by Ted Bell
“Fine, fine. I have to get back to work. You’re dessert, right?”
“Right. Dessert.”
“Remind me what you’re serving?”
“A bombe.”
“Bombe?”
“Bombe au chocolat. Spherical, like a bomb. My signature dish.”
“Good. We haven’t done that in a while.”
“So it will be a big surprise for everyone.”
“Well, get to work. And don’t fuck anything up.”
Ian and Hawke headed back to the rear of the kitchen where their team was preparing the dish.
“I liked that ‘bombe’ idea,” Hawke said in a low voice. “Did you make that up on the spot?”
“Indeed. I was rather pleased with it, too.”
An hour later it was almost time for the dessert to be served. Ian had the team lined up with the other waiters, all ready to enter the grand ballroom where the dinner was being held. It was as raucous an affair as Hawke had ever witnessed, fueled by high-octane Russian vodka consumed in heroic proportions.
Hawke, excused by Ian from any culinary duties, had found a narrow back staircase that led to an orchestra balcony overlooking the huge wedding cake of a room. He had removed his toque blanche and peered cautiously over the balustrade, not that anyone would take any notice of him, hidden high above as he was by cumulonimbus clouds of cigar smoke. There were thirty round tables of ten men, the “gentlemen” seated under massive crystal chandeliers, sparkling diamond-like above.
A semicircular stage with a podium had been set up at the far end of the room. A small orchestra was playing rousing renditions of works by Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, Hawke had no idea which. The few club members who could still propel themselves under their own steam were making their way to the rostrum to shower slurry encomiums upon General Kutov. The old bastard sat at the table nearest the stage, red-faced and popping the buttons on his ceremonial KGB uniform, throwing back gold-rimmed beakers of Russian jet fuel as if there were no tomorrow.
Under the circumstances, Hawke thought with a rueful smile, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea.
The waiters were just clearing General Kutov’s table to make way for dessert. Hawke knew it was time to hurry back to the kitchen. He was going to be joining the chorus line of thirty waiters who would be carrying the great silver salvers high above their heads, delivering one of Concasseur’s signature bombes to every single table in the house.
The idea was that the waiter would place the dessert tray in the center of each table, covered by the domed silver cover. At the appointed moment, they would all reach forward simultaneously and lift the lids, revealing the surprise to the oohs and aahs of the assembled. Hawke arrived back in the kitchen just as the head chef swung the doors open and the line of waiters began to move, each with the broad silver platter held high above his head.
Hawke, last in line, grabbed his covered platter and marched out with the rest.
Many guests were facedown in the soup or literally falling out of their chairs as the waiters moved among the tables, carefully placing the salvers in the center of each one. They then stood back waiting for the signal from Concasseur.
“Now!” Ian said in a loud Russian voice.
Each waiter bent forward and lifted the domed lids at the exact same moment. The reaction was as Ian had expected, a cheer of delight from the members.
The bombe was fashioned in the shape a large, bright red, five-pointed star, easily big enough to feed ten hungry men. In the center was a foot-high candle, covered in gold glitter. Kutov, whose table Hawke had been designated, clapped loudly, and soon everyone joined him in the applause.
Hawke, along with his fellow waiters, pulled a butane lighter in the shape of a large match from inside his white jacket. Flicking the switch, he produced a flame from the red tip.
“Now!” Concasseur’s loud voice boomed again, and the synchronized waiters held their flames to the sparkling gold candles. To the delight of all, the fuses started spitting sparks as they burned. Hawke leaned down and whispered “Spasibo” in Kutov’s ear. “Thank you.” Then the waiters all retreated from the tables, all thirty forming up along the wall and marching back toward the kitchen in an orderly fashion.
Hawke found Concasseur and slipped in behind him.
“So far, so good,” he whispered.
“Keep moving,” Ian said. “Have we got our five guys?”
“They’re all in front of us.”
“Good. The fuses are burning much faster than they’re supposed to.”
“Good God, have we got time?”
