Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  “Well,” Michael said, “where do we go from here?”

  O’Brien checked again around the table. No one else had anything to offer. He looked back at Michael, “I’m afraid we’ll have to get back in touch with you…soon.”

  Chapter 35

  Newark, New Jersey

  As he headed home to Short Hills, Jonathan knew it wasn’t over. They would come after him. Everything had happened so quickly and his first priority had been to get out of Berlin and back to the US, but he knew he had to put a ring of protection around him.

  He had a brief window, although he wasn’t sure how brief, before anyone would discover that he’d taken the gold ahead of schedule and left Germany. He would have to take extraordinary precautions from now on.

  He was about to call his private security service to set up a round-the-clock surveillance and bodyguard service when his back and shoulders were suddenly jolted as his seat belt tightened around him so hard that it slammed his body tightly against the driver’s seat and pinned his neck and head to the headrest. He heard the doors click locked. He struggled to keep his hands on the steering wheel when he realized the wheel was turning…without him. The self-drive function must have accidentally been reactivated. The car was driving itself.

  He struggled to get his arm extended out of the seat belt but it wouldn’t give, the taut nylon pressing against his neck and shoulders like a steel vise. He could barely touch the steering wheel with his fingers. The autopilot function was designed to disengage, forcing the car to pull over and park if the driver’s hands left the wheel for too long. But the car wasn’t pulling over. In fact, it sped up, moving in and out of lanes on the New Jersey Turnpike like a race car. He could see the faces inside the cars he was passing as they turned their heads, some expressing anger, others…perhaps surprise, maybe even, admiration, as they recognized the state-of-the-art Talia. He needed to move his arms to make some gesture signaling he was in trouble but, with his head and shoulders securely locked in place, he could only move his eyes, a terrified prisoner captive to the Talia’s incredible technology.

  He had loaded the GPS with his home address when he entered the car at the airport. At least he hoped it was taking him home. But that hope faded when the car exited the turnpike and changed directions, seemingly headed back, but not to the airport. The exit sign read: Staten Island.

  Jonathan had never even been to that borough of New York City and couldn’t imagine why the car would head in that direction. He knew of it only as a blue-collar working-class part of the city, Italians, Irish, not his type of people. In addition, to get there, they’d have to cross a complex tangle of roads and bridges.

  He looked ahead, a steady hard rain had begun to fall, making it hard to see out the windows as the glare of oncoming headlights streaked across the windshield, the wind-swept rain blurring the view. It would be perilous driving now, even for him. But the Talia was equipped with radar and eight cameras, each with a 250-foot range, providing whoever was driving with a 360-degree view. He saw strange lights up head, a bridge, dark and foreboding looming in the near distance and, to the right, an expanse of black. They were approaching a sign; he strained his eyes to see through the rain and reflections: Goethals Bridge.

  Did the car have a mind of its own? He wondered as he sat, helplessly watching the controls, the highway ahead of him, and the cars all around, if there was something…or someone…behind the Talia’s artificial intelligence-driven computer systems.

  His question was answered when a voice spoke, sounding so clear it seemed to come from someone sitting right beside him.

  “Good evening, Jonathan.”

  It had to be the emergency helpline integrated into the Talia’s systems, although the voice and the German accent suggested his worst fears.

  “Who is this? Help me. The car’s out of control and I’m trapped...”

  “I’m afraid you’re much worse than trapped. You’re almost dead.”

  “Who is this?” But he knew.

  “Surely you were expecting my visit.”

  The Talia picked up speed. Jonathan checked the speedometer: he was traveling seventy-eight miles an hour, through decent traffic. At least before, the car appeared to be moving with the traffic but now it had separated itself from the other vehicles and was going dangerously faster, pulling up too close to the rear of other cars before passing them and then leaving them behind until the next car appeared in its way.

  “What do you want?” Jonathan was terrified. He tried to hide his fear but his voice was weak, trembling. It was so unlike him, and he hated himself for letting it show.

  “What do I want? I think you know. You will either return the money that was transferred into your offshore account or in the next sixty seconds I will send you and your car to the bottom of the most polluted water that man has ever created. Do you see the Goethals Bridge ahead of you?”

  He said nothing, staring at the bridge that looked now like a monster rising up from the dark.

  “I asked, do you see it, Jonathan?”

  “Yes, yes, I see it.”

  “The drop from the bridge into the water is the equivalent of fifteen stories. You’ll have plenty of time to think about whether you will die from the impact or drowning as the polluted water enters your car. An impact death would be quickest.”

  Through the evening fog and rain, the lights of the old 1920s bridge, its cantilever span and old steel cables passing over a strait known, fittingly, as Arthur Kill. The bridge, ancient-looking now, connected Elizabeth, New Jersey, and Staten Island, names that conjured up dumping grounds for Jimmy Hoffa and other Mafia-inspired nightmares.

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Just get me out of this.”

  “I hoped you would say that,” the voice said.

  Immediately, Jonathan felt a sudden change inside the car as the voice apparently responded to his desperate agreement.

