Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  His heart began to pound. He needed her now. He would have her now.

  He quickened his pace. She was a half block ahead, ten yards, five. Ghadab glanced left and right. They were alone.

  She crossed the street, angling toward a set of porch steps. Ghadab slipped his hand into his pocket, grabbing the knife as he stepped off the curb.

  A horn blared. He jerked back as a car swept up behind him. A college-aged student was leaning out the driver’s side window, cursing at him.

  “Hey, asshole!” shouted the kid.

  Before Ghadab could react, the night erupted with a blue strobe light. A police car was just down the street.

  Run!

  Ghadab took a step back to the sidewalk, unsure what to do. He slid the knife back into his pocket. The car that had nearly hit him stopped abruptly. The police car pulled up behind his left bumper, blocking traffic in both directions.

  “You all right?” asked the policeman as he got out.

  “Yes,” said Ghadab.

  The cop motioned with his hand, thumbing back in the direction of the bar. Then he walked toward the car he’d just stopped.

  Go! Go!

  Ghadab put his head down and walked swiftly away.

  This was a warning. I need to focus on only my mission. I must move quickly, before I make another mistake.

  93

  Boston—around the same time

  Some people watched TV to relax. Massina worked out problems.

  Or tried to anyway. And the problem that he kept coming back to was Peter.

  The bot and its autonomous brain had been their biggest success story . . . until he became Hamlet, thinking rather than doing.

  Why? It wasn’t a mechanical problem, nor an error in coding as far as either concept was generally understood. The bot had chosen to think rather than act.

  Was it afraid?

  Massina dismissed the notion out of hand—machines did not know fear. The bot considered the possibility that it would be damaged every time it was given a task, but even an assessment of 100 percent would not prevent it from carrying out a task. And neither in Syria nor in any of the exercises had the probability of destruction come close to that.

  He wasn’t necessarily thinking about danger. He was running memory routines against present simulations—essentially comparing his history to his present situation. Which made sense: it was a way to find a solution to a problem. Except he didn’t solve out the solution and act on it.

  Was he thinking about who he was?

  Literally, yes.

  It took Chelsea several hours to change the base parameters Socrates used to conduct its searches; inserting the new programming with the requisite debugging took two more. But the change yielded immediate results—the computer matched a cash withdrawal at an ATM near a hunting store in suburban Montreal, and from that match, discovered a pair of credit cards used to buy clothes. Chelsea had just off-loaded details of the clothes—three of the bar codes included reasonably detailed descriptions—when Massina surprised her.

  “I thought you went home,” he said, looking over her shoulder.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “I have an odd theory about RBT PJT 23-A,” said Massina. “I’m wondering if he’s becoming self-aware.”

  “It knows where it is.”

  “True, but more than that—gaining another level of introspection. Why it doesn’t act?”

  “How would we test that?”

  Massina shook his head, as if he were apologizing. “I haven’t figured it out yet.” He shrugged, honestly unsure but clearly intrigued by the problem.

  “It’s philosophy more than coding,” said Chelsea.

  “No, it’s always coding. We just haven’t caught up with him yet.” Massina’s wry smile changed to something more serious. The intrigued wizard disappeared, morphing into the concerned and rigorous boss. “What are you working on?”

  “I had an idea,” said Chelsea. “We’ve gone back and figured out some clothes Ghadab might have been wearing. If we can match that to visuals, maybe surveillance cameras—”

  “We? You and the program?”

  “Socrates.”

  “You gave the code a name?”

  Chelsea shrugged.

  “Maybe you should call it a night,” Massina suggested.

  “We have a couple of bank accounts we can track,” said Chelsea. “I’m not going to leave until I get more results.”

  “All right. But stop using ‘we,’” added Massina. “The AI program is just a tool.”

  “Socrates,” said Chelsea. “His name is Socrates.”

  94

  Vermont—early the next morning

  The air was different. Wet. Pregnant.

  That was what he always noticed about America. No matter where Ghadab was, a city, a suburb, a farm, the air smelled different than what he’d grown up breathing. It wasn’t just the scent of diesels or factory gases, the exhaust from cars or cows. It was more intrinsic.

  Some would put it down to humidity, the most obvious difference to the deserts of the Middle East. There was something to that, especially on a day like today, when rain was only a few hours away. But Ghadab knew it was more than that, more an expression of the country and its people. What they breathed out.

  And what he was now breathing in.

  Ghadab continued down the long, twisted gravel driveway of the safe house, walking in the direction of the highway. Large fields lay to either side; given over to hay, in the early predawn light they looked more like jungles than cultivated farm acres. A large barn leased to a local farmer sat in the distance, close to the highway. In the shadows, the structure looked like a squatting soldier.

  The image gave Ghadab some comfort.

  He continued walking, strolling leisurely. Casual movement helped clear the mind of thoughts. Then, with distractions gone, he could focus on the tasks of the day.

