The Kasari Nexus (Rho Agenda Assimilation Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  The taller man nodded, opened a case, and withdrew a device Prokorov recognized, a portable electronic bug scanner.

  Prokorov nodded, his curiosity further aroused. “Please.”

  With practiced efficiency the man checked the room and returned to his seat without comment.

  Tsao surprised Prokorov by standing up.

  What the hell? Is he leaving?

  Instead, the EAPA’s master of spies leaned across the table and expertly spun a folder that slid to a stop in front of Prokorov.

  “I’m here because we’ve seen something like this before.”

  Something in Tsao’s voice bothered Prokorov. Something that bordered on fear. Shifting his attention to the folder, he flipped it open. Inside was a single eight-by-ten-inch photograph of a crystal sphere alongside a portion of a ruler to provide scale. A half inch in diameter, the orb was beautiful, refracting the light in a myriad of colors.

  “What is it?”

  Tsao sat back down and leaned back in his chair, his face an unreadable mask.

  “It’s called a holographic data sphere. It was invented a decade ago by the American medical device designer Steve Grange and is capable of storing more than a petabyte of data.”

  Prokorov had heard of Grange. The billionaire had been killed during an FBI raid on his Sonoma winery. There had been rumors of his involvement with the Chinese government in a scheme to transfer classified U.S. technology, but due to the total destruction of the facility, no proof was ever found.

  “If it’s been around that long, why haven’t I heard of it?”

  “Grange kept it a closely guarded secret. The device itself was of little importance, but what was stored on it could have changed everything. The knowledge of its contents was limited to a handful of people within my ministry. Until yesterday, I believed the data sphere had been destroyed when the Grange Castle burned down. Now I am not so sure.”

  “Why?”

  Again he saw it, that flicker of fear that lurked just behind Tsao’s eyes.

  “Several key officials in my ministry, including myself, are convinced that yesterday’s cyber-attack was conducted by an artificial intelligence. It was a tightly coordinated global assault that reacted aggressively to thwart all our efforts to counter it. No team of human hackers could have done it.”

  Prokorov felt his mouth go dry. He knew that the attack had mystified the NSA as well as his own Federation Security Service Cyber-Warfare Group, but the source of the hack was obvious.

  “Wait. We know that Heather Smythe initiated the cyber-attack.”

  Tsao shook his head. “No. She ordered an AI to attack us all, just to warn us not to screw with her.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “As I mentioned, we’ve seen this before. Steve Grange copied a human mind onto a holographic data sphere like the one in that photograph, the mind of an NSA hacker named Jamal Glover. It was a true AI and it was faster than all of the NSA cyber-warriors combined, just as this latest attack was.”

  “Impossible. Even if the data sphere you mention wasn’t destroyed, how would she gain access to it?”

  Tsao’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t she penetrate numerous secure NSA systems during her escape from the secret Fort Meade supermax prison?”

  Prokorov rubbed his chin, considering this possibility. “So what are you proposing?”

  “Since this is a matter that threatens the entire United Federation of Nation States, it seems logical to use our combined resources to deal with it. What would be considered an act of war if we acted alone falls well within the authority of the Federation Security Service. The first step seems obvious. Identify all those who had knowledge of Grange’s holographic data sphere and find out where it is now and what secret research programs it has spawned. If we are to deal with the Smythes, we’d better learn the full extent of their stolen capabilities.”

  As much as he didn’t want to believe it, Prokorov felt the conviction growing within him that Minister Tsao might be right. And if he was, the NSA had been playing some very dangerous games indeed.

  Prokorov stood and shook hands with Tsao. “Thank you, Minister, for bringing this to my attention. I will look into it.”

  After Tsao and his aide departed, Prokorov stared down at the photograph of the beautiful little data sphere. My God! Could it be? If the Americans had recovered the Jamal Glover AI and kept it secret all these years, then they couldn’t be trusted to cooperate in his investigation. Regardless, it was better to assume the worst.

  Admiral Riles had been the NSA director back in those days and, though he was long dead, some of his trusted deputies would still be around. One of them could be made to talk. There was a weak link in every chain.

  And Alexandr Prokorov would find it.

  CHAPTER 11

  The noise in the Hart Senate Office Building’s seventh-floor hallway gave an accurate indication of the intensity of feelings about the news that continued to roll out of Austin. Freddy Hagerman was sick of hearing it. There was no doubt in his mind that this was a politically motivated assault orchestrated by the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, and the Internal Revenue Service. The whole thing stank of the UFNS and its puppet, President Benton.

  Freddy paused in his outer office, told his assistant that he didn’t want any calls or visitors, walked into his private office, and shut the door. Sitting down at his desk, he swiveled his chair to stare sightlessly out the window. Christ, what a goddamn mess. The press had taken the whole bullshit story and run with it, big-time.

  Allegedly, Mark and Heather Smythe, through CTC, had illegally conspired to transfer classified technologies and money to terrorist groups, with the goal of destabilizing the United Federation of Nation States of which the U.S. was now a full member. In a number of simultaneous raids, the Joint Terrorism Task Force seized all of the Smythe assets, including their extensive corporate holdings. Although there was currently no evidence directly linking the conspiracy with the Safe Earth movement, the Department of Justice, with the full support of the International Court of Justice, planned on interviewing over the coming days all of the group’s leaders and supporters, both in the United States and abroad.

