by E. J. Simon
As he and Karen DiNardo were enjoying glasses of Gavi di Gavi and finishing their salads, their waiter placed the plate of Monte’s homemade Tagliatini Pesto on the table in front of Michael.
“I love this dish; the green pesto and pasta makes it look like the whole thing was just picked fresh from the garden.”
“I agree,” Karen said, as the waiter grated fresh Parmesan onto her Fettuccini Bolognese, “it looks delicious. Too bad it’s not Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Karen had a well-tuned and well-timed sense of humor. If there was one person in the corporate world whom Michael could trust, it was Karen DiNardo. She was much more than her title of executive assistant implied. She had a solid logical and analytical mind, a great memory, and she got things done: more than ninety-nine percent of the execs—earning ten times what she did—out there could do. She could be a senior executive in any company if that was what she wanted to do. It wasn’t.
She was the only one in his corporate world who knew of his other, secret life, specifically that he owned and operated Alex’s illegal business, Tartarus. She covered for Michael when the inevitable conflicts arose. He also relied on her to educate and periodically update him on the subject of artificial intelligence. It was a role she appeared to relish, especially since he would always have her do it outside of the office, usually over lunch.
“When are you going to tell me what all this AI curiosity is all about?” she asked. “I’ve known you for over ten years. You trust me with some of your…secrets. Why not this one?”
She knew there was more to his AI interest than he let on but she did not know about Alex, so she couldn’t—yet—connect the dots between Michael’s curiosities about the technology. And because of that, she was obviously going crazy trying to figure out why Michael was so interested in AI. It had become a game they played each time they discussed it.
Someday, Michael would tell her, but not today. He wasn’t ready to have this secret spread any further than it had already.
He repeated the question he had put to her over the phone, “So, tell me, can a computer ever duplicate a person’s brain—and their very consciousness?”
“Okay, from everything I’ve researched—and I have a written report here with all the backup but I know you’re not going to plow through it all now, or probably ever—it looks like we’re not quite there yet. The technology is advancing quickly but it’s still pretty limited…although there are some indications that breakthroughs may have occurred. But those are only rumors.”
“What does that mean? What kind of rumors are we talking about?”
“Well, it’s strange and I hate to even bring it up since it’s totally unsubstantiated.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s, how should I put it? Have you ever heard of the dark web?”
“Oh, here we go. Yes, but only slightly. Is it even real?”
“Yes, it’s a special encrypted network that can’t easily be accessed on the Internet. I won’t bore you with the details but it’s a source of a lot of underground things going on in the world, particularly the technology underworld, a lot of it rather dark, hence the name dark web.”
“Okay, keep going.”
“Well, this is where I’ve seen some activity around AI and a potential breakthrough. The rumors are that some Silicon Valley geeks—real outliers, you know, not the ones working for Google or anything—were able to actually duplicate someone. And, when I say duplicate, I mean the whole enchilada.”
“The whole enchilada? What the hell is that?”
“It means the person—everything—his brain, mind, consciousness, memory, reasoning, personality, and more.”
“More? What else is there?”
“Well, if there’s anything to this, these guys used a breakthrough in AI to duplicate the mind and then combined that with more established technologies like computer imaging, facial recognition, voice duplication and recognition, and things like that to also duplicate the look, appearance, mannerisms, voice, tone, everything that made up this human being, so that when ‘he’ showed up on a computer screen, it seemed exactly like the real person, including his ability to recognize others, the ones he knew.”
“But, come on, if this is true, and these geeks really did that, how could they possibly keep it a secret?”
“I don’t know. That’s one reason it may not be true. But one rumor is that these guys were hired by some rich underworld figure who paid them a fortune and they had to sign some lock-tight nondisclosure agreement. But, wait, there’s more…if you want to believe it.”
“What’s that?”
Karen took her time, clearly knowing she had Michael right where she wanted him.
“The man they duplicated was murdered just days after they completed the project for him.”
Michael felt his control over his life beginning to slip away even further. How could this be? How could Karen stumble onto this, coming so close? It would only be a matter of time until all hell broke loose.
“You’re kidding.” He didn’t know how else to react.
“I knew you’d get a kick out of this. It’s all probably fantasy, of course. It’s pretty far-fetched, don’t you think?”
Michael twirled a fork full of his spaghetti and placed it in his mouth, buying time.
“Far-fetched? I don’t know. Who knows these days?”
“Maybe,” Karen continued, eying him closely, “but here’s something else I read, too. It relates to the part of your question about whether they can recreate consciousness. That same rumor says that they did. It turns out—again, if it’s true at all—that the personality, the consciousness, of the guy they apparently duplicated…well, let’s say they were afraid he could be dangerous.”
“So, what’s that got to do with why the word wouldn’t have gotten out?”
“Because despite whatever contract they signed with this guy to stay silent, they were deathly afraid of him.”
“Despite him being dead?”
She shrugged. “Seems like they were even more afraid of him dead.”
