Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  He was typing, still there.

  NOYFB: “I’m Michael’s brother, Alex.”

  But she’d thought Michael’s brother was dead, murdered in a restaurant a few years ago. During the months she’d served as Michael’s personal bodyguard—and mistress—Michael had openly mourned the loss of his brother. So, how was it possible that she was now hearing from him? Was it a scam? But how could it be? He knew too much, too many details about Michael, about her, and their relationship. Could Michael be deceiving her? But why? What was going on?

  Sindy: “I thought you were dead.”

  Alex: “Yeah, well, it’s a long story and I don’t have the fuckin’ patience to go through it with you now and try to convince you about it.”

  Sindy: “Michael thought you were dead, too.”

  Alex: “Michael knows the truth.”

  Sindy: “Which is?”

  Alex: “That I’m more alive than most men I know.”

  Sindy: “I can see why you get along so well with women.”

  Alex: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sindy: “It means whatever you take it to mean, but I still get the feeling you think I’m stupid. I’ve heard about your wives.”

  Alex: “Yeah, big deal. I’ve had three wives. I get along better with girlfriends, though. I like sex, too, just like you do, I suppose.”

  Sindy: “Not that it’s any of your business but, sure, I like sex. I like my Manolos better, though. They last longer.”

  Alex: “I can see why my brother likes you. He always goes for smart-ass women with opinions and, you know, attitudes. I like to live my own life. I don’t want anyone telling me what to do, never did, even as a kid. I got along better with my wives after they divorced me than I did when I was married to them.”

  Sindy: “And I’m sure they all felt the same way.”

  Alex: “All Michael’s girlfriends before he was married, and now Samantha, they were all trouble...talkers, high-maintenance.”

  Sindy: “You mean like a car?”

  Alex: “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  Sindy: “Well, maybe you shouldn’t buy a Ferrari unless you’re willing to take care of it.”

  Alex: “This is exactly the kind of shit I’m talking about.”

  She could tell from his language, his stupid little stories, his attitude toward women, that Alex was exactly as Michael had described him. And there’d always been something a little odd about Michael and his dead brother. She remembered stories or, as she assumed, tales, about his body being missing, things she had naturally discounted. Alex’s old friends—many of them now working for Michael since he took over Alex’s business—all seemed like characters out of a Mafia movie anyway, except maybe funnier.

  Alex: “If you don’t believe me, how about if we FaceTime each other?”

  Sindy: “Sure, right now. Let’s do it.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? This would be interesting. She wasn’t sure what Alex Nicholas even looked like but she knew she’d recognize him if she saw him. She heard the call coming in and promptly answered it through the FaceTime app on her laptop. In seconds, an image appeared on the screen. The resemblance to Michael was unmistakable. It was him.

  Sindy: “Oh shit.”

  She turned to the waiter hovering nearby, “I’ll have the red snapper and a double ouzo, straight up.”

  Her gaze returned to the laptop screen. It was black. Alex was gone.

  Chapter 78

  Berlin, Germany

  A mere thousand meters from Hitler’s old bunker, Claus Dietrich now had his own. Inside the basement vault, surrounded by the shelves that had once housed the fortune of Nazi gold that now financed his operations, Dietrich sat at his desk, his eyes monitoring Michael Nicholas’s movements.

  The software that Schlegelberger had installed on Dietrich’s computer and the bugs he’d placed on Michael’s and a few others’ were all that remained of his old friend. Unable to make contact with Schlegelberger since the missiles had been destroyed, Dietrich felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. Schlegelberger had been his link to the cyberworld, the source of untold power, and now he was gone, apparently forever.

  Although his office was only blocks away, he was spending more and more time in the safety of the old vault, surrounded by the fortune that his family had rescued from the Nazi vaults and that he had restored after converting Jonathan Goldstein’s dollars back to gold bricks.

  He was nervous, afraid of being watched, hacked, followed, or whatever either the American CIA—or even perhaps Michael Nicholas—might unleash upon him. Michael Nicholas was still out there, despite Dietrich’s best efforts to kill him. But already some of Dietrich’s small army of followers had been rounded up in France. It was only a matter of time until Dietrich, too, was identified and found here in Berlin.

  He felt like he’d been suddenly awakened from his dream of world domination and was now desperately trying to resume it, fighting off the onslaught of reality. He was sure he could resume the fight. He had the gold back and still retained most of his followers. But the plan had been exposed and his vision, better kept secret until it became a reality, had been leaked to the world, the press, his enemies, destroying the necessary element of surprise that he needed.

  The balance of power had shifted. He feared—no, he knew—he was being hunted. But one man had reached out to him. It had been most unexpected, but it could turn out to be the powerful lifeline he needed to stay alive and fight another day. Vladimir Putin was the most powerful man in the world, unencumbered by the laws and counterbalances that restrained the American president. He could provide Dietrich with a safe escape, sanctuary, and a new life. It was the best he could hope for now.

