Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (14 page)

Eighteen

P
utin’s security insisted the two men dine inside the hotel’s Eden Roc restaurant rather than at a table overlooking the sea. Hawke noticed that the prime minister did not argue. He knew that the man felt safe only two places in the world: inside the Kremlin walls and on board
Red Star
. Countless men wanted him dead, a lot of them with good reason. For all his star power on the world’s stage and celebrity, he was virtually a prisoner.

Upon entering the Eden Roc restaurant and being shown their table, in the corner, overlooking the sea, Hawke immediately noticed that someone was already seated at their table. A large fellow in a navy blazer sat with his back to them, but the man was instantly recognizable to Alex Hawke.

Good God,
Hawke thought,
it’s
Stefan Halter
.

Putin being Putin, but there was nothing for it. He’d laid a small trap for his British guest. He’d be watching the two of them closely, looking for any sign of recognition. Stefan, an MI6 officer who’d been at Cambridge with Congreve, had been burrowed deep within the Kremlin, a mole for over three decades. He was far and away the most valuable asset Six had inside Russia.

Over the years, the two men had become good friends. Hawke steeled himself for the coming trial of that friendship as Halter rose to his feet and turned to greet them.

“Ah, Stefanovich, you’re early,” Putin said, beaming. He turned to Alex, introducing him. “You know Lord Hawke, no doubt.”

Putin smiled quizzically, foxlike, waiting to pounce.

Stefan looked at Alex, his eyes mercifully blank as he stuck out his hand. “Only by reputation, I’m afraid.”

“It’s his reputation that makes you afraid, isn’t it?” Putin said with unforced joviality, and both men smiled at the prime minister’s flash of wit.

Did we
pass that test?
Hawke wondered.

Drinks were ordered, and the luncheon seemed, to Hawke anyway, to go off without a glitch. He and Halter engaged in meaningless small talk, saving the serious stuff for their host.

The three tables surrounding the Russian leader had been reserved for nine bodyguards. And Hawke was certain there were Russian security officers scattered all over the beautiful gardens and lawns of the magnificent old hotel.

Hawke, for his part, was glad he was in a hotel so accustomed to celebrity guests that there was zero chance he’d be surprised by paparazzi. The last thing he needed was a big color photo of him dining with Vladimir Putin in Britain’s
Hello
magazine. They had just finished their Salade Niçoise when Dr. Henry Kissinger stopped at the table on his way out. He greeted the Russian leader warmly and graciously recognized Hawke when Putin introduced the two men.

Then the old American warrior bent and whispered something in Putin’s ear. Volodya nodded carefully, excused himself from the table, and walked with Kissinger past the maître d’ and into the sunshine. Hawke could see them through the window, walking arm in arm through the tall pines, deep in conversation.

“Stefan,” Hawke said, leaning toward Halter and in a voice low enough not to be overheard, “I shall never be able to repay you. I knew you took a chance, telling me the Kremlin rumors.”

“I haven’t heard a thing. You’re still alive, thank God.”

“They are alive,” Hawke said, his eyes glistening with gratitude.

Halter had a difficult time maintaining composure.

“Alive. So it was true.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me you managed to get them out.”

“Just my son.”

“Oh, Alex, how utterly marvelous.”

“You’ve no idea. His name is Alexei. Three years old.”

“And Anastasia?”

“Wouldn’t leave. Out of fear and—commitment. She married Kuragin out of gratitude. I was angry of course, at first. But in hindsight I can see the sense of it. I’ve forgiven her and—”

“She thought you were dead, Alex.”

“She did. And she felt great compassion for—here comes our host. To be continued.”

“W
ell, Alex,” Putin said, taking his seat and a sip of his vodka, “I’m fairly certain you didn’t request this meeting because you’ve finally decided to take me up on my offer. But don’t worry, there’s no deadline. I’m sure one fine day you’ll come to your senses.”

Hawke smiled at the two Russians. “I’m sure you two gentlemen know why I’m here, Volodya.”

“That fucking submarine. It’s why I invited Stefanovich to fly down from Moscow this morning and join us. He’s been looking into the damn mess for me personally.”

Hawke said, “What in the hell really happened? This was a blatant provocation that has put the world in an extremely delicate situation. As you well know, American military has gone to DEFCON 3 readiness for war. MI6 is not buying the ‘accident’ story, nor is CIA. Nor, frankly, am I. One torpedo, possibly, but two? For the life of me, unless this commander went rogue or simply insane, I am mystified.”

