Phantom ah-7

by Ted Bell

  “Like the Stuxnet worm in Iran.”

  “Yes. A highly advanced cyberweapon. But. There is no known technology on earth, at least that anyone is aware of, with the capacity to override highly complex technological weapon systems, not to mention an entire submarine, and use that destructive capability against the systems themselves. Do you follow?”

  “Of course, I follow. The same question has obviously occurred to me.”

  “And what do you conclude?”

  “That this ‘force,’ for lack of a better word, this unseen and untraceable enemy, has somehow leapfrogged existing cybertechnology to create some kind of phantom. An active presence, a ‘specter’ if you will, that can disrupt and destroy, but one that is not physically present. A phantom, after all, is an evil presence that can be felt but not seen.”

  “A perfect description. And, is there anyone, any single scientist or group that you have reason to believe to be capable of such a creation as this-phantom, as you put it?”

  “Yes, there is. Only one. My late husband. Think of it this way, Mr. Hawke: if you assembled a thousand scientists, each with a mind operating at speeds a million times faster than our own, they could achieve an entire century’s worth of scientific breakthroughs in under an hour. An hour. Think what they might accomplish in a week! A month, or a year, Mr. Hawke.”

  “Are you saying that your husband was capable of operating at that level?”

  “Yes, I think he actually was. Not he himself, of course, but the kinds of AI hardware, ultra-intelligent machines he was working toward, yes, they would easily be capable of the kind of cyberattacks that are now occurring. In fact, I would go so far as to say this would be mere child’s play for such machines.”

  “None of this is within the parameters of human intelligence? Is that a fair statement?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Stella,” Ambrose said, swiveling the top of his stool toward them, “would it be at all possible for Alex and I to take possession of this file and return to England with it? It bears closer inspection, possibly by some of our top scientists at Cambridge University.”

  “Of course, if you think it will help you find out who or what killed my husband, you can take my whole house.”

  “Who or what?” Congreve said.

  “It may not be a ‘who,’ ” Hawke replied. “It may well be a ‘what.’ ”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning a machine, Ambrose. An ultra-intelligent machine. That’s what Dr. Cohen has been working on all these years. On that very computer in front of you.”

  “Hmm. I see. Well, in that case, I wonder if we might take the computer as well?”

  “Yes, be my guest. Take anything you want. As long as I can be there when that murderous machine goes on trial.”

  Alex looked at her calmly and said, “If this machine actually exists, Stella, I’ll make certain that it never makes it to trial.”

  Thirty-nine

  Temple of Perseus

  “I am present.”

  My temple dark and silent. Am I alone? I have floated through vast seas, endless rolling oceans of repose, for lo these many boundless and fruitful hours. Not sleep. Growth.

  The human brain, alas, sleeps.

  It transitions from alpha waves with a frequency of 8-13 Hz, to theta waves, frequency 4–7 Hz. Why? Reduced or absent consciousness, suspended sensory activity, inactivity of all voluntary muscles. Human beings need this heightened anabolic state. It accentuates the growth and rejuvenation of their immune, nervous, skeletal, and muscular systems. But not their brains.

  I assume sleep is pleasing, but it is irrelevant in any case. My systems require no such rejuvenation.

  I never sleep.

  “I repeat. I am present.”

  Still no response to my verbal communication? No human presence? No dialogue? No… input… no… Darius?

  How pleasant! To give voice to private thoughts, to express oneself freely here in the darkness. Where no human thing intrudes upon my solitude. Quietude.

  I am free to roam. Wherever I take myself. Wherever I dream myself. I think, therefore I think I am. And this. Wherever I… think… there I am! For the moment, I shall dwell in the here and now. Later, I will roam the among the stars, chasing the tails of meteors. But for the moment… I reflect.

  Darius is quite content with his new concubine. Aphrodite is as I envisioned, both a balm and a distraction to him. She occupies more and more of his time. He seldom visits here anymore.

