Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  He checked behind him and up and down the street and then placed his key into the old brass lock and entered through the front door. Once inside, he took a moment to get his bearings. The only light came from the street lamps outside—and from two tiny red LED lights about twenty feet away farther inside the shop. He had seen them before and it still unnerved him.

  As he stepped further into the shop the red rights turned blue. She had seen him. He continued toward the stairwell on the right but she rose up from her couch. He wouldn’t be able to avoid her. She came toward him.

  “Is that you, Herr Dietrich?” Her eyes, like lasers, bore down on him as she came within inches of his body, invading his private space. Always unsure of himself around her, he stopped. “Yes, it’s me. I need to go downstairs.”

  His partners had briefed him on Heidi. She was the latest in smart mannequins, also known as gemenoids, powered by the most advanced artificial intelligence, voice and facial recognition software. Her face and body, patterned after a famous German supermodel, were made of a special silicone, giving her a hyper-realistic human appearance, thereby making her even more unnatural.

  “You don’t like me, Herr Dietrich.”

  Although he resented doing so, he knew it would expedite things if he called her by her given name. “Heidi, I don’t dislike you, I’m just in a hurry. I must go downstairs. Please, go back to your couch…or my partners will sell you to the Russians, like your friends.”

  She was beautiful, tall, shapely, her white skin peeking through her black silk negligee. As he pushed past her, her breasts, strangely warm, grazed his arm.

  “You don’t understand me…but, eventually, you will.” She moved back, allowing him to pass. He was further disconcerted when, as he walked briskly away, she murmured, “We’re more alike than you realize.”

  He continued to the stairway, down the flight of steep concrete steps and into the basement. He went past three steel-caged storage bins, pressed open a disguised light switch plate, entered the numerical passcode on the hidden keyboard, and watched as the adjacent wall panel rose up to the ceiling, exposing another keyboard panel. He pressed in a different series of numbers and was relieved to finally hear the sound of the metal locks as one after another they opened. He stayed back until the heavy steel door slid open, revealing the vault and switching on the light inside.

  In the same instant it took for his eyes to take in the scene in front him, he felt a pressing pain in his chest for, instead of rows of gold bricks stacked from the floor to the ceiling, he saw an empty room, its walls exposed for perhaps the first time since 1944.

  Chapter 28

  Washington, DC

  It felt strange to drive up to the West Wing of the White House in his Lexus SUV, the same car Michael drove almost every day in the most ordinary places. After passing through the gatehouse checkpoint, he drove up the circular driveway to the front entrance. The lawn, shrubs, and pathways were perfectly manicured, an ordered still life. He left his car with the waiting military attendant, entered through the portico, showed his ID once again, and was ushered into the entry hall.

  Maybe it was the uncertainty, or the somber surroundings, or the gravity of everything that had gone on and was yet to come but, for whatever reason, he felt nervous.

  As he walked, escorted, through the Chippendale- and Queen Anne-furnished lobby, he was struck by two thoughts. The first was trying to imagine the history and the great historical characters that had walked these halls, seeing the same view he now was taking in. His presence here, at this moment, seemed so undeserved.

  His second thought was how much the furnishings and decorating resembled places he’d seen before, such as the Ritz Carlton in San Juan or the Short Hills Hilton in New Jersey.

  Following close behind his escort, he continued a short distance before making a left turn and then down the hall to the entrance to the Roosevelt Room on his right. The heavy dark oak door with polished brass fittings was opened for him as he made his entrance into the chamber he’d seen on television so many times.

  Once inside, any thoughts of the Ritz Carlton or other hotels vanished. He’d sat in many boardrooms before, but none that felt like this one. FDR, JFK, LBJ, Nixon…their images flashed through his brain.

  His escort carefully directed him to a seat in the middle of the long row of chairs on one side of the conference table. He assumed the President would be seated opposite him, facing him, on the other side. From his own boardroom experience, Michael knew those were the two seats of power, the centers of attention.

  The door closed almost silently behind him. He took a deep breath and looked around. The room was probably thirty-five feet long; he sat at the large rectangular mahogany conference table and counted fifteen other tan leather chairs. To his right, the wall was a large semicircle, centered by a fireplace, a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt as a Rough Rider hanging right above it. One of FDR hung at the other end of the room. There were no windows, but a large artificial skylight right above him added a natural lighting effect. Surrounding the skylight in the ceiling were maybe fifty small, recessed lights.

  He sat, even more uneasy than before, alone, wondering when the door would open and the show would begin. He wondered what they wanted and whether his life would ever be the same after he walked out.

  How could he begin to explain Alex, who, despite his underworld past, was more trustworthy than most of the politicians who had ever sat in this room?

  This wasn’t the world Michael wished to inhabit. He loved his life, cherished his friends, family, and his privacy. He doubted that anything that would happen in the next hour would do anything but threaten everything that mattered to him.

  And, deeper down in his thoughts, lurked that nagging little question: Was it possible that Alex was still alive?

  After all this, if he is still alive…I’ll kill him.