“As am I, Alex,” Putin said. “First of all, I will save you the embarrassment of asking a stupid question. No, the Kremlin had no foreknowledge of this action, nor did anyone in my government have the slightest hand in this tragedy.”

“Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

Halter added, “The
Nevskiy
’s captain, Lyachin, is currently in Moscow. KGB officers are interrogating him. As you know, they do not share the West’s delicate sensibilities when it comes to extracting information from enemies of the state.”

“So,” Hawke said, “what does this Lyachin have to say for himself? How can he possibly exculpate himself from responsibility?”

“He’s far more worried about how to exculpate himself from a firing squad, believe me.”

“His explanation, then?”

“It is so ludicrous as to defy belief. I hesitate to even tell you lest you think my top military commanders are all taking hallucinogens. But this is his story and he isn’t budging. By the way, he made sure the crew got their stories straight. Every single officer and crewman aboard that sub swears the captain is telling the truth.”

“And that is?”

“Explain it, Stefanovich. I can’t stand to hear myself repeat it one more time.”

“The
Nevskiy
was in the midst of a typical firing drill. The cruise ship happened to be chosen as a phony target of opportunity, simply because she was there. It was to be a dry fire exercise, period. And then, in the middle of the drill, the entire submarine, according to Lyachin, was taken over by some mysterious ‘force.’ That’s the exact word he used. ‘Force.’ All controls, including helm, diving planes, ballast controls, and, most unfortunately, her weapons systems, were wrested from the hands of the captain and crew.”

“Impossible.”

“I know.”

“By whom? Does he say?”

“Lyachin suspects it was SSN 75, the U.S. submarine
Texas
. She was shadowing him at the time.”

“Volodya, this, this ‘force’ or whatever it is, is pure science fiction. He’s a madman covering up for incompetence, trying to save his ass.”

“Are you sure about that, Alex? Are you sure America possesses no such technology?”

“If they did, I would know about it. And I don’t. Besides, Volodya, why the hell would an American sub driver manipulate a Russian sub into sinking an American cruise ship? Talk about stretching credibility.”

“Ach. Nothing makes sense. It’s a fucking nightmare. There will be a court-martial; he will be found guilty of murdering innocent people and shot. At least that will have some symbolic value for those governments abroad who doubt my own government’s innocence in this matter.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, electing to keep his thoughts about rights to a fair trial to himself. It was not the time for morality or human rights debates with ex-KGB heads of state.

“Alex, will you at least convey my own deep personal regrets and your belief that the Kremlin had absolutely no knowledge nor involvement in this massacre?”

“I will do, Volodya. Because I look into your eyes and I believe you. Something exceedingly strange happened aboard
Nevskiy;
we just don’t know what. Volodya, I ask something in return.”

“Anything, my old comrade.”

“Comrade is stretching it, but I’ll let it pass. Before you have him shot, I would like to have some time alone with this Captain Lyachin. I will need to travel to Moscow in secrecy and under your personal protection, of course.”

“I see no reason why this is not possible. What do you think you can get out of him that my men cannot?”

“Perhaps nothing. I want to hear more about the American submarine’s actions. At the bare minimum, I will be able to tell you if I believe Lyachin is telling the truth. If he is, I will immediately contact my old friend Brick Kelly, director of the CIA. I will inform him of my strong belief that Russia is completely innocent of malicious intent in the sinking. He will then call President McCloskey, easing tensions between Russia and America considerably.”

“Yes, I see your point. A good one, and I would be deeply in your debt. I will arrange it. But I want you to look me straight in the eyes right now and tell me that American submarines do not possess some advanced technology we are not aware of.”

“Volodya, I swear to you that, to my knowledge, they do not. If they did, I wouldn’t tell you. But they don’t.”

“That’s done, then. Let’s enjoy our sweets. I will arrange for my private aircraft to fly you to the Domodedovo field in Moscow in the morning. You will be accompanied at all times by discreet but heavy security. You will interview him privately at Lubyanka Prison. With a translator, of course.”

“Of course, an interpreter,” Hawke said, thinking, translation of “translator”: spy. “Speaking of security, at some point I want to address the death threats made against my son, Alexei. Two KGB officers boarded the train we took out of Siberia.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“How?”

“Their frozen bodies were found on the tracks. I had them flown to Moscow for autopsies. They were definitely not KGB, Alex. I’m the one who saved your son in Lubyanka, remember?”

“Who, then?”

