Soulminder (38 page)

Down deep, he knew it would. Because it wouldn’t stop with just helping the helpless. It would continue, carrot and stick together, gradually becoming more powerful and more demanding.

And more corrupt. Because organizations, just like the individuals they were composed of, were equally susceptible to Lord Acton’s dictum.

Soulminder is an archangel, Doctor, so far as earthly creations go. I’m very much afraid that it’ll be beyond your ability to keep it from becoming a demon.

Blanchard was right. His weakness had been discovered, and people who were far more used to wielding power than he was would use every trick in their arsenals to turn him down that path.

Someday I pray that you, too, will long for death and yet be unable to grasp it
. The young Baghdad man had spat that curse at him.

The true irony was that, once upon a time, Sommer had indeed wanted death. Back when Soulminder had first become workable he’d been ready to let go of life. But Sands had talked him into living, warning that without him Soulminder could become a monster.

In many ways, it already had. What new horrors would await it, he wondered distantly, with a power-hungry Adrian Sommer in command?

It was in that moment, with the Washington skyline stretched out before him, that he knew what he had to do.

He sat silently at his desk for the next three hours, thinking and planning, staring out the window as the sky slowly darkened and the skyline slowly lit up.

Finally, the plan was complete.

According to the work schedule on the corporate calendar, the next software upgrade for the Soulminder system would take place in six weeks. It would be tight, but he could do it.

He had created Soulminder. He and Sands together, but it was Sommer who had truly given their creation its life.

It was only right that he be the one to kill it.

As usual, the programming people were a bit on the optimistic side. The scheduled upgrade actually took seven and a half more weeks to prepare instead of the promised six.

But that was all right. Better than all right, actually, since it took Sommer himself nearly seven weeks to write his own batch of code. It probably should have only taken three, he knew—the modifications to the trap software were really fairly simple. But it had been years since he’d done anything like this and he was seriously rusty.

Still, between his rust and the programmers’ tardiness it all worked out. When the new software was introduced into the system, Sommer quietly slipped in his code as well.

He watched the post-upgrade checks and confirmations carefully, trying not to look
too
interested. As far as he could tell no one noticed the additional content. Certainly none of the routine checks spotted it.

Eventually, he knew, they would go in and try to figure out what he’d done. But with over five billion lines of code already in the system, and with the backup copies corrupted just enough to make them useless for comparison, it could be months or years before they figured it out.

He’d done it. Now, all he had to do was sit back and wait.

He waited. And waited.

Nothing happened.

He waited through three weeks of nothing happening before he was reluctantly forced to conclude that nothing
was
going to happen. The code was good—he’d checked it numerous times—but it simply wasn’t working.

And if the code was correct, then the only other explanation was the human factor.

He thought about it for another two weeks. Assistant Secretary of State Marlin and a couple of his colleagues came by twice during that time, but with Sommer’s thoughts already occupied elsewhere, their subtle and not-so-subtle advances were easily brushed off.

It was the day before Everly finally tracked down Adam Jacobi that Sommer realized what he had to do.

It was the day that Everly assembled a task force to go after the hit man that he knew how it had to be done.

Jacobi was poring over the plans for the high-rise penthouse apartment that was his next target when the door of his hotel room gave a faint snick.

He had his Colt Defender in hand by the time the door swung open. But he didn’t quite have it lined up.

The helmeted and riot-vested man framed in the doorway, unfortunately, did.

“Don’t,” the other said calmly, his voice sounding tinny through the helmet. He took a step forward, and a half dozen other men slipped rapidly into the room behind him, fanning systematically out on both sides. “We’d like you alive, but we’re not fanatics about it.”

“I’d like me alive, too,” Jacobi said, keeping the Colt’s muzzle turned away from the crowd as he laid it gently on the desk. It was more important than ever these days that he didn’t startle or anger men with guns. With Soulminder providing a certain mulligan effect in armed confrontations, people were less cautious about impulsive gunfire than they used to be.

