Pandora's Brain (14 page)

*

David and his family went in search of pancakes in the functional and brightly-lit canteen. Norman brought them the draft and they had no objections. He left again to get it signed off. It took a bit longer than expected, and he returned half an hour later looking harassed.

‘They’re not comfortable with this upstairs,’ he admitted. ‘But I told them that if we don’t agree to this draft then you guys might reveal significantly more. I told them we would have to kidnap you all over again to stop you.’ He smiled and winked at Sophie, whose mouth had fallen open. ‘Just joking, ma’am. That is permitted under US military regulations. Joking, I mean – not kidnapping.’

He placed a sheaf of legal documents on the table and pushed one of the across the surface to David.

‘They want each of you to sign this disclaimer. I’m embarrassed to have to ask you, but they insisted. It’s a declaration that you accept that you have witnessed things of a confidential nature here during the last couple of days, and that you will keep them confidential.’

David looked at Leo and pushed the document
across the table towards him.

‘Would you mind looking at this, Leo? You have far more experience with this sort of thing than I do.’

‘No problem,’ said Leo, and started to read the
paper.

‘While you’re doing that I’ll get the Embassy’s PR team to organise a press conference,’ Norman said, pulling out his phone. ‘It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Then you can finally all go home!’

‘Won’t that be a relief!’ said Sophie.

‘I’m not sure I remember what home looks like,’ David joked.

‘Home is where we all are, Dad,’ said Matt. He
winced. ‘Ooh, that was really cheesy, wasn’t it.’

They all laughed, and then fell silent to allow Leo to finish reading the document. After a couple of minutes he looked up at Norman, who had finished his call.

‘It’s mostly boilerplate stuff, Norman. I have no problem with it except for this paragraph here,’ he pointed to a paragraph halfway down the third page, ‘where it says that we agree to indemnify you for any legal costs arising from a dispute over this document. That gives you carte blanche to sue us and then charge us for the privilege.’

Norman looked unhappy as he read the offending paragraph.

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘They love to create a bit of work, these lawyers, don’t they? Look, I can understand your point, but getting one of these documents changed is like trying to change the holy scriptures . . .’

David leaned across the table and grabbed the paper.

‘You guys saved my life, and some of your men died in the process. You have bent over backwards to help us, and I think it’s time we showed some spirit of compromise. Leo, you may not want to sign this thing, and for sure you have more assets for them to go after if it did all go horribly wrong. But for my part I’m going to sign it and get the thing over with.’

Norman was visibly relieved. ‘Thank you, David.’

Leo smiled, and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Put it like that, and I’m willing to take my chances with these guys. I hope I don’t live to regret this!’

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This will be a short statement, and there will be no questions taken afterwards, for reasons which will become obvious. Transcripts of the statement will be available at the door when you leave.’

Norman was in his element, taking charge of events in a crowded room. There were around fifty journalists present, sitting in deliberately uncomfortable chairs arranged in tightly-packed rows facing Norman’s lectern, while Vic and the Metcalfe family sat in similar chairs lined up by the wall behind him. The room was brightly lit for the benefit of cameras. The audience was mostly quiet, with a few whispered conversations winding up here and there around the room. The journalists didn’t know what announcement was coming, but that was not unusual. They were not expecting a major news story, and many of them knew each other well, so the atmosphere was relaxed and convivial as Norman began to speak.

‘Yesterday afternoon at 1600 hours local time a team of US military personnel boarded a large private vessel in the Atlantic Ocean, a hundred miles west of Agadir,
Morocco. The team’s mission was to rescue a hostage, Dr
David Metcalfe, who is seated here behind me. The mission was successful, although I am sorry to report that three marines lost their lives and five were wounded. Their relatives have been informed. Also killed during the operation was the man responsible for the kidnapping, a Mr Ivan Kripke. He took his own life when it became clear to him that his apprehension
and trial was inevitable. Mr Kripke had kidnapped Dr
Metcalfe in order to obtain access to certain research techniques which Dr Metcalfe had developed.’

The room had fallen silent apart from Norman’s voice. The journalists had realised that this was something a bit out of the ordinary. This was no grimly routine update on slayings in the Middle East, or squabble between governments about how to cope with trade imbalances. This was a positive human interest story which could appeal to their editors on a number of levels.

‘The mission was successful in part thanks to information provided by Dr Metcalfe’s son, Matt, who is also seated behind me. Matt was also kidnapped by Mr Kripke, who blackmailed him into attempting to infiltrate a research group led by Dr Victor Damiano – sitting next to Matt – in order to obtain some additional research techniques. Dr Damiano is a leading researcher in the field of artificial intelligence.’