“Now I will tell you a secret. There exists inside Russia an extremely powerful group called the Tsarist Society. A unique organization run, at the top, by some of the most powerful men in Russia. At the bottom, ex-KGB assassins, fired for various offenses, extreme alcoholism or wanton murder, for example. Also, former OMON death squad killers, and Mafiya bully boys. They are very clever and well organized. This is the organization that wants you and your son dead. You killed their Tsar. They want to extract maximum revenge.”

“Volodya, I must ask you, with all due respect, why do you allow this ‘society’ to exist? Are they not the ones who condemned you to life in Energetika? Who elevated a madman to Tsar of Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Then destroy them.”

“It is impossible. Going to war with these people would set my country back at least a decade. You must understand that their tentacles reach deep into every crevice of Russian society. The military, the banks, the universities, the judiciary, heavy industry, weapons, street crime. I could go against them with the military and probably win. But the price would be prohibitive. It could literally rip us apart at a time when we are just achieving a modicum of stability.”

“Let me assure you that if there is another attempt on my son’s life, I will go against them.”

“I would be happy to cheer you on from the sidelines.”

“Surely you’ve infiltrated them. If you hear anything, anything that might help me to—”

“Alex, you don’t have to ask that question. Trust me, if any pertinent intelligence comes to my attention, I will act on it immediately. Meanwhile, your son has a bodyguard present at all times?”

“Yes, a ‘nurse governess’ on loan from Scotland Yard. She’s already saved his life once, at a wedding in Florida. But thank you.”

“What are friends for? Tonight, I will show you true
Red Star
hospitality. I have arranged a lavish dinner aboard in your honor. Dr. Kissinger and his wife, Nancy, will be there as well as a few American and French movie stars staying here at the hotel. You are familiar with the American film star Scarlett Johansson?”

“Breathes there a man who isn’t?”

“I’ve seated you next to her. You might become even more familiar.”

“Really? Keep this up, Volodya, and I may have to start calling you ‘Comrade.’ ”

Hawke suddenly found himself looking forward to the evening with keen anticipation. The woman he loved, and had risked his life to save, had married someone for convenience. She had broken his heart, but she had given him a son. He had his whole life in front of him. And by God, he intended to live it.

“One thing, Alex; I wouldn’t bother telling the beauteous Miss Johansson about your new yacht.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Two reasons. One, as Kissinger once said of men like himself and me, ‘Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.’ And, two, as regards yachts, you may be certain I will have already convinced her that mine’s bigger.”

Nineteen

Palo Alto, California

P
rofessor Waldo Cohen was wholly unaware of the fierce mountain storm raging beyond the confines of his small mountain laboratory. Wind-driven rain spattered the windows of the little cedar-shingled cottage, just down the hill from his home. The wind shrieked in the branches of the towering redwood trees, standing silent sentinel all around his sanctum sanctorum.

The professor was oblivious to all but the object on the table before him.

He pulled at his snow-white beard and said, though he was quite alone, “Ah, almost finished, now,
mon petite mariposa
.” He bent forward over his worktable and adjusted the magnifying glass snorkel. Then he made a minute adjustment to the tiny machine he’d spent every single night of the last six months creating.

“There we are; perfect-o, I should think!”

When he was busy, which was always, his focus was unfailingly laserlike until a project was completed. Concentration was just one of his many qualities of mind. Even at seventy-five, nearing the end of a brilliant career as chief artificial intelligence research scientist at Stanford University, Dr. Cohen’s high-powered brain was as agile as ever. He’d brought a smile to many a graduate student’s face as he paused before a blackboard obliterated with scrawled algorithms and said, “Brains, don’t fail me now!”

During his tenure, Dr. Cohen had been lead research scientist on the 250-million-dollar DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) initiative begun in the year 2000. His wife, Stella, a world-class physicist in her own right, had been his assistant. And his team included a few postdoc scientists, all of them working night and day. Happy times. The team’s initial challenge had been to create the world’s first supercomputer capable of analyzing natural human language and answering complex questions on any subject imaginable. This was just a baby step. They were on a scientific quest to achieve the holy grail state known as “the Singularity.”

They were now on the verge of building a supercomputer that could match the human brain’s staggering ability to make
one hundred trillion calculations per second
.

That would be the tipping point. The Singularity would occur when machine intelligence actually matched the level of human intelligence. After that, as machine intelligence continued to expand at an exponential pace and humans lollygagged around in the status quo of biological smarts, a measly hundred trillion per, it was, in Cohen’s words, “Whoop-de-doo time.” It was “Katy, bar the door.” In the worst-case scenario, it was “Hold the phone, we forgot to put an off/on switch on Robbie the Robot here!”