  He took a deep breath as the car slowed down, its right turn signal went on, and it moved from the right lane onto the shoulder of the road, finally coming to a full, controlled stop.

  Jonathan pressed against the seat belt, hoping it would disengage and release him, allowing to him to flee the car and take his chances outside. But the belt would not release, continuing to hold him tightly in place, nor did the engine shut off.

  “You won’t be able to escape or leave your car until you return our money.”

  “I can’t even reach my phone,” he said. “I can’t do anything if I can’t get my hands free.”

  “Very well, I will loosen your seat belt so you may retrieve your phone. I assure you, however, you won’t be able to leave your car, it is under my complete control. Don’t test me, or you will immediately be on your way…to the bridge.”

  At that moment the belt loosened up, just enough so that Jonathan was able to reach for his cell phone. He turned his head to look out the window: he had to get out or at least get someone’s attention. All he could see were the lines of cars speeding by with dizzying speed; on his right, through the passenger window, lay only darkness.

  Through the Talia’s speakers, the voice returned.

  “Surely you are aware that I can see you and every movement you make. Unless you happen to have an ax, you will not be able to leave your car until I unlock your doors. So, I see you have reached your phone. I have just texted you with my banking account information. Copy it, and then log into your account and transfer the same amount that was deposited to you from the gold—into my account.”

  His hands were shaking as his fingers struggled to copy and paste in the series of numbers.

  “What happens after I do this?” he said.

  “I will return control of the car to you and you will be free to go. As rich as you were before you stole our money.”

  “How do I know that you’ll let me go?”

  “What ch
oice do you have? You should realize, however, that I will likely be able to retrieve the funds with or without you. It will be quicker with your help, and you have the added benefit of saving your life in the process.”

  He stared down at his phone. All he needed to do now was click on the “Transfer Funds” button and the money would be on its way back to the Nazis. He looked up again through the water-streaked windshield at the bridge, lurking, beckoning, threatening.

  As his finger reached for the button, he hesitated.

  Chapter 36

  Whitestone, Queens, New York

  It was that time of night when Donna’s thoughts inevitably came back to Alex. As hard as she tried to put him out of her mind, she couldn’t resist succumbing to the torment he was now inflicting upon her. It was as though he’d never left. He’d dominated her thoughts when he was alive—and, whatever or wherever he was now, he still did. Nothing had changed except now, he was totally in control and he’d added an incredible mystery to their relationship, the mystery of his very existence.

  She took a long swig of her wine, opened up her laptop, and signed into iJewishMingle. She clicked on “Alex,” took another long sip and, while she waited, pulled her bedcovers over her breasts. There was no way he could see her since they’d simply be texting, but it felt better this way. In a few seconds, she could see the little dots appearing on the screen. He was texting.

  Alex: Hi.

  Donna: Okay, smart-ass, Let’s get back to when I had your body—or grave, at least I guess it is or was yours—dug up.

  Alex: You mean the disinterment you put everyone through?

  Donna: Not everyone. Just you. Everyone else watching was alive, which is more than I can say for you.

  “At least,” she whispered to herself, “I think so.”

  Donna: Anyway, how about if you explain how a black man showed up in your casket?

  Alex: I got a good tan. They have Photoshop in heaven.

  Donna: I can believe the tan part, since I’m sure when you died you went straight to hell.

  Alex: I know you miss me. Why don’t you just have another bottle of wine and get the nerve to admit it?

  Donna: Another bottle of wine, what the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Alex: You drink too much.

  Donna: Now I know you’re dead because you couldn’t be this stupid.

  Alex: Yeah, well, there’s an empty bottle of wine right by your bed there and it’s only eight-thirty at night where you are, so I’m betting you’re going to get up shortly and go to the portable fridge and open up a second bottle.

  How could he know that? One thing was sure: she needed another glass of wine.

  Donna: Let’s cut the bullshit. Who the hell are you?

  Alex: You know who I am.

  Donna: Let me be fucking honest with you now. I never had any idea who you were, even when I was married to you and was pretty sure you were alive. And where exactly are you? Where are you sitting or standing or whatever the hell you’re doing at the moment?

  She placed her laptop on the side, got up out of her bed, walked a few feet to the portable fridge they had built into the master bedroom cabinets along the wall, and pulled out another bottle of chardonnay. When she returned to bed and looked back at her laptop, Alex’s picture suddenly appeared. He was laughing.

  Alex: Where am I? I’m watching you. From afar, but closer than you think.

  Donna: I’m sick of this shit.

  Alex: I can see the wine’s having its usual effect.

  Now he had that devious smile on his face. She remembered the look well.

  Donna: How did that happen? This is supposed to be a text-only conversation. Can you see me?

  Alex: In case you haven’t figured it out, I can always see you.

  She looked up at the top of her laptop screen. It looked like she wasn’t on the iJewishMingle website anymore. His video image had disappeared, as well.

  Donna: What happened to iJewishMingle? What did you do?

  Alex: Donna—

  Donna: Yes, what?

