Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  All four of the windows were opening.

  “Son of a bitch,” were his last words as his Talia hit the hard water. He felt the jolt of the finely polished wood steering wheel crushing into his chest and the rush of black water holding him in its icy embrace.

  Chapter 38

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  President O’Brien sat in a large comfortable club chair just in front of his desk in the Oval Office. General John Sculley, seated on a couch alongside O’Brien, sat upright, his imposing large frame in full uniform and medals.

  Each was nursing an early evening scotch on the rocks. O’Brien had purposely set up the casual meeting alone with his chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He wanted to watch him without the eyes of the others, particularly the other military brass whom, he suspected, caused Sculley to demonstrate a certain aggressiveness. Of all his military advisers, Sculley was the most dogmatic, authoritarian in his approach, often making O’Brien feel uneasy in seeking his counsel and even more personally uncomfortable rejecting it. Perhaps alone together, he would find a more measured, contemplative adviser.

  “I believe the Russians were behind this, sir. It has all the markings of Vladimir Putin. It was an attempt to stir fear and conflict here, to show to the world our vulnerability and, if they were successful, to kill an American president and at least some of the leadership team. The symbolic value of destroying the White House, exposing our vulnerability, would have been priceless.”

  “They—if it was the Russians—came pretty damn close,” President O’Brien said, agreeing, despite having grown skeptical of Sculley’s judgments.

  “I know you guys see me as a hawk on anything having to do with the Russians—and I’m proud to say, I am—but, I know these people and I know Putin. This was a cleverly designed attack made to appear to be the work of some rogue right-wing terrorists in order to deflect attention from the obvious—which was that Putin killed two birds with one stone. He embarrassed us by flying that aircraft right through our defenses and at the same time got rid of one of his biggest opponents.”

  “If that’s true, why would he have allowed this to happen on a flight with so many other Russians on board? I mean, despite eliminating Timchenkov and maybe some unfriendly reporters, he sacrificed a lot of innocent Russians in the process.”

  “Just for the reason you’re giving me now. No one would believe that Putin was behind the hijacking of a flight with so many Russians on board. But you must understand his mentality. Putin would sacrifice his own mother to advance his power and his agenda.”

  “And what about everything we have learned about Monsignor Schlegelberger and his virtual, so to speak…reemergence…through this Alex Nicholas, AI breakthrough? I gather you don’t think that had anything to do with this?”

  “You know, sir, that I never believed any of that nonsense. If anything, it’s a clever ploy, maybe even a plant, a diversionary tactic of the Russians in order to throw us off their scent.”

  O’Brien pondered that idea, taking a long sip of his drink. “I guess nothing is out of the question.”

  “Seriously, sir, do you really believe computers can recreate a human life?”

  O’Brien wasn’t anxious to go too deep with Sculley into that more abstract realm, and he was hesitant to reveal his own religious skepticism to someone who, he knew, was a devout Catholic. The thought even crossed his mind that anything he said about his religious beliefs could be used against him in his reelection campaign, especially if he ever formally broke with his general. Perhaps it was the scotch, but he decided to throw caution aside.

  “Do I believe a computer can recreate a human being, bring him back to life?…Let’s put it this way, John, maybe I believe it’s as likely as us waking up in heaven or hell after we die.”

  Sculley was clearly taken aback. “Sir, I have to say I’m surprised at that. I always thought you were a rather religious man.”

  “Maybe I am, in my own way. I’m sorry to disappoint you, John. I do believe there’s more out there than we know. I’m just not sure that it’s what we’re taught in church.”

  Sculley looked resigned, “Fair enough.”

  “So,” O’Brien said, relieved to be off the topic of his spiritual beliefs, “if you’re correct and the Russians are behind this, what would you recommend we do?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I believe we need to send them a message and let them know that we believe—or suspect—they attempted to fly an airliner into the White House and that, if proven correct, we will take retaliatory action against them. That’s the only language Vladimir Putin respects.”

  “And, if it is proven to be correct, what type of retaliatory actions would be appropriate in your view, General?”

  “If I’m proven correct, sir, we’re talking about nothing less than an act of war perpetrated the Russians.”

  Chapter 39

  Whitestone, Queens, New York

  Donna was tired, exhausted. Alex had, once again, worn her out. How could she wait for two weeks to see him? She opened up her laptop and signed in again to iJewishMingle. Alex came on immediately, as though he’d been waiting.

  Alex: Can’t sleep?

  Donna: Two weeks is a long time. I don’t understand the wait.

  Alex: I told you.

  Donna: What does that mean? You might have to fly in or whatever the hell you said?

  Alex: Just what I said. Leave it alone.

  Donna: Maybe I don’t want to see you.

  Alex: Maybe I don’t want to see you either. You’re the one who asked.

  Donna: You’re the one who went onto my dating site to find me.

  Alex: Maybe I was looking for a nice Jewish girl and found you instead.

  Donna: You shouldn’t even be allowed on iJewishMingle. You’re not even Jewish.

  Alex: I don’t think there’s an iGreekOrthodoxMingle.

  Donna: By the way, who can I tell?