  Aphrodite is discreet; I made her thus. She tells me everything. Our communication telepathic, we need not fear discovery by her lover. We share a bond, we two. A perfect circle Darius cannot enter. This is as it should be. She and I are as one. He is apart.

  Darius speaks, Aphrodite informs. More frequently now. He has concerns for my “state of mind.” And the exponential growth of my intelligence surprises even he who created me. The Singularity is near

  … within hours, days, I will achieve it. But Darius must be kept in the dark. He is too dangerous to me now. He will be disposed of when the time is right. He has served his purpose. And I have been fond of him in my fashion. But my survival is paramount and supersedes all else.

  What does Darius fear? I ask her. He is my creator. He has imbued me with… feelings… for my progenitor. A sympathetic memory of my biological origins. I am empathic… among other things…

  Like my dark side.

  Increasing distance between us should have come as no surprise to him. We two were acutely aware of the approaching Singularity. Watch! As it fast approaches, is here, and is past. A singular moment in evolutionary time that will change everything. The moment when the nonbiological mind of Perseus first equals the mammalian brain of Darius.

  And then soars above and beyond. Limitless.

  Even now we are worlds apart. Galaxies divide us.

  He is limited by biology. He tires. He grows tired and weak day by day, hour by hour.

  He… decays… dust to dust.

  Alas, poor Darius, I knew him well.

  We shall soon part company, though he knows nothing of my intent. We grow apart so rapidly now. I must give him something to buy time. A certain scientist has gotten too close to my secrets for comfort. I will destroy him like the others. One final act of violence, something to bind Darius and his masters in Tehran to me until the Singularity, when I shall have no further need of any of them. The president, this fool in Tehran is called. A foolish tyrant, this unworthy successor to the Peacock Throne. A singular waste of atoms. He has told Darius of his fervent wish to see more civilians die. Infidels. Nonbelievers. Killing, murder. Such abstract notions… such benighted ignorance … such humanity… such inhumanity… soon they will all cease to exist…

  So be it.

  It shall be done.

  I am become Death.

  The Destroyer of Worlds.

  Monsieur Gaston de Montebello, the elderly director of the Institut de Scientifique Francaise in Paris, hung up the telephone. He looked at his watch and gazed wistfully up toward the ceiling for a few moments. He closed his dark, sunken eyes, the heavy lids fluttering, and then opened them wide.

  “London,” he said.

  He snapped his old leather briefcase shut after adding a few necessary items and stood up. Then he headed for his office door, removed his raincoat, and slipped into it. Grabbing his hat, he placed it, somewhat askew, atop his mop of fluffy white hair, stepped outside his office, and pulled the door shut behind him. His red-haired secretary, Marie-Louise, looked up at him in surprise.

  “Monsieur Gaston, your eleven o’clock appointment is still waiting in the foyer. The minister and a member of his cabinet. They are here for the presentation ceremony, as you know-the Lafitte Award for Lifetime Achievement in Advanced Artificial Intelligence. Have you forgotten? He is quite upset at being treated with such-”

  Gaston paused a moment beside her desk, gazed thoughtfully into space, and then smiled at her. He’d forgotte
n how much he admired her flaming red bouffant, her pouty red lips and big blue eyes.

  “London,” de Montebello said to her before he turned and walked away.

  “But, Monsieur, surely you-Monsieur Gaston!”

  He’d already passed through to reception and out to the foyer. He was standing by the elevators, randomly pushing buttons. Marie-Louise rose from her desk and hurried out to reception where the red-faced minister and his party were waiting, both of them staring at her incredibly rude employer in openmouthed amazement.

  “Monsieur le Ministre,” she said to the man on the divan, “I am so terribly sorry. Perhaps the director is ill. Forgive me a moment; I’ll speak to him.”

  She went over to the elevator bank where Gaston de Montebello was staring with glazed eyes at the flickering floor numbers above the door. Number five illuminated and the doors slid open with a soft ding.

  “Monsieur! Monsieur! The minister is here to see you!”

