by E. J. Simon
“So you’re telling me that someone got their hands on our own technology and used it against us in order to get the airliner past our defenses?”
“Yes, sir, it appears that way.”
“Meaning, essentially, that we got hacked?”
Bennett nodded. “Almost certainly. Either someone inside gave it up or, more likely, someone from outside hacked into our systems and copied it.”
The President leaned back in his chair, digesting what he’d heard. “I see.” He turned to Goodrich, “So, what does this mean? Was this some terrorist group? Do we have a clue who might be behind this thing? Or what their point was?”
Goodrich shook his head. “Like Johnny said, we have no clue on the identity of the perpetrator or perpetrators—or what their point or cause was, exactly.” He turned to Bennett, who nodded as though to say, Go ahead. “There is one other thing, sir, but we can’t verify or prove it.”
“And what’s that?”
“We found traces, but only traces, nothing conclusive, of some type of source code that may have been used to infiltrate and hack into our Air Force computer systems. We’re still studying the data, trying to trace what occurred inside our systems and, I have to admit, our information is fragmented. It appears that whatever was left of the code used to hack in disintegrated, probably designed to be erased once the attack was completed.”
“Jim, Johnny, what are you trying to say?” O’Brien was impatient now.
Bennett looked at Goodrich.
“We’ve traced the hack to an individual, a man. He’s of German descent but worked inside the Vatican as a close aide to the last two popes. He was a monsignor.”
O’Brien’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Do you mean Monsignor 007?
Goodrich and Bennett exchanged shocked glances.
“You’ve heard of him?” Goodrich asked.
“Just before the rogue jet came, President Payard brought him up. I think the French were about to brief our security services on what they had uncovered.” O’Brien shared what Payard had told them in the Oval Office. “So how does this all fit together? The hijacking, the hacking into our systems to get to the radar-flooding software, and a dead Vatican spy?”
Goodrich shook his head. “We don’t know where the dead guy fits into this yet, if at all—but my sense is this wasn’t the work of an individual person or even a private group. It was too sophisticated, too complex, and would have required extravagant resources. It had to be state-sponsored.”
O’Brien learned over the table. “A country? Which one?”
“It’s an educated hunch but, in view of who was on that plane, I believe it was Russia,” Goodrich said. “And there’s only one man behind Russia. Vladimir Putin.”
Chapter 17
Berlin, Germany
Looking out the large glass windows of his corner office onto Unter den Linden, the main boulevard in Berlin’s central Mitte district, Claus Dietrich picked up the newspaper from his desk and turned to face his visitor.
“Have you read the news? Mein Kampf is, once again, a best seller here in Germany.” He turned away again, looking out the windows. “The Americans have taken the bait. They are convinced Putin is behind the airliner attack. Having Putin’s chief political rival on the flight along with so many other Russians and Americans was pure genius, my friend. Only you could have orchestrated it.”
“Once I saw his name on the passenger list, I knew we had to take that plane,” the visitor responded. “Our next mission will destroy the world order.”
Still staring out the window, Dietrich nodded and mused aloud, “Now the American citizenry and news services will create the needed atmosphere of threats and taunts. All helped along, of course, with your work manipulating their social media. We have formally reopened the Cold War. The Americans will blame everything that happens next on the Russians. And Putin will be awaiting American retaliation.”
Dietrich sighed. “This office stands on the site of the office of the greatest architect of all time, the Fuhrer’s architect, Herr Albert Speer. Today, we are the architects of a new world order.”
Still facing away from to his visitor, he viewed the Hotel Adlon on his right, long a favorite of the Nazi elite and at the heart of its social center during their glory days. To his left stood the Brandenburg Gate.
“The Russians are almost as naive as the Americans. Putin will do anything to undermine his rivals, and no one’s more paranoid than he is. We will use that to our advantage. As the world descends into chaos, we will gather strength.”
He pulled away from the window and turned to face his visitor. “And you, my dear friend, Kurt, will be instrumental.”
Kurt Schlegelberger, dressed in his black priest’s jacket and white clerical collar, looked back at him through the computer screen. “Remember, we must be intelligent and calculating in all of our actions. No swastikas or talk of the Reich.”
Dietrich looked back out the window. “We are witnessing the creation of the first virtual superpower. We have no land, no capital city, nothing the traditional powers can attack. Soon we will transition from a virtual power to one with control not only of the virtual world—but also the physical one.”
Dietrich turned around, his cold, deep-set eyes staring at Schlegelberger, “But before we can fully implement our plan, we must destroy any obstacles, anyone who can interfere or cause us…difficulties.”
Schlegelberger gave him a knowing nod, “Yes, the two brothers. The living one and the dead one. I have already made arrangements to deal with Michael Nicholas. We are following his every move. He will be dead within the week. Unlike his brother, he will only live once.”