“Barely. Speed it up.”
Once they were back inside the kitchen, Hawke and Concasseur quickly collected Putin’s five men and they hurried out through the rear exit. The catering truck was parked in the alley behind the club, and Putin’s men all piled into the rear while Hawke and Concasseur leaped into the cab, Hawke behind the wheel. The truck started instantly by some miracle. Hawke engaged first gear and popped the clutch, speeding down the long alleyway that opened into Pushkin Square at the other end.
He hadn’t driven fifty yards when the massive explosion behind him rocked the old truck violently and sent brick and stone tumbling into the alley just behind them. A giant cloud of dust was visible in the rearview mirror, rolling toward them.
He smiled over at Concasseur. Ian had created the thirty bombes from ten-pound bricks of the high explosive Semtex, a malleable substance that made it ideal for unusual desserts such as this one. Each Semtex star had been coated with red marzipan. The “candle” fuses extended down into the desserts’ centers. There he had placed the igniters and two ounces each of the explosive yellow liquid called nitroglycerin, which detonated the Semtex.
“Take a left,” Concasseur said. “Let’s have a look.”
Hawke turned into the street leading to the cul-de-sac where the infamous mansion of murderers had once stood. The members of this organization had been responsible for Anastasia’s imprisonment and torture, her near execution, and the subsequent attempted assassinations of his son, Alexei. The killers, kidnappers, and torturers now lay beneath a massive pile of smoking debris, with billowing black smoke climbing into the night sky, illuminated by hot licks of hellish shades of red and yellow flame.
“My compliments to the chef,” Hawke said to Concasseur, throwing the catering van into reverse.
Forty-six
Washington, D.C.
Hard rain beat against the windows of the Oval Office. The foul weather matched the mood of the people gathered there perfectly, except for one. President Tom McCloskey was oblivious to weather of any kind, owing to countless hours in the saddle where the Great Plains meet the Rockies, the front range of Colorado. His equanimity and grace under pressure had been a big part of his appeal to voters looking for reassurance in deeply troubled times.
The president of the United States leaned back in his chair and settled his shiny black cowboy boots onto the Labrador retriever, a life-sized leather footstool version of his favorite dog. The room had changed since Hawke’s last visit. During President Jack McAtee’s tenure in office, nautical was the theme: marine art, ship models, and naval artifacts. Now, it was the Old West. Remington sculptures of bucking broncos, paintings of Yosemite by Thomas Moran, and the famous The Last of the Buffalo by Albert Bierstadt gave the room a rustic quality shared by the current inhabitant. He’d also retrieved and returned the bust of Winston Churchill a previous White House tenant had sent unwisely and unceremoniously back to England.
“Hell,” President Tom McCloskey said, clasping his big hands behind his head, “I feel like I’m at war with a phantom.”
“Damnedest adversary I’ve ever seen, Mr. President,” the Pentagon’s Charlie Moore said. “And I thought I’d seen everything.”
“Or not seen,” Anson Beard, the secretary of defense, whispered
under his breath to Alex Hawke, seated next to him on the sofa near the fireplace. The president heard him.
“That’s right, Anson, not seen.”
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—”
McCloskey continued, “I’m reading a book called The Ghost in the Machine by a guy named Koestler. I recommend it. It’s about mankind’s relentless march toward self-destruction. Koestler believes that as the human brain has grown, it’s been built upon earlier, more primitive brain structures—the ghosts in the machine—and these can overpower higher, logical functions. The ghosts are responsible for hate, anger, and all the other self-destructive impulses. You see where I’m going with this?”
He could tell by the looks on their faces that they hadn’t a clue.
“I’m saying that these AI machines, whatever you wish to call them, are built by humans. They are products of our brains. And so our ghosts are in those goddamn machines, too. Only a few million times smarter. So how do we fight them? Admiral Moore?”