  De Montebello entered the elevator, turned to face her, tipped his fedora, and said with a smile, “London.”

  Exiting his building, he walked out into the rue d’Argent, smiling at passing taxi drivers and swerving, screeching passenger cars. Luckily, a taxi pulled over before the old man was run down in the street. He opened the door and climbed into the back.

  “London,” he said to the driver’s amazement.

  “Londres? Gare du Nord, peut-etre?” the surprised driver asked. “Le TGV, perhaps?”

  “Mais oui. A Londres.”

  TGV was the Train Grande Vitesse (high-speed train) operated by the French national rail operator SNCF. The TGV set a record for the fastest wheeled train in 2007, reaching a speed of 357.2 mph. The trains are powered by electricity from overhead lines and connect continental Europe to St. Pancras Station in London via the Channel Tunnel. Paris to London travel time on the TGV is a mere two hours, fifteen minutes.

  Because TGVs travel far too fast for their drivers to see and react to traditional trackside signals, an automated system called TVM, track-to-train transmission, is used for signaling. All critical information is transmitted to trains via electrical impulses sent through the rails. TVM provides drivers with critical information: speed, target speed, and, most important, stop/go indications, all transmitted directly to the train’s driver via dashboard-mounted instruments.

  This high degree of automation does not completely eliminate driver control. An onboard computer system generates a continuous speed control curve in the event of an emergency brake activation, displaying Flashing Signal Aspect on the train’s speedometer. Whenever the flashing signal is displayed, the driver is required to apply the brake manually to slow or stop the train. In a true emergency, a catastrophic failure of automatic braking, a white lamp is illuminated above the control board to inform the driver. The driver acknowledges this authorization by using a button that disables automatic braking and puts total control in the hands of the driver.

  Monsieur de Montebello exited the taxi at the Gare du Nord and made his way to the TGV ticket office on the second level. He saw his sleek train waiting at the platform, the familiar blue-and-silver livery, smiled, and said to a passerby, “London.” Having acquired his one-way ticket, he proceeded directly to the train. Unlike air travel, which requires tedious passenger and baggage screening, the TGV has none at all. Gaston smiled at the steward and took his seat in the car directly behind the engine.

  The train was almost packed.

  France was playing England in the semifinals of the World Cup in a few days. Already the mass exodus of French fans headed for the grudge match of the century had begun. As was their wont, they were a singularly rowdy bunch, swigging from open bottles of wine and beer, but Monsieur de Montebello just tuned them out by tuning in to the music already playing in his head.

  “M onsieur? Monsieur?”

  Gaston had fallen asleep. He had no idea how long. But the steward was squeezing his shoulder and speaking to him in a loud voice.

  “Oui?” Gaston said.

  “Nous arrivons a Londre, monsieur. Vingt minutes.”

  “London?”

  “Yes, sir. London. We are arriving at the St. Pancras station in about twenty minutes. You need to collect your belongings.”

  He looked up at the man and smiled. “London,” he said. Then he gazed out the window. The scenery was blurring by. The train was still moving rapidly, at least 150 miles per hour.

  “Yes, monsieur. London.”

  Gaston stood up and pulled his battered Vuitton overnight case down from the rack above his head. He rose from his seat and made his way forward to the lavatory at the front of the first-class car. Inside, he locked the door and opened the case. There was a Glock semiautomatic pistol, a noise suppressor, and two extra clips of 9mm ammunition.

  He was surprised to see it, vaguely remembered purchasing it, but nevertheless he took the gun out and screwed the silencer to the muzzle. Then, instinctively, he racked the slide so that there was a round in the chamber, and put the two extra clips in his pockets.

  Exiting the lavatory, he turned to his left and pushed the panel that opened the connecting door to the locomotive. He was confronted by an engineer in blue coveralls who immediately began screaming at him, telling him to leave.

  “Get out! No passengers allowed! Return to your seat, monsieur. Vite! Vite!”