“But it’s the dead one I fear the most.” Dietrich sat in his black leather and steel desk chair, pulled it in close to his sleek glass desk, and leaned in inches from the desktop monitor. “My dear Kurt,” he said, peering into the computer screen where Schlegelberger lived, “you are more alive, more powerful than any other human. You are man and machine, together as one, a superhuman, a specimen of a new master race even our fathers could never have envisioned.”
Schlegelberger nodded solemnly. “I stand ready to serve.”
“Indeed. But victory requires resources. Money. I have an appointment at our mannequin shop around the corner. There is some gold I must attend to. We shall speak again tomorrow.”
Claus Dietrich pushed the button on the keyboard and watched as the computer screen turned black. He rose up from his chair and left his office, locking the door behind him.
Chapter 18
The White House,
Washington, DC
President O’Brien remembered reading about the “hotline,” a direct landline link between the leaders of Russia and the United States. It was set up in the wake of the infamous Cuban Missile Crisis, with the world on the brink of nuclear annihilation. Although barely a teenager then, the images of President Kennedy at his desk at the White House, addressing the nation, were ingrained in O’Brien’s mind. Decades later, upon his own election, he had selected JFK’s desk for his own use, the same one he now sat at as he picked up the red phone.
Surrounded by his national security advisers, he waited to hear Vladimir Putin’s voice.
“Mr. President, I was preparing to call you myself. This situation with the airliner is very disturbing.”
Putin, O’Brien thought, was always calculating. Now he was waiting for O’Brien to stake out a position.
“Vlad,” O’Brien always addressed Putin by his first name, despite his insistence on addressing him back as Mr. President, “I thought it would be advisable for us to clarify the events behind this airline hijacking and, of course, our need to shoot the jetliner down as it approached the White House.”
“Very well. You understand our concerns and…let’s say, suspicions…over this matter. There were over
a hundred Russian citizens on the plane, including Oleg Timchenkov, who was a close friend of mine.”
“Yes, I do, and we sincerely regret the loss of all the lives involved and you have my personal condolences for the loss of your friend.” O’Brien knew better, Timchenkov was Putin’s bitter rival. What a bunch of BS, he thought.
“What is your assessment?” Putin was in his former KGB officer curt mode.
Even under the best of circumstances, O’Brien would not have been ready to disclose the existence and apparent involvement of the late Monsignor Schlegelberger or even Alex Nicholas. If the whole thing strained his own credulity, O’Brien could only imagine how it would be received by the ever-suspicious Putin.
“We are still evaluating the evidence, but I can tell you that our internal intelligence agencies have detected highly unusual activities that lead us to believe there are outside parties, not directly attached to either of our countries, potentially at work here.”
“Who are these parties? And what nation or nations are they from?”
In the pre-call briefings O’Brien had already been warned not to in any way disclose the apparent advances in the AI technology that had created—or recreated—both Schlegelberger and Alex Nicholas. The CIA needed to keep that secret until they had come to understand—and master—it, in the event it proved to be a technological breakthrough. If it was, it would be a game changer in the world’s balance of power, and the later Putin found out about it, the better.
“We believe the parties involved were German nationals who have spent time in Italy and other countries.”
“And where was this plane during the days it was missing?”
“Unknown, at present.”
“I see. You do understand, Mr. President, the shooting down of this airliner, regardless of its supposed course, resulted in the loss of many Russian lives, not only that of my dear friend, Oleg Timchenkov.”
Before answering, O’Brien caught the attention of his advisers seated around him. They indicated their approval of what he’d said so far. “Vlad, there is one other piece of information I need to tell you.”
“What is that?”
“It appears that everyone on the plane—except for the pilot—was already dead before we shot the aircraft down. Our jet fighter pilots verified this with their own eyes before firing. They could see the dead passengers through the jet’s windows. Also, the plane had been outfitted with anti-missile defense systems. We were only able to shoot it down from surface-to-air missiles around the White House. As it was, some of the plane’s debris landed on the White House itself. We had no choice but to shoot it out of the air before it hit us. Dead passengers notwithstanding.”
There was a momentary silence on the other end. O’Brien figured Putin was discussing the information with his own advisers wherever he was taking the call.
“Mr. President, I respect that your specific actions here may have been necessary. Nevertheless, I am not convinced we have all the accurate information regarding the events leading up to this tragedy—and the correct identification of the conspirators and their motives. There are many around me who feel this was a provocation, whether directly or indirectly, by your country.”
“I can assure you—”O’Brien began before being cut short.
“I can assure you, Mr. President, we will be investigating this on our own and watching these developments very closely. I hope things are as you say, but your vagueness on the facts is not encouraging. Good day, Mr. President.”
O’Brien, his staff, and various US and Russian intelligence agencies listening in on the call heard the distinctive click of Putin hanging up.
But there was another listener.
