Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Please return to your station,” said Dhilan as Jerome made his way to an empty table. Dhilan followed. Then he reached into Jerome’s scalp and pulled down the skin off his head, revealing the same underpinnings I had seen in Cedra, the android I’d met while in Iran at the school named CEDRA.

  “Remember the button I showed you on Cedra?” Dhilan inquired, using a small screwdriver to unscrew a plate from Jerome’s head, showing the same opening I also recalled from CEDRA.

  “I do.”

  “In order to reboot Jerome, you need to move your fingers under the cranium, into the far side of his head. Then press. Go ahead and try it,” he said, putting the small plate and screws down on the table. I reached my index and middle fingers under Jerome’s skull until I found a small button. I pressed it just as Dhilan had shown me during my training at CEDRA just a few months ago. Jerome’s eyes closed, and a whining sound indicated he was powered down for a split second.

  “Very good. What you don’t know is that you are one of only a handful of people in the entire world who know about Jerome’s existence. That means you will be under much more scrutiny than you’d like, despite what you might think right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever you do will be watched by someone unless you’re on the john. Then it’s hit or miss,” he said, smiling. “Remember Edward Snowden?”

  “Who doesn’t? He’s hiding in a Russian embassy because he disclosed NSA secrets. Another whistle-blower bites the dust because he did what nobody else had the courage to do.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Tell the truth,” I said with raised eyebrows.

  “Like Col. Vincent and former EU Ambassador Songland? Better keep those thoughts to yourself if you want to have this job longer than a week,” he said with pursed lips. “Just remember, anything you do, at least if it is unbecoming, will likely end up on the news at some point. Many have found that out the hard way. Be thankful you haven’t done anything in your past that has been documented by someone ready to knock you off your high horse. You haven’t, right?”

  “Didn’t we already have this discussion?” I asked as blood rushed through my body, up into my ears, which felt as if they were now on fire after hearing his remark. For the first time I wondered if this was the beginning of the end. Why was I so stupid back in Hawaii? Idiot! I hoped I didn’t look like a deer in headlights to Dhilan right now.

  “I know, it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “But, like I said, you are one of just a handful of people who know about Jerome, although that number has grown larger since President Crumpler’s heart attack. He was the reason nobody knew about these androids.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I asked, trying to calm down.

  “It’s a mixed bag, Mason. There is typically an upside and a downside to everything,” he said without elaborating.

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “The upside is the United States has a strategic advantage. The downside is everyone will want it. You can’t trust anyone, even your girlfriend. Capucine Foushé, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Your clearance required an extensive background check. If she were in the room, I would tell her not to trust you if the two of you were reversed.”

  “I love that girl, Dr. Hannah. Really love her. But I don’t know if I can have this job and have a relationship with her. Sorry. TMI, I know.”

  “The guy with the faith that stops bullets doesn’t think a relationship can work because of a job at NASA?” said Dhilan, alluding to the incident in Iran. “Love is a process, Mason, like everything else.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve longed for love, but then when I find it, I wonder if—”

  “I know,” said Dhilan.

  “You do?” I asked curiously.

  “After what you went through at CEDRA, yes. You almost died,” he said, talking about the bombing I’d survived in Iran. Then he hesitated, as if wondering what to say next. “My wife was on Malaysia Flight 370,” he said, sitting down. We were apparently going to have a “moment.”

  “The flight that was never found?” I said, my expression likely matching my sadness. “Dhilan, I am so sorry. I meant to ask you if you’d ever been married.”

  “I’m not sure I will ever be able to comprehend how Allah could allow that to happen, given He is a God of love, like you say,” he said, looking me in the eyes as I sat. Apparently he recalled our conversation at CEDRA about my faith.

  “I’m really sorry, Dhilan. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know, and it’s not something I talk about. Anyway, she was a Muslim, and I never gave her beliefs the time of day. When she died, Pierre was the one who helped me through.”

  “Pierre?”

  “Pierre Monet, an aeronautical research engineer for NASA. Anyway, that’s why I have been reading the Qur’an. I pray to Allah that she is in Heaven.”

  “I will pray that, too, Dhilan,” I responded.

  An intimate pause followed, something that happened between friends rather than coworkers. At least coworkers for just a few minutes.

  “Please forgive my personal intrusion,” he said. “Look through the schematics of Nero and Jerome; study up on how they were built. Open him up so you can see his internal systems. Everything you need is on this computer or on the android himself,” he said, pointing at his computer, which I knew was attached to the hidden server. “I have a meeting to run off to—a very long one, sadly. I will try to be back before you leave this evening, but if not, this will keep you busy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Actually, no,” I responded.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just remembered a dream I had.”

  “For a moment you were scaring me. We all dream. Maybe you ate something last night—food provokes dreams.”

  “This wasn’t last night’s dream. I’m sorry, Dhilan, I have to call the president.”