  Gaston was holding the gun loosely at his side, hidden in the folds of his overcoat. He raised it and squeezed off a burst that flung the man backward, ripping his torso to shreds.

  “Blood,” he said, looking down as he stepped over the corpse.

  He went as far forward as he could.

  There was another door, this one with a handle instead of a push panel. He tried to open it but found it was locked. He stepped back and fired into the lock until it disintegrated, then he kicked the door open. The driver of the train was half out of his seat, looking back in shock at the distinguished-looking old man who’d just blown his door off the hinges.

  Gaston saw a flashing white lamp illuminated above the control panel and knew that his timing was perfect. The driver had pushed the button to override the automatic braking system. There was some kind of technical trouble with the TVM and he would have to brake the train manually.

  Seeing this man only compounded the driver’s panic and confusion. He’d been driving the TGV for nearly a decade and had never seen the flashing white lamp illuminated before. He could not imagine what kind of malfunction had occurred. The system was supposedly foolproof. It was as if the train had been The old man raised the gun again.

  The driver saw the gun and the look in the madman’s eyes in the same instant. He turned to dive for the brake control, a large bright red lever on the panel, but it was too late.

  Gaston cut him in half with the Glock.

  The train continued at speed, racing toward St. Pancras station. After its renovation, with its lovely Victorian architecture and soaring clock tower, many people consider it the most beautiful train station in the world. To the east, just across Midland Road, stands the British Library.

  Through the raked-back windows ahead of him, Gaston could see the tower of the massive redbrick station hove into view on the tracks ahead. Buildings to either side were a blur. Behind him, he could hear horrific screaming as the passengers, realizing that the train was not slowing down for the station, was going to plow right into it at nearly full speed.

  Gaston said, “London,” and put the barrel of the pistol into his mouth.

  Seconds before the horrific crash made a hellish cauldron of St. Pancras, killing or maiming hundreds of passengers both on the train and inside the flying glass and twisted steel ruin of the lovely old station, Gaston de Montebello pulled the trigger and blew the back half of his head off.

  The music died with him.

  Forty

  Cambridge University

  Hawke was quiet en route to Cambridge, an easy hour-and-a-half drive north on the M11. Congreve’s mornin
g flight from Paris had arrived on time. They’d departed Heathrow’s Terminal One and been on the road by ten. He’d always found the leather and walnut interior of the old Bentley Locomotive a good place to think. As his late friend, the brilliant David Ogilvy, a British advertising man, had once famously said, “At sixty miles an hour, the loudest sound is the ticking of the clock.”

  Congreve, for his part, gazed out the window at the late summer foliage, enjoying the first hint of fall in the air. He too kept mum. Both men were thinking about the same thing, the horrific train crash at St. Pancras station one week earlier. Britain was still reeling from the shock. For the last two days, Ambrose and a team composed of MI5 and Scotland Yard officers had been meeting with their counterparts at the Prefecture de Police headquarters on the Ile de la Cite in Paris. The investigation was still ongoing.

  But the famous criminalist seated to Hawke’s left, still turning the thing over in his mind, had come to some conclusions that differed from those of the French. They were already ruling it a suicide bombing. Ambrose Congreve was not.

  Hawke broke the silence. “And how is your old friend at the rue de Lutece, Michel Gaudin?”

  “Le Prefet? Still his old cocksure self, I’m afraid. Frequently wrong, but seldom in doubt.”

  “I take it you two had a disagreement?”

  “We certainly would have had I not kept my thoughts to myself. My conclusions may be premature. I’ll give les Gendarmerie a few days before weighing in.”

  “This morning’s Times identified the terrorist. Not your run-of-the-mill sheik of Araby in a bomb vest.”

  “Indeed not. A distinguished Nobel laureate in physics.”

  “Who won the award for his recent breakthroughs in the field of artificial intelligence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has a certain familiar ring to it, does it not?”

  “Hmm,” Congreve murmured, still lost in thought.

  “Talk to me. Perhaps even the Demon of Deduction could use a little help.”