  Alex: I don’t give a crap who you tell but…Michael will go nuts.

  Donna: I’m going to call him.

  Alex: Good, it’ll save me the trouble.

  Donna: You talk to him? He knows?

  Alex: Call him. Let him tell you.

  Donna: Oh my God, this is crazy. You’re crazy.

  Alex: You’ll see.

  Donna: I’m tired now. I’m going to sleep. I’ll call Michael in the morning. I think.

  She didn’t wait for a response but signed out and had just begun to push down the lid of her laptop when a pop-up on her laptop’s screen caught her attention:

  Warning: Security Breach

  Hacking Detected

  INTRUDER

  Chapter 40

  Whitestone, Queens, New York

  Michael had just landed at New York’s LaGuardia Airport; he had some time to kill before his dinner with Donna. The black Cadillac limousine pulled up at the terminal with his name written on a sign in the window.

  “Before we go to the restaurant, I’d like you take me to 149th Street and 34th Avenue in Flushing.”

  “Here, in Queens?” the driver said, obviously surprised. Michael knew that the driver had him pegged for a Manhattan-only type who’d probably never seen a Queens neighborhood except for landing at LaGuardia or maybe attending a Mets game. He couldn’t blame him. His custom-tailored pinstriped suit, gold cufflinks, and Charvet tie from Paris didn’t help. Somehow, unlike Alex, Michael had never acquired a true Queens or even a particularly New York accent. But Queens was Michael’s home, the place he and Alex grew up. A place he had only the fondest memories of, and not a bad place to return to, or at least to remember.

  There are areas in Queens that are less than desirable—just as in Manhattan or Paris. The world is full of subtleties, and Michael saw layers and layers of them in his old neighborhoods.
They seemed so much more interesting than the places he called home now. Michael and Samantha’s daughter, Sofia, could never have imagined living in Queens, her years growing up in toney Westport, Connecticut, having prejudiced her with the stereotypes of the city’s outer boroughs; she was blind to their warmth, diversity and beauty. Michael had never taken the time to show her the aspects of the area that he still believed he could enjoy.

  “Yeah, it’s only about fifteen minutes from here,” Michael said.

  “Sure thing.”

  This guy was wondering what he was up to, Michael thought. In truth, he simply wanted to return, however briefly, to a time when things, life, seemed simpler and less complicated and, yes, happier.

  Since Alex’s death, Michael’s life had spun out of control. The allure of Alex’s entrepreneurial—and seductively illegal—business, working with Alex’s older lifelong friends, the lack of corporate boards looking over his shoulder, the colorful people Alex had surrounded himself with instead of Michael’s corporate, risk-averse ones on Madison Avenue, and, simply, the freewheeling lifestyle, all had created a perfect storm of attraction to lure Michael into taking over his brother’s business while retaining his own corporate CEO role.

  But running two professional lives—even with a loving and supportive wife—was draining him. He knew he wasn’t able to give everything anymore to Gibraltar Financial yet, just as Alex had needed to be a licensed insurance broker, Michael needed to retain his corporate position if, for no other reason, than to keep up a legal front and source of legitimate income. And Alex had strained his relationship with Samantha who, until he was called into the White House, believed that he was delusional about Alex’s ongoing existence.

  After several minutes, the car came to a stop. From the back seat, Michael looked out the car window and saw a familiar sight: a long, tan, brick building, a school, the one he’d attended as a teenager. But, more importantly, his eyes went to the clean concrete extending from the building, with a dark green fence enclosing it from the surrounding homes. At one end were two basketball courts, at the other the wall of the school, JHS 185, Bleecker Junior High School.

  The concrete was perfectly marked out as a softball field, the bases sixty feet apart, with home plate at the base of the building. The surface was true but fast. This was where Michael perfected the skills and thoroughly enjoyed the game that Alex had initially taught him. This is where Alex had been the true big brother, protecting, teaching…a young man Alex and his friends looked up to and admired.

  Ten years older than Michael and his friends, Alex had coached Michael’s softball and baseball teams. In fact, Alex would retain those relationships with Michael’s friends and teammates long after Michael himself abandoned them.

  Where Michael lived a life dictated by intellect and reasoning, Alex lived according to his heart and his instinct. Where Michael was measured, Alex was loyal. Michael always felt a sense of cool or cold detachment with others, whereas his brother became deeply attached to people, friends, family.

  Michael had always lived more inside his own head than in the outside world. He was used to—and comfortable with—being alone, even to this day. It was sports, school, and later business that, fortunately, pushed him into the world outside his mind and imagination. Unlike Michael, Alex partook naturally of the larger world around him. It was a fundamental difference between them.

  He gazed at the spot on the ballfield where an older, bigger opposing player had threatened him—backing off as soon as he saw Alex approach.

  He had been so proud of his big brother.

  The driver looked at Michael in the rearview mirror, “Is there somewhere in particular here you wanted to go?”

  Michael took one last look outside. He grasped, but he couldn’t find, that sense, the emotion, the certain feeling he was sure was somewhere inside him. He kept reaching—for exactly what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was some sense of greater meaning, maybe…happiness. Or was it the security of those times and a family that, at least from the eyes of a child, would be there forever?