Chapter 43
New York City
The doorbell rang in Suite 801 of the St. Regis Hotel, Michael’s corporate apartment, a perk from his role as CEO of Gibraltar Financial. He and Samantha used it whenever they were in New York. Since she was spending a few days at their new weekend home in North Carolina, he was alone this evening.
“Mr. Nicholas, I believe you’re expecting me. I’m Suzy Wong.”
“Yes, my wife just texted me that you were coming. This was quite a surprise, an early birthday present, she said.”
Michael took in the view and her sensuous jasmine scent. She was gorgeous, too beautiful to be a straight masseuse. Yet he couldn’t imagine that Samantha would send a gorgeous woman up to his room for anything more.
“I understand you’ve been uptight. I can see it in your face already and how you’re moving your shoulders. I’m going to help you relax. Do you mind if I call you Michael?”
“Sure…of course. Did you bring a special table?” he asked as she walked by him while he held the door open. Her long straight black hair was in a ponytail, sitting high up and bouncing as she moved, making her appear even younger than her looks reflected. Michael guessed that she was in her late thirties. He couldn’t help but admire her from the back as she passed through the long hallway and into the living room, leading the way, as though she’d been in the suite before.
“Normally I would, but since this suite is so well appointed, I think we can do it on your bed, if that’s all right with you. That’s how I do it with your wife. She assured me you were safe and wouldn’t misinterpret things.”
The way she said do it made Michael think of something more than a massage. “So you’ve given her massages, too? I didn’t know that. I thought—”
“My gu
ess is that there’s a lot you don’t know.” She turned around and flashed him a mischievous smile. “Nothing too bad, of course. All very innocent.”
Her well-worn skin-tight jeans, halter top, and the gold chain around her bare slim waist sent Michael a different message.
She had a soft voice, soothing in itself, with a slight British accent and perfect diction.
“I detect an accent. Are you from the UK?” He knew he was just making things up to say as he tried to figure out what was really happening.
“Actually, Jackson Heights, in Queens.”
“I grew up in Queens too.”
“I know,” she said. “I’d suggest you pour yourself a glass of wine and then we move to your bed for the massage.”
“You want me to have a glass of wine?”
“You’re going to need one.” Her tone was soft and innocent sounding, yet firm, matter of fact.
He knew he had a decision to make. Clearly this was no legitimate massage session. Was Samantha testing him—or sharing him? Or did she perhaps really believe that he needed something extra, with no emotional attachments, to help relax his nerves? To ease the strain of the recent events?
Before everything with Alex happened, he would have escorted Suzy Wong out the door. But now, things were already screwed up, at least physically, with Samantha. He’d had a tryst of sorts with Alex’s mistress, Jennifer, and her friend, Catherine Saint-Laurent. And then there was Sindy Steele. So, the great divide of monogamy had been crossed.
But how could he ever uncover the complexities of Samantha’s motivations here, particularly when it came to sex? And what could she possibly expect from him by sending this woman to his bedroom? He made up his mind.
“And how about a glass of wine for you?” he offered.
“A decent size glass of your good Scotch, straight up, if you don’t mind,” she called from the bedroom.
“Oh, God” Michael whispered out loud.
Samantha was up to something. Was it simply a gift? A wish fulfilled, for most men. No, it had to be more than just providing him with an evening of sex with a beautiful stranger. And what exactly was Samantha’s relationship with Suzy Wong? Prior to texting him a few hours ago to expect the masseuse, her special gift to him, she’d never mentioned her name.
He poured her a healthy few jiggers of his Johnnie Walker Blue. He noted that the bottle was nearly empty—even though there was no one he could recall who’d been in the suite who actually drank Scotch.
Before heading to the bedroom, he took a sip of his chilled Riesling and wondered how something that was supposed to be an hour of simple relaxation had turned out to be so filled with anticipation—and stress.
He heard music coming from the suite’s stereo system. “I hope you like the music, it’s the soundtrack from Memoirs of a Geisha. I see you have it in your iTunes system—did you see the movie?”
“No,” he called out, “I may now, though.”
As soon as he entered the bedroom and handed her the glass of Scotch, she took a long swig and placed the glass on the bed stand. “Okay, while I get a fresh towel from your bathroom, why don’t you take your clothes off—all of them—and then lie facedown on your bed. Don’t worry, I’m going to place the towel over your rear—although they have a tendency to slip off.”
“Speaking of movies, wasn’t there one with a character, Suzy Wong?” he asked.
“Yes, way before my time—and yours, I hope. It was called The World of Suzie Wong. We’re not related.”
Michael emptied his glass and then followed her instructions.
In a few minutes, she had climbed on top, straddling, nearly riding him. He could feel her soft bare legs alongside him on either side, gently squeezing him. She was nude.
“I couldn’t find a towel by the way,” she said as she pressed herself against him. He could feel her warm breasts on his back and her sex grinding against his rear as she managed to expertly massage his shoulders. “I want you to just close your eyes now and let me give you the massage of your life. Don’t say another word.”