Nicknamed “Perseus” by one of Cohen’s postdoc scientists, Dr. Cohen’s “Robot Overlord,” as the press had dubbed it, was so powerful that it could scour its roughly two hundred million pages of stored content—a million books’ worth—and find an answer to any question with confidence in less than three seconds. Perseus had actually appeared on national television quiz shows, and, much to Cohen’s delight, beat the bejeezus out of all the other brainy contestants. Sometimes, to Cohen’s further delight, Perseus even told off-color jokes that had audiences roaring.

When Cohen was presented with his Nobel Prize, it was said of him during his introduction that “scientists have spent lifetimes trying to advance the field of artificial intelligence by inches . . . what Dr. Cohen and his team at Stanford have done is advance the AI field by
miles
. For the first time in history, he has given a computer the quality of ‘humanness.’ And things will never be the same.”

The cover of
Time
magazine, which featured Dr. Waldo Cohen as the Person of the Year, had this quote from him under his portrait: “Things will never be the same.” The article compared his contributions to science to be on a par with Einstein’s.

The old-fashioned black telephone on his desk jangled.

“Jello?” he said into the phone, a joke he still found funny after fifty years.

“Happy anniversary, my dear friend,” he heard the familiar voice say.

Cohen said, “You didn’t forget, little pigeon.”

“I never forget anything, remember?”

“What number?”

“Number?”

“Anniversary.”

“Well, that’s too easy. The big Five-Oh.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m impressive. How are you, you old pterodactyl? Still fighting the good fight?”

“Go to YouTube. Put in ‘Perseus Cracks Up
Jeopardy!
Audience.’ You’ll see how I’m doing. And you?”

“Well, I’m making progress on my own humble little project. I miss your wizened visage looking over my shoulder. And Stanford’s DARPA budgets, to be honest.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Somewhere in deepest darkest Iran.”

“What are you working on now?”

“Secret. But I’ll give you a clue. Call me when you figure it out. You have a pencil?”

“Shoot.”

“v = 2*pi*f*r.”

“Too easy. *1/sprt(i-((v*v))/c*c)”

“Wrong.”

“Well, it was just a guess.”

“Ha! Call me! Give my love to Stella. Are you taking her out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate or staying home tonight?”

“She is turning home into a fancy restaurant.”

“Give her my love. I’ll be in touch.”

“Noli illigitimi carborundum.”

“It’s not the bastards who get me down, Waldo; it’s mullahs. Talk soon.”

Cohen laughed and replaced the receiver, quickly returning his focus to the object of his affection.

“W
ell, my little jewel, it’s time to wrap you up in pretty paper and take you home to Mother,” Cohen said, placing the machine into a gift box filled with cotton. It was a delicate little thing and there was a chance he might drop it, tripping over tree roots in the dark, or slipping in the mud on the climb up the mountainside pathway in the rain.

But he didn’t drop it and he didn’t slip and when his wife of fifty years, Stella, opened the front door, he handed her the beautifully wrapped box and said, “Hello, gorgeous! So what’s for supper?”

I
t was lamb. A delicious roast leg of lamb and a bottle of aged Silver Oak Napa Valley cabernet they’d been saving to go with it. They didn’t have such expensive wine every night but, then, this was a very special night. Waldo and Stella Cohen had been married at the Emek Beracha Synagogue in Palo Alto exactly fifty years ago to the day.

As he opened the precious bottle, he sang her a little song he’d just thought of. “Life is a cabernet, old chum, life is a cabernet!”

Stella smiled, her eyes alight with happiness. She looked lovely in the flickering candlelight, her pure white hair framing her heart-shaped face. She sipped the wine, put down her glass, and said, “Do I get to open my anniversary present now?”

Waldo stood up and raised his glass. “Yes, but first a toast to my beloved wife of half a century—”

“And more,” she interrupted.

“And many more, yes, my beloved wife with whom I have discovered a paradox. If I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love. Happy fiftieth anniversary, dearest Stella.”

“And to you, my darling man, all my love.”

He cleared his throat and said, “If I may quote my favorite poet on the subject of love, ‘Two such as you, with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor swept away from one another once you are agreed that life is only life forevermore together wing to wing and oar to oar.’ ”

“Robert Frost.”

“Yes.”

“May I quote my favorite poet in return?”

“Yes, please do.”

“Gravitation cannot be held responsible for two people falling in love.”