“We have a new enemy. Cybercombat. Can’t see it, can’t hear it, can’t find it. Like a ghost, but that’s too nice a word for it. Ghosts can be friendly. Phantom’s a better word for it. An evil presence you can feel but not see. And that’s just what this is. Hell, I could send the USS George Washington—hell, send the whole carrier battle group—after it, and this damn phantom would just shut our whole military operation down electronically. I’d have a carrier dead in the water, an entire aircraft fighter wing sitting on the deck totally useless.”
Brick Kelly said, “Could be worse than that, Charlie. You could have one of your own submarines turn against you and fire a spread of torpedoes at your own damn carrier, like that incident in the Caribbean.”
“Nothing would surprise me anymore, Brick. I’m beyond that now.”
There were murmurs of assent from those gathered. Vice President David Rosow, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Charlie Moore, CIA Director Kelly, Secretary of Defense Beard, MI6 Director Trulove, and Alex Hawke were scattered about the room on various sofas and chairs.
“You gentlemen understand the implications of what you just heard?” McCloskey asked. “The entire ‘arsenal of democracy’ has just been rendered entirely useless. Anybody besides me consider that a fairly serious problem?”
The Joint Chiefs chairman, Moore, spoke first.
“Mr. President, as you know, the Pentagon has recently concluded that computer sabotage coming from another country constitutes an act of war. For the first time, the door is open for the U.S. military to respond to such attacks using traditional military force. More will be declassified in coming months. But I will tell you we now regard this as a changing world, one where a hacker can pose as significant a threat to U.S. nuclear reactors, public transportation in the air and on the ground, or, let’s say pipelines, as a hostile country’s military.”
McCloskey lit a black cheroot, inhaled, thought a moment, and expelled a plume of blue smoke. He reached down to rub the head of his dog, Ranger, asleep on the rug beside him. Still looking fondly at his pet, the president continued.
“Charlie’s right. What we’re saying is this. If you shut down our power grid, maybe we will put a multiple warhead ICBM down one of your smokestacks. That about sum it up, David?”
Vice President Rosow got to his feet and began pacing the room. When he spoke, it was with his trademark candor and no-nonsense demeanor.
“Let’s just skip the chase and cut right to the goddamn outcome, okay? As you all know, two days ago we had an electronic tsunami in America. A rolling blackout that came ashore at Santa Monica, hit Los Angeles, and then swept across the whole damn country. Denver, Chicago. All the way to New York City. The power grid was down in New York for exactly sixty minutes, then, at the stroke of midnight, pop, the lights all came back on. Now, that tells me something. It tells me somebody is dicking around with us. Having himself a little fun at our expense. Not to mention our country. No goddamn hacker dicks with America, gentlemen, and gets away with it.”
McCloskey nodded in agreement. “At least not on my watch, anyway. And I’m not putting up with it. We’re not leaving this room until we figure out a way to put an end to this—whatever the hell it is—phantom—once and for all. I welcome your ideas.”
“Whoever they are, they’re probing, pushing us around, Mr. President,” Rosow said. “Just to show the rest of the world they can do it. It all began with that Russian sub in the Caribbean. The tragedy up at Fort Greely, the slaughter caused by that TGV train in London.”
“No question about it, David. Somebody, somewhere, has gotten hold of technology we can’t even begin to understand, much less match. You boys know what a ‘rat lab’ is? That’s what we used to call ’em back at MIT. Meant a room full of people ‘running around thinking.’ We got every rat lab in America working on this and they haven’t come up with squat. That’s why I invited Sir David Trulove of MI6 over here. He and Commander Hawke have been talking to artificial intelligence scientists over at Cambridge. I think they have some answers for us. Sir David?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. President; Commander Hawke and I both appreciate being invited to participate in this critically important meeting. The good news is, we actually may have brought along a bit of good news to share with you this morning. MI6’s Red Banner, a joint spec-ops unit working in concert with the CIA, has made significant progress. I’ll let Alex take you through it. He’s been spending productive time with the AI scientists at Cambridge.”
