Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget to bring your laptop.”

  Chapter 20

  He wasn’t the first person to poison a pope.

  Monsignor Kurt Schlegelberger would never forget the look in the Pope’s eyes. He remembered wondering, as he turned to leave the papal chambers, whether the Holy Father was already feeling the poison coursing through his veins. The poison he’d secretly dropped into the Pope’s nighttime Benedictine.

  Monsignor Schlegelberger had stopped believing in God soon after entering the priesthood. Quickly, he’d found that without religion, life was easy. No repercussions for one’s deeds except on earth, and those consequences had been easy to avoid, especially in his position.

  Now he thought about what it would be like if he met the old man again, under these new…circumstances. It was this possibility that told Kurt Schlegelberger he could still feel fear, now more than ever before.

  He’d created what should have been the ultimate cover for his crime; he had been, after all, the Pope’s consigliore, his protector, confidant, and chief operative. But he had made one major miscalculation…he’d underestimated Michael Nicholas.

  He wouldn’t make that mistake again. This time he would destroy both brothers, forever, beginning with Michael.

  It began years earlier, the first of a series of poor judgments. A Bronx bishop was about to be put on trial for molesting young boys. The victims suffered a car “accident” that killed them all hours before they testified. It was the culture, the accepted practice within the church, to protect the cause by covering up the dirty secrets, regardless of the collateral damage. Monsignor Schlegelberger was the fixer, the enforcer of such actions.

  In this case, he had owed a low-life Mafia church faithful, Joseph Sharkey a favor, one that would come back to haunt him.

  Sharkey had fallen in love with Alex Nicholas’s first ex-wife, a woman bent on revenge after a bitter divorce. Sharkey gallantly took up her cause, arranging Alex’s murder while he dined at a Queens restaurant. But when Sharkey was quickly named as the person behind the murder, he fled to Rome. In response, Schlegelberger had paid his debt in full, hiding and then protecting Sharkey inside the Vatican complex.

  What Schlegelberger had failed to anticipate, however, was the most remarkable discovery: Alex Nicholas, a wealthy underworld figure, had paid millions of dollars to a team of computer geeks who had made a secret technology breakthrough. And so Alex Nicholas had been able to duplicate himself on a specially designed laptop computer—days before he was murdered.

  The virtual Alex was breathtaking to observe—it was his exact image, body movements, and facial expressions; his voice had the precise guttural tough-guy sound, complete with the requisite New York accent; he recognized faces and voices and, amazingly, had the same memory and personality as the original, living version, the one Joseph Sharkey had murdered.

  This new incarnation had enabled Alex’s younger brother Michael to learn the truth about Joseph Sharkey—and then his protector, Schlegelberger.

  Michael set off to find Schlegelberger, planning to expose him for the cover-ups of the various church scandals and for Alex’s murder. In response, Schlegelberger had lured Michael into the basement of the Hotel Lutetia in Paris, where his plan was to execute Michael Nicholas. But Michael turned the tables and, with the unexpected help of his former female bodyguard Sindy Steele, gained the upper hand, killing Schlegelberger instead.

  Ironically, the same discovery that had doomed Schlegelberger saved him. Only weeks before, he had hacked into Michael’s computer, discovering the virtual Alex and the new relationship the brothers had established. After locating the software engineers who’d made the AI breakthrough for Alex, Schlegelberger quickly arranged to copy the software and, just like Alex, duplicated himself on a computer.

  Also like Alex, he had been murdered shortly after, leaving both of them digitally stranded in the ether.

  Chapter 21

  Westport, Connecticut

  “The airliner carried nearly a hundred Russian citizens, including a prominent oligarch who happened to be one of Putin’s political rivals, numerous members of his entourage and of the Russian press. This has raised tensions between the US and Russia despite unconfirmed rumors that many or most of the passengers may have already been dead before the plane was shot down by US jet fighters.”

  The television hanging over the bar was tuned to CNN and all the latest reports on the missing airliner that had reappeared only to be shot down before it could hit the White House. Photographs of the pilot, crew, and passengers in happier times flashed by in rapid succession, each face looking back at the camera, unaware their unknowing face would be broadcast on CNN for the world to stare back.

  “The irony of this,” the announcer said, “is that although the Russians have condemned the US actions, Mr. Putin lost a bitter rival and a group of critical reporters in the process.”

  Mario’s and its owner, Tiger, were a Westport institution. Located across from the commuter train station, in earlier times it had become the watering hole for harried New York City advertising executives looking for a quick martini or two before they headed home to the wife and family. It still served the best homemade meatballs anywhere around.

  Mario’s was the first restaurant Michael and Samantha ate at twenty years ago when they moved to Connecticut from Manhattan. Since then, they’d shared a lot of events and memories at the restaurant, mostly good ones. Tonight, they shared the table in the front just inside the big picture window overlooking the train station.

  “Alex used to love to come here and meet us for dinner,” Michael said. “He’d order the veal parmigiana and then a Johnny Walker Red.”

  “What he really liked, was watching the young ladies at the bar and comparing notes with Tiger,” Samantha said. “After eight o’clock, they were like two kids in a candy store.”