  The only good news out of the whole situation was that Mark and Heather Smythe had escaped capture, no doubt aided by Jack Gregory and Janet Price.

  The buzz of his office phone startled Freddy. He punched the button in irritation.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Senator, but the attorney general is here demanding to talk to you.”

  “Demanding?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him to go screw himself. Wait. Send him in. I’ll tell him myself.”

  Freddy knew the thin man with the rat’s eyes well. Attorney General Carl Wescott had testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee that Freddy chaired only two months ago. He, like every one of President Benton’s appointees, was a political hack and an all-around first-class prick.

  “Good morning, Senator.”

  “What’s so good about it?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” Wescott asked, nodding toward the nearest leather chair.

  “You won’t be staying long enough to sit down.”

  The anger that crept into the attorney general’s eyes gave Freddy his first good feeling of the day.

  “Look, I can ask you my questions in the comfort of your office or I can subpoena you to testify in court.”

  “If you want to play that game, the Judiciary Committee might just have some questions for you. It could take several days.”

  Wescott’s thin lips clamped into a straight line. “So you’re refusing to cooperate with the investigation into the Smythe case?”

  “No. I’m refusing to cooperate with your political charade . . . whatever you’re calling this.”

  “Fine, Senator. I’ll see you in court.”

  “Go screw yourself.”

  The attorney general hissed and, as he stalked o
ut of the office, Freddy called after him.

  “Oh, Carl, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  Daniil Alkaev walked off the corporate jetliner and entered John F. Kennedy International Airport accompanied by his four-person entourage. His gray suit fitted his six-foot-two-inch frame perfectly. At forty, with his short-cropped, receding brown hair, firm jaw, and green eyes, he looked the part of the Russian corporate dynamo that his new identity proclaimed him.

  But Daniil had never pushed any papers across a corporate desktop or any other desktop for that matter. Neither had a single member of his hard-eyed, well-dressed team. But it was true that they had come to America on business, just not here in New York and not today. First they had preparations to make.

  When they reached the parking garage, two cars were waiting, identical white Escalades parked side by side. Although he preferred black, white was far less threatening. As Daniil approached, the cars responded to commands from cell phone apps and unlocked themselves, obediently opening the rear hatches to receive luggage. Those two hatches rising in unison reminded Daniil of a Nazi salute. He almost expected to hear a rousing “Sieg Heil!” echo through the parking garage.

  He climbed into the backseat of the second vehicle. After retrieving a case from the rear, Galina Anikin slid in beside him. His stern-faced second in command opened the case and passed around the guns and magazines that had been placed inside. For several seconds, the car was filled with the sound of magazines slamming home and rounds being chambered, which Daniil knew was also happening in the other vehicle. Then with a verbal command, Galina ordered the car to proceed to their destination.

  Daniil settled back into the comfortable leather seat. The ride to D.C. would not be a short one.

  Jim “Tall Bear” Pino sat and stared out his office window at the snowcapped Mount Illimani, his raven-black hair hanging almost to his waist. The view really was beautiful, but he missed New Mexico. Still, sacrifices had to be made for the good of his community. And even though he was no longer president of the Native People’s Alliance, he was the Navajo Nation’s representative on the NPA council.

  In the last few years, the organization had expanded far beyond his fondest dreams, now encompassing almost all of the tribes of the Western Hemisphere, from the Arctic Circle to Cape Horn. Unfortunately, as with all tribal alliances, this one came with its own squabbles and infighting. Nowhere was that more apparent than here at the NPA’s headquarters in La Paz, Bolivia.

  Landlocked Bolivia, with its checkered history of struggle and rebellion that predated the Incan Empire, had been chosen to host the NPA capital, in part because this was the seat of the Incan Empire. Bolivia had also been the first country to join the NPA.

  The vast majority of the NPA consisted of tribal lands within the boundaries of other countries, just as in the United States. Unlike other nations, the U.S. government had allowed the tribes to formalize their independence without conflict. Not surprising. The government had far bigger problems on its hands.

  Tall Bear stood, stretched, and walked out onto the second-floor balcony. The beautiful late December day welcomed him with all its summer splendor. At twelve thousand feet above sea level, La Paz didn’t have the warmth of a New Mexico summer, but the sun felt good on his face.

  When his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, Tall Bear was tempted to ignore it, but the voice from the other end made him glad he had not.

  “Hello, Jim. How’s politics treating you?”

  The voice took him back to the days when he was just a cop on the Santa Clara Indian Reservation. The voice brought a grin to his face.

  “Jack! I heard you were on the run.”

  “Still am.”

  “And Janet?”

  “Right here beside me. Robby too.”

  “Damn, that’s fine.” A sudden worry wormed its way into Tall Bear’s head. “Listen, Jack. Aren’t you afraid someone might be listening in? This isn’t a secure line.”

  “There’s no such thing as a secure line . . . not anymore. But rest easy. No one can intercept this call.”

