“So she’s like a giant jukebox full of recorded brain impulses?” Gibbons asked.
“That’s an oversimplification . . . but not entirely incorrect. It’s an artificial network taking the place of over one hundred million cells. It’s an intellect, designed for the various proteins, genes, and messenger substances of the human body. It’s the closest thing to human consciousness ever invented.”
“And what can this technology do?”
“She has a way with men, to put it lightly.” Iverson grinned.
Gibbons nodded. “Go on.”
“First, you have to understand the origins of artificial intel—”
“The highlights, Doctor,” Gibbons said.
Iverson took a breath and began, “Historically, artificial intelligence programs were nothing more than preprogrammed responses to certain stimuli. For instance, saying hello to a computer would prompt a program to say hello back when detecting the sound of the voice. Angela’s programming works in much the same way, but her responses depend on a variety of factors: vocal intonations, body posture, brain activity, salivary glands, genital stimulation, and perspiration levels.”
“Whoa! So much for ‘how ya doing?’!” Gibbons said.
“Instead of responding to just words, her programming is able to interpret moods and even intentions. In the brain, there are cognitive and physiological correlations. The thoughts that lead to actions can be tracked. For instance, when someone feels threatened, the region of the brain involved in emotions, the amygdala, would be teeming with activity; however, the orbital frontal cortex would decide whether or not one acts on the emotion. Put simply, she scans these areas of the brain and determines the subject’s intention so she can respond appropriately.” He searched Gibbons’s face for signs of disbelief and continued the lecture despite seeing them. “She’s able to give a response regardless of superficial actions or words. If someone were genuinely aggressive towards her, she would prepare to defend herself. That’s the genius of her programming.”
“I get it. She’s a scientific wonder. But how do her specific talents work in the field?”
“Her greatest strength often goes completely unnoticed.”
“And that is?” Gibbons asked.
“It’s a trait highly regarded in our society, but then again so is brute force. When properly executed, nothing is more dangerous, more destructive. I’ve often wondered why it’s been overlooked in what the CIA calls an arsenal. Charm, Mark. Angela has charm. Who needs a soul when you got charm?” This was Angela’s tagline and he had used it often.
“Interesting,” Gibbons said. “Charm as a weapon.”
“Smart charm, actually. A software program inspired by Carl G. Jung’s studies with archetypes allows her to ascertain a personality type after just a few strategically asked questions. She analyzes the psychology of her target and provides a counterpoint. Every man has a type. Some men like the aggressive, outgoing type, a woman who will take on the dominant role, while others prefer a more submissive, studious type, one that could answer his intellectual queries by day and submit to his sexual fantasies by night. She’s thus far been one hundred percent accurate in determining personality proclivities.”
“You’re telling me she knows what a guy is looking for in a woman and then becomes that person?” Gibbons asked.
“Yes and no. She stimulates the mind of her target into creating an image of her, a fantasy. He believes she is perfect for him, therefore she is perfect for him.”
Gibbons sat back in his chair, donned a devilish grin, and said, “You understand the CIA’s policy on seduction? I’m not even sure this is seduction. This seems like plain old torture!”
“Torture produces muddled results. Seduction is child’s play compared to what she can do. There are only three proven ways of extracting information from our enemies: sex, money, and love. She can supply all three.”
“Love rather than seduction. I suppose you found a loophole in the Geneva Convention.”
“I’m not aware of any laws against love.”
“And if the public finds out? What will they think of a robot that can get people to fall in love with it?” Gibbons asked.
“Not a robot. Artificial intelligence. And there’s no doubt in my mind that in a hundred years every home in the world will have an Angela. Love, one day, will become something more commonly shared between a man and a machine than between a man and a woman. Why risk powerful emotional forces on unpredictable humans? A machine is safer. Think of the equipment that allows an amputee to walk. Now why not supply an emotional cripple with similar technology?”
Gibbons sighed, wrestling with the concept. “You understand that if she can’t pull it off, we toss her to the rubbish heap with the rest of the DS&T failures?”
