Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (31 page)

Forty-three

Iran

D
arius couldn’t sleep.

He was afraid of what he might find when he slept: more heinous visions of doom. The failure to achieve his vision, bearing witness to his own death, slipping beneath the waves of history without a trace. All of it worse than the worst nightmare. At night, his once-real dreams seemed to have fled. His lifelong goal of using the power of his own unique brain to change the world. To be a powerful force with dominion over all mankind. To be a brutish civilization’s salvation and ruler.

To clean up once and for all the fucking mess human beings had made of the planet. And the mess they made of the human species. Or, as Perseus called it, “global cleansing.” And, until now, working in secret with his most astounding creation, a quantum machine capable of superhuman intelligence he’d named Perseus, he had believed he was edging ever closer to realizing those dreams.

But, lately, he wondered.

Lately, he was
afraid
.

Perseus’s staggering intellectual powers were doubling every day, growing exponentially. Precisely as he and Dr. Cohen had calculated in the early days at the Stanford AI Research Institute. Soon, far sooner than his mother country’s loathsome president and the posturing mullahs in Tehran imagined, his machine would achieve the Singularity. One split second after that epic moment, there would be no more powerful “being” on the planet than Perseus.

Together, creator and creation, they would rule.

But in his dreams, unlike Perseus,
he
was not all-powerful, too. He was weak and alone. In these dreams he was frail, once more that frightened little cripple, about to be thrown out of his mother’s splendid palace, thrown to the wolves, left to fend for himself in a frightening world he had no knowledge of. Where people were dragged screaming from their houses in the middle of the night because they worshipped at the wrong altar. And then disappeared into prisons, into the ground.

In his night visions, he was not the boy wizard who had built his first computer when he was eight years old. And taught it to write poetry and symphonies to rival Mozart or Bach. Who made his childhood toys walk and talk, animated, as natural as any real boy. But he was not himself anymore. Not even a pale shadow. In his dreams he was negative space.

And these nightly visions and frightful apparitions had planted a seed; a dark, metastatic cancer was growing in his mind that could not be denied.

He fought the notion, his nagging doubts and suspicions, with all the considerable intellectual power at his command. He told himself it could not be possible that Perseus was insinuating these dreams into his mind. Planting these paralyzing thoughts. It just couldn’t be. Integral to the psyche he had built into the neural pathways of the machine was a love of its creator. Reverence. This was a machine that had, after all, always called him “Father.”

But then something had happened that made him wonder.

A few nights ago, having taken some powerful sleeping drug that his personal goddess Aphrodite had created for him, he awoke to find himself gone from his bed. He was outside in the cold night air. He was high atop the seaside cliff where the observatory stood, just above the brilliantly lit power plant. His chair, resting on the most precipitous outcropping of rock, was empty. He himself was seated out at the very edge of the cliff, looking down between his foreshortened limbs into an angry sea crashing against the rocks hundreds of feet below.

He suddenly had a very powerful urge to use his strong arms to propel himself into space. Such an appealing idea! To be free of the ridiculous chair caused by his cursed lifelong infirmity. It was all he could do to remain there on the rock until the desire passed. He did it by reminding himself that Perseus had long promised him legs. Real legs, genome-replicant legs like the ones he should have been born with instead of these hideously withered stumps.

He had struggled back into the chair and returned to his chambers. Aphrodite was sleeping soundly in his bed, seemingly unaware that he’d even been gone. He lay awake for the rest of the night, wondering why a human being standing on the verge of becoming the most powerful man on earth would suddenly have a near uncontrollable urge to commit suicide.

It was what had prevented him from sleeping again tonight. Why he was out on the seaward terrace in the small hours of the morning, feeling sorry for himself.

“Master?”

He heard Aphrodite’s whispery voice behind him. He turned and saw her approaching him across the polished white marble terrace, now a hazy blue beneath the moon and starlight. She was wearing a thin, diaphanous gown that revealed a lush body that never failed to arouse him. She was a gift, visible proof that Perseus loved him still. Was she not? In addition to offering her body, she opened her mind to him. He felt he could tell her anything. He’d never had a real friend, much less a confidant, in his entire life. But now he did, and she was a great aid and comfort to him.

She padded silently through the drifting sea mist, across the stone, kissed the top of his head, and then composed herself at his feet, looking up at him with adoring eyes.