  The confidence in that voice brought back more memories of the most dangerous man Tall Bear had ever met.

  “So what’s this about?”

  “I was just passing through and thought you might like to get together.”

  “What? You’re not in La Paz.”

  “That’s what the sign said.”

  Tall Bear laughed. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch. You know that, don’t you?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”

  Tall Bear walked back through the open French doors and sat down at his oak desk, grabbed a pen, and copied the directions onto a notepad.

  “Nine o’clock tonight it is, then. You better have a cold beer waiting for me.”

  This time Jack laughed. “You got it.”

  The call ended and Tall Bear set his phone down on the desk. A sudden breeze swirled his hair about his shoulders and sent a shiver through his body. Or maybe it was the touch of the ghost who had just reentered his life.

  Whatever the reason for tonight’s rendezvous, he doubted it was purely social.

  The evening thunderstorm swept in from the west, necklaced with crawling bands of cloud-to-cloud lightning. Rain pelted the windows, driven by gusting winds that moaned through the rafters of the two-story house on the eastern outskirts of La Paz. It was a simple house of stone and mortar, with a high-peaked, red-tile roof that sluiced water into the gravel driveway. On a night such as this, the flames in the fireplace cast shadows that danced through the rafters, accompanied by the hiss and pop of the fire.

  Tall Bear accepted a cold bottle of stout from Jack and leaned back on the couch to study the six other people seated in an arc in front of the fire. Only the Quechua woman who’d been introduced as Yachay was native, but in as good a makeup job as he’d ever seen, all of the rest were pulling off damn good imitations clad in traditional Quechua garb. Heather Smythe looked like she’d aged fifteen years. For that matter, so did Mark.

  He found his eyes drawn to the boy, Robby. The eight-year-old could easily pass for thirteen and switched between Spanish, Quechuan, and Navajo while carrying off a native inflection in each language. His face shone with an aggressive intelligence that made Tall Bear oddly uncomfortable.

  “So,” Janet asked with a smile, “do we pass inspection?”

  “You could fool me.”

  Heather Smythe leaned forward. “So I imagine you’re wondering why we asked for this little get-together.”

  “At least you didn’t say powwow.”

  Heather laughed, a musical sound that lit the room.

  “And yes,” Tall Bear continued, “you have aroused my curiosity.”

  The smile faded from her face. “I don’t know what Jack has told you of my special talent. Let’s just say I get . . . visions of what is to come. They don’t mean that what I see is certain to happen, but instead what is likely to happen based on current circumstances and trends. At its most basic, it enables me to win at any casino game, even the electronic slots. I spot patterns.

  “It works for patterns in the stock market or predicting what people around me are about to do. Naturally, this gets more difficult and less accurate the farther into the future I try to see, but macro-events betray themselves.”

  She paused for a moment but Tall Bear didn’t interrupt her. A glance at Jack’s and Janet’s faces told him all he needed to know. They believed every word she was saying. He inhaled deeply and found himself rubbing his big hands together as if to restore circulation.

  “My grandmother was a seer. Every once in a while I have felt a little touch of it in myself.”

  “As I’ve observed,” Jack said. “Up close and personal.”

  “A war is coming,” Heather said. “And it’s a war we have very little hope of winning.”

  “You’re talking about what will happen if
those fools rebuild the Stephenson Gateway.”

  “That too. But even now the UFNS is gathering its forces for a preemptive strike against its perceived enemies. I think the Native People’s Alliance will be among their early targets.”

  A loud pop from the fireplace hurled a glowing coal out onto the wood floor, coming to rest near Tall Bear’s chair. For the briefest of moments, it looked like a bright, disembodied eye peering up at him through a knothole in the floor. Then he stood and ground it out with a size-fourteen cowboy boot. When he sat back down, he found his eyes drawn to that smudge on the floor.

  Had it been an omen like the one that had led him to Jack and Janet in the northern New Mexico high country all those years ago? Sitting here in this dimly lit room as the summer thunderstorm raged outside these walls, it damn sure felt like one. And this meeting felt exactly like a war council.

  Lifting his gaze to meet Heather’s, Tall Bear asked the question that all this had been leading up to.

  “Let’s say that I believe you. Exactly what are you proposing?”

  “An alliance.”

  As Tall Bear listened to the intense young woman lay out her vision, his conviction that she was right continued to grow. And as it did, the darkness within that vision drained the hope from his soul.

  When she finished, Tall Bear drained the last of his beer. Setting the empty bottle on the coffee table, he nodded.

  Tall Bear stood, grabbed his wide-brimmed black hat, and grinned. “I’m glad you’re not asking for much. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  After a round of warm handshakes and hugs, Jack walked him to the door. But as Tall Bear put on his hat and stepped out into the wet night, Jack added one more thing to his heavy plate.

  “By the way, old friend, we’d like to get started by the end of next month.”

  Tall Bear just shook his head, turned, and walked back to his car through the pouring rain.

  Levi Elias knelt between the twin headstones, each of his two hands resting on a different marker. After a short time that felt like an eternity, he gently placed a dozen red roses before each marker.