  “Yes, and somehow they always attracted women.”

  “Some of the ones Alex attracted—or that he was attracted to—weren’t the brightest,” Samantha said.

  Michael wanted to add that intelligence wasn’t high on Alex’s list of criteria, but he decided to let it pass. It was part of a much bigger issue they would get to shortly, he was sure.

  Samantha had thus far resisted all his efforts to demonstrate his brother was—at least in the virtual sense—still alive. It had been right after Alex’s murder that he’d taken her down to the wine cellar and brought Alex up on the big screen. But as soon as Alex began speaking to her, she fled the room. And, until yesterday’s phone call from President O’Brien, she’d written off any further talk of Alex and artificial intelligence. To her, Alex was simply a sophisticated video game. At one point she’d even suggested that Michael seek counseling. At times, Michael found himself questioning…everything. But he never called Dr. Shapiro, the psychiatrist Samantha had recommended. After all, how would he even begin to explain everything to her?

  “I wish,” Michael said, “things could go back to the way they were.”

  “What do you mean, exactly? What things?”

  Maybe it was the martini. Michael was speaking and thinking simultaneously, something he’d learned from experience could be a mistake when discussing sensitive matters with Samantha. And a stiff drink or two only made it riskier. It was far better to think before speaking; what he really he needed was the five-second delay the television networks used. Nevertheless, he continued.

  “I wish our lives were back the way they were before Alex was murdered. Before I agreed to wind down his business for Donna. Before our family became hunted.”

  “And before you had that little fling with your crazy bodyguard? I should have known we had trouble when you hired her. I mean what man hires a good-looking woman as a bodyguard? Especially one with a name like Sindy Steele? So I couldn’t agree more about wishing we could go back befor
e that.” She flashed her brief, tight little smile, the one that was not meant to demonstrate humor.

  “Yes, of course…in particular, before that.” Even if he didn’t believe it, he had to say it. But he was pretty sure he did believe it.

  “Remember,” she said, “you weren’t happy then…before. You were bored stiff with your work, you hated the corporate nonsense. You were under constant pressure.”

  “I know. I never appreciated how nice it was to be bored.”

  “And then you were entranced, fascinated, enthralled with Alex’s business; you were wishing for something different and challenging in your life. Remember?”

  “Yes, I do. And back then I loved Alex’s business. No boards of directors to answer to, no corporate bullshit, no laying people off or firing them. It was freewheeling, no five-year plans, just go with it. It was so different, you know?”

  She nodded. “And you got to hang out with your brother’s old friends, guys you knew since you were a kid. Guys you loved.”

  “Yes, it brought me a lot of…comfort. Maybe that’s the word.”

  “It apparently did and, maybe at that time, after the trauma of losing Alex, that was what you needed. But you need to remember, you were always different from Alex. You actually had a library from the time you were a teenager; Alex rarely read a book unless it was the Mickey Mantle story. You were respectful of others’ feelings; you were gentle, considerate. Alex was a tough guy. You didn’t chase women, at least until you walked into your brother’s life.”

  “I still never chased women.”

  “Well then they chased you and you stopped running, at least with Sindy Steele. You were enjoying yourself, old friends, freedom, a little sex on the side, some nightlife, a different cast of characters than in your corporate world. It was refreshing.”

  “Yeah, it was good…until…it wasn’t, and people were trying to kill us.”

  “That did put a damper on things.” Samantha gave him that smile again. “Maybe the lesson for us—for you—is to be careful what you wish for.”

  Around them, Mario’s tables were filled with many familiar faces. “It’s hard to believe that just last night we were having dinner in Saint Tropez.”

  “And even harder to believe,” Michael said, “that we’ll be in Washington tomorrow—at the White House.”

  Tiger stepped up to their table with a plate of old-fashioned spaghetti and his famous meatballs. Samantha eyed the dish suspiciously as her own, healthier dish of salmon was placed in front of her. “Don’t eat all of that, Michael.”

  Tiger, in his early seventies, a short, chunky teddy bear of a man with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, having probably heard this routine a hundred times before, laughed. “Don’t worry, Samantha, this is my healthy version, at least for Sicilians.”

  Michael noticed that Tiger looked tired. “How are you doing tonight?”

  “It’s one of those nights, you know, when you say, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Restaurant biz getting old?” Michael said.

  “Not just that. I mean Westport, even Connecticut, the town, the freaking weather, the yuppies or whatever the hell you call them now. The town’s changed.”

  “Well, we aren’t exactly locals ourselves,” Samantha said. “Although, after twenty years, I’m beginning to feel like one.”

  “You two are good. It’s these newer ones, with their freakin’ Range Rovers they can’t even drive. It’s these guys in their jeans and five-hundred-dollar custom shirts. Most of them work for that hedge-fund outfit, Blackstreet or something.”

  Michael nodded.

  “I guess I’ve been feeling this way for a few years now. It’s just now that I’ve had time to really think. These new people, they’re not happy with veal parmigiana, or spaghetti and meat balls, or a stuffed lobster. Now its kale, quinoa, and they don’t even say spaghetti anymore, it’s pasta. They want different things, slick-looking places, fancy drinks. Craft cocktails.”