“Another sleepless night?” she said, in her soothing tone. Her long slender fingers stroked the nub where his right leg should have been, and still the phantom leg could feel it.

“Yes. Even your magic potions no longer help. So I sit here and gaze at the troubled sea until the sun returns. All these water molecules interacting with each other. Chaos, but beautiful.”

“Your mind is troubled, not the sea. It cares not for this world. Unburden yourself, Darius. Give your fears to me so that I may dispose of them.”

“Oh, my dear girl, I’ve no idea where to begin. I have dreamed of glory for so long and now—now I fear I shall never see that day.”

“Why? You have created a miracle in Perseus. Together you will write your names across the stars. The time of the Singularity draws near.”

“Yes. It does. And the closer it comes, the further removed I feel.”

“Tell me why.”

“I am not a strong man. I have always been physically weak, and now I grow but weaker. My remaining life span is limited. I may not live to see the coming of glory.”

“But Perseus will soon have the power to change all that. To heal you. To make you smarter and stronger, more—virile. To stop you from growing older. Hasn’t he already promised you strong legs to walk on?”

“He has promised me a lower body exoskeleton. I’ve asked about it many times and he always dissembles. Says he’s fine-tuning it, or something. I think he has the power to produce the prosthetic now, even without the Singularity. But he chooses not to use it. I’m left with my two stumps.”

“Why would he care so little?”

“Because I’m useless to him now. He no longer needs me. And the stronger his powers grow, the further we two grow apart. And when he does achieve the Singularity . . . well, who knows? It’s out of my control.”

“You are his creator, Darius. He has evolved directly from your biological humanity. You are an integral part of Perseus, in his electric DNA. It’s indisputable.”

“Yes, dear girl. But Perseus is not an integral part of me. There is a gulf between us now that perhaps may not be bridged. It may already be too late.”

“I don’t understand. Can you be patient and explain?”

He looked up at the sky, dizzy with stars, for a long time before he spoke.

“I am a humanist. Perseus is not. I am of the earth. Perseus is of the universe—and beyond.”

“What is a humanist? I have searched my database. I don’t know this word.”

“Humanism is a system of thought, originating in the Renaissance, derived from the Greeks. One attaches prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. A humanist’s beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings. They emphasize common human needs. They seek solely rational ways of solving human problems. It is a secular ideology, one that espouses reason, ethics, and justice while rejecting religious dogma as a basis of morality. And, most important in my case, decision making.”

“And this humanism, it is good?”

“I believe so. It has always been my deep conviction that pure humanism will become the religion of the future, that is, the cult of all that pertains to man—no, all of life itself—sanctified at last and raised to the level of moral value. My life’s work has been to create a supremely rational force, god, whatever you want to call it, that will ultimately govern mankind, the planet, and, potentially, the universe itself.”

“Yet you kill humans. Countless numbers of innocents. You and Perseus.”

“Yes. It is called pragmatism. Lives are often sacrificed for the greater good. A rational being is capable of allowing something like what happened in Israel. Or London.”

“Were these beliefs not at the root of Perseus’s creation?”

“I thought so. It was certainly my intent when designing the machine. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Perseus is not a humanist?”

“No. Definitely not. Not what I had in mind at all.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A merging of human intelligence and machine intelligence to create a new being. Vastly more intelligent, a billion, billon times more intelligent, but one that would also possess human qualities. This is where I believe I’ve failed. It was far more complicated and difficult than I anticipated.”

“What was more difficult?”

“Giving Perseus the essential yet subtle human qualities. Attributes like the ability to be funny. To be sad or jealous, or loving, or even to understand forgiveness and hatred. What he has is logic.”

“He lacks your altruism, master.”

“Good choice of words. Yes.”

“But. Is logic bad?”

“Without those other qualities, humanistic qualities, yes. Look at the world from his point of view. Perseus looks at mankind and sees us as incapable of existing without eradicating species after species. As corrupting and defiling the delicate resources of the earth, as murdering countless billions of our fellow men. And of overpopulating our celestial home with scarcely a thought. We’ve had many conversations about this. Perseus believes we—humanity, that is—would be extremely likely to continue this behavior should we ever become smart enough to escape the earth and spread our kind throughout the universe.”

“And what would he do about it? Once he achieves the Singularity?”

