by Ted Bell
“Raindrops!” Alexei cried, holding out his hands and trying to catch them. Hawke smiled inwardly, seeing that his son would probably enjoy foul weather as much as his father. Apples and trees and all that, he supposed.
“We’d better get you inside, young man,” Miss Spooner said. “Shall I take him, sir?” she asked, reaching out for him.
“Yes, thank you. Here you go! Have I missed supper? I hope not. I’m famished.”
As Alexei and his guardian disappeared inside the main entrance, Hawke, moving with his friend under the porte cochere, put his arm round Congreve’s shoulder and said quietly, “Any trouble, Ambrose? I’m sure not, else you would have contacted me. But I must say I’ve not stopped worrying about him since I left.”
“Not a bit of it. He’s safe as houses here, with all the coppers wandering about the premises. Having a heavily armed nanny doesn’t hurt either.”
“I extracted some good information from Putin about the nature of the threats against his life. I’ll describe it in more detail after supper. Apparently, there is a secret sect that calls itself the Tsarist Society. Ex-KGB,
OMON death squad, and mafia types. Killers for hire, and informants, working for the Tsarists, not the Kremlin. We’ll need to get every scrap on them, and soon. Notify the Yard, MI5.”
“Yes. As quickly as possible. Now come inside before we both get soaked to the bone out here. You look like you could use a restorative cocktail. I know I could. Following that boy around all day long is exhausting.”
“Lead on,” Hawke said, and followed his old friend inside.
T hey were alone in the library, a fire going, awaiting the dinner gong. Congreve’s fiancee, Lady Mars, had floated in for a brief moment, just to give Hawke a kiss and a welcome to Brixden. She informed them that dinner would be served in one hour.
Hawke had then brought Congreve up to speed on his time with Putin, and at Lubyanka with the doomed Russian sub commander. He told him about the infamous Tsarist Society, the Russian sect Putin claimed was behind the threats to both Alex and his son.
“Yes, a bad lot all right,” Congreve said, “the very same chaps I still believe are responsible for the radioactive poisoning of that Russian expatriate living in London some years ago. Putin got the blame for that one because he, God knows why, refused to finger the real killers. He moves in mysterious ways.”
“You have no idea. At any rate, I’ll use our Red Banner assets in Moscow to full advantage. I’ve issued them orders to infiltrate this Tsarist Society and persuade these murderous bastards that further attempts at violence against my son and me are not in their best interests,” Hawke said.
“Who’s running our show in Moscow now?”
“I’ve put a good man in charge there, working undercover as a ‘military attache’ at the British Embassy. A former SAS man by the name of Concasseur. His tentacles extend deeply into the Russian criminal underground. And he is as mentally and physically tough as any man I’ve ever met, present company excluded, of course.”
Congreve nodded, puffing on his pipe, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“What the devil is going on, Alex?” Congreve asked after a brief silence, taking a contemplative sip of his single malt whiskey.
“Going on?” Hawke asked. “In what way?”
“This escalating series of seemingly linked events,” Ambrose said.
He leaned forward, his face now lit by the flickering firelight. Hawke saw by his companion’s expression that his attention had been keenly aroused. You could almost hear his renowned cranial wheels spinning and Hawke paid strict attention. The former chief inspector of Scotland Yard was perhaps the most perfect reasoning and observing machine he had ever known. You ignored him at your peril. Hawke said, “Linked, you say. How so?”
“Let’s begin with the tragedy at Disney World in Florida, shall we?” Congreve said.
“What? That was ages ago.”
“But never fully explained. I had a chat with the chaps involved over there.”
“And?”
“They say they still have no idea what went wrong. Many theories, of course. But no logical explanation for the disastrous events has ever been arrived at. They said that they just lost control of the entire park, one ride after another. I think that was an attack on America from external sources. The first one in a series.”
Hawke reflected a moment.
“Yes, I think you’re absolutely correct, Ambrose. Disney was the beginning. And then the Caribbean affair, the surreal attack on Air Force One by one of its own fighter escorts. And, finally, this truly bizarre matter in Alaska. UFOs, or God knows what, appearing to hover over an American ABM launching site and blowing up eight missiles in their silos?”
“Exactly the sequence of events I’m referring to.”
“And how are they linked?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? In each case, complete control was wrenched from highly trained men operating complex electromechanical systems, amusement park computers, jets, submarines, missiles; and then that control was turned against them with catastrophic results. Surely you see the link, Alex? The methodology, the m.o., is exactly the same, in each case.”
“Now that you put it that way, yes. I see what you’re getting at.”
“These are not random, isolated events. This is only the beginning of the world’s first cyberwar. C-WI I’m calling it in my memorandums. I believe these cyberattacks to be the work of a single, malevolent entity, Alex. An individual, or perhaps a terror organization, or even an entire nation. I favor the latter. Matter of deduction, really. Science, at this level anyway, is indistinguishable from magic. I don’t think the individual exists who is capable of these extraordinary feats. Teams of brilliant scientists, working for years
… maybe… could create some form of supercomputer vastly more powerful than anything we’re aware of. Artificial intelligence more powerful than human intelligence is no longer science fiction, Alex. It’s science, and just a matter of time. But terrorist groups? I think not.”