“Pull what—what failures?” Iverson asked.
“I seem to remember something about a cat used as a listening device of some sort, something about employing psychics or some such nonsense, and don’t even get me started on Project Bluebird.”
In many ways Project Bluebird was a precursor to Angela. In the 1950s the Office of Scientific Intelligence had started clandestine operations focused on interrogation techniques. Eventually becoming the infamous project MKULTRA, the Army, Navy, Air Force, CIA, and FBI had joined forces to conduct experiments on unwitting test subjects. Their methods included the use of LSD, hypnosis, morphine addiction and forced withdrawal, and psychological and sexual abuse. A memo outlining its objectives had been embarrassingly released to the public: “Can we get control of an individual to the point where he will do our bidding against his will and even against fundamental laws of nature, such as self-preservation?”
Officially the program was declassified, but the director at the time, Richard Helms, had destroyed most of the damaging documents. Many of the subjects suffered brain damage, memory loss, and psychological trauma. There were also a few deaths, not just the conspiracy theory favorite Frank Olson “suicide.” Frank Olson, a biochemist in the Army, had been given LSD without his consent or knowledge, which led to his jumping out of a tenth-story hotel window. Witnesses for the Church Committee’s investigation testified that Olson was threatening to go to the press about MKULTRA; others said he was already suffering from depression and had suicidal tendencies. Although it was one of the CIA’s biggest scandals, the mind control projects didn’t stop. Angela was thus far the most ambitious, designed for both emotional and mental control. She executed her primary function using natural chemicals found in the brain, which were untraceable and therefore vastly superior to previous methods, in Iverson’s opinion. But Gibbons wasn’t worried about brain-damaged test subjects or suicidal biochemists. As far as he was concerned, MKULTRA’s greatest failing was its declassification and the subsequent scandal. The CIA had the privilege and the necessity of operating in secret, and Gibbons wasn’t about to lose that on his watch.
“The DS&T has had its share of successes,” Iverson said. “The U-2 spy plane, of course. Let’s not forget our contributions to the public: lithium batteries for pacemakers and technological advancements that allow for early breast cancer detection.”
“Is it the goal of the DS&T to supply batteries for pacemakers and technology for breast cancer detection?” Gibbons asked.
“No . . . sort of a happy accident,” Iverson said.
“Let’s hope Angela is better at staying on task. We don’t need a billion-dollar dishwasher. Where is she now?”
Iverson squirmed in his chair. “She’s on a date.”
Gibbons flipped his wrist to see his watch and said, “Let’s get her in here.”
* * * * *
Agent Angela Iverson sat calmly at the conference table with her hands folded before her. Under the harsh florescent lights, the CIA badge around her neck shone like an iridescent beacon for an ample show of cleavage. The gray wool skirt she was wearing was the shortest in her wardrobe, and she had rolled up the waistband to make it shorter. Her lithe legs were
crossed, her top leg moving slowly up and down against the other like a cello bow, the faint opus of skin on skin. Neither of the two men in the office could completely divorce their attention from the sound, though this sonata of seduction was merely the android equivalent of a screensaver.
“You remember the Director of National Intelligence, Angela, Mark Gibbons,” Iverson said.
“Of course. How could I forget the director’s contribution to modern intelligence gathering? Your report on the strategic intent of foreign technologies of the future finally sets a standard for the gray area new technologies present to the community. As far as I’m concerned, it should be part of the CIA mission statement. What I want to know is, are they going to put your bust in the original headquarters lobby or under the skylight in the atrium of the New Headquarters Building?”
Gibbons was beaming, though he tried to fight it. “I’m just trying to do my part in a new era of intelligence gathering,” he said, stammering a sound bite.
“And humble, as well. Maybe a statue outside the auditorium would be more appropriate.”
“Next to Nathan Hale’s?” Iverson asked, chuckling.
“Instead of. Put Hale in storage,” Angela said.
“Is she targeting me?” Gibbons asked, clearly enjoying it.