  “Good one, Mason,” he said, chuckling. “Tell him I said hello,” he continued, laughing as I hit the number President Tense had given me.

  “I’d like to speak to the president,” I said as Dhilan’s jaw dropped.

  “Who’s calling?” asked the unidentified man who answered.

  “Mason Thomas.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas, the president isn’t available. Can someone else help you?”

  “He asked me to call him if I had a dream that might be of importance. Well, I had another one that he needs to hear.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you again?” I could hear his skepticism.

  “Mason Thomas.”

  A short pause ensued. I sat down. Dhilan’s face wrinkled. “Are you serious?” he asked in a hushed tone. I nodded without changing my brooding look. He waved good-bye with a big smile, shaking his head in amazement. I remained on the phone, the prospect of another tragedy daunting.

  

  44

  Vive la Révolution

  Paris, France

  Her short blonde hair blew in the wind as she stood on the bow of the 92-foot luxury yacht Don Juan II. Capucine knew what she had to do, but this time it was different. She wasn’t exactly sure why. Or perhaps she wasn’t willing to admit it. She leaned on the rail, watching the small waves ripple on the river as the large craft moved slowly down the 777-kilometer-long waterway within the Paris Basin in the north of France, known as the Seine River.

  “When it was completed in 1889, it was the tallest structure in the world, an architectural wonder. Then the Americans built the Chrysler Building, but not until 1930,” came the flat yet bold voice of Carlos DaSilva, gazing at the Eiffel Tower as his arms also rested on the r
ail. “They know how to compete, I’ll give them that,” said Carlos, his eyes bright, narrowed, and soft for a hard and intense man. His hair had grayed over the years, and the lines on his face said he had lived a hard life, although anyone over 70 no longer mirrored a 40-year-old.

  Having read his file, Capucine knew he was a brilliant agent. Besides, some of his work was legendary in the General Directorate for External Security (DGSE), France’s external intelligence agency—the French equivalent of the United Kingdom’s MI6 or the United States’ CIA.

  “The Empire State Building is taller, and the Twin Towers dwarfed them all,” she commented. “And yet the Eiffel Tower is still one of the most recognizable structures on the planet.” Capucine turned her head to meet his eyes. She was aware that the man before her was like all other spies, saying whatever was necessary to get the job done, true or not. But this man reminded her of her father, who had died 10 years ago in an intelligence operation gone awry. For a moment she reminisced. At his peak her father was a general in the French Foreign Legion, then was recruited by the DGSE.

  The story was etched in her memory: he had been deployed as part of a multinational force to assist the Lebanese Armed Forces in evacuating the PLO, Syrian forces, and other foreign combatants involved in Lebanon’s civil war in the late ’90s. The apparently peaceful withdrawal ended up going south, and the soldiers in the Foreign Legion were captured, except for Capucine’s father, who escaped. Because of his evident brilliance in identifying a corrupt officer in the French Foreign Legion and subsequently rescuing his fellow soldiers, as soon as her father returned to France, the director of the DGSE hired him. He died five years later, during another corrupt operation that he could not stop. Capucine was following in his footsteps, except in one area—she trusted no one. She knew that was what got even wise men killed.

  “France was once the most powerful country in the world. We missed some great opportunities,” said Carlos.

  “We won’t miss this one. America is on the ropes, Brexit will keep the Brits reeling in uncertainty, Germany isn’t a nuclear power, and a power vacuum has opened around the world because of the former president of the United States.”

  “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Carlos said as his eyes remained toward the bow of the ship.

  “You disagree?”

  “I am old now, perhaps too old. I still believe we are missing a key ingredient,” said Carlos, turning his head.

  “Which is?” asked Capucine, meeting his gaze.

  “Chutzpah. That intangible but critical element of a leader,” he said as their eyes met.

  “Macron’s got chutzpah. He picked me, didn’t he?”

  “True, my friend,” Carlos said, looking warmly at Capucine, although his use of the word friend sent a chill up her spine.

  “At least I am proof he is sticking to his desire to transform France by being at the forefront of artificial intelligence. His Révolution.”

  “Ah, yes, the Révolution,” he mused. “Ever heard the line ‘It’s the economy, stupid’?”

  “Bill Clinton’s famous line.”

  “Bush Senior, a war hero, masterfully won the first Gulf War, but the Americans voted in a guy whose character was shady at best because the economy had slipped.”

  “People are fickle,” said Capucine.

  “Leaders are not? If Macron doesn’t get more people working, along with increased wages, it won’t matter how popular his Révolution message is. He’ll be like the Concorde: here today, gone tomorrow,” Carlos said as he stared at the water. “I understand the Americans believe you are Dominika Vladimirovich,” he said, changing the subject.

  Capucine took a deep breath as her hair blew sideways. She straightened it using her left hand before answering.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Are you?” he asked, his look now serious.

  “Perhaps,” she replied, knowing the way she answered questions was always under scrutiny.