  “I see you’re cranky tonight, Tiger,” Samantha said.

  “I’ve got an idea for you,” Michael said. “You know that Samantha and I bought a weekend place at the beach down in North Carolina. A restaurant like Mario’s might go over real well down there. I’ll even be your first investor.”

  “I do like the weather, and the beach. I don’t know how those Southerners would feel about me, though.”

  “They’d love you, Tiger,” Samantha said, laughing now. “And they need a good traditional Italian restaurant at the beach.”

  “Do you think those older Southern women would go for a little old Italian guy?”

  “Everyone loves you,” Samantha said, placing her hand on Tiger’s. “Especially if you can cook. Southerners love good cooking—and they love to drink.”

  Tiger became serious. “By the way, a guy was in here about an hour ago, looking for you,” he told Michael.

  “Really? Did you know him?”

  Tiger shook his head. “No, I don’t think I ever saw the guy before but…you know, I’m not the best at remembering faces, at least not of guys anyway. He said he’d catch up with you later.”

  Tiger moved on, while Samantha had that look on her face of unfinished business to be discussed. As Michael twirled his first fork of spaghetti, he felt his iPhone vibrate. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and checked the screen. It was a text from Alex.

  Take Samantha and get out of the restaurant NOW!

  Chapter 22

  Michael turned around, looked for Tiger, but he was nowhere to be seen. Across the table, he grabbed Samantha’s arm as she was about to nibble at her fish, “We’ve got to go outside—”

  She looked up, pulling back her arm. “What are you doing?”

  Michael grabbed her again, more firmly this time. “We’ve got to go. No time for questions. Now.”

  Who was that guy Tiger said had been looking for him? He squeezed his wife’s hand tightly, leading her out through the front door as he looked back over his shoulder. As they went out, Samantha whispered, “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick? What’s wrong?”

  “Please, just come with me.” They crossed the street to where their car was parked. Michael checked his phone again, hoping for another message.

  Watching him, Samantha appeared to reach her own conclusions. “Michael, talk to me. What just happened in there?”

  “I just got a text telling me to leave right away and to bring you.”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “A text from whom? Don’t tell me…”

  “Yes, from Alex, but I don’t know why.”

  “Okay, Michael. Listen, you’re not all right. I’m making an appointment for you with Dr. Shapiro and you’re going to go if I have to walk you in there myself.”

  Michael turned away, checking up and down the street for threats. Despite Samantha’s critical stare, he held his phone out again and messaged Alex.

  What’s going on? We’re outside Mario’s.

  He stared at the screen, hoping to see the little dots indicating an answer was on its way.

  Nothing.

  Samantha was watching him. He looked back at Mario’s. Through the picture window, now from outside, he could see the table they’d just left. Through the smaller window on the left, Michael could see Tiger, near the bar, looking out at him, his hands spread apart to ask, What’s going on?

  He turned back to Samantha. “Please, stay here. I have to go get Tiger.”

  He took one step back toward the restaurant as the explosion blew both windows out into the street. Michael felt his body lifted off the ground as he watched in slow motion everything that moments before had been inside Mario’s windows come out like a meteor storm hurtling toward them. The hot blast of fire and shards of glass pushed him back against Samantha. They both fell hard to the ground, Samantha pinned beneath him.
>
  It was the last thing he remembered.

  Chapter 23

  Westport, Connecticut

  “Michael…Michael can you hear me?”

  His name was echoing inside his head. He recognized the voice but nothing else seemed right. He knew he was lying down, but not on a bed. He moved his arms, placing his hands around him onto…the ground; it was hard, rough…concrete. There were noises, sirens. He began to remember. The explosion. Samantha…

  “Samantha, are you…?”

  “Oh, thank God you’re alive.” It was her voice.

  He opened his eyes to see Samantha bending over him, beautiful as ever but her face smudged with ash.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine, just dirty. You fell on top of me; I hardly felt anything. Are you okay? Do you feel any pain?”

  He began to move, lifting his head up from the ground. They were still in the street, now surrounded by debris and shards of glass. He saw a body. There were more sirens, in the distance but getting steadily closer. He looked back, over the row of storefronts and the burning gap that had once been Mario’s.

  Flashing strobe-like red and blue lights began to light up the street as the police cars and fire trucks arrived in unison. The air was filled with the sound of police radios and the grinding of the fire engines. Bodies were being pulled from the wreckage, hoses rolled out. A woman with EMT on her yellow vest ran toward them.

  He looked back at Samantha. “What about Tiger? He was still in there.”

  Michael and Samantha stood in the hospital room doorway. With all the tubes, tanks, and wires surrounding him, it was nearly impossible to recognize their good friend Tiger lying on the bed in front of them.

  “The doctor said he’s in a coma,” Michael said.

  “For how long? When do they expect him to wake up?”

  “They have no idea. The doctor said if he wakes up.”

  “Oh God, don’t even say that.”