  He laughed at the thought, his first chuckle in quite a while and—he feared—his last for a long time after today.

  He heard movement and men with deep voices speaking outside the door and now he could feel his heart pumping. In his last few seconds alone, he wondered how Alex, of all people, had led him to this table in the White House.

  The door opened and in walked a procession of suits and military uniforms, followed by President Harry O’Brien.

  No one was smiling.

  Chapter 29

  Berlin, Germany

  As Dietrich stared at the empty shelves where the gold bricks had been stored, he knew immediately who had taken them. The only question was how to get them back—and how exactly he’d kill the man who took them.

  He reached for his cell phone but before he could dial, he heard footsteps: someone was coming down the stairs. He moved, hiding behind the door, and waited. There was only one other…person…in the shop capable of walking, and she was a mannequin. He doubted whether Heidi could even walk down steps. He hid behind the partially open door as the footsteps approached the doorway. As the person entered, he squinted to see through the sliver of light in the narrow space between the side of the door and the wall until he saw her clearly.

  It was Heidi.

  Annoyed, he swung the door nearly shut so he had a clear and full view. She turned around to face him, apparently unperturbed.

  “Herr Dietrich,” she said.

  “Since you appear to be so knowledgeable, where is my gold? Who took it?”

  She moved closer to him, until they were only a few feet apart.

  “How could I possibly answer your question? Isn’t that what you think? Isn’t that what you are thinking at this very moment…Herr Dietrich?”

  She said his name as though to make a point. She was right. His gold was gone and a smart mannequin was carrying on a conversation with him.

  “You see everything, Heidi. Tell me who took it.”

  He noticed a change
, a flicker of acknowledgment, her eyes suddenly more expressive. She took two steps closer to him, once again entering a space he considered his own.

  “Jonathan Goldstein was here, with many others.”

  It was what he’d suspected and feared. He reached again for his cell phone. Jonathan Goldstein answered immediately.

  “I was wondering how long before you called me,” Goldstein said by way of a greeting.

  “The gold was not to be moved until next month, when the proper plans had been agreed to. We had an arrangement. This is unexpected. It’s disconcerting. You were not to remove the gold or begin our investments until everything was formalized. You were to invest this only then. We haven’t even—”

  “I don’t think you understand, Claus. Your gold is on its way to a place you’d least expect.”

  “What are you talking about? Where is it?”

  A long silence followed, until Dietrich wondered whether Goldstein had disconnected him.

  “Where is my gold?” he screamed.

  Seconds later, however, he heard Goldstein’s voice, nasally and weak, so typical, he thought, of an American Jew.

  “The Benjamin Solomon Center for Holocaust Victims is appreciative of your support.”

  After leaving the mannequin shop, Dietrich rushed back to his office, turned on his computer, and summoned Schlegelberger.

  “You must find Jonathan Goldstein,” he said as soon as Schlegelberger came on the screen. “Now.”

  He explained the scene at the shop, the missing gold, and his call with Goldstein.

  “So is it lost?” Schlegelberger asked.

  “Goldstein made it sound like it belonged to the foundation already but I’m not so sure. The gold has to be transported, unloaded, counted, and then converted into euros or dollars before it can be wired to any account. Their offices are in New York and Tel Aviv but all of this could be done virtually anywhere. No one can move so many bricks quickly or easily.”

  “How much does he know about our plans?”

  “Fortunately, he knows nothing beyond the existence of our fortune. But even that’s too much. We were foolish to have trusted him.”

  For a moment, Schlegelberger appeared to be frozen on the computer screen. Dietrich wondered whether he’d lost the Wi-Fi connection. He turned away, only to hear Schlegelberger’s voice once again.

  “Jonathan Goldstein is in his car, on something called the New Jersey Turnpike.”

  Chapter 30

  Washington, DC

  Eight men walked into the Roosevelt Room, most of whom he’d seen over the years on the evening news or Meet the Press.

  President Harry O’Brien came over, extended his hand. As they shook hands, he held Michael’s other arm. It was a warm gesture that put Michael at ease.

  “Let’s all sit down and then we can introduce everyone. It’ll save us some time,” O’Brien said. They went around the table.

  “Welcome, Mr. Nicholas, I’m Jim Goodrich, CIA Director”

  “General John Sculley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  “Darryl MacPherson, National Security Adviser to the President.”

  At least those were the ones Michael remembered or recognized. The last one who introduced himself mumbled his name. John Benoit? Michael wasn’t sure but it sounded like he was a computer geek working for one of the intelligence agencies.

  President O’Brien started things off. “I want to be the first to thank you and express our appreciation for your being here today, especially on such short notice.” He turned to the others at the table, “I only spoke with Mr. Nicholas two nights ago when we caught up with him having dinner in Saint-Tropez. It was right after my meeting with President Payard and…the airliner situation.”

  “I’m happy to help my country in any way that I can,” Michael said firmly in his best, boardroom-confident voice.