  “You’re an analyst, not a field agent. How could you be Dominika?” Though it sounded rhetorical, the question invited a response.

  Capucine chose silence.

  “You are trained to kill?” he asked, as if probing for a reason she could not explain.

  “I am trained to analyze. I know how to kill; I just don’t. Espionage, when done properly, saves lives,” she responded defensively, apparently revealing a sensitive spot in her armor.

  “You haven’t mentioned this assignment to anyone, correct?” asked Carlos.

  “You’re my handler. You told me I couldn’t. Breaking protocol gets me fired, maybe killed. Why do you ask?”

  “We may have a leak. I need to find out who is sending out false information about you. It’s put tension in our relationship with the Americans, which, I suppose, is the point.”

  “Is that why you haven’t told them of my assignment?”

  Carlos nodded slowly. “They can’t know—not until we find out what is going on.”

  “I suppose some tension is warranted; good, even,” said Capucine with a nervous smile.

  “But distrust among our agencies is unprecedented. What about Mason?” he asked, again turning his head toward her.

  “He doesn’t know,” she answered flatly.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I uploaded malware to his computer.”

  “I thought you said he was perceptive.”

  “He wouldn’t be alive if not. He’s just not ambitious. He wrote that thesis in college and never did anything with it. Most people with his intelligence would have spent all their time pursuing the theory.”

  “You think that is a bad trait?”

  “Depends on whether chutzpah is a necessary one,” said Capucine, looking the man in the eyes.

  He gazed out ahead, pursing his lips. Capucine knew Carlos’s mention of Mason was to get another reaction from her. She also knew that having any emotional attachment to a resource was grounds for dismissal, if not elimination.

  “Have you found any more details about Hitzenger?” he asked, referring to one of their German agents, as the wind continued to blow his hair around.

  “He denies he ever knew Heinrich Himmler or anyone in the Nazi organization,” she answered.

  “Many thought Himmler was the devil in the flesh.”

  “I thought all Nazis were regarded that way,” she said flatly.

  “Do you believe in the devil, Capucine?” he asked, looking her in the eyes.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered.

  “You’d better. Call it what you may, but deny it and you will find yourself before him.”

  “I didn’t know you were a religious man,” said Capucine, scrutinizing the elderly man whose face suggested he was tired beyond his days, while his eyes revealed he was sharp as a tack.

  “I wasn’t until I met Heinrich Himmler. Be careful with Mason. I’ve lived long enough to know there is more going on in the world than we can see with our eyes. Faith is a powerful weapon. That is why all fascist governments wish to kill those who are committed followers of a religious belief.”

  “The mind is also a powerful weapon. People want a purpose, and religion gives it to them,” retorted Capucine, believing that faith did have a role; she just hadn’t figured out how much.

  “Funny,” said Carlos.

  “What’s that?”

  “So many of those who don’t believe never consider why authoritarian governments are so afraid of those same religions. If there’s nothing to it, why would they care?” asked the old man. “What about your faith?” he asked. “You’re Christian?”

  “Catholic,” said Capucine. He smiled slightly.

  “You must be disappointed about Notre Dame. It’s a shame, such a historic structure up in flames.”

  “It is being rebuilt.”

  “Th
e SS is not dead, just underground. How much do you know about Phoenix?” he asked, weaving different subjects in and out of the conversation, his communication style. Capucine had come to understand it was a tactic.

  “Nothing more. If they have an android, Mason doesn’t know about it.”

  She paused.

  “He’s taken the job at NASA.”

  “And Cedra?”

  “We have the android. He needs work, but Mason will help.”

  “Isn’t this beautiful?” Carlos said, gazing out over the Seine.

  “I understand salmon swim here again,” she said.

  “You are right, Capucine; the once-polluted river is clean again. Perhaps there is hope for France.”

  

  45

  Prophetic Warning

  “Hello? Are you there?” I said into the silence, my phone glued to my ear, still recollecting the dream as I waited. I stood up and walked in circles. Maybe this was why my day had started out like crap—a real devil was jerking around a voodoo doll of me, and I was feeling the heat.

  “Oh, Mason Thomas! I’m sorry. In another second I was going to call Secret Service. Let me connect you with his chief of staff, Mark Iacono,” he said. I stood back up and walked in another small circle.

  Several buzzes followed.

  “This is Iacono.”

  “Hello, Mr. Iacono. This is Mason Thomas,” I said.

  Another short pause followed.

  “Right, yes, Mason. How can I help you?”

  “The president asked me to call if I had any dreams. I had another one that I just remembered. I think he needs to hear it,” I said in haste.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not available,” he said stoically. “Is it possible for me to convey the dream, or would you like me to have him call you?”

  “Let me tell you and you can decide. I don’t think it can wait.”

  “Very well,” he said, as if he was completely engaged in something other than this conversation.

  “Forgive me in advance; I didn’t write it down but just remembered,” I said, recollecting the dream’s details on the fly.