Blackout ck-3 Page 6
Of course, it wasn’t necessary for Brown to understand the technology, any more than it was necessary for every automobile owner to understand the function of an internal combustion engine. In fact, Pradesh thought, it was probably better that he didn’t seem to want to know. That had made it so much easier for the Indian computer genius to accomplish his real objective.
Pradesh watched as the number of users on the network jumped from two to six…then to eight, then nine, and he waited for the tenth and final user to go active. The network relied on multiple inputs for operation. Moreover, the system was its most effective when those input nodes were linked randomly to existing conventional networks, so it was not enough to simply build several devices and turn them on. To make the quantum computer fulfill its purpose, Pradesh had designed the computer to utilize ten nodes, all connected to the worldwide communications network via their independent users. More would have been better, but given the prohibitive cost of producing the devices and the dictates of Brown’s original plan, ten would have to suffice.
The number on the screen did not change.
Pradesh watched it with growing impatience, and then turned his attention to the closed-circuit television screen where he saw the ten men were busily downloading new applications and exploring other features. No, Pradesh realized. Not all of them.
He isolated the one man in the group who was not holding one of the devices, and consulted the guest list. “Downey,” he muttered. “Why aren’t you playing with your new toy?”
On an impulse, he zoomed in on the man’s face and ran the image through a battery of tests. To his surprise, the facial recognition software-a variation of the same program used by casinos to identify card-counters and other troublemakers-indicated a less than seventy-percent probability that the man in the image was actually Bill Downey.
Frowning, Pradesh rolled back the footage to the moment where Downey walked onto the stage and tried a different program. This software ignored facial characteristics and focused instead on body mechanics, comparing the way the man moved to both the real Bill Downey and to an exhaustive database collected from security feeds in travel hubs around the world. If this man had taken a commercial flight anytime in the last five years, his distinctive gait and mannerisms would be in the database.
He immediately got a hit from a flight originating from New York less than twenty-four hours earlier. Not Downey though-the real Downey had been in Paris all week, and this man wasn’t a match anyway. Then another hit came up, and this time it was accompanied by an urgent message, flashing in red letters.
Pradesh stared in disbelief for a moment before following the instructions in that message. He took out his phone and made a call. “There is a complication,” he said as soon as the connection went through. “King is here.”
“King?” came the reply. “He’s still alive? Brown was a fool to think that piece could be so easily taken off the board. But this game between Brown and King has no bearing on our objective.”
“You don’t understand,” Pradesh persisted. “He is in disguise as one of the ten.”
There was a long silence. “So?”
“He isn’t activating his node. He appears to have no interest in it. He put the device in his pocket.”
“That is a complication,” admitted the man at the other end of the line. Another thoughtful pause. “But there is a simple solution. I’m sure Brown will be very interested to know that Jack Sigler has crashed his party.”
12
King straightened his fingers so that his hand was completely flat, a necessary precaution to avoid accidentally injecting himself with the poison.
For a fleeting second, he saw success sitting squarely in his crosshairs. Brown took a phone call on his headset, raising an index finger to say he’d just be a minute. With the call completed, he turned back to King, his lips turning up ever so slightly in a smile. King thought he saw the man’s shoulders shift…was he about to extend his hand, accept the handshake? A moment later, he understood the reason for the smile. Then he felt powerful hands close around his biceps and forearms. King instinctively struggled against the grip, but now saw a pair of Alpha Dog guards on each side of him.
Brown’s smile transformed into something hard and grim. “Don’t make a scene, Sigler. I spent a lot of good money on this little soiree, and I’d hate for you to ruin it.”
King’s heart started pounding in his chest. This wasn’t merely a minor reversal; his mission had just gone from textbook to FUBAR. Somehow, Brown had discovered him.
They must have found the real Downey, he thought. But no, even if that were the case, he’d left no clues pointing back to his real identity. How then?
Brown leaned close to one of the hirelings and whispered: “Take him below and put a bullet in his head. Nothing clever, just kill him. We can dispose of the body later.”
Before King could even think about offering further resistance, the mercenaries lifted him a few inches off the ground and began walking him off the stage.
In desperation, King shouted: “You’re forgetting something, Brainstorm.”
His captors’ stride remained unfaltering as they stepped down from the dais and angled toward a door at the rear of the saloon.
“You should hear what I’ve got to say,” he shouted over his shoulder, but Brown was already turning away. “You think we don’t know what you’re really up to? My team is standing by, ready to shut you down.”
If Brown heard him there was no reaction.
He chose his next words very carefully, shouting them even as he was hustled through the door. “What’s the probability that I’m bluffing?”