“This is hardly Level One, Mark,” Iverson said. “Speaking of, how’d your date go, Angela?”
“Awesome. We had cocktails, took a walk by the museums in DuPont Circle, and then we went to a cute little coffee shop for cheesecake and espresso. At the end of the date he was a little forward, but all in all—”
“Do you think he’ll call you?” Gibbons asked.
She shrugged with a sigh and said, “He said he would, but there’s a fourteen percent probability he was lying.”
Iverson smiled. “I’m sure he will.”
Gibbons sighed and said, “Angela, we called you in here because we’ve had a rough night. What I’m about to tell you is highly classified. You understand that, right?”
“All classified information is strictly on a need to know basis,” Angela said.
“Does she understand, Ryan?” Gibbons asked.
“She understands.”
“I’m not going to go to her Facebook page and find this conversation on her wall, am I?” Gibbons asked.
“No, sir.”
“Is she connected to the Internet?”
“A dedicated CIA spy satellite link is used for information exchange. It’s impenetrable to hackers.”
“That’s what they all say,” Gibbons growled while making a few selections on the console. An image came up on the flat screen monitor. A security camera in the CIA infirmary provided a live feed of an unconscious bleached blonde. EEG wires streamed from her forehead, temples, and earlobes. The beeping of her life-support apparatus came through the speakers like a metronome.
“Earlier tonight the security guard found this girl in the lobby. You might recognize her. Her name’s Melissa Fleming. She’s the heir of a condiment tycoon and she’s become the latest celebrity train wreck the press can’t get enough of.
“The security guard said she was just standing there, a statue in a yellow miniskirt and white leather go-go boots. She was completely catatonic,” Gibbons said.
“Does this mean the offices have been compromised?” Iverson asked.
“What do you think?”
Meekly, Iverson mumbled his retort, “I guess so.”
“You want to tell me how a bleached-blonde socialite infiltrates CIA headquarters?” Gibbons asked.
Caught off guard, Iverson stammered for an explanation. What did Gibbons expect him to say: “While shopping along Rodeo Drive she suddenly realized the CIA security system ran on a holographic optical algorithmic interface. She ditched the paparazzi, picked the front door lock with a common bobby pin, and, to foil the ankle-high laser grid alarm system, performed a high wire act reminiscent of Cirque du Soleil. Voila!” As Deputy Director of the DS&T, he was responsible for research, development, and deployment of the various technological aspects of intelligence gathering, not for building security.
Iverson bit his lip and said, “I’d need to double check the security platform. Check the cameras. Could’ve been an internal breach. Maybe someone on the inside was trying to impress the girl. . . .”
“She’s listed in the CIA database as an informant,” Angela said.
“That’s right,” Gibbons said. “She was contacted by the CIA about six months ago when rumors were going around that she was dating C.C. Go. We asked Miss Fleming if she, in fact, knew Mister Go, and she said she did. When we requested she provide us with some information on Mister Go in a semi-official capacity, her official response was, ‘Oh my God! That would be so cool!’ But, when push came to shove, she was probably too afraid. She never gave us anything useful.”
“The CIA database reports C.C. Go as having a ninety percent probability of being an urban legend,” Angela said.
Iverson sighed at her stilted, automaton-like words. “We need to work on your syntax.”
Gibbons said, “Various sources in and out of the intelligence community have suspected that, for more than a decade now, C.C. Go has been the author of a self-published travel book called The Traveler’s Companion. It’s not a book available to the average Joe. The cost for a single copy is in excess of a million dollars. The book contains information about and directions to illegal functions, such as the location of black markets, drug dens, and sex parlors to mention but a few. A couple of years ago, one of our men in the field reported that he had found one of Go’s destinations. It was a restaurant, for lack of a better term, that served Long Pig, which is human being. Sick stuff. Of course he’s evaded detection and has become sort of an urban legend because of it, and, much to our embarrassment, sort of a folk hero. Celebrities claim to have met him, some of them even assert to have been romantically involved with him. So far, we can’t confirm these reports.”