But before long her hands stopped massaging and exploring his body. He felt her hands gently holding his head back slightly—as she covered his eyes with a silk blindfold. “I want you to turn over now, Michael. Lie on your back. I’ll do everything.”
And she did.
He had tried hard to make it last but he knew he couldn’t hold off much longer.
“I can’t believe Samantha sent you,” he whispered.
He was at the point of no return when he heard her.
“Samantha?” she repeated softly, “who’s Samantha? I thought your wife’s name was Sindy, Sindy Steele.”
As he finished, he ripped the blindfold from his eyes and looked into Suzy Wong’s eyes, her long legs wrapped around him, lost in her own ecstasy as she watched him in his.
He knew it was crazy; his mind was scrambled with a myriad of conflicting emotions, yet this was possibly the single most intense moment of pleasure he had ever experienced. And so he knew it was just a matter of time until Sindy Steele reappeared in his life.
Chapter 44
Berlin, Germany
The specter of Michael Nicholas was eating away at Klaus Dietrich. Sitting at his computer, Dietrich watched old video of Michael leaving the White House the day after the Connecticut bombing. Anxious and angry, he switched onto a screen with icons, found the one with a cross overlaid over a swastika, tapped on the keyboard, let the facial recognition feature recognize him, and entered into Schlegelberger’s world.
“I don’t understand how Michael Nicholas is still out there—and talking. He is a danger to our plans.”
“He left the restaurant just before the bomb went off,” Schlegelberger said, solemnly. “Our man did everything right. No one could anticipate that he’d leave when he did.”
“I’ll say this for him: he’s elusive, and lucky. Perhaps.”
“Neither. He had help. His brother intercepted messages, mine perhaps, or our man’s when he told me the bomb was in place. Either way, he and his wife ran out just before the device detonated. There was loss of life.”
Dietrich absorbed the message, loss of life. He let it sink in. For some inexplicable reason even he didn’t understand, his mind stayed on it, dwelling on the phrase. There had been so much already, what difference did more make? he wondered. Yet, he was curious.
“Loss of life?” he said, then repeated it, this time as a statement of fact. “Loss of life.”
“Several, at least, sixteen to be precise,” Schlegelberger said. “It was a restaurant at dinnertime. There are several in the hospital too, some critical.”
“Who do the authorities or the press think did this?” Dietrich said.
“The local police chief speculated it could be the mob, organized crime, a failed attempt at extortion. He said on television that the restaurant owner—a friend of Michael Nicholas—had been the target of a pay-for-protection scheme that he had evidently refused on several occasions.”
“Interesting. There’s always someone willing to kill you, isn’t there? If it’s not one group or person it’s another, or a war, a bullet, a bomb, a blade, a piece of bad fish. Did the owner survive?”
“Yes, he’s one of the ones in the hospital.”
Bridgeport, Connecticut
Tiger opened his eyes. Everything was a blur, but he had the sense everything was wrong.
“Can you hear me?”
The voice was familiar but out of place here at his bedside.
“Can you hear me? How are you, buddy?”
What in the f’ing world was Fletcher doing here? Tiger could feel his mind slowly waking up, slower than usual. What had he been drinking last night? Why was he so…sluggish? He stretched his eyes open, wider, trying to focus. Fletcher’s head loomed large, a giant blur slowly comin
g into focus.
“What the hell are you doing in my damned bedroom?”
“You’re in the hospital. Do you remember…what happened?”
His eyes kept working, harder now, as the room around Fletcher came into view. It wasn’t his bedroom.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Bridgeport Hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
“What happened? Did I have a heart attack?” But, as he said it, Tiger began to remember the restaurant…a loud boom, and red, so much, red…blood…blood everywhere. “Did something happen at Mario’s last night?”
“It wasn’t last night, Tiger. It was a few nights ago. I’ll tell you later, when you’re more awake.”
“Who got hurt? What—”
But before Tiger could say more, a nurse arrived, rushing through the door toward his bed. Seeing him awake, she turned to Fletcher.
“Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. He’s too weak for any questioning.”
“I’m not just the police chief,” Fletcher said, “I’m his close friend.”
The nurse didn’t appear to be listening or interested as she tested a needle and then injected it into Tiger’s limp arm. His eyes were open, although he seemed to be struggling to stay awake.
The nurse turned to Fletcher. “I just gave him a sedative, the doctor wants him to continue to rest. He’s still very fragile. This will knock him out. You’d best come back in several hours.”
Fletcher got up to leave. “I’ve got to go now, Tiger. Get some more sleep. You need to get your strength back, buddy. Everything’ll be all right.” He gently touched Tiger’s arm and left.
Tiger felt a warm comfort come over his body. He could feel the oncoming sleep. The nurse had left, the room was silent except for the beeping of machinery, oxygen, a heart monitor, whatever else it was that seemed to be in every hospital room, everywhere. As long as he could hear these noises, he knew he was alive.