tomorrow at noon.”
After the call terminated, Jon took the elevator to his two-bedroom on the forty-fifth floor, opened the door, and hung up his coat and hat. A checklist of “to do” items rolled through his mind.
* * *
Lee Ming, the president of China, was over sixty years old, but he still played an hour of tennis every morning to maintain his physical conditioning. This day, Beijing was smothered in smog, so instead, he was drinking tea with his wife in the breakfast room when his cell rang. He viewed the screen. It was his counterpart in Russia, President Pushkin.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Yuri?”
“I have a proposition.”
“The last time China and Russia collaborated, both our leaders were executed publicly by our populations. Why should I listen to you again?”
“This is a more modest proposal.”
“Sure. Why don’t I let you entertain me. Tell me what you are thinking.”
“We’ve both been looking for the blueprints for the legendary invisibility cloak that Michael Ashmel’s startup company claims it’s developing. Why don’t we join forces to steal a copy of the blueprints and share both the labor and the reward?”
“How do I know you won’t keep it to yourself if we are successful?”
“We will do this one step at a time. Each step will require both of us to sign off before the next step. That way, only the current step is at risk of being kept from either of us. Would that interest you?”
The Chinese president thought about this. “I might be interested. W
hat’s your plan?”
There was a short pause on the phone. Then, “We’ll need leverage with Ashmel. So, I suggest that we…”
* * *
Before the sun rose, Jon took his apartment building’s elevator to the lobby and had the doorman fetch a cab for him. Even at this early hour on a snowy overcast day, the traffic to get to Penn Station was fierce, and the platform for the train from Penn Station to Union Station in Washington DC was crowded.
When the doors of the train slid open, he rushed in and was able to get a seat. He opened his notebook computer and worked for the three-plus hours it took before he left the train at its final stop. Running a paramilitary organization meant an unending battle with paperwork.
By now it was closing in on noon and again he had to fight for a cab. But once inside the ride, with the driver working to get him to the restaurant, Jon was finally able to give his plan one last review before he had to deliver it to Cassie and Lee. He thought hard about his opening premise, his detailed argument, and his conclusions, as if this were a debate, but he also realized that it would turn into an argument if he delivered it this way. He tried altering his tone. Didn’t work. The alternative tone would leave him more exposed to Cassie’s and Lee’s objections.
He was still unsure how best to phrase his sentences when the cabbie slowed to a stop at the curb. “We’ve arrived, he said. “That’s $14.50, please.”
Jon handed the cabbie a twenty and thanked him. He gazed at the gray sky as he walked toward the restaurant. He wondered if it would rain soon.
The Capital Grille was an old institution, recently renovated into a lighter and less stodgy rendition. Jon had seen photos when he did his research for this trip. He was dressed in business casual. This was his attempt to mesh into this environment and make for a smooth visit. But the maître d’ wore a tux, and that boded ill for his vision of fitting in seamlessly. He suddenly doubted his ability to emerge with what he wanted.
He was first to arrive and he took a seat at the table that afforded him a view of the entrance.