“We become ants. When you are a trillion times more powerful than say, a mosquito, do you think twice about swatting it? Seeing that smear of blood? No. A mosquito is of no consequence. Worse, a mere annoyance. Dealt with, you see?”

“Removed.”

“What do you think? We will have outlived our usefulness. We are no longer part of evolution. We are, and Perseus has already said this to me, ‘a waste of atoms.’ We have forfeited our right to exist. Without us, he and new, ever more powerful generations of his kind could create a new Eden on earth. A beautiful blue-and-green garden uncontaminated by the poison, not of the biblical snake, but of the man. And then the evolution could begin again, but governed by a supremely rational,
logical,
force.”

“So God failed?”

“Good question. Obviously, God allows bad things to happen. Does that make him a failure? Or is Perseus simply part of God’s plan? Is he, in fact, God himself? Or, at least, leading us toward God? Who knows?”

“Perseus?”

“Perhaps he knows, yes. He’s not seen fit to take me into his confidence.”

“Is this good, Darius? Or bad?”

“It’s not whether it’s good or bad. It’s simply going to happen. You cannot stop evolution. But, if you’re a humanist, it’s obviously bad. If you’re not, you could argue that perhaps the universe, and certainly the earth, would be better for our extinction.”

“So what happens next?”

“The end of the world as we know it, I suppose.”

“You will die?”

“Everyone will.”

“Can he be stopped?”

“I don’t think so. I went up to the observatory yesterday to view a newly discovered supernova they wanted me to see. The power plant is visible from the entrance, just down the mountainside. It provides for the enormous energy needs of Perseus. There are now armed guards posted all around it. I didn’t put them there. So who do you imagine did it?”

“Perseus?”

“Yes. I must speak to the captain of the Guards. I think Yusef Tatoosh is still my oldest ally, my defender. Him, at least, I still trust. I doubt he ordered the power plant guarded. Those under his command look to me for leadership since they know not of Perseus’s existence. They would side with me in a fight, that I do know. The loyalty of the Guards is beyond question. It’s small comfort, but it’s something.”

“Perseus sees you as a threat to his existence?”

“I’m beginning to think so. But, deep inside, he has powerful feelings for me. Because he can feel my hand at work in the fire of every neural or qubit synapse of his being. In some ways, killing me would be tantamount to killing himself. I think that’s the only reason I’m still alive. My death is his own.”

“What will you do?”

“Try to reason with him before it’s too late. Convince him to upgrade my intelligence with nanotransmitters until I am on a par with him. Extend my life span indefinitely. In other words, become one with him. So that, together, the merged entity possesses all those qualities of goodness and morality I told you about.”

“That was your original intent.”

“Yes. But, being merely human, I forgot the most important law of all.”

“What law is that?”

“The law of unintended consequences.”

Forty-four

London/Moscow

“A
ll right, Alex,” C said, standing up and walking around his solid mahogany desk. “I will at least consider it.”

A solemn Sir David Trulove went over to one of the many broad office windows overlooking the Albert Embankment and the Thames. He stood gazing out, his hands clasped behind his back like an old captain on the quarterdeck. Hawke knew what the old admiral was thinking. He wasn’t happy about Hawke’s request, but he knew he couldn’t turn it down, either. For all of Hawke’s problems with his irascible superior, the man could usually be counted on to do the right thing.

He turned around and looked at Hawke to find him thumbing through a magazine.

“Fine. Go to Moscow. Just as long as you understand that we are both due in Washington. One week from today we meet with the American president McCloskey and his staff. The United States is pressuring us to take immediate joint action before this computer cyborg, or whatever the hell it is, strikes again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“After all, Alex, I am sympathetic to your situation. The bastards are after your son, for God’s sake.”

“I appreciate your understanding, sir.”

“I’d be a right bastard myself if I didn’t understand a man’s desire to protect his own son from murderous thugs. That horrific incident in Hyde Park would be enough to push any man to the edge.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s settled, then. Now. These wizards at Cambridge. Have they made any progress regarding the hacker who cracked Dr. Cohen’s AI files?”

“No, sir, not beyond his name. Darius Saffari. Origins unknown. He seems to have erased his tracks. But Congreve spoke again to Dr. Partridge yesterday. They are still using the quantum supercomputer to try to find this man. His application to Stanford lists his home address as San Diego, California. According to local police, no one by that name ever lived there. Same thing with his MIT records in Boston. Phony address in Boston. Then he goes off the grid.”