  Dealing with the traitor was first.

  He had reached the highway and started back for the house when he heard the pickup. He stepped to the side and waited, watching as the headlights swept up from the road. The driver saw him and slowed before pulling alongside.

  “Commander, you are up early,” said Amin Greene, leaning across the cab to talk.

  “I always rise before dawn.”

  “Can I give you a lift to the house?”

  “I prefer to walk, then pray.”

  “I’ll make you breakfast, then.”

  Greene let his foot off the brake and moved away slowly. He was a jolly sort, perpetually happy, easily amused.

  Useful, though not deep.

  By the time Ghadab got to the house, it smelled of strong coffee. Greene was stirring a pancake batter.

  “It’s time for prayers,” said Ghadab, entering the kitchen.

  “A few minutes yet,” said Greene, glancing at his watch.

  “Now, by my watch.”

  “Of course.”

  Greene turned off the flame and followed Ghadab out to the porch. Ghadab unrolled his prayer rug; Greene found one near the door and together they prayed.

  As Ghadab finished, he took the knife from his belt.

  “I have done you a mercy, though you don’t deserve it,” he said, reaching his arm around the front of Greene’s chest and pulling up quickly to stab his throat.

  Taken by surprise, Greene grabbed at his chest, then floundered as Ghadab sliced him again and stepped back.

  “You are a disgrace to the cause,” said Ghadab.

  Greene started to shake his head. Blood fell from his neck like a waterfall, seeping in places, spurting in others.

  “You spoke to them just before Easter,” said Ghadab. “The Turk learned this. I didn’t believe him, but I have seen the proof in your bank accounts.”

  Greene slid down, eyes still open, but definitely gone.

  “You will serve us in death,” said Ghadab. He took a flash drive from his pocket and slipped it into Greene’s. “So perhaps yo
u will be considered a martyr after all.”

  95

  Burlington, Vermont—noon

  Gabor Tolevi had run dozens of “errands” for Johansen, but never in America. It was easy enough, though: a signal had been sent, which would require the contact to meet him at a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee shop just outside of town at exactly 12:03 p.m.

  The shop was nearly deserted when Tolevi arrived a few minutes before noon. A quick glance around told him the contact wasn’t among the patrons—all but one were women, and the exception looked to be seventy at least, and very white.

  “Coffee,” he told the girl at the counter.

  “Donut?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “We’re serving a new lunch menu.”

  Tolevi stared straight ahead.

  “What size coffee?” asked the girl finally.

  “Large.”

  He gave her a five and told her to keep the change. He went and found a booth on the side.

  Tolevi had no idea what his contact looked like; Persia was supposed to approach him, signaled by the New York Times he unfolded on the table.

  They’ll need to revise their procedures soon, thought Tolevi. There won’t be any newspapers left in a few years.

  He could see most of the parking lot from his seat. A car pulled in—right on time, Tolevi thought, until he saw that the occupants were both barely teenagers, one black, the other Hispanic. Neither gave him or his newspaper a second look.

  And so it went for an hour. Even with their new lunch menu, business was not exactly booming. No more than twenty people came in, and none of them looked remotely like they might be his contact.

  This sort of thing had happened to Tolevi more than he could count. It was never a good sign, but it was not necessarily disastrous. It could mean that the contact was being watched and had bailed; it could mean he hadn’t gotten the message. It could mean he felt he was being taken advantage of and wanted to demonstrate that he was worth more than he was being paid—respect always being a function of the money involved.

  It could mean many other things as well. As far as Tolevi was concerned, its only importance was that it made it necessary to call Johansen.

  “Didn’t show,” he told the CIA officer as he walked to his car.

  “Not at all?” There was no alarm in Johansen’s voice, but still, the mere fact that he answered—Johansen did not like to talk on cell phones, especially ones that were not encrypted—was a surprise.

  “No, he did not.”

  “OK. I’ll text you an address.”

  “I have other things to do.”

  “I need this,” said Johansen.

  Tolevi hung up. He considered driving back to Boston, but there was always a chance that he might need Johansen for something important in the near future. Even if he didn’t, having the CIA as an enemy always complicated one’s life.

  The phone rang five minutes later—not only was it a call rather than a text, but it was far sooner than he expected.

  “This is the address where he works. I need you to bring him to me.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to do it.”

  “This is way out of the ordinary.”

  “You’ll be paid, don’t worry. I need you to bring him to Langley.”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t take no for an answer.”

  Tolevi knew where Langley was, of course, but he’d never been there. The request was completely bizarre. But Johansen not haggling over money—that was the most suspicious thing of all.

  The company Greene worked for specialized in demolitions, primarily taking down derelict buildings. Destroying things made some people very happy, including the woman who worked as the company receptionist.

  “Good afternoon!” she said, practically shouting.

  He nodded. The floor was heavily carpeted but still squeaked as he walked across the room toward her desk. She was the only person in the very large office; it was easy to guess she didn’t talk to many people in the course of the day.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Amin Greene,” he told her. “We were in high school together.”