Hawke leaned forward and locked eyes with McCloskey. “Mr. President, I’m honored to be here. I worked closely with your predecessors and I look forward to continuing that process with you. A question first, if you don’t mind. I believe you have been briefed on Project Perseus, correct?”
“I have been.”
“Then you know that a scientist at Stanford, Cohen by name, had achieved enormous theoretical breakthroughs in the field of AI—ideas he considered so dangerous he built an impenetrable firewall to protect them.”
“I’m aware of all this.”
“The quantum supercomputer at Leeds, used by Cambridge scientists, has determined that someone hacked into Cohen’s encrypted life’s work and stole his ideas for a Singularity machine. I don’t want to understate the ramifications of what I just said. This is not just another of the many cyberthreats to national security in the West, sir. According to Dr. Partridge at Cambridge, this particular theft is analogous to the Soviet KGB acquiring the secrets of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos.”
“He said that? Those words?” the president said, some of the color draining from his face.
“He did, sir. Precisely those words. He added that the individual responsible, or whatever state wields this power, is now the most dangerous threat to human existence on the planet.”
“Wait a second. Can we replicate Cohen’s design ourselves? On a crash-and-burn basis?” Anson Beard, the ruggedly handsome secretary of state, asked.
“Unfortunately not, Secretary Beard. It isn’t crash-and-burn science,” Hawke replied. “According to the Cambridge group, it will take at minimum two years to replicate this technology. If we’re lucky.”
“Mr. Hawke,” the president said, “you said there was good news. Now’s as good a time as any.”
“Quantum has finally been able to determine the whereabouts of the hacker, Mr. President.”
“Yes?”
“Iran.”
“Damn, I knew it,” the president said. “Who else but Iran could be behind the most dangerous threat on the planet—those crazy mullahs and that pinhead president of theirs? The latest intel shows the cabal of mullahs in Tehran are convinced that the End of Days is near. That their divine ruler, the Mahdi, is going to appear and set the world straight. Meaning, kill all the nonbelievers. Were it up to me, I’d turn that country full of Islamofascists into a parking lot. But it isn’t up to me. It is, u
nfortunately, up to those deadlocked, dithering bureaucrats on the Hill.”
Hawke said, “Mr. President, if I may continue, as I said, we were able to identify the hacker. An Iranian scientist who worked on the original Perseus Project at Stanford with Dr. Cohen. He’s also the man we suspect of murdering Dr. Cohen and a number of other key scientists who worked on the project. He goes by the name of Darius Saffari. But his real name is Sattar Khan. Ironically enough, he is a nephew of the late Shah of Iran. His mother was the Shah’s sister.”
“The deus ex machina,” McCloskey said. “We know his name and we know where he lives. Am I missing something here?”
Hawke said, “Sorry, sir, your question?”
“Why isn’t he dead?”
“He will be. Director Kelly and I were discussing his demise at breakfast this very morning. Brick, you want to take over?”
“Thanks, Alex. Mr. President, we have a nonspecific location in Iran, but at least we know it’s an area in the southeastern portion, on or near the Persian Gulf. We immediately put a dedicated bird in the sky over that area. I have sat photos here of locations we consider the most likely possibilities. I’ve a set for everyone.”
Once each attendee had the photos, Kelly said, “The site we favor is the one marked IR-117. A compound located directly on the Gulf. As you can all see, it looks to be heavily fortified. But the thing that interests me most is the mammoth power plant you can see on the mountainside below what appears to be an observatory. It is surrounded by twenty-foot-high fences topped with concertina wire and is patrolled by guards with dogs twenty-four hours a day.”
“Why does that interest you, Brick?” the president said.
“A supercomputer of the size and complexity we are talking about would require enormous amounts of power. This particular plant is big enough to supply a small city. And, as you can see, the complex looks to be primarily residential, a large palace, surrounded by countless streets of ancient buildings. It is substantial and well fortified by a massive thirty-foot-high wall. A citadel, in fact. There’s something inside that compound that needs a whole lot of juice, Mr. President.”