  Even though Dietrich no longer had the codes to unlock the artificial intelligence software that had created Alex Nicholas and Schlegelberger, he still knew a lot. The Russians wanted everything he had. Though it wasn’t much, they didn’t know that, at least not yet. He would first negotiate his freedom.

  He’d spent fifty years planning his moves from this vault. But, despite the sense of security he felt here, too many people knew he owned the mannequin shop upstairs. It was time to leave. He would secure the basement, entrust the shop as he always had to his faithful manager, and leave Berlin.

  The Russians wanted to meet him in the one other place where he felt secure, where being the nephew of his notorious Nazi uncle Joseph Goebbels could still open doors, a place where he could hide, disappear. He would follow their instructions and drive to Prague.

  He shut his laptop, stood, and turned around, taking one last look at the shelves of gold surrounding him, neatly stacked on shelves from the concrete floor to the old tin ceiling. As he moved to the steel door to leave, he glimpsed a pair of pale white, long, slim women’s legs hurrying down the hall and then up the stairway.

  Someone had been watching him from the doorway. But there was only one other…“person” here in the store. As he closed the door and headed up the stairs, he wondered if he had underestimated Heidi.

  Chapter 79

  John F. Kennedy International Airport

  Queens, New York

  I heard from your brother. I thought he was dead???

  As he buckled himself into his seat, he looked down at the text message that had just arrived on his phone from Sindy Steele. Michael had not heard from her in months. It was better that way. This communication made him suspicious, and nervous.

  I heard from your brother.

  Sindy always returned, and too often that wasn’t a good thing. Either she was saving his life or trying to end it. Or kidnapping his daughter, just to get back at him for ending their affair. When she went off her meds, she was as lethal as Lizzie Borden.

  He regretted ever becoming entangled with the woman. It had started because he’d lost his inner comp
ass and succumbed to lust. It was as simple as that. A mistake. He’d been in it for the sex. That was all. It had been crass, selfish, and stupid, reminding him of his brother when it came to women, especially since he loved his wife and found Samantha as sexy and attractive, both intellectually and physically, as anyone he could imagine. But disentangling from Sindy Steele had been no simple matter.

  And now he had to speak with her again.

  He dialed her number.

  “Sindy, what’s going on? You texted me, something about Alex?”

  “Did you lie about your brother? “

  “I never lied to you about anything—but why do you ask?”

  “Well, how about that he’s been e-mailing and texting me anonymously over the past few weeks and then finally told me who he really is?”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “We FaceTimed. He looks just like you plus ten years.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So, now I know who he is, but who the hell are you? Did you—or he—fake his death?

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “A few days ago, but now I can’t reach him.”

  Initially hopeful that Alex had survived, Michael quickly felt let down. It sounded as if his brother’s communications with Sindy had occurred before the missile crisis and his “deletion.”

  “Why did you wait to tell me?”

  “First of all, you made it clear you no longer wanted to hear from me. I don’t know if you remember that.”

  “I do, of course. Can you just get to the point?”

  “Second, he made me promise not to tell you, unless something happened.”

  “Like what? Did he say?”

  “No, except he did say that if it looked like he wasn’t around anymore, like now, then I should contact you. What the hell’s going on?”

  “It’s a long, long story.”

  “That’s what he said, too. What do you two do? Rehearse your stories? Why don’t you try telling me this long story, now?”

  Michael proceeded to tell Sindy at least parts of what had gone on with Alex, from his murder to discovering that his brother had duplicated himself in the cloud. He left out some of the details of the missile crisis, implying the government had terminated Alex’s existence. He also figured President O’Brien’s people might be spying on him, looking to see if Alex returned or if Michael had any other improper entanglements. “Anyway,” he concluded, “that’s all over now. Alex is gone, he’s dead.”

  “Again, you mean? Are you listening to yourself? It sounds to me like you’re the one off your meds. If it is Alex, he knows everything about me, and what I do.”

  “It’s the same Alex,” he said. “Just without the physical body. I’m not crazy, and you’re not crazy, Sindy. I assure you.”

  Sindy said nothing for a long moment, then, “So, what do I do? He was communicating with me constantly, giving me…information, telling me things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “About people, the ones trying to kill you. Bad guys. Real bad. Freakin’ Nazis. Literally.”

  “Where are you?” he said. “Still in Santorini?”

  “Of course.”

  Michael missed the days when you could track someone’s location by the area or country code of their phones.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be hearing from him again, but tell me exactly what he told you.”

  “I can’t. It’s too dangerous over the phone and it’s better you don’t know.”

  The line went dead. Had she hung up on him or…was someone listening?

  Michael checked the GPS-tracking app Alex had duplicated for him only weeks ago. The one that tracked Dietrich’s cell phone’s location. He took one last look to be sure nothing had changed.

  Michael was seated on the aisle and could see the flight attendant approaching him. “Please turn that off,” she said to him, almost politely. He did so, placing the phone on the wide armrest next to his first-class seat. He pulled out the guidebook he’d placed in the seat pocket and looked at the cover: Prague.