His words seemed to echo in the now awkwardly quiet room, but then the door closed behind him and there was no one to hear his protests except for the four dour guards. He considered trying to reason with them, but one look told him that would be fruitless. He knew their ilk well: former military, probably separated under dubious circumstances. In love with guns and killing, but not so good at discipline or observing rules of engagement. Shaved heads, muscle-bound and faces a little puffy from steroid use. He wondered if they would draw straws for the privilege of administering the killing shot.
As soon as the door closed, they set him down, but before he could even think about trying to twist out of their collecting grasp-a plan unlikely to succeed, but better to go down fighting-something hard crashed into the back of his skull. His last thoughts were of Sara and Fiona-sadness over never seeing them again, and relief that they were safe at home-then darkness claimed his mind.
13
The sound of voices drew King back to consciousness-one voice in particular. The return to consciousness was a pleasant surprise and almost made up for his splitting headache. If he was still alive, then maybe Brown had fallen for his last ditch ploy.
But all he had accomplished was to postpone the inevitable; he needed a plan.
“You are not hearing what I’m saying,” came one voice-a man, but high pitched, with a faintly sing-song accent that suggested the speaker might be from India or one of the surrounding countries. “All we need to do is turn it on and sync it to another phone. Any phone will do.”
“There is a sixty-two point three percent probability of success if the network is brought to active status in that configuration. The probability increases to eighty-eight point seven if the desired configuration is achieved.”
Although this second voice-flat, almost mechanical in its intonations-was not familiar to King, he immediately recognized it from what was said. This was what had brought him out of the darkness. The statements of probability, seemingly generated by a computer… This was the electronically generated voice of Brainstorm.
He remained motionless with his eyes closed, trying to hide the fact that he was now awake. He was seated and the ache in his arms told him that his hands were bound, his arms wrapped around the back of a chair. Something felt different about his face, and when he worked his jaw experimenta
lly, he realized that the disguise had been removed. Thank goodness for small favors, he thought. If I get out of this, I swear, no more Mission: Impossible shit.
“If we don’t bring the network on-line, then the probability of success is zero,” protested the first voice. “We shouldn’t wait.”
“Your concern is noted, Mr. Pradesh. However, the timeline does not indicate a necessity for precipitous action.”
“I think he’s waking up.” A third voice intruded into the conversation, this one low and rough, and King surmised that one of the mercenary guards had noticed him stirring. Still feigning disorientation, King raised his head and looked around.
He was in an office, richly appointed in a style similar to the casino, but without any personal touches that might have offered insights into the man who now held him captive. Graham Brown, still looking dapper in his tuxedo, sat behind a solid looking desk a few feet away, his fingertips steepled together as if in deep thought. The desktop was uncluttered, as though the office had never been used, but King noted two conspicuous objects: the quantum computer device he had been given earlier and his own cell phone, his lifeline to Endgame HQ.
Three other men occupied the office. Two were burly figures in formal wear-security personnel-one of them sitting casually on the edge of the desk, the other in a chair to King’s left. The third, sitting to King’s right, was a small, lean man with black curly hair and dark skin, dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. That would be Pradesh, King thought. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where he had heard it.
King brought his gaze back to Brown. “So much for just killing me,” he remarked.
Brown evinced no reaction whatsoever. His eyes did not flicker and he did not speak. A moment later, the flat electronic voice issued from a speakerphone on one corner of the desktop. “A cost-benefit analysis determined that you are of more value alive, Mr. Sigler.”
King laughed, sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. “I certainly think so.”
“Point one,” the voice continued, as if King’s quip had been an inquiry. “Your actions here are offensive in nature. There is only a thirty-four point two percent probability that you would undertake such action without support. You are, in all likelihood, only one member of a team, perhaps similarly disguised and currently moving freely about the interior of this vessel. It is a further likelihood that your death would bring about an immediate reprisal, whereas concern for your health and safety may presently be a factor in preventing an incursion.”
There was no little irony in the fact that he was alive only because Brainstorm had overestimated him. The truth was, it had been foolish to go in without back-up. God damned Mission: Impossible shit. “That’s a lot of words to say I’m more valuable as a hostage.”
“Point two: You employed a disguise to infiltrate this location. The probability that this action is sanctioned by French law enforcement authorities is twelve point one percent. In other words, Mr. Sigler, you are trespassing. Your death, while imminently justifiable, would lead to undesirable legal entanglements.”
King studied Brown as the voice droned on. The man was absolutely unflappable. “Amazing,” King interjected. “I can’t even see your lips move.”
In fact, Brown’s implacability was troubling. The entire mission had been conceived with the belief that Brown was Brainstorm; that the artificial intelligence was just a clever distraction-a ventriloquist’s dummy, as King had just intimated. Yet, Brown was sitting there, almost completely motionless, while Brainstorm carried on independently. How was that possible? Had Aleman and Deep Blue erred in their assessment of the true nature of Brainstorm?