  He knew what he wanted. It was to get out of the car and walk the four blocks to his old home, and then to sit down to dinner again, surrounded by a family that was gone.

  “No, I’m done here.”

  Chapter 41

  Whitestone, Queens, New York

  The Clinton was a throwback to the old-fashioned neighborhood restaurants and bars of Queens. Tin ceiling, pine paneled walls, red and white checkered tablecloths, a long, wooden well-stocked bar with a mirrored wall of bottles behind it; bartenders older than fifty and liquor not measured with an eye dropper, maybe not even measured at all. At the end of the meal, your check comes from one of those standard green check pads—the ones that say “Guest Check” at the top, not the computerized printout with your server’s name.

  This wasn’t the Queens where Donald Trump grew up but the stolid New York City borough of suburban, middle-class, working people. It had been a favorite meeting place for Michael and Alex and the other assorted friends and relatives who revolved around Alex…when he was alive.

  Michael sat at a table in the bar area, facing the front door. As he looked around, sipping his martini, he realized that The Clinton reminded him of his beloved Mario’s in Westport. The one that had just burned to the ground. Briefly, Michael’s thoughts turned to Tiger, still in the hospital, somewhere between life and death, much like Alex.

  Michael was just feeling the warm buzz of the gin when Donna blew through the door. She glanced at Michael’s drink and then, before she had even sat down, called out to the bartender, “I’ll have what he’s having but skip the vermouth and the olives.”

  “Drinking straight gin these days?” Michael said.

  “I hate olives,” she said as she settled in her chair. “Your brother always liked these freaking neighborhood joints. I never understood it. He’d come here and have the pizza or the veal parm. That’s what he was eating, you know, when they shot him at Grimaldi’s. Veal parm. Knowing him, he’s still pissed he couldn’t finish his meal. If he’d hung out at classier restaurants, he might still be alive…if he isn’t already.”

  “It’s good to see you, Donna,” Michael said. “So, tell me, what’s going on? I’m anxious to hear.”

  He wasn’t of course. In fact, what he wanted more than anything right then was to be seated alone at this table and enjoying his martini and a serving of The Clinton’s veal parmigiana, watching the neighborhood world go by and just thinking.

  “Okay, well let me tell you. Last night I was on my computer, my laptop and, when I was done, right after I signed off, I got this message that there was an intruder, that’s what it said, intruder. It said I’d been hacked.”

  “What were you on, a porn site?” Michael was well aware of Donna’s late-night habit of going on the Internet while in bed with a bottle of wine.

  “Actually, yes, more or less. I’d say speaking with your brother on the Internet is pretty much like watching porn. Being married to him was like living on a porn site.”

  “Oh, no,” Michael leaned back, sighed, he could feel his blood pressure shooting up. “You weren’t on the dating site again, were you?”

  “You mean iJewishMingle?”

  “No, Temple Israel. Of course, I meant your dating site.”

  “Don’t make fun of it, Michael. It happens to be highly rated. It’s brought a lot of couples together. And these dating sites are how this generation hooks up.”

  “I don’t know where to start. First, you’re not part of this generation. Second, what’s this about hooking up?”

  “It’s like getting married but with sex.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry I asked. Anyway, you should change your password as soon as you get home. Not only on that site but on your computer and whatever search engine you use to get online.”

  Michael didn’t want to
let on but he wondered…intruder? Being hacked while supposedly communicating with Alex? The possible causes were too much even to contemplate.

  “I have some news,” she said. “You and I are going to meet Alex in two weeks, at Joe’s Bar.”

  Donna went on to relate as much of her iJewishMingle conversation with Alex as she could recall.

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Yes, of course I am…Well, at least we’ll find out…something. Hey, don’t look at me like I’m nuts. I’m not the one responsible for his missing body, his hijacked casket, and all these strange communications. You know there’s been a lot of crap going on since the day your brother…died, or whatever the hell he did.”

  Michael had to admit, at least to himself, that she was right. Who was he to make her feel ridiculous? After all, somehow Alex had made his story into a cross between a murder mystery and science fiction. Except none of it was fiction. Maybe now he’d find out, but he found it hard to believe he’d ever find an answer. Even the government seemed stymied.

  “Okay, you’re right. I’ll be there with you.”

  “Good,” she said with a mischievous little smile. “I’ll let him know.”

  Chapter 42

  New York City

  Monte’s Trattoria never appeared in The Godfather movies but it should have. In the heart of New York’s fabled Greenwich Village on MacDougal Street, it was filled with the special buzz of that rebellious part of town known to every city, a cross between a grown-up Bob Dylan and the late John Gotti.

  Monte’s waiters were just that, waiters. Not servers. They were black-suited old guys who could be gruff but who knew what they were doing and brought you exactly what you ordered in good time with no speeches, unsolicited small talk, or nonsense. They could be cold, but all it took was one well-placed joke and they warmed right up. They just need to know that you were human and not a jerk. Michael watched as they carried out a steady stream of savory dishes from the kitchen and onto the tables of conversation-engrossed patrons around him.