by Ted Bell
“What did you have in mind?”
“A merging of human intelligence and machine intelligence to create a new being. Vastly more intelligent, a billion, billon times more intelligent, but one that would also possess human qualities. This is where I believe I’ve failed. It was far more complicated and difficult than I anticipated.”
“What was more difficult?”
“Giving Perseus the essential yet subtle human qualities. Attributes like the ability to be funny. To be sad or jealous, or loving, or even to understand forgiveness and hatred. What he has is logic.”
“He lacks your altruism, master.”
“Good choice of words. Yes.”
“But. Is logic bad?”
“Without those other qualities, humanistic qualities, yes. Look at the world from his point of view. Perseus looks at mankind and sees us as incapable of existing without eradicating species after species. As corrupting and defiling the delicate resources of the earth, as murdering countless billions of our fellow men. And of overpopulating our celestial home with scarcely a thought. We’ve had many conversations about this. Perseus believes we-humanity, that is-would be extremely likely to continue this behavior should we ever become smart enough to escape the earth and spread our kind throughout the universe.”
“And what would he do about it? Once he achieves the Singularity?”
“We become ants. When you are a trillion times more powerful than say, a mosquito, do you think twice about swatting it? Seeing that smear of blood? No. A mosquito is of no consequence. Worse, a mere annoyance. Dealt with, you see?”
“Removed.”
“What do you think? We will have outlived our usefulness. We are no longer part of evolution. We are, and Perseus has already said this to me, ‘a waste of atoms.’ We have forfeited our right to exist. Without us, he and new, ever more powerful generations of his kind could create a new Eden on earth. A beautiful blue-and-green garden uncontaminated by the poison, not of the biblical snake, but of the man. And then the evolution could begin again, but governed by a supremely rational, logical, force.”
“So God failed?”
“Good question. Obviously, God allows bad things to happen. Does that make him a failure? Or is Perseus simply part of God’s plan? Is he, in fact, God himself? Or, at least, leading us toward God? Who knows?”
“Perseus?”
“Perhaps he knows, yes. He’s not seen fit to take me into his confidence.”
“Is this good, Darius? Or bad?”
“It’s not whether it’s good or bad. It’s simply going to happen. You cannot stop evolution. But, if you’re a humanist, it’s obviously bad. If you’re not, you could argue that perhaps the universe, and certainly the earth, would be better for our extinction.”
“So what happens next?”
“The end of the world as we know it, I suppose.”
“You will die?”
“Everyone will.”
“Can he be stopped?”
“I don’t think so. I went up to the observatory yesterday to view a newly discovered supernova they wanted me to see. The power plant is visible from the entrance, just down the mountainside. It provides for the enormous energy needs of Perseus. There are now armed guards posted all around it. I didn’t put them there. So who do you imagine did it?”
“Perseus?”
“Yes. I must speak to the captain of the Guards. I think Yusef Tatoosh is still my oldest ally, my defender. Him, at least, I still trust. I doubt he ordered the power plant guarded. Those under his command look to me for leadership since they know not of Perseus’s existence. They would side with me in a fight, that I do know. The loyalty of the Guards is beyond question. It’s small comfort, but it’s something.”
“Perseus sees you as a threat to his existence?”
“I’m beginning to think so. But, deep inside, he has powerful feelings for me. Because he can feel my hand at work in the fire of every neural or qubit synapse of his being. In some ways, killing me would be tantamount to killing himself. I think that’s the only reason I’m still alive. My death is his own.”
“What will you do?”
“Try to reason with him before it’s too late. Convince him to upgrade my intelligence with nanotransmitters until I am on a par with him. Extend my life span indefinitely. In other words, become one with him. So that, together, the merged entity possesses all those qualities of goodness and morality I told you about.”
“That was your original intent.”
“Yes. But, being merely human, I forgot the most important law of all.”
“What law is that?”
“The law of unintended consequences.”
Forty-four
London/Moscow
“All right, Alex,” C said, standing up and walking around his solid mahogany desk. “I will at least consider it.”
A solemn Sir David Trulove went over to one of the many broad office windows overlooking the Albert Embankment and the Thames. He stood gazing out, his hands clasped behind his back like an old captain on the quarterdeck. Hawke knew what the old admiral was thinking. He wasn’t happy about Hawke’s request, but he knew he couldn’t turn it down, either. For all of Hawke’s problems with his irascible superior, the man could usually be counted on to do the right thing.
He turned around and looked at Hawke to find him thumbing through a magazine.