A few of the journalists let out tiny gasps of surprise. This was getting better. A young hero figure; a father-and-son rescue story. And was there a suggestion that robots were involved?

‘When Matt approached Dr Damiano as instructed, he was informed that Mr Kripke was under observation on suspicion of a number of crimes, including murder. At this point he took the brave decision to reveal the fact of the kidnapping to Dr Damiano, who in turn disclosed it to the authorities, who proceeded to draw up and execute a rescue plan.’

The journalists’ interest was now thoroughly piqued, and there was an atmosphere of palpable anticipation in the room.

‘Dr Metcalfe has asked me, on behalf of himself and his family here, to express his deep gratitude to the marines and other personnel who participated in his rescue, and to extend their profound condolences to the families of those men who did not return. For our part, the US Armed Forces would like to express our appreciation for the dignity and fortitude that this brave family has shown throughout this extremely stressful period in their lives.’

Norman bestowed on his audience the patient smile of an approachable but strict headmaster.

‘Now I know that many of you will have questions that you would like to ask, but as I said at the outset, neither we nor the family are taking any questions at this time. We ask you to appreciate that Dr Metcalfe and his family have gone through a traumatic and exhausting experience, and they would like to be left alone to recover in their home environment. That’s it, folks. Transcripts at the door.’

Journalists are not noted for taking ‘no’ for an answer, and many of them started asking questions anyway. The volume rose to shouts as they competed for attention.

‘How long were you detained for, Dr Metcalfe?’

‘What kind of research did you say this is all about? What are these research techniques?’

‘How old are you, Matt? Have you got anything to say about this?’

‘Hey, Matt, this sounds like quite an adventure! How do you feel about being part of a father-and-son hero team?’

‘Dr Metcalfe, what was it like being in the middle of a raid. Was it just like in the movies?’

Norman raised his hands, demanding silence. It took a short while, but he was a man used to commanding attention, and getting it.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I said there would be no questions. I’m sorry. Dr Metcalfe and his family are of course free to talk to you later if they choose, but for now they need some time to recuperate. I’m sure you can understand that. That really is all. Thank you for your attention.’

Norman turned back to David and his family, and ushered them out of the room by a different door than the one through which the journalists were being herded – dissatisfied, but excited and chattering – by uniformed Embassy personnel.

Once they were safely beyond earshot of the journalists, Norman turned to David and Matt.

‘I guess you’ll be wanting to get home now. May I provide you with a driver?’

‘That’s very kind, Norman,’ said David. ‘Thank you. Catching a train might be asking for trouble right now.’

‘Better prepare yourself, though,’ Norman warned. ‘The more enterprising members of that crowd will find out your address quickly and there will probably be reporters outside your house by the time you get there. My driver will be a man who can help you with that, and I’ll get someone from the Embassy to suggest to your local police authority that they post a couple of men outside your house for a few days. But you might want to think about staying with friends and relatives for a while. Although god knows, they’ll track you down there too. You can see they like the story. I’m afraid there’s going to be a feeding frenzy.’

‘Maybe you can provide us with false identities and a new life?’ Leo joked.

‘It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid,’ Norman replied ruefully.

‘Thanks Norman, we appreciate your concern,’ David said. ‘But I’ve been away from home for far too long now. That’s definitely my first move: home.’ He put his arm around Sophie’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

‘We’ll be seeing you again soon, I trust?’ Vic asked. ‘In fact I want to talk to you about joining our team. Both of you,’ he added, looking meaningfully at Matt as well as David.

Matt let out a yelp. ‘Brilliant!’ Then he realised his mistake, and glanced at his mother nervously. ‘Um, that is OK isn’t it, mum?’

‘We’ll discuss it at home,’ she said with mock firmness, while smiling at him indulgently. ‘In fact we have quite a lot of things to discuss, young man.’

‘Uh-oh. Hope I haven’t gotten you into trouble, Matt’ Vic grinned. ‘Anyway, I think we’d better wait until the media interest blows over. It should blow itself out in two or three days.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ said Norman as he walked them towards the garage.

*

Norman was right. Christmas came and went, and media interest in David and Matt’s story was still going strong.

Christmas in the Metcalfe household was a strange affair. They had a major cause for celebration, and relief was an almost tangible emotion inside the house. But at the same time the family were effectively prisoners in their own home. They could not go outside for a walk without being followed by a posse of journalists intent on squeezing more life out of the story, and without a dozen cameras being thrust in their faces.

Initially, the papers were full of largely speculative stories about this mysterious family which had suffered kidnap and blackmail, and had been rescued by brave US marines. The fact that the story only came out in dribs and drabs, as journalists dug up more and more people who knew David and Matt, helped keep the interest alive.