“Point three: You are impersonating William Maxwell Downey, a guest of the Global Energy Future conference. I would like to know what happened to Mr. Downey.”
King didn’t answer. He recalled the earlier conversation between Brainstorm and Pradesh. All we need to do is turn it on and synch it to another phone, Pradesh had said. Any phone will do.
The quantum phone had been meant for Downey.
King recalled the rest: There is a sixty-two point three percent probability of success if the network is brought to active status in that configuration. The probability increases to eighty-eight point seven if the desired configuration is achieved.
Downey. The quantum phones. What was the connection? He let this point slide, curious to see what else Brainstorm would reveal.
“There are, however, compelling arguments for your immediate termination. Counterpoint one: While your successful interference with the project in Africa appeared to be a statistical outlier, it seemed prudent to arrange your termination. Your subsequent destruction of the Bluelight facility in Arizona, as well as your now apparent survival of Mr. Sokoloff’s assassination attempt, have shifted the mean probability assessment regarding the likelihood of future interference. Or to express this in terms that Mr. Brown might use, leaving you alive for any length of time is pushing my luck.”
Bluelight, a new energy technology…power plant managers… More pieces clicked together, but the big picture remained maddeningly obscure.
“Counterpoint two: The probability that you will voluntarily elect to reveal factual information about your present operation, the size, location and identity of your allies in this incursion, or Mr. Downey’s whereabouts, is effectively zero. Mr. Steeves, my head of security, is of the opinion that he can persuade you to talk by utilizing enhanced interrogation techniques-”
King spat out derisive laughter.
“-but time is a factor and it is probable that, even with such methods, you would seek to deceive or obfuscate.”
King expected the list to continue, but the electronically produced voice fell silent, prompting him to speak. “So you’ve decided to keep me around a little while longer, is that right?”
“The risk-benefit analysis indicates that to be the most efficient course of action. However, as I have indicated, the potential benefit is moderated by temporal considerations.”
“So, if I don’t tell you what you want to know soon, there’s no reason to keep me alive.” King kept his stare on Brown. “But if I tell you what you want to know, then there’s also no reason to keep me alive. What’s in it for me?”
“Your worth as a source of information is only one consideration, as indicated by the cost-benefit analysis. Cooperation on your part, while unlikely, would necessitate modification of the analysis and alter the recommended course of action.”
King very deliberately rolled his eyes. “Can we just skip the theatrics, Brown? You’re not fooling anyone.”
Brown cocked his head sideways. “Sigler, if I had my way, you’d be wearing fifty pounds of chain link at the bottom of the Seine.”
King chuckled, but the implications of the comment were troubling. Were we wrong about Brown and Brainstorm being one and the same? Then he recalled something Brainstorm had said about his being a statistical outlier: Leaving you alive for any length of time is pushing my luck.
Brainstorm, whether an artificial intelligence or Brown masquerading as one, dealt in probabilities. Brown had made his fortune by accurately calculating the odds and always placing a winning bet, but King had consistently defied probabilistic expectations. That had given him the winning edge in those previous encounters, and right now, it was his only advantage.
I have to do the unexpected, he thought. That’s the only way I’m getting out of this.
“I’ll tell you what, Brown. It just so happens that I’ve got some questions of my own that I’d like answered.”
“And why on earth would I tell you anything? You’re not exactly in a position to negotiate.”
King smiled. “Who said anything about negotiating? You’re a gambler, right? I’ll play you for it. Loser answers the winner’s questions, truthfully and honestly.”
“This is ridiculous,” Pradesh said. “We’re wasting time here. We should synch the quantum device and activate the network.”
During the course of Aleman’s investigations into Brainstorm, King had reviewed numerous intelligence reports from the CIA’s cyber-warfare division, and Bandar Pradesh had been on a short list of hackers with the skill and resources to facilitate Brainstorm’s activities. Born in Kashmir India, but raised in London, he was more than just a computer geek. Utilizing the hacker alias “Shiva,” Pradesh had become a sort of cyber mercenary, hiring his services out to anyone who could meet his price, a client list that featured multinational corporations and governments, including the United States. Pradesh was thought to be one of the leading programmers involved in the creation of the Stuxnet virus, which had temporarily crippled Iran’s efforts at uranium enrichment.
Stuxnet, King recalled, had targeted computer systems governing the operation of power plants.
Energy again.
Brown ignored the hacker’s outburst and continued to regard King from across the desktop. Brainstorm, curiously, remained quiet. Finally, the gambler shifted forward. “I’m supposed to believe that you would be truthful?”
“I could say the same,” King returned. “But, for whatever it’s worth, you would have my word. Scout’s honor.”
“I’ve read about you, Sigler, and I know you were never a Boy Scout.”