“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
Professor 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.