“Why not?”
“Most of them are too bloody stupid to get out of their own way. They can blow themselves to hell in a mosque or plan and execute an attack like the one on Mumbai, yes. But something like this? No, I think our culprit is a nation-state with enormous resources and limitless intellectual horsepower to create some kind of AI machine. In fact, I’m quite sure of it.”
“Brick Kelly said as much. All the usual suspects fall into the latter category. We can safely eliminate Cuba, Venezuela, Yemen, and Syria. Now that Colonel Ghaddafi is no longer with us, we remove Libya from the list. And now, Russia, based on what I’ve just told you. That leaves us with China and North Korea. The only two adversaries who might possess the resources sufficient to develop the sophisticated technology to launch a true cyberwar.”
“What about Iran?” Congreve said. “God knows they’ve got money and scientific resources.”
“Maybe. But current MI6 intel indicates they’re pouring all their money and energy into their sabotaged nuclear weapons program, developing long-range missiles, and launching spy satellites. Whoever is behind these cyberattacks has spent hundreds of millions, and many years, to get to this level of… I don’t even know what to call it
… invasive systems control, for lack of anything better.”
“Hmm. And these scientists seem to have leapfrogged the entire world of artificial intelligence in a single bound. So the logical question is how? The brainpower and technology necessary to take total control of a jet fighter in midflight doing six hundred miles per hour is staggering.”
“And what about these UFOs hovering over the USAF installation in Fort Greely, Alaska? Moments before those ABMs exploded in their silos, radar clocked them at speeds approaching the speed of light. Not to mention the ability to stop on a dime and hover directly overhead. What the hell is that all about?”
“I’ve got one word for you, m’lord.”
“Fire whe
n ready.”
“Aliens,” Ambrose deadpanned.
“You know, given the present insanity, I could almost buy that. But angry aliens who wreak their high-tech wrath solely upon the Americans? Bit of a stretch, Constable.”
“I was joking, Alex.”
“So was I, Ambrose.”
“So where does this all leave us?”
“Completely in the dark?”
“Precisely. Shall we go in to dinner? I believe there are candles. Perhaps we’ll find a modicum of illumination there.”
A fter dinner, Alex Hawke climbed the wide staircase to the third floor to say good night to his son. Since he’d arrived so late, Ambrose and Diana had suggested he spend tonight at Brixden House and return home next morning after a hearty breakfast. Hawke agreed and was glad he’d done so. He and Ambrose might not have any answers, but he felt sure they were at the very least asking the right questions. Which, as Congreve had said, was more than half the battle.
He saw a half-opened door down the corridor, yellow light spilling out onto the ancient Persian carpets. He approached slowly and peeked inside, not wishing to startle anyone. Alexei was already tucked into bed. Miss Spooner, her shadow looming on the wall beside the bed, was sitting by his bedside, her head bowed. She was reading to him from a large picture book, gently turning the pages and speaking barely above a whisper, her luxuriant hair of uproarious gold gleaming in the lamplight.
He was about to enter, his hand against the door, and then paused and regarded the little scene before him. It was one of almost overwhelming sweetness and purity. These are the moments to treasure, he thought. These rare, quiet moments of peace and serenity, one’s own innocent child lost in the dreams of some fairy tale… transported by the words of a beautiful woman…
The door creaked.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder with a gesture so rapid it didn’t give him time to escape.
“Oh, excuse me,” he managed, his heart in his mouth, as embarrassed as a naughty schoolboy caught peeking at something he shouldn’t.
She smiled, turning toward him with the grace of a gazelle. The whole room felt saturated with intimacy, now destroyed by the blundering trespasser.
“He’s fast asleep,” she whispered. “Do you wish to kiss him good night?”
“Yes, yes, I would like that very much, thank you.”
He crossed the room and bent to kiss his son, his warm, sleepy scent almost overpowering.
He stood and looked down at her for the briefest moment. “Good night, Miss Spooner.”
“Good night, sir,” she said, and he felt her eyes lingering upon him for just a fraction of a second too long before he turned abruptly and left the room.
Twenty-seven
Tehran
Tehran was dead still, at least inside the baking grounds of the presidential palace. It was as though the hot day lay there out of breath. Darius had returned to the palace before-many times, in fact. He still relished the irony that this fine piece of architecture had once been called the “White House.” The Shah’s sister had lived here in splendor and luxury for many years. She had an adopted son, given up at birth by his natural mother because of his deformity.
That child’s name was Darius. The Shah had been his benevolent uncle. This house had been his boyhood home. These grassy lawns and leafy trees had once been his playground.
Then the Ayatollah Khomeini arrived and the Shah’s fate, and the nation’s, were sealed. Freedom collapsed under a tyranny of lies and mass executions. It still lay there, restive, seething, trampled beneath the feet of the mullahs who ruled through fear disguised as religion.
His adoptive mother fled to America, taking all her real children, her vast amounts of treasure, gold, and jewels. But she did not take Darius to America. The cripple with the withered legs who was nothing but a bother. Would never amount to anything. Was an embarrassment.
