Ted Bell - Phantom

“Not really,” Ambrose said, covering another incipient sneeze.

“Well. How to put it? It’s very easy to scramble eggs, isn’t it? But nearly impossible to unscramble them.”

“Ah,” Congreve said, nodding vigorously, as if all manner of lights had suddenly popped on in his brain.

“In Dr. Cohen’s cryptography, two large prime numbers were multiplied to create a security key. Unlocking that key would be the equivalent of unscrambling an egg.”

“We’re back to square one, then?” Ambrose asked.

“No, no. I’m saying my colleagues and I here at Magdalene couldn’t crack it. So we had to take it to a higher power. I’m speaking of the new quantum supercomputer at the U.K. Machine Intelligence Research Center in Leeds. It’s the most powerful thing we’ve got at the moment. Classical computers use bits, while quantum computers use qubits, pronounced ‘Q-bits.’ Hold vastly more information than bits. Very difficult rascals to create, mind, very delicate to maintain, but we’re getting there. Can’t give you a precise number. National security.”

“But the quantum computer was able to unscramble Dr. Cohen’s eggs?” Hawke asked with a smile, earning a stern look from Congreve, who seemed to be taking all this mumbo jumbo frightfully seriously.

“Yes, we were successful.”

“And?”

“I can tell you that Cohen was quite right in his desire for secrecy. He had entered vast, uncharted realms in the world of AI. He had, on paper at any rate, come dangerously close to creating a machine capable of achieving the Singularity. And well beyond in other classified areas, to be perfectly honest.”

“Dangerously close?” Congreve said.

“Yes. He stopped short, well shy of the algorithmic finish line. And I’d be less than honest if I said anyone but Cohen was capable of reaching that line.”

Hawke thought a moment and said, “Dr. Partridge, you used the word dangerously. Do you believe Dr. Cohen’s work was, in some way or other, dangerous?”

“I certainly do. No one on earth has any idea what will happen when we actually achieve the Singularity. Superintelligent machines, like the men who create them, will be capable of good. Or evil. But in ways we can’t even begin to imagine. Or control.”

“Runaway technology?” Congreve said.

“Exactly so. Technology that, in the wrong hands, could have a catastrophic effect on the entire world. My greatest fear is a bioengineered disease created by machines that mankind is incapable of stopping. That’s why Project Perseus was shut down. And why Cohen never revealed his progress to a soul-not willingly at least.”

“Meaning what?” Congreve said.

“Meaning the chaps up at Leeds discovered that Dr. Cohen’s computer had been hacked before you got your hands on it. Hacked and gnawed on like a bone.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Yes. The quantum computer made short work of backtracking and identifying the hacker, you can be sure.”

“Wrong hands or right hands, Professor?” Hawke asked.

“I have no idea,” he said, handing the large manila file that was on his desk to Congreve. “Cohen’s work is now in the hands of the man whose work at Stanford resides inside this folder provided by Cohen’s widow.”

“Darius,” Hawke said.

“Indeed. Darius Saffari. We had quantum run his name. Last known address was Boston when he was a student at MIT. After that he disappears. Nothing out there, I’m afraid.”

“And before Stanford?” Congreve asked.

“Nothing at all. No birth record, prior education, driver’s license, social security, medical records. Odd, isn’t it?”

“It’s not his real name. He entered the United States and enrolled at Stanford using false identification papers,” Congreve said.

“I would advise you gentlemen to find this Saffari as quickly as humanly possible. Because if he has taken Cohen’s work and proceeded toward the Singularity with any success, then he is already without a doubt the most dangerous man on the planet.”

Hawke and Congreve sat back and regarded Partridge, letting his words of warning sink in.

“And why is that?” Hawke finally asked.

“Because he entered America illegally to steal Cohen’s secrets. Because he succeeded. Because he’s erased all traces of his existence. That makes him foe, not friend. A foe who will, or perhaps already does, wield a power that could alter life on this planet. And, believe me, it will not be for the better.”

“A question, if I may?” Ambrose said.

“Certainly.”

“Have you lost a good many AI colleagues in the last year or so?”

“Why, yes, I suppose I have, now that you mention it. Montebello, for instance, was an old and dear friend.”

“An unusually high number, then?”

“Yes, perhaps, I’m not sure, really. The top guys are all getting on, you know. We’re all too old to be boy wonders, believe me. But there have been a number of younger scientists, even students who-Why do you ask?”

“It’s part of an ongoing murder investigation I’m heading up for the Yard. Perhaps you can be of help. Poke about a bit in the AI community, see if you come up with anything that resembles a pattern. If you do, here’s my card.”

“Should I be afraid for my own life, Chief Inspector?”

“I would urge you to be extremely cautious. Keep your eyes open at all times. Do not accept any telephone calls from persons unknown to you. If something sounds even remotely odd, ring off immediately.”

“How extraordinary! I received a crank call just this morning. My secretary took it. Some kind of eerie music, she said.”

Hawke and Congreve looked at each other with knowing glances.

“Professor, you should instruct your secretary to hang up immediately should she receive a call like that in the future. And you should do the same, here at your office or at home. Someone, or something, is using the telephone as a hypnotic murder weapon. Targeting scientists in the field of artificial intelligence. This is the investigation I mentioned earlier.”

“Good Lord.”

“Professor Partridge,” Hawke said, getting to his feet. “You’ve been enormously helpful. On behalf of the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, and Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Congreve and I express our deep appreciation for your service to your country. We thank you for your time.”

Partridge regarded him thoughtfully.

“Time? What is time, really? The Swiss manufacture it. The French hoard it. Italians want it. Americans say it’s money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook.”

“Could not agree more,” Congreve said heartily. “Brilliantly put, Professor.”

As they closed the door behind them, Hawke whispered, “Could you possibly have been any more obsequious back there?”

“What? Me?”

“No. The other chap in the rather hectic lemon-yellow tweed shooting jacket.”

Portofino, Italy

The fisherman slipped his long oars into the black water as smoothly and silently as his long fillet knife sliced into the silver bellies of his livelihood. Then he heaved back on the oars’ rough wooden handles, and the small fishing boat’s prow slid forward, making barely a ripple. He wasn’t being paid two months’ wages in one night to make haste; he was being paid to make himself and his boat invisible, or at least go unnoticed.

The three men who were his passengers kept their heads below the gunnels. Two were stretched out full length, heads in the bow, one to port and the other to starboard. The third was the lookout, raising his head just enough to check their progress every five minutes or so. He didn’t know much Italian, but it was enough for Giancarlo Brunello to understand which way he wanted the boat pointed.