  “High school, God, what a glorious time,” said the woman.

  I’ll bet you were a cheerleader, he thought. Or at least on the pep squad.

  “I still have some of my best friends from those days,” added the woman. She started naming them.

  “So, is Amin around?” he asked finally.

  “He took off this week. His mother . . .” She shook her head. “Not doing well.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Let me get his address for you. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  The address was twenty miles out of town. Tolevi drove past the driveway a couple of times; it was impossible to see more than a sliver of the house. He found a place near a culvert down the road to park, then hiked through the woods a short distance to the field at the side of the house.

  A split-level dating from the late 1980s, the home was spectacularly unspectacular, the sort of place built without much thought and lived in with even less. But Tolevi hadn’t come to critique the architecture. Taking no chances, he took out his pistol and walked across to the side yard, approaching from the side of the house that had no windows. After making sure there were no cars in the driveway at the front, he swung around to the back and came across the yard. Shredded fireworks filled the path and the nearby grass.

  Going up two at a time, Tolevi bounded up the stairs to a deck made of pressure-treated wood, badly in need of paint or at least cleaning. Spent matches lay all around.

  Gotta like a man who believes in fireworks.

  Tolevi peered through the sliding glass door but couldn’t see much inside: a dining room table, some chairs, but otherwise, nothing.

  He could break in, but undoubtedly that would be subtracted from his fee. And it might make it more difficult to convince Greene to come to Virginia with him. It certainly wouldn’t help. So Tolevi decided to walk around to the front door, where he rang several times. Getting no answer, he tried the knob—it was locked.

  It wouldn’t take all that much to force it, but once again he left that as a last resort. He went first to the garage, which was also locked, then went back up the stairs to the sliding door. It slid open easily—with the help of his credit card, which slid through the jamb with space to spare.

  “Hey, Greene!” he yelled, standing at the threshold. “I gotta talk to you. Some of your friends need you.”

  There was no answer. Tolevi took out his gun again and, holding it close to his body, entered.

  Modestly furnished, the house didn’t appear to hold many secrets. It was clear that the owner was a single male—the couch and chairs were mismatched; the sink was a mess. Down the hall, the sheets and covers on the bed were haphazardly spread, though the rest of the room was orderly enough.

  The room across from the bedroom was used as an office; there was a computer screen and a keyboard on the desk, but no computer—obviously, a laptop usually sat here. A wire led to a USB hub, and another set of wires—along with a little outline of dust—showed where an external hard drive had sat until very recently.

  Curious, Tolevi went through the drawers and found a flash drive; he left it. There were some bills, all in Greene’s name.

  A set of file cabinets against the wall demonstrated organization an OCD sufferer would have been thrilled with—folders for everything from groceries to land taxes, auto insurance to car washes, all separated by year.

  Tolevi couldn’t help but check the bank accounts. There were two, checking and savings; each had less than five thousand in it.

  But his three credit cards were paid in full.

  Back in the kitchen, Tolevi opened the refrigerator and checked the milk. It had been purchased not more than a day or two before, if the freshness date was to be believed.

  There was a whiteboard on the wall. It looked to be something of a makeshift to
-do list or calendar, though all but one entry had been erased beyond readability.

  Farm—5.

  What farm was that? Tolevi wondered.

  He found the answer, or at least what he thought was the answer, in a file of tax receipts in the office. The property was on his way out of town anyway, so he decided he’d swing by and see if there was anything worth seeing—maybe some unexploded fireworks.

  Borya called when he was about a mile away.

  “How are you, sweetie?” he asked, punching the Answer key on the car’s display.

  “Can I go to Jenny’s house and help her with her homework?” asked his daughter.

  “Is she going to help you with yours?”

  Borya laughed. “That’s crazy talk.”

  “That’s fine. You’re not doing your internship today?”

  “Chelsea gave me a project at home,” she told him.

  “And how’s that coming?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Humph.”

  “So can I go to Jenny’s?”

  “As long as it’s all right with Mary.”

  “See, I told you he would say it was all right,” he heard her shout to the babysitter as she hung up.

  He might have called her back if he hadn’t seen the number on the mailbox matching the address. He stopped quickly, skidding a bit on the gravel, and pulled in. A dilapidated Victorian-era house sat on a hill a good three hundred yards from the road. The driveway was so pitted, he decided to leave the Mercedes at the bottom and walk up.

  What he’d seen in the other house made him somewhat less cautious; he walked along the driveway for a good two hundred yards before swinging wide to get a look at the back. Unlike the other house, there was no deck, or door that he could see. Nor was there a garage.

  Which meant this place, too, was probably empty.

  But just to be sure, he went up the side stairs to the porch, maneuvering gingerly to avoid the two broken steps. He started to bend down to take a look in the window, when he saw that something was propping the front storm door half-open.