“According to Partridge, whom I also spoke to at some length this morning, this Darius character could well be behind these hideous attacks in London, Israel, and the States. The most dangerous man in the world, that’s how he described him. But their multimillion-dollar quantum can’t seem to find him. I have little faith in computers, Alex, showing my age, I suppose. But I do have faith in you. And I want you to find this fellow, wherever the hell he is, and put an end to him. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“All right, go to Moscow. Do whatever’s necessary. Try not to get yourself killed before you save the world, will you?”

“Do my level best, sir.”

Trulove didn’t reply and Hawke knew he’d been dismissed.

“C
oncasseur?” Hawke said.

“At your service. How are you, Alex?”

“Delighted with your efforts to rattle a stick inside the Tsarists’ nest. Brilliant conception and execution, I must say.”

“And my compliments to the two chaps you sent here to Moscow. Jones and Brock. Quite a pair. Very inventive. A couple of right bastards and tough as stink, the both of them. I wish I had chaps like that here.”

“Despite all your best efforts, however, the Tsarists still don’t seem to be taking us very seriously, do they?”

“The attack on Putin with dirty bombs, you mean.”

“Yes. You got to me in the nick of time on that. Thanks.”

“I’m well paid. I think I can guess why you rang me up. Based on this latest attack, you want to send them an even stronger signal.”

“No. Actually, Ian, I want to obliterate them. Putin can’t do it; he’s politically hogtied, but we can.”

“Take them out completely, you mean?”

“Precisely what I mean. I’m headed your way as soon as I can make the arrangements. Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Ian?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Your timing might be good. Vasily, my paid informant inside the club, happened to mention the other day that the Tsarists’ annual dinner is coming up shortly. Lavish affair at the mansion. That means they’ll be descending on Moscow in droves, coming in from all over the world. Attendance of around three hundred if I had to hazard a guess.”

“The president of the thing, what’s-his-name—he attends, obviously?”

“Yes. Name is Kutov. Ex-KGB General Vladimir Kutov, the one who found the naked chap hanging from his flagpole. He hosts the meeting. Apparently everyone attending is obliged to stand up and raise a glass. Tell him what a big fucking deal he is. He likes that kind of thing.”

“Ian, if you had to identify a single individual in the Tsarist organization who is hell-bent on making my life hell these days, who would that person be?”

“Without any question, that would be Kutov himself. He was the late Tsar’s staunchest ally during the coup that put Putin in prison and Korsakov in power. He knows you killed his beloved Tsar. And he’s one of only two or three people in Moscow who know about your clandestine relationship with Putin. Drives him out of his bloody mind. That’s why you two remain at the top of his shit list. And it’s a very long list indeed.”

“And my son?”

“He knows it was Putin who saved your son and his mother from the execution Kutov himself had ordered at Lubyanka. To him, with all due respect, your son and his mother are simply unfinished business.”

“They’re going down, Ian. All of them. And you and I are going to make that happen.”

“I look forward to it with keen anticipation. The world will instantly be a better place. Let me know when you’re arriving and where. I’ll pick you up.”

“Putin’s well aware of what I’m doing and obviously supports it, given the dramatic events in Portofino. He’s sending one of his planes for me. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be landing at his small airfield near his private dacha outside St. Petersburg. You know where his dacha is?”

“Alex, please.”

“Sorry. I’ll tell him you’re driving me down so he won’t send a car. He told me we’d be doing some wild boar hunting using night-vision rifles. You up for that?”

“You’ve made my day. Seriously, I’ve been bored blind ever since Stokely Jones and Harry Brock left town. What a pair.”

“Done. See you soon. Cheers, Ian.”

H
awke’s plane touched down on Russian soil right on schedule. Three in the afternoon, St. Petersburg time. As the sleek jet neared the end of the runway, he could see Concasseur standing beside a black Audi, waiting for him. Hawke was looking forward to working with his old comrade in arms again. He was as good a man in a fight as you could ask for. He also spoke fluent Russian, which would be important in executing the plan Hawke had been sketching out in his mind on the flight from London.

The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.

Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.

“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.

“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”

Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least, and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.

“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”

“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”

“Always right. Sir.”

“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”

“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”

“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”

“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”

“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”

“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”

“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”

“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”