And as the call ended and the scene dissolved in front of him, Kurt Schlegelberger terminated his own connection.
Chapter 19
Saint Tropez, France
It was a magical setting, soft, tiny lights under the trees in a quiet garden terrace. La Ramade was one of Michael and Samantha’s favorites. The main courses were arriving, including Michael’s filet of beef, pink, perfectly grilled with a thick, charcoaled crust around the edges, and a rainbow of broiled potatoes splayed out around the plate. He’d had this dish before; he could taste it before he even picked up his fork.
He and Samantha discussed the news about the airliner being shot down. Michael knew Schlegelberger had been behind it but was reluctant to tell her since she’d long ago made it clear she didn’t believe Alex remained alive in the cloud.
“The world’s spinning out of control,” Samantha said.
Michael was considering broaching once again the subject of Alex when the proprietor approached and, whispering in his ear, said, “Monsieur Nicholas, I’m sorry to disturb you but one of our Saint Tropez gendarmerie is by the entrance here and has asked for you. He said it would only take a moment of your time.”
Michael rose from his seat, “I’ll be right back.”
“What is it?” Samantha said, instinctively suspicious any time Michael left the table before even tasting his dinner.
“Not sure. Maybe I blocked a car across the street, at the hotel.”
He walked around the other tables and to the front entry, which was little more than an open gate to the sidewalk. As he approached the gate, he saw a uniformed gendarme standing in front of a black Citroen, the French wishful-thinking equivalent of a Mercedes.
Once he stepped onto the sidewalk, the officer nodded and left, crossing the street. Michael was only a few feet from the Citroen when the back door opened. As Michael looked inside, the car’s front door swung open and a man in a dark suit came out and approached him. In the back seat, another man in a dark suit flashed a gold badge from inside his open wallet.
“Mr. Nicholas. I’m with the Secret Service. Would you please join us for a short discussion?”
Michael wasn’t sure whether he had a choice.
The man slid over to make room, and Michael got in while the other man stood outside, as though on alert for anyone approaching the car.
“What’s this about?”
“Mr. Nicholas, I have been sent to speak with you personally—by the President of the United States.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I can assure you this is no joke.” He handed Michael what appeared to be a BlackBerry cell phone but felt much heavier. “The President is on the line.”
He placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mr. Nicholas. I’m sorry to bother you on your vacation.”
It was him, the voice he’d heard on countless television and radio broadcasts. The man he’d voted for, twice. Calling him.
“I understand there’ve been a lot of very unusual things happening in your life,” said President O’Brien.
“Yes, that’s true but—” Michael wasn’t sure exactly what the president was referring to—after all, he had a lot of unusual things going on, from Tartarus to the Vatican to the Nazis to—
“I’m calling about your brother.”
Michael’s head was spinning now. “He’s dead, you know.”
“Mr. Nicholas, I know—everything.”
“Everything? Then you know–”
“I know that you speak to him—and he speaks to you—quite often. It’s all as surprising and incredible to me as I’m sure it has been for you. As a result of this…most recent terrible situation…I’m calling because I need your help.”
That was a surprise. “My help? Yes, of course, I’ll help however I can. I assume by situation that you mean the airliner?”
“Yes, that is what has brought you and your brother to our attention. We are exploring the nature of what this is. I’m speaking about your brother and at least one other individual whom, we assume, like your brother, is dead.”
“I understand.”
“We don’t susp
ect you or your brother of any involvement in the airliner incident, but we believe the person or people who have been hacking your brother are the same ones who hacked into the airliner’s systems.”
“I see.” While he spoke, Michael was trying to process the fact that the President had connected all the dots.
Michael’s world had changed, once again.
“How quickly can you get to Washington?” asked the president.
Michael looked back to the restaurant. He would have to leave France and fly back to the States as soon as he could catch a flight.
The president was still speaking, “You understand, of course, these matters must be kept in the strictest confidence. If word were to get out to the press or others, it would mean chaos. We’d lose all control of the situation—and you would likely be in grave danger. So, other than Samantha, you can’t tell a soul about this.”
He even knew her name.
“I understand,” Michael said again.
He could only imagine what Samantha’s reaction would be when he told her. She’d never believed the virtual Alex existed. She took his onscreen appearances to be nothing more than a sick game Alex had managed to create before his death. Maybe now she’d believe him…believe it all.
“Thank you. I will make sure you are in the best of hands. Goodbye, for now. I look forward to seeing you here in the White House and, once again, on behalf of your country, thanks.”
The connection ended. As though on cue, the back door opened. He stepped out, nodded to the agents, and headed back to the restaurant.
As Michael approached the entrance to La Ramade, his iPhone vibrated, indicating an incoming call.
Jesus, what now?
He pulled the phone out of his pocket, the screen read The White House. He stopped just outside the restaurant’s garden entrance and placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
It was the President again. “One last thing. When you come to Washington—”