The Prometheus Deception (72 page)

Move it,
he told himself. At any moment another waiter could enter the hall and see his face, not recognize him. He knew the security control room was nearby, but where?

He turned into another hall, the door sliding automatically, initiated by electric eye. No: this led directly to the formal dining room, which tonight was unused. He turned around, heading back in the direction of the kitchen, then retraced the path the waiter had taken when first approaching the kitchen. Another set of electronically operated doors slid open to a corridor that he could see led to the main reception hall, but another hall intersected long before then, branching off to the right. Perhaps. He took the right, walked about fifty yards, saw a door marked:

S
ECURITY
A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY!

He stopped before it, took a deep breath to calm himself, then knocked on the door.

No answer. He noticed a small inset button on the doorjamb, which he pushed once.

In ten seconds, just when he was about to push the button again, a voice came over a speaker mounted on the wall outside the room. “Yes?”

“Hi, it's catering—I've got your dinner,” Bryson said in a singsong voice.

A pause. “We didn't order anything,” the voice said suspiciously.

“Okay, fine, you don't want any, no problem. Mr. Manning said to make sure his security people got fed tonight, but I'll just tell him you didn't want any.”

The door flew open. The man who stood there in the blue blazer was stocky, his hair dyed brown with an unfortunate orange tint. The name badge on his lapel said
Ramsey
. “I'll take that,” the man said, reaching for the tray.

“Sorry, I'm going to need the tray back—it's a big crowd out there! I'll set it up for you.” Bryson stepped forward into the security room; Ramsey relaxed somewhat and let him through.

Bryson looked around, saw that there was just one other guard there monitoring. The room was round, high-tech to the point of being futuristic, its walls smooth and unbroken by individual monitor screens, yet dozens of individual panels showed different views in and around the property.

“We've got smoked duck breast, caviar,
gougère,
smoked salmon, tenderloin … Do you have a surface where I can set this up for you? This room seems awfully crowded.”

“Put it anywhere,” the man named Ramsey said, turning his attention back to the images on the wall. Bryson set down the tray gingerly on a bare area of console, then reached over to his left ankle as if to scratch. He quickly pulled out the tranquilizer gun and fired off two quick shots. Two sharp coughing sounds, and each of the security guards was struck, one in the throat, one in the chest. Both would be out for hours.

Now he rushed to the computer keyboards that controlled the images. Pictures could be enlarged, moved around, brought to the center. He located the set of images that represented the views of the main reception hall.

The reception hall, where a banquet was taking place. A meeting of the Prometheus Group on the eve of its takeover.

But a takeover of what?

And by whom?

He tapped at the keyboard, quickly figuring out how to manipulate the images. By moving a computer mouse, he realized, he was able to move a security camera, basically pan it from side to side, up or down, even move in for a close-up.

The reception hall was immense, several stories high, ringed with several balconies overlooking the atrium. Around dozens of elaborately set tables, covered in white tablecloths, with flowers, crystal, bottles of wine, were dozens of people—no, over a hundred people. Faces, familiar faces.

At one end of the room was a great, dazzling, gilded-bronze sculpture, twice life-size, of Joan of Arc astride her horse, sword drawn and pointing straight up, leading her countrymen into the battle of Orléans. Strange but somehow fitting for the crusader who was Gregson Manning.

And at the other end of the room, standing at a sleek, minimalistic podium, was Gregson Manning himself, wearing an elegant black suit, hair brushed back. He clutched the sides of the podium, his fervor evident even without any sound. Most remarkable was the wall behind him, which was lined with twenty-four giant video screens, each broadcasting a live image of Manning speaking. It was the sort of egomaniacal display one expected of a Hitler, a Mussolini.

Bryson moved the mouse to zoom in on the audience, the seated guests, and what he saw stunned him, paralyzed him.

He did not recognize all the faces by far, but many of those whom he did recognize would be known anywhere in the world.

There was the head of the FBI.

The Speaker of the House.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Several leading United States senators.

The secretary general of the United Nations, a soft-spoken Ghanaian admired for his civility and statesmanship.

The head of Britain's MI-6.

The head of the International Monetary Fund.

The democratically elected head of Nigeria. The chiefs of the militaries and security services in another half-dozen third-world nations, from Argentina to Turkey.

Bryson stared, jaw agape, gasping.

The CEOs of quite a few multinational technology corporations, some of whom he recognized quickly, some vaguely familiar. All of them, dressed in black tie, the women in formal evening gowns, were listening to Manning with riveted attention.

Jacques Arnaud.

Anatoly Prishnikov.

And … Richard Lanchester.

“My God…!” Bryson breathed.

He found the volume knob and dialed it up.

Manning's voice came over the speakers, velvety smooth.

“… a revolution in global surveillance. I'm also pleased to announce that Systematix facial-recognition software will also be ready for use in all public places. With the CCTV capabilities already in place, we will now have the ability to scan crowds and match faces against a stored,
international
database. And this is only possible because of the cooperation of all of us, representatives of forty-seven nations and growing daily—all of us
working together
.”

Manning raised his hands as if delivering a benediction to the crowd.

“What about vehicles?” The accent was African; the speaker a dark-skinned man in a dashiki.

“Thank you, Mr. Obutu,” Manning replied. “Our neural network technology allows us to not only recognize vehicles instantly but track them around the cities, around countries. And we can record and store that information for future use. You see, I like to think that we are not only widening the net, we're narrowing the
mesh
.”

Another question, which Bryson couldn't make out.