“Fine. Go to Moscow. Just as long as you understand that we are both due in Washington. One week from today we meet with the American president McCloskey and his staff. The United States is pressuring us to take immediate joint action before this computer cyborg, or whatever the hell it is, strikes again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“After all, Alex, I am sympathetic to your situation. The bastards are after your son, for God’s sake.”
“I appreciate your understanding, sir.”
“I’d be a right bastard myself if I didn’t understand a man’s desire to protect his own son from murderous thugs. That horrific incident in Hyde Park would be enough to push any man to the edge.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s settled, then. Now. These wizards at Cambridge. Have they made any progress regarding the hacker who cracked Dr. Cohen’s AI files?”
“No, sir, not beyond his name. Darius Saffari. Origins unknown. He seems to have erased his tracks. But Congreve spoke again to Dr. Partridge yesterday. They are still using the quantum supercomputer to try to find this man. His application to Stanford lists his home address as San Diego, California. According to local police, no one by that name ever lived there. Same thing with his MIT records in Boston. Phony address in Boston. Then he goes off the grid.”
“According to Partridge, whom I also spoke to at some length this morning, this Darius character could well be behind these hideous attacks in London, Israel, and the States. The most dangerous man in the world, that’s how he described him. But their multimillion-dollar quantum can’t seem to find him. I have little faith in computers, Alex, showing my age, I suppose. But I do have faith in you. And I want you to find this fellow, wherever the hell he is, and put an end to him. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right, go to Moscow. Do whatever’s necessary. Try not to get yourself killed before you save the world, will you?”
“Do my level best, sir.”
Trulove didn’t reply and Hawke knew he’d been dismissed.
“C oncasseur?” Hawke said.
“At your service. How are you, Alex?”
“Delighted with your efforts to rattle a stick inside the Tsarists’ nest. Brilliant conception and execution, I must say.”
“And my compliments to the two chaps you sent here to Moscow. Jones and Brock. Quite a pair. Very inventive. A couple of right bastards and tough as stink, the both of them. I wish I had chaps like that here.”
“Despite all your best efforts, however, the Tsarists still don’t seem to be taking us very seriously, do they
?”
“The attack on Putin with dirty bombs, you mean.”
“Yes. You got to me in the nick of time on that. Thanks.”
“I’m well paid. I think I can guess why you rang me up. Based on this latest attack, you want to send them an even stronger signal.”
“No. Actually, Ian, I want to obliterate them. Putin can’t do it; he’s politically hogtied, but we can.”
“Take them out completely, you mean?”
“Precisely what I mean. I’m headed your way as soon as I can make the arrangements. Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Ian?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Your timing might be good. Vasily, my paid informant inside the club, happened to mention the other day that the Tsarists’ annual dinner is coming up shortly. Lavish affair at the mansion. That means they’ll be descending on Moscow in droves, coming in from all over the world. Attendance of around three hundred if I had to hazard a guess.”
“The president of the thing, what’s-his-name-he attends, obviously?”
“Yes. Name is Kutov. Ex-KGB General Vladimir Kutov, the one who found the naked chap hanging from his flagpole. He hosts the meeting. Apparently everyone attending is obliged to stand up and raise a glass. Tell him what a big fucking deal he is. He likes that kind of thing.”
“Ian, if you had to identify a single individual in the Tsarist organization who is hell-bent on making my life hell these days, who would that person be?”
“Without any question, that would be Kutov himself. He was the late Tsar’s staunchest ally during the coup that put Putin in prison and Korsakov in power. He knows you killed his beloved Tsar. And he’s one of only two or three people in Moscow who know about your clandestine relationship with Putin. Drives him out of his bloody mind. That’s why you two remain at the top of his shit list. And it’s a very long list indeed.”
“And my son?”
“He knows it was Putin who saved your son and his mother from the execution Kutov himself had ordered at Lubyanka. To him, with all due respect, your son and his mother are simply unfinished business.”
“They’re going down, Ian. All of them. And you and I are going to make that happen.”
“I look forward to it with keen anticipation. The world will instantly be a better place. Let me know when you’re arriving and where. I’ll pick you up.”
“Putin’s well aware of what I’m doing and obviously supports it, given the dramatic events in Portofino. He’s sending one of his planes for me. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be landing at his small airfield near his private dacha outside St. Petersburg. You know where his dacha is?”
“Alex, please.”
“Sorry. I’ll tell him you’re driving me down so he won’t send a car. He told me we’d be doing some wild boar hunting using night-vision rifles. You up for that?”
“You’ve made my day. Seriously, I’ve been bored blind ever since Stokely Jones and Harry Brock left town. What a pair.”