And that could be a definite problem, given that Jacobi wasn’t in the Soulminder system. He’d decided long ago that he was never going to get trapped like that, and had never seen a reason to change that way of thinking. “And I’m definitely more fanatical about it than you are.” He nodded toward the bed. “Wallet’s on the nightstand. Help yourselves.”

“Thanks, but we’re not after your money,” the leader said, holstering his sidearm and making a wide circle around the room, staying clear of the lines of fire as he came up behind Jacobi. “Actually, Mr. Jacobi, to be honest, we’re not all that interested in you, either.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Jacobi said. So they even knew his proper name. That was a bad sign.

Still, he wasn’t yet ready to concede the point. He’d bluffed his way out of worse situations, and he had a fistful of documents to back up his current identity. “I’m less pleased to hear that you’ve clearly barged into the wrong room. My name is Thomas Carlyle, I’m an architect from New Haven—”

“Your name is Adam Jacobi,” a new and very familiar voice interrupted from the doorway, “and you’re the man who shot Marvin Chernov.”

A tingle ran up Jacobi’s back as he looked at the man who had just stepped into view. It was Dr. Adrian Sommer.
The
Dr. Adrian Sommer. The creator, founder, and head of Soulminder.

Which meant the rest of the party were Soulminder security, and the man now cuffing his hands behind his back was probably Security Chief Frank Everly.

And with that, he knew that continuing the bluff would be a waste of time. He’d read about some of Everly’s exploits, and if he was here it meant there was not a single grain of doubt that Jacobi could exploit. They had him, and they had him good.

Apparently, that little play with Chernov had
really
pissed someone off.

“All right,” he said, wincing a bit as Everly snugged the cuffs just a shade too tight. “If you don’t want me, what
do
you want?”

“Chernov’s walking around in a body that isn’t his,” Sommer said, crossing the room toward him. “We want it back.”

“I’m sure you do,” Jacobi said. “Sadly, I can’t help you.”

“Because Chernov paid you sixty million dollars?”

So that’s how they’d nailed him. The bank account, or Chernov’s setup, or Jacobi’s subsequent withdrawal and transfer. He would have sworn the account was secure, but apparently he’d been wrong. “Not at all,” he said. “I can’t help you because I have no idea where he is.”

“I assume you’re the one who supplied him with his walking papers,” Everly said from behind him. “That means you know the name or names he’s running under.”

“That was three months ago,” Jacobi pointed out. “Chernov’s had more than enough time to get new cards and IDs made up.”

“
If
he’s smart enough, and can find someone he trusts enough to do the job,” Everly said. “But that’s all right. Let’s start with the names you gave him.”

“We could do that,” Jacobi agreed. “What’s in it for me?”

“A word to the D.A.,” Everly said. “The satisfaction of helping bring a criminal back to justice.”

“Sounds pretty vague,” Jacobi said doubtfully. “I like a little more meat in my deals.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” Sommer said. “Frank, could I have a moment, please?”

Out of the corner of his eye Jacobi saw Everly twitch. A genuine reaction, he noted with interest, born of genuine surprise. Whatever Sommer was angling for, he hadn’t clued in his security chief.

“Not a good idea, Doctor,” Everly warned. “This man is very dangerous.”

“And he’s securely cuffed,” Sommer pointed out. “Besides, you’ll be right outside. If he wanted to go out in a blaze of gunfire, he would have opened fire when you first charged in.”

“Doctor—”

“Besides, I’m on Soulminder,” Sommer added. “He can’t hurt me. Not permanently.”

The helmet looming above Jacobi turned, the invisible eyes behind the curved faceplate regarding Jacobi for a few seconds. Then, with a brief, muffled word he stepped away and headed back toward the door. His men were already filing out, in reverse order to how they’d come in. Precise and very military, Jacobi noted with approval. Everly was the last one out, lingering in the doorway a final couple of seconds before reluctantly closing the door behind him.

Leaving Jacobi and Sommer alone.

“I’m all ears, Doc,” Jacobi invited. “Let’s hear this mysterious offer you don’t want any witnesses to.”

“It’s very simple,” Sommer said grimly, walking toward him. He stopped a pace away, dug into his pocket and pulled out—

Jacobi felt his breath freeze in his lungs. It was a handcuff key.