Manning smiled. “I know my good friend Rupert Smith-Davies of MI-6 will heartily agree with me when I say that it's long past time that both the NSA and GCHQ must struggle with legal handcuffs. How ridiculous that, until now, the British could monitor the Americans but not themselves, and vice versa! Were Harry Dunne, our CIA coordinator, well enough to be here, I know he would stand up and tell us all a tale or two in his inimitably profane way.”

There was general laughter.

Another question: a woman, her accent Russian. “When will the International Security Agency's powers become effective?”

Manning glanced at his watch. “The same moment that the treaty takes effect—which is in approximately thirteen hours. The esteemed Richard Lanchester will be its director—global security czar, you might say. Then, my friends, we will all bear witness to a true New World Order, one in which we can take pride in having created. No longer will the citizens of the world be hostage to drug cartels and drug smugglers, terrorists and violent criminals. No longer will public safety be forced to take a backseat to the
privacy ‘rights'
of child pornographers, pedophiles, and kidnappers.”

A deafening round of applause.

“No longer will we all live in fear of another Oklahoma City bombing, another World Trade Center, another downed airliner. No longer will the U.S. government have to
beg
courts for
permission
to place wiretaps on the phones of kidnappers and terrorists and drug lords. To those who will complain—and there will always be complainers—that their individual liberties are being abridged, we will simply tell them this: those who do not break the law will have nothing to fear!”

Bryson did not hear the door to the control room open until he heard the familiar voice.

“Nicky.”

He whirled around. “Ted! What the hell are you doing here?”

“The same question might be asked of you, Nicky. It's always what you don't see that gets you, hmm?”

Bryson took in Waller's attire, his tuxedo and black tie.

Ted Waller was a guest.

THIRTY-THREE

“You're—you're one of them!” Bryson whispered.

“Oh, Nicky, good Lord—what's all this talk of
sides?
This isn't some schoolyard game—shirts and skins, Jets and Sharks!”

“You
bastard!
”

“What did I tell you about the need for a continual reappraisal and reassessment of strategic alliances? Adversaries? Allies? Such terms are, finally, meaningless. If I've taught you nothing else, at least I've taught you that.”

“What are you
doing?
This was your battle, you enlisted all of us, for
years
…”

“The Directorate has been destroyed. You know that—you saw it happen.”

“Has this been some sort of deception all along?” Bryson said, raising his voice to a shout.

“Nicky, Nicky. Prometheus is now our best chance, really—”

“Our best
chance?
”

“And besides, are our goals really all that different? The Directorate was a dream—a fond dream, which we actually had the good fortune to realize for a few years, against all odds. Ensuring global stability, protecting it from the crazies, the terrorists, the madmen. As I always say, the prey survives only by becoming the predator.”

“This—this is no last-minute conversion,” Bryson said, his voice hushed. “You've been behind this for years.”

“I've been a supporter of the possibility.”

“A supporter … wait. Wait a second! Those assets I once found missing from that offshore bank … a billion dollars—but you were never interested in amassing personal wealth. It
was
you! You helped
create
Prometheus, didn't you?”

“Seed money, I believe they call it. Sixteen years ago Greg Manning was a bit overextended, and the Prometheus project needed an immediate infusion of cash. You might say I became a principal stakeholder.”

Bryson felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. “But it makes no sense—if Prometheus were the enemy…”

“Survival of the fittest, my dear. Have you never entered two competitors in the same race? It's backup contingency planning—redundancy that assures victory. Communism had fallen, and the Directorate had lost its sense of purpose. I looked around and examined the options, and I knew that conventional spycraft was doomed. Either we were the way of the future or Prometheus was. One horse had to win.”

“And so you went with whichever horse won, morality be damned. It made no difference to you what the different objectives were, did it?”

“Manning was one of the most brilliant men I ever met. It occurred to me that his idea was worth incubating, worth nurturing as a contingency.”

“You
hedged
your goddamned
bets!
”

“Think of it as political arbitrage. It was the only prudent course. I've always told you, Nick, spycraft isn't a team sport. And I know you have the talent ultimately to recognize the good sense in my reasoning.”

“Where's Elena?” Bryson shot back.

“She's a smart woman, Nick, but she didn't plan on being discovered, apparently.”

“Where
is
she?”

“Manning's people have her here somewhere in the residence; I'm assured she's being treated with the respect you and I both know she deserves. Nick, do I really have to ask you outright? Is it that important to you that I put the question so bluntly? Will you join us—can you recognize the way of the future?”

Bryson raised his pistol, pointing it at Waller, his heart racing.
Why did you make me do this?
he pleaded inwardly.
Why, damn it?

Waller saw the gun but did not flinch. “Ah, I see. I have my answer. I didn't think so. Alas.”

The door flew open again, and a small army of Manning's security guards entered, guns pointed, outnumbering him some twelve to one. Bryson spun, saw others pouring in through another, concealed door in the round wall, and as his back was turned, he was grabbed from behind. He felt the cold steel of the muzzle against the back of his head, another gun to his right temple. He turned back, much more slowly this time, and Ted Waller was gone.

“Hands in the air,” a voice commanded. “And don't even think about making any sudden movements. Don't try to grab the gun out of anyone's hands. You're a smart guy—you know about smart guns.”

Electronic pistols, Bryson realized. Developed by Colt, by Sandia, by several European weapons firms … Capable of firing three shots with a single pull of the trigger.

“Hands up! Move it!”

Bryson nodded, thrust his hands in the air. There was nothing more to do, probably no hope of saving Elena either. The technology had been developed at the request of law enforcement, to keep police officers from being killed with their own firearms, when the gun is grabbed from them in a confrontation. There were fingerprint sensors on the trigger, each gun personally programmed so that only the authorized user could fire it.