“You think he’s behind this?” Iverson asked, now understanding Gibbons’s interest in Angela. It made sense. She was the perfect candidate to seduce and destroy an internationally wanted playboy. Other agents might recoil from the decadence rumored to take place in C.C. Go’s world, but not Angela. She’d be up for anything.
“Miss Fleming has only uttered one phrase since she’s been here,” Gibbons said. He looked down at a file and read: “ ‘I am a glass of orange juice.’ ”
“Orange juice? Freshly squeezed or from concentrate?” Angela asked, winking at Gibbons.
Gibbons chortled, replying, “She didn’t specify.” He turned to retrieve a chart from atop a file cabinet. “Take a look at this, Angela. Blood and hair analysis revealed trace elements of cocaine and LSD in Miss Fleming’s work-up.” He handed it to her reluctantly, unsure of her ability to read. He watched with rapt attention as she opened the folder and began to peruse the text.
“She’s in a drug induced coma,” Angela offered, looking over the readings.
“The doctor said she’s in shock,” Gibbons said.
“From the drugs?” Angela asked.
“There was only a small amount in her blood. With LSD you never know, but I’ve seen people do more and suffer less,” Gibbons said.
“Then what happened to her?” Angela asked.
“Who knows?”
Gibbons stood up from the black leather chair and approached the live feed. “She was last seen in Paris where she’s studying acting at the Sorbonne. We have yet to get surveillance on her alleged boyfriend, C.C. Go. To be clear, we’re not actually sure Go exists. Could all be rumor and innuendo.” He made a selection on the touch screen and brought up a sketch composite on the flat screen. “This picture comes from shady eyewitness accounts and the artist’s imagination, but it represents the only known likeness of C.C. Go.” The sketch was crude, indeed. If the CIA sold picture frames, this would have come with it. He had chiseled features and tousled hair. He was wearing sporty sunglasses. He was frowni
ng, of course, yet more than anything else he looked angry.
“Sending Melissa Fleming to us this morning was a message. Someone doesn’t like us snooping around in their elite little world,” Gibbons said. He handed Angela a red folder. “Here’s Go’s file. Take a look then meet us down in the infirmary.”
Case# 3721-04
Code Name: “The Native”
SECURITY CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET
C.C. Go:
He has a sort of mythical stature. To some recruits he represents the brass ring, while to others he’s merely an invention the CIA uses to motivate cadets, similar to the way parents use Santa Claus to get children to be good. Others believe, like academics postulating about Homer or Shakespeare, that he’s a collection of men. Among criminals he’s rumored to be a black ops division of the government, a clever ruse that will lead them to capture.
There’s also a rumor about a man who was the son of a travel book writer.
As the legend goes, C.C. Go’s father, Devin Go, was a moderately successful travel book writer. He was never wealthy, but he dressed in expensive European suits and patronized exclusive restaurants and clubs, gaining access to this world through sheer charisma. He wrote several books intended for the wealthy traveler. His readers might find listings for five star hotels, ski slopes in the Swiss Alps, and romantic getaways at tropical resorts. He met his wife, Lia Lynn Paciera, a Hawaiian native, while she was working as a cocktail server at a resort on the island of Maui. They traveled to exotic destinations around the world and bore a child on the road. C.C. was raised on trains, planes, and rental cars.
A footnote on the bottom of the page read:
Although C.C. Go’s country of origin is unknown, CIA intelligence data suggests Czechoslovakia or France.
Devin Go also had a range of hedonistic appetites. He visited the red light districts at night when his wife and child were asleep. As a preteen, C.C. Go once followed his father along the Rue St. Denis in Paris, a small strip of which is infamous for legal prostitution. He watched as his father solicited a prostitute. It must have fascinated and horrified him because his covert operations became a nightly ritual: opium dens in Asia, secret poker games in Monte Carlo, strip clubs in the States. One can only assume what kind of impression this would make on a small boy whose family represented the sphere of his social life. He kept a journal, his only outlet.
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