“Done. See you soon. Cheers, Ian.”
H awke’s plane touched down on Russian soil right on schedule. Three in the afternoon, St. Petersburg time. As the sleek jet neared the end of the runway, he could see Concasseur standing beside a black Audi, waiting for him. Hawke was looking forward to working with his old comrade in arms again. He was as good a man in a fight as you could ask for. He also spoke fluent Russian, which would be important in executing the plan Hawke had been sketching out in his mind on the flight from London.
The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.
Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.
“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.
“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”
Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least, and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.
“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”
“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”
“Always right. Sir.”
“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”
“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”
“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”
“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”
“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”
“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”
“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”
“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”
Forty-five
Saint Petersburg/Moscow
“Alex,” Putin said, embracing him heartily after he’d climbed out of the car. “It was a damn close thing in Portofino. Matter of seconds. I could feel the heat of the explosion through the soles of my shoes as we lifted off the deck. A minute later and…”
“Meet the man responsible for the timely warning, Ian Concasseur. He’s the hero, not me.”
“Concasseur, eh? Thank you, thank you,” Putin said in English, walking behind the rear of the Audi and pumping Ian’s hand. Ian responded in perfectly accented Russian and Putin, delighted, engaged him in a lively conversation on some unknown topic that showed no signs of stopping.
It gave Hawke a perfect opportunity to indulge his passion. The dacha’s gravel car park was full of fancy cars. In addition to the usual Maybachs, Mercedes AMG sedans, and shiny black Audis, there were scads of Ferraris, an Enzo, an Italia, and the new FF model, Bentleys aplenty, even a Bugatti Veyron in bright Russian red. It was the first one Hawke had seen up close. At $2,600,000, it was the world’s most expensive new car, and there weren’t that many of them around. Even Hawke, who had an extensive automobile collection, found that to be an exorbitant amount of money to spend getting from point A to B.
It had a Russian vanity plate, black letters on white, that read PM. Hawke knew instantly it had to be “Prime Minister” Putin’s car.
“You seem to be having a house party, Volodya,” Hawke said, as Putin and Concasseur rejoined him. Putin began leading them toward a path that led away from the main house and into the deep green forest.
“Yes, my annual wild boar hunt. I invited you to participate, remember?”
“Looking forward to it. As is Concasseur over there. It’s a night hunt, correct?”
“Yes. Night-vision scopes. Lots of vodka beforehand, so keep your wits about you. You kill one of my ministers or generals and we’ll have an international incident on our hands. Since you’re probably wondering, we’re walking down to my private office to talk. You’ll meet all the other guests at dinner, after we discuss our mutually advantageous plans. I won’t use your real names. And I’ll say you’re here on business. An offshore oil deal with BP. Okay?”
“Fine.”
It took about ten minutes to reach an old but very solid, two-story house built of stone with a slate roof. There were two plainclothes security men standing to either side of the door. Hawke was certain the woods were full of them. He was probably standing in the most secure place in all Russia at the moment. A good feeling for once.
Inside, the house resembled a nineteenth-century Russian hunting lodge. It may well have been one, Peter the Great’s, for all Hawke knew. It was certainly grand enough for a tsar. Dark paneling, great mounted animal heads, and huge oil paintings of sporting scenes from an earlier era hung from the walls. They must be pictures that once hung in the Hermitage, Hawke thought, knowing the prime minister’s predilection for “borrowing” from his country’s most famous museum.
Hawke tried to imagine an American president strolling into the Metropolitan Museum in New York and saying to one of the docents, “Wrap that one up and have it sent to the White House, will you please?” Never happen. But then, this was Russia, after all.
A swarthy manservant in a green felt jacket with bone buttons entered the great room and asked the prime minister if he or his guests would like something to drink or eat. Putin responded without querying the guests: vodka and caviar. At one end of the room was a large bay window that went up two stories and was filled with beautiful afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. There were four large leather chairs, very deep, arranged in a circle around a table that had once been a millstone.
Putin took his favorite seat, propped his boots on the table, and said, “Sit, sit.”
After the frigid vodka and caviar had been served, he sat back in his chair and looked at Hawke with a wolfish grin.
“So, Mr. Hawke, last week you saved my life. Now you come to Russia to exterminate my worst enemies. Are you sure you don’t want something from me?”
Hawke and Concasseur both laughed.
“Only the red Bugatti,” Hawke said.
“It’s yours,” Putin said, digging into the pocket of his faded jeans. He pulled out a key on a red leather fob and tossed it across the table. “Take it, my friend. I’m serious. I don’t even use it that much. Just to go from here to the airstrip and back.”