Matt in particular became something of a celebrity, nudging the manufactured pop bands off the front pages of the tabloids for a change. Matt was bemused by this, and astonished to receive fan mail, some of it startlingly sexual in nature.

Alice took this in good heart, and teased Matt gently about becoming a heartthrob for teenage girls. Alice was spending a lot of her time at Matt’s house. Carl came round often too, and his teasing was more robust.

The media did its best to pull on the thread of artificial intelligence research. Since there was little hard information about either Vic’s or Ivan’s work, the copy consisted of opinion pieces rather than reporting, and contributions from other researchers in the AI field.

Many of the opinion pieces came from the usual commentariat, people who are paid to have an opinion on everything, and find that to be no strain at all. It also came from a wide range of people and organisations with relevant and vested interests, notably religious groups.

As well as the TV and newspaper coverage, there was an enormous amount of comment and speculation on blogs and on Twitter. Norman had warned them that they might not be able to handle the volume, and they might find some of the content upsetting. He offered to provide a media analysis and PR service to wade through the material and forward a summary along with selected samples. They were surprised at the number and variety of people and firms who offered the same service for a fee, ranging from well-known publicists and major international PR firms to small and discreet boutiques. Initially they declined all these offers, but before long they realised that Norman was right, and reluctantly but gratefully accepted his offer.

Before long they were also obliged to accept the suggestion of their new PR service that they change their email addresses and phone numbers, and re-direct their existing addresses and numbers to the service. They had to repeat this a couple of times as their new numbers and addresses were leaked, so each time they cut down the number of people they gave the new details to.

The Metcalfe house had a small camp of journalists outside round the clock, but the policemen did a good job of making sure that none of them went onto the property itself. David and Sophie wanted to resume a normal life, but their attempts to go shopping meant being accompanied by police officers, and they realised they were causing serious inconvenience to neighbours and friends.

‘Maybe we should do what Norman suggested,’ said David on the fourth day, exasperated at being unable to go to the shop to pick up a pint of milk. ‘Maybe we should go away for a few days until all this has blown over.’

‘Where would we go?’ asked Sophie. ‘None of our friends live in gated communities, or have houses with mile-long private driveways.’

‘Maybe we should go somewhere abroad?’ suggested Matt.

‘Wouldn’t help,’ said David, gloomily. ‘This has become a global story.’

‘I bet Norman could find somewhere secure,’
suggested Alice. ‘But you have to take me with you. I’m not letting this guy out of my sight while he is the object of adoration for millions of screaming teenagers.’ She smiled and squeezed Matt’s arm.

‘Yes, he probably could,’ agreed David, ‘but this thing seems to have legs. That pack of jackals out there would be waiting for us when we got back.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Dad,’ Matt protested. ‘They haven’t turned the thumbscrews on us. They haven’t said anything particularly nasty about us. OK, there are some ridiculously stupid comments on some of the blogs and on Twitter, but the mainstream media has been pretty responsible.’

‘So far,’ David agreed. ‘But some of the emails and letters the service has been forwarding to me have been . . . well, unappetising. To be honest it’s starting to disturb me, especially since I’m sure they are keeping back the worst stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’ asked Matt. He looked at his mother, who clearly already knew. ‘I haven’t had anything really bad – at least, not yet.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all addressed to me; it doesn’t
concern you.’

‘Like hell it doesn’t. You’re my dad, and if you don’t mind I’ll ask you to remember that I summoned up the US Army to come and rescue you when you got into your little spot of bother with Ivan.’

David smiled, and ruffled his son’s hair. He went to a desk and took a letter out of the drawer and gave it to Matt to read.

‘That’s the sort of thing. It’s all nonsense, of course, but I’m getting a little tired of it.’

Matt read the letter with a mixture of amusement and concern. It was a largely incoherent ramble, claiming that David was a traitor to his kind, seeking to create false gods in his own image and take over the world.

‘It’s nothing to worry about, Matt, really,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s just loonies sounding off. There is no bite, and the bark is just a Chihuahua.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Matt. ‘I’m sure the writer is a sad little creature in a bedsit somewhere. But it does make me think. Maybe it’s time that the AI side of the story got a proper hearing.’

David looked at him. ‘You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing.’

He walked over to the desk again and took out another letter, and handed it to Matt.

‘Do you think we should accept this invitation?’

The letter was an invitation to join a small panel in a live televised debate about the future of artificial intelligence. It was on BBC-headed paper, and the proposed discussion moderator was one of the Corporation’s leading presenters, Malcolm Ross.

Matt’s eyebrows rose and his lips pursed as he read the letter. ‘Yes,’ he said soberly. ‘I think we should do Vic and Norman the courtesy of discussing it with them before we decide. But yes. Yes, I think we should.’