  Chapter 80

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Like air pollution in LA, the dank, heavy scent of history and old Nazis hung in the air, even inside the restaurant.

  Although Dietrich’s back was to him, Michael had a clear view of the old man, in disguise, having a meal with another man.

  It was a decent restaurant, on a quiet, quaint street in Prague. Dietrich had good taste in dining, Michael thought, begrudgingly. His Spaghetti di Gragnano with San Marzano tomatoes and a creamy burrata was exactly as he preferred it, al dente.

  As he ate, he stole another glance at Dietrich’s table. An old black leather briefcase rested on the floor, nestled between Dietrich’s feet. He was clearly protecting it. Inside that briefcase must be the laptop Michael needed to get his hands on.

  Dietrich’s laptop had the only other known copy of the AI source code that comprised the DNA of Schlegelberger and Alex. It was a long shot but, when combined with the traceable codes still on Michael’s laptop, it just might be enough for the computer experts to be able to bring Alex back. But getting Dietrich’s laptop wasn’t going to be easy, especially if by chance Schlegelberger, or even a trace of him, remained alive in the cloud.

  The computer and AI experts he’d found with Karen’s help had told him they might be able to recreate Alex if he could get the codes from another virtual being—in this case, Schlegelberger, who could still be alive and communicating with Dietrich. But to do that he’d either have to steal the laptop somehow or kill the neo-Nazi leader and take it.

  Could he really murder Dietrich? Anyone was capable of killing another under the right circumstances. Self-defense, to save a loved one, surely those would be easy decisions. Revenge? Maybe, but now the waters got muddy. To prevent future murders? Even muddier. But to save your own brother? Yes, that was a justification he could live with. He’d murder Dietrich if he had to.

  Unlike Alex, Michael wasn’t a natural fighter. The closest to any violence Michael had ever engaged in—that wasn’t self-defense—was nearly strangling Joseph Sharkey to death in the private room at Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn with Fat Lester standing guard outside the door. He felt like he could have killed Sharkey right there, just another ten seconds and the man would have flatlined. It frightened Michael to know he could come so close to…the unthinkable.

  Here in Prague, Michael had already staked out where Dietrich was staying, the Four Seasons Hotel at the foot of the Charles Bridge. Maybe he’d follow him back to his hotel and, when Dietrich turned down a dark street, of which there seemed to be so many in Prague, he’d choke him, just as he had Sharkey, bring him close to the edge, and then release him as he was turning blue, and run off with the briefcase. Or, maybe he wouldn’t let go until…

  Michael shivered. His life had certainly changed since Alex’s…initial…death and his takeover of his brother’s business. Had he become another Alex? It was too much to contemplate, at least for now.

  Dietrich was another story. He was a mass murderer. Who was he dining with? And how could he continue to walk the streets, unchallenged?

  The US authorities had been unable to find any solid link between Dietrich and Schlegelberger, at least not since Schlegelberger had been found dead a year ago in Paris, and certainly nothing that would hold up in court. It would be a tough case to prove, requiring the government not only to show its cards, disclosing what it now knew about AI and Alex, but also likely straining the credulity of the court—never mind the government of a foreign country. Also, so much of the evidence had disappeared into cyberspace vapor when the missiles were destroyed. But didn’t it remain somewhere…in the cloud?

  Or was something else was going on? Perhaps they were watching Dietrich, to see who else was involved. Or maybe he was being
protected by some other force, like well-connected neo-Nazis in Prague? Whatever the case, Michael’s pleas to the President to have Dietrich arrested had been strangely deflected.

  In his peripheral vision, Michael noticed someone entering the restaurant. She was alone, tall, and with strikingly long, dark hair. He recognized her voice before he turned his head.

  What was Sindy Steele doing here?

  Chapter 81

  Prague, Czech Republic

  While listening to his dinner partner, Claus Dietrich’s eyes wandered around the dining room, scanning faces for potential trouble. He no longer wore his trademark dark suit but, instead, a more casual button-down shirt and crewneck sweater. A wig and matching salt-and-pepper fake mustache disguised his identity, but he knew his deep-set eyes would betray him, at least to anyone who knew him…or was looking for him.

  He’d set his briefcase down at his feet, under the table. Inside, was the laptop he’d used to speak with Schlegelberger, before his demise.

  Dietrich felt forgotten, alone. Was this how Goebbels felt near the end, when the Allied troops were closing in on Hitler’s bunker? Had Dietrich himself now reached the moment when he, too, knew his hopes were never to be realized? No, there was still hope and it rested in the hands of the man across the table, the one sent by Putin. He would simply have to alter his plan, first to survive, and then to rebuild, revise his plan, and strike again.

  Still, deep inside, a place he rarely ventured to, he knew it was a pipe dream. He’d be lucky to survive. His only hope was the Russians, who wanted to know how he’d broken into the American nuclear missile codes. There was also the neo-Nazi group here in Prague, which would hide and protect him, but even they didn’t know the extent of his crimes. How would they react when they realized he was politically, if not criminally, radioactive?