“I’m offering you your freedom,” Sommer said, “in exchange for you doing a job for me.”

“A job,” Jacobi said flatly.

“A job,” Sommer confirmed, turning the key slowly between his fingers. “I want you to shoot someone.”

It was a trick, of course. It had to be. Sommer was trying to get him to admit to being an assassin.

But why? They surely already had enough to charge him, or else they wouldn’t be here. Besides, even if their case was soft, a quick look at the work and documents spread out on the desk would give them all they needed.

Sommer had also sent all the witnesses out of the room. Why would he do that if he wanted to wheedle a confession? “Who?” he asked.

Sommer’s throat worked. “Me.”

Jacobi felt his eyes narrow. “You,” he said flatly.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Sommer asked, a note of dry humor in his voice. “Chernov did the same thing, after all.”

“Chernov was looking at spending the rest of his life in prison,” Jacobi pointed out. “Have you been a bad boy, too?”

“The reasons aren’t your concern,” Sommer said. “All I need from you is a yes or a no.”

“If I say yes,” Jacobi said, studying Sommer’s face for some hint of the trap that he still assumed was lurking in the shadows, “what then?”

“I drop the key behind your hands,” Sommer said. “Something you obviously had hidden behind your belt or wherever. You free yourself, go out the window, and make your preparations. Three days from now, on Friday afternoon—”

“Those windows are four floors up,” Jacobi interrupted. “You expecting me to sprout wings?”

“The hotel is thirty stories tall,” Sommer countered. “You had a choice of several rooms much higher up. You chose this one, which tells me you have an emergency escape plan already set up.”

Jacobi smiled tightly. The guy was sharp, all right. “What happens Friday afternoon?”

“I’m scheduled to give testimony at the same courthouse where you shot Chernov,” Sommer said. “I’ll be arriving shortly before two o’clock. You’re to shoot me on my way in.” He tapped the center of his chest. “In the heart, please, not the head.”

Jacobi’s narrowed eyes narrowed a bit more. “On the way in,” he repeated. “So it’s the testimony itself you’re avoiding?”

“I thought we’d established that my reasons weren’t your concern.”

“My mistake,” Jacobi said. “My usual fee for such things—”

“Is already covered.” Sommer wiggled the key again. “Do we have a deal?”

Jacobi pursed his lips. “Would you mind going into the bathroom and getting me a glass of water?”

For a long moment Sommer eyed him. Then, with forced casualness he walked around behind Jacobi, dropping the key between Jacobi’s shackled arms as he passed. Jacobi was ready, catching the key in his cupped hand. Sommer continued on, crossing the room and disappearing into the bathroom.

The faint sound of running water was still coming through the open door as Jacobi cleared the cuffs and headed for the window on the far left.

The hotel’s windows weren’t designed to open. Jacobi had fixed that oversight the first half hour he was in the room. A quick slap at the hook holding the collapsible escape pole he’d fastened to the outside wall beneath the window flipped it from horizontal to vertical, the nested cylinders silently telescoping their way downward to the alley far below.

The assault squad had left a single guard to watch the rear of the building. Sloppy, but then, Everly had clearly assumed—rightfully so, as it turned out—that they would successfully catch Jacobi in his room.

He left the guard unconscious but alive. There was no point in killing him—it would create unwanted noise, and there was no money in it. Besides, killing Soulminder employees was hardly permanent, given that all of them were on the system.

As was Sommer himself, naturally, which made the doctor’s proposed testimony-stalling technique utterly pointless. Whoever he was supposed to talk to would simply postpone the conversation until Sommer’s body could be repaired and his soul pumped back in. Even headshots like the one Jacobi had dispatched Chernov with were often repairable these days, and Sommer had specified a heart shot.

Which meant the man fully expected to spend a few weeks in a Soulminder trap while his chest was put back together and then be revived. Neat and clean, and whoever wanted to talk to him would still be there waiting.

So what exactly was he up to?

Jacobi didn’t know. But really, he didn’t care. Sommer’s plots and schemes were his own business. Jacobi’s business was to put a small piece of metal where the good doctor had requested it.