Waldo laughed out loud. “Albert Einstein?”

“Who else?”

“All right, now you can open your present.”

Stella pulled delicately at the white ribbon, not wishing to hurry the process. When she lifted the lid, she cried out, “Oh! Oh my goodness! Waldo, is this what you’ve been working on down there in your cabin all these eons?”

“Put a bit of time into it, yes, dear. Hope you like it.”

It was a jeweled butterfly.

Incredibly lifelike, although it had been crafted of pure gold. Even the wings, which were gossamer, a fine film of gold so thin you could see the candlelight through them.

“I’m afraid to touch it, it’s so delicate.”

“Don’t be. Just lift it by the folded wings and place it in your open palm.”

She did so, staring wide-eyed in wonder.

She had felt it
move
.

And then the wings unfolded and, at first, almost imperceptibly, began to flap ever so slowly. For Waldo, the look on his wife’s face made the hundreds of hours of work worth every second.

And then the butterfly rose from her hand and flew into the air.

Feynman, their old black Lab, roused himself from his favorite sleep spot by the fireside and watched the golden butterfly flitting about the shadows of the room. He was tempted to give chase, but instead he yawned deeply and rested his head on his paws and went back to sleep.

L
ater, when they were standing side by side at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, the telephone in the study rang. They had a rule about phones. One phone upstairs and one down in the house. And one out in the lab. That was plenty.

“Do you want me to get it?” Stella said. “Who would call us at this hour?”

“I’ll get it. If it’s a telemarketer, I’ll ask for his home phone number and say I’ll call back at midnight to hear what wonderful herbal goodies or erectile dysfunction cures he has to tell me about.”

He heard Stella laughing as he walked through the dining room and into the study.

“This is Dr. Cohen,” he said.

There was no response. “Hello? Who’s there?”

He was about to hang up when he heard a soft, melodic humming sound, reminiscent of Pachelbel’s Canon. It was so ethereal and lovely that he couldn’t put the receiver down. The otherworldly music must have been hypnotic because he couldn’t recall how long he stood there listening.

He put the phone down when Stella appeared in the doorway.

“Waldo, who is it? Who were you talking to?”

“No one, dear. It was the strangest thing. Just this very beautiful, angelic music. Heavenly music, really. Transcendent.”

“How odd.”

“It was, yes.”

“Well, husband, it’s getting late. I’m very sleepy. Are you going to walk Feynman? I think it’s stopped raining. He hasn’t been out all day.”

“Yes, I will walk Feynman. He hasn’t been out all day.”

“Waldo, are you all right. You don’t seem yourself. Is something the matter? Too much wine, perhaps?”

“No, dear. Everything’s fine. I’ll just get my coat and hat from the hall closet. You go on up to bed. I’ll be right back.”

“Well. All right. If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course I would. Don’t worry, dear, I’m fine.”

“Okay, sweetheart. When you come up, don’t forget the book on Capri. I want to read about the hotel where we’ll be staying before I drift off.”

A
trail snaked through the redwoods that led to an overlook where you could see the Pacific on a clear night. It wasn’t clear, but the storm had mostly moved off to sea and the gibbous moon was shining in the dark sky above the treetops.

Dr. Cohen walked with a slow, measured tread, much too slow for Feynman who was straining at the end of his leash. The haunting music was still playing in his head, growing louder, blotting out everything else. The professor reached into the deep pocket of his flannel overcoat and felt the cold steel of the revolver he’d taken from the highest shelf in the coat closet. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it.

Snakes, perhaps, or wolves.

The man and his dog emerged from the damp, fragrant woods into the pale blue light. The sea stretched away in the distance, afire with moonglow. Green, too, was everywhere, in all its varieties, the surrounding land stormy with muted blues, whites, and greys. It was as beautiful a sight as he’d ever seen. Even faithful Feynman appeared to comprehend its beauty, sitting on his haunches by his master’s side and staring peacefully out to sea.

Cohen stood for a few moments, very still, his eyes fixed on the horizon, listening to the music in his head, as soft and rhythmic now as the murmuring surf below.

As he started to reach into his pocket, his old dog looked up at him with his black gleaming eyes and licked his hand once before turning his attention back to the sea. The professor bent down and put his arm around his dog’s neck, giving him a hug.

Then he pulled the revolver out of his pocket, cocked the trigger, and shot Feynman through the top of his head.

“Good-bye, Feynman,” he said. “Good-bye, Stella.”

Then he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth and blew his brains out.

The music died with him.