  Alex: Where’s your little toy?

  Donna: My little toy?

  Alex: You know, your vibrator?

  Donna: You’re sick.

  Alex: How can I be sick if I’m dead?

  Donna: If you’re so real, let’s meet. Like you always said to me, Put up or shut up.

  Alex: Actually, I think it was “put out or shut up.” But I agree. Let’s meet.

  Donna: No, I mean in person, for real.

  She watched the screen, waiting. For the first time, his response wasn’t immediate…Was he gone? She checked her connection; nothing had changed. She knew he was there, somewhere. Had she called his bluff? What did that even mean? She began typing.

  Donna: Are you there? Having a problem???

  Still nothing.

  And then she saw the dots. He was there.

  Alex: Sounds good.

  Donna: Okay, name the time and place.

  Was this possible? And if he was alive, how could he show up now and expose himself? There were practical complications of which Alex, of all people would be well aware—starting with the insurance settlement of a million dollars she’d received upon his “death.” If nothing else, Alex was no fool. How could he possibly risk showing up in public? If he were really alive, that is.

  Donna: How about Joe’s Garage Bar in Astoria?

  Alex: Sounds good. I can’t meet for two weeks.

  Why? she wondered. Was this a stall? Or was it typical Alex? Make me wait, keep me guessing? And how could he possibly agree to meet at Joe’s Bar of all places, where everyone would know him as soon as he walked in the door? She finally had him—whoever he was—by the balls.

  Donna: Busy these days?

  Alex: Not really. Let’s just say I may have to fly in.

  Donna: That shouldn’t be a problem. La Guardia’s just five minutes away.

  Donna stared blindly into the screen until she could see he’d signed off. She closed her laptop, reached for the bottle of wine, wondering if, perhaps, she’d had too much already.

  Chapter 37

  “Press the button, Jonathan, or I’ll do it myself when you’re at the bottom of the Arthur Kill.”

  He needed time to think, to delay, maybe someone, maybe a state trooper would pull up behind him to see if he needed assistance. Anything.

  “First, tell me who exactly you are,” he said.

  “You already know the answer to that. Push the button or I will kill you now.”

  The car left the shoulder and reentered the highway. It began picking up speed, moving rapidly into the left lane.

  “Your time is up.”

  “Okay!” Jonathan shouted. “I’m doing it.” He clicked the button and, after a second, he received the notice, Transfer Completed. He knew he would still die tonight, and it was in that moment that Jonathan, for the first time in his adult life, realized money didn’t matter.

  The car continued picking up speed. The bridge lay just ahead.

  “Very well. I’ll play a final opera for you, Jonathan. This was Herr Hitler’s favorite.”

  Music began filling the cabin.

  “I did it! What else do you want?”

  “Nothing that you can give me. But, since you were so cooperative, I’ll give you a choice.”

  “A choice? Just let me out.”

  “Before you go over the side, you have a choice. Windows up or down?”

  This was sick; nevertheless, he shouted, “Up, leave them up.”

  The car was now moving so fast it was seemingly out of control, although Jonathan knew it was just the opposite. He was virtually flying from the far-left lane, maneuvering past and in between two other vehicles before veering right, almost turning, straight for a low barrier ahead
, the only thing standing between the bridge and the fifteen-story plunge into the water.

  Jonathan prayed against all logic that the car would bounce off the gate and back onto the road.

  But the six-thousand-pound Talia, hurtling at ninety miles an hour, was no match for the barrier. In a split second, the car crashed right through it; Jonathan barely felt even a bump.

  Suddenly, the grinding of the tires against the bridge’s steel and concrete roadway, the soft purring of the engine, and the faint sounds of the city and passing vehicles were gone. Inside the Talia’s luxurious cabin there was near-perfect silence, broken only by the rich harmonies and elaborate orchestration of Wagner’s opera Tristan and Isolde, giving Jonathan’s precious last moments a surreal, operatic flair.

  He was torn between two emotions, utter panic and complete peace. He felt comforted that at least the windows and doors were sealed, and the white leather and exotic burled wood interior gave him a semblance of luxury and security from the fast-approaching end. At least he wouldn’t feel the cold water below.

  Jonathan was still securely pinned against the seat even as the car began its rapidly accelerating descent. He could only see darkness in front of him now as the car pointed headfirst toward the water. He’d read about how, in the last moments of someone’s life, time slows down, turning days into years, seconds into minutes. Now, as his time slowed down, he felt oddly grateful to be in such an expensive, luxurious, and comfortable car. He knew it would be his tomb, but at least its airtight cabin would shield him from the harsh elements he feared the most. He would die in comfort and silence, in the calm that would surround him until the end. And perhaps the well-engineered car would protect him just long enough for help to arrive. He imagined still being pinned behind the seat belt but dry and secure, listening to Wagner, as the underwater searchlights ranged through the muck, the divers behind them, arriving to rescue him.

  But his composure wilted when he suddenly heard the sounds of the bridge traffic above and felt a rush of cold, damp, odorous air entering the car.