After the Revolution, his home had become a museum. Now it was home to the Iranian president, a man whom Darius had come to tolerate, but also distrust and dislike. He hated the fact that this pompous theocrat, this strutting tyrant, now reigned in the lovely house where all of his boyhood dreams had been crushed. The house from which he’d been carried bodily and thrown to the wolves who stalked the city of his birth.
Alas, the president was a powerful ally in Tehran and thus had to be courted. He was useful, too, since the ayatollah had given him another vote of confidence after the recent election. As long as Darius visited the capital frequently and gave the powers that be extensive updates on his progress in the Perseus Project, they left him mercifully alone.
The door to the white van was opened by his driver, and his chair was lowered to the pavement on a hydraulic platform. The two Revolutionary Guards standing on either side of the door didn’t even find him worthy of a glance, but he could see they were fascinated by his flying chair. The double doors were opened from within, and he zoomed inside the cavernous entry hall.
The president received him in a gilded drawing room that had remained untouched since the Shah’s sister’s departure. The furniture, the carpets, even the chinaware and silver tea service were the same. Darius was often served tea in a cup recognizable by the chipped handle, a cup he himself had broken as a child.
A tall, heavily muscled man, who was introduced only as the president’s military attache, was standing nearby, uninterested, his back against the wall, clearly a personal bodyguard.
The president was a small man whose teeth were big and white and separate, like tombstones designed for a much larger cemetery. He wore very thick reading glasses that made his eyes look like broken chips of quartz. His false joviality, even his scruffy little beard, made Darius want to grind his teeth. The large silk brocade armchair he had chosen for his throne made him look like an aging gnome whose tiny feet didn’t even reach the floor.
Darius sipped his tea and beamed obsequiously at the politician until the small talk was exhausted. The president put his cup down and waved away the hovering servants. They scurried out and closed the doors behind them. It was time, at last, to get down to business.
“Well, Darius, my government certainly cannot complain about your lack of progress. These recent-what shall we call them? — demonstrations of yours have everyone in the capital buzzing. Especially the attack on Air Force One. The ayatollah, may Allah bless his soul, is beside himself over that one.
“Even the mullahs are positively giddy with delight. Our Supreme Leader is only sorry the American devils have managed to suppress the entire episode from the media. He longs to see this bumbling pilot beamed around the world on CNN and Al Jazeera.”
“Mr. President, I am humbled by your words. I will convey them to my team of scientists. They will be most deeply gratified.”
“Can you give me some insight into these technical marvels? Obviously, you are making great progress. UFOs? Traveling at the speed of light over Alaska? I would like to see one of these things. Can you arrange it?”
Darius thought before he spoke. The president’s background was engineering. He had to tread lightly here.
“Ah, well, that is a most interesting one, Mr. President. You see, the UFOs tracked by the Americans do not actually exist.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that just because something appears on radar screens doesn’t mean it exists in physical reality. If you have the scientific means, which we do, you can ‘project’ objects onto enemy screens. Moving in any direction, at any speed you wish. Make them stop in midflight and appear to hover, as we did over the American antimissile launch facility in Alaska.”
“Fascinating. And this ability to seize control of submarines and jet fighters? Destroy missiles in their silos? Can you tell me about that?”
“Indeed I can. We have spent the last year or so reverse-engineering the Stuxnet worm, the Israeli cyberweapon that invaded our nuclear facility at Natanz and destroyed our centrifuges. That was our starting point. We’ve
developed a way to invade and control electromechanical systems at a great distance, half a world away. The technology is… too… involved for discussion here. Suffice it to say, we’ve proven unequivocally that it works.”
A cloud passed over his host’s face.
“Stuxnet! Completely undetected! And untraceable. These fucking Israelis and their American blood brothers. Their time will come, believe me. I will not rest until Israel is reduced to blood-soaked sand. And Washington to a pile of smoking rubble.”
“I am thinking of sending these infidels a special message, Mr. President. Israel, but also Britain if you agree. I think both could use a deadly display of Iranian fireworks.”
“Agree? I was going to insist on precisely that, my dear Darius. We need to project our power in the West well beyond the U.S. in light of what’s happened in Egypt, Libya, and Yemen, this so-called Arab Spring. Israel, yes, definitely. But also Britain. And perhaps France. Yes, I think they need a message as well.”
“I shall make it so.”
“Good. Demonstrate our power in creative ways. Dramatic, you understand? Our population is restive once more. We don’t want to have to suppress another rebellion in the streets. Blood, even when necessary, makes for bad publicity on CNN.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Our secret service, I still call them SAVAK for nostalgic reasons, has recently brought me some interesting intelligence about a new Israeli aerial weapon being tested at their secret scientific compound in the Negev Desert.”
“Another major step forward for our sworn enemy, I suppose?”
“Or, my dear friend, a major step backward. I happen to know they are planning a demonstration of this new weapon for the top government and military officials. The aircraft will execute a bombing run in the desert near the facility. I can provide you with the exact date and time. Is this something of interest?”
“I would say it presents a spectacular opportunity for a fireworks display, Mr. President. I will begin work on both the Israeli and British fronts as soon as I return home.”