  A man at the far end of the table spoke up. “Mr. Nicholas, your attorney and I have spoken and we have executed a broad grant of immunity for you regarding anything surrounding what you tell us or, for that matter, anything found on your laptop, assuming you give us permission to look at it. I believe you’re already aware of this.”

  “Yes, I am and I appreciate your confidence in me.”

  “Okay,” the President said, “now that we got that stuff out of the way, let’s get down to business. Tell us about your brother Alex.”

  General Sculley spoke up. He was a big man with what looked like a permanent scowl, dressed in a uniform full of medals. To Michael, he simply looked like a son of a bitch. “Refresh my memory, if you will. Was…” he stopped, then let out a laugh, “I guess I mean, is his name Alex? Alex Nicholas?”

  “Yes,” Michael answered, annoyed either by the general’s lack of knowledge or, more likely, sarcasm. “It’s Alex Nicholas. But, why don’t you tell me exactly what you want to know?”

  “Listen, gentlemen,” O’Brien said, again addressing both ends of the table, “we’re the ones who asked Mr. Nicholas to be here. My guess is he’d prefer to be back in the south of France right now. So let’s keep an open mind. Remember, the French are convinced there is something happening here, something big. So this is our opportunity to find out what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Michael said, staring at Sculley. “You all can believe what you want to believe. I’m not here to convince any of you of anything. I’ll gladly tell you what I know and show you what I can. You can reach your own conclusions.”

  “Why don’t you begin by telling us a bit about who you brother was? What was he like?” O’Brien said.

  Michael took a deep breath. “My brother was—and still is—a character. We both grew up in Queens, New York. Same house, same parents, he was ten years older than me. In many ways we were very different. He was a tough kid, a big-time jock, a great high school athlete. The Cardinals tried to sign him to a minor league baseball contract but my parents forced him to go to college—where he banged up his knees. So that was the end of his athletic career—and then his college career, too.”

  The attorney interrupted, “Mr. Nicholas, your brother was a bookmaker and loan shark, was he not? In fact, our information is that he ran and owned one of the largest illegal gambling operations on the East Coast, employing upward of fifty full-time people. Is that correct?”

  Here we go, Michael thought. “That’s basically correct, although I suspect it’s somewhat of an exaggeration. He loved sports and he wasn’t someone who could work for anyone else or hold down a nine-to-five job. He was a rebel, and a generally nonconformist personality. He was really smart, great at math, at setting odds, working the numbers, kind of like a human casino. It’s the same skill a great stock trader has. It’s what made him so successful in his business and that, along with his love of sports, is what led him into sports betting or, as you would say, bookmaking.”

  The attorney seemed impatient. “Nevertheless, your brother wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen, was he?”

  “I guess that depends on your definition,” Michael said. “If by upstanding you mean a good person whom you could trust and who was loyal, yes he was upstanding. He had a big heart, many of his biggest and oldest customers had been his friends, for years. Most of them had a good amount of money, some were prominent figures whose names you would recognize. He wasn’t feeding off people who couldn’t afford to bet, like the legal casinos and off-track betting parlors do. My brother also took care of a lot of people in need, many who had problems, drug, alcohol issues. He’s not the stereotype you probably have in mind.”

  “So,” O’Brien interjected, “you’re saying he was a liberal Democrat?”

  The room broke up with good-hearted laughter.

  “No,” Michael said. “Actually, he was more of a conservative. But, the truth is, he disliked—dislikes—most politicians with a p
assion, whatever their political party.”

  “Interesting,” O’Brien said. “I can’t say that I blame him.”

  “But he was a tough guy, wasn’t he?” CIA Director Jim Goodrich asked. “I mean, it appeared that he wasn’t someone to be messed with. He was a fighter, not a killer, perhaps, but a man who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you on some level if you crossed him.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But I’ll tell you, often when he got angry or went after someone, it was because that person was going after a weaker individual who couldn’t defend himself.”

  “It sounds like Alex was afraid of nothing and no one,” O’Brien said.

  Michael thought for a moment before answering. “Actually, he was afraid of only one thing.”

  Everyone around the table leaned forward appeared, almost in unison.

  “And what was that?” O’Brien said.

  “He was afraid of…dying.”

  Now, you could hear a pin drop.

  There was a lull, a break in the conversation. Michael had the sense there was a plan and he had a good idea what it was. Glances were being exchanged, most of them aimed at O’Brien. Finally, O’Brien addressed him.

  “Michael, I think you can understand the skepticism around this table.”

  “Sure, I understand it. At times, I even question…everything myself.”

  “Since you’ve been good enough to bring your laptop there,” O’Brien said, pointing to Michael’s computer case on the conference table, “maybe it’s time to cut to the chase. How about if we get to meet…Alex?”

  Michael unzipped his laptop case, pulled the aluminum laptop out, opened the lid, pressed the power button, waited for the home screen to appear. He looked up, everyone around the table watching him closely, particularly the geek who actually got up and stood over Michael’s shoulder to get a closer look at what he was doing. Michael certainly had their attention now. This would be the moment of truth.