Harry Harrison: The Turing Option

The fur hat was mink and fitted perfectly.

“Many thanks, Dr. Bociort. I don’t really…”

“We will speak no more of it, my boy. If you have checked out of your hotel, Dimitrie will fetch your bags.”

“All done.”

“Good. Then if you will share a last glass of wine with me until he returns I will be greatly honored.”

With Sven loaded into the trunk of the big Mercedes, after last good-byes and a frail embrace from the old man, Dimitrie drove Brian to the tiny local airport. The VTOL plane lifted up from the snow-covered runway for the short hop to Zurich airport to connect with the SAS flight. The service, the seat — food and drink — were an immense improvement on the transatlantic Aeroflot flight.

Arlanda airport was clean, modern and efficient. After sober inspection his new passport was stamped and handed back. His bags were waiting for him — as were a porter and the limo driver. A drifting of snow was settling through the trees beside the highway; afternoon darkness descended before they reached Stockholm. The Lady Hamilton hotel was small and picturesque, filled to overflowing with portraits and memorabilia of the Lady and her Admiral escort.

“Welcome to Stockholm, Mr. Ghica,” the tall, blond receptionist said. “This is your key, room 32 on the third floor. The lift is to the rear and the porter will bring your bags up. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Stockholm.”

“I know that I will.”

This was indeed the truth. He was now in the city where he was going to stop running, stop hiding. When he left Sweden he was going to be himself again, a free self for the first time since the shooting.

“Come on out, Sven,” he said. The trunk unlocked and opened. “Close the trunk and keep it as a souvenir.”

“I would appreciate an explanation,” the MI said as it flowed out onto the rug.

“Freedom for me means the same for you. This is a democratic and liberal country with just laws. I am sure that all of its inhabitants will welcome the sight of you enjoying the freedom of their city. Sweden belongs to no military blocs. Which means that the minions of the evil General Schorcht can’t get at me here. And we are going to stay here until I am absolutely positive that particular danger is removed. Now the phone call that gets the ball rolling.”

He picked up the telephone and punched in the number.

“You are calling Benicoff,” Sven said. “I presume that you have thought through all of the possible results of this action?’’

“I have thought of very little else for the last week…”

“Benicoff here. Tell me.”

“Good morning, Ben. I hope that you are keeping well.”

“Brian! Are you all right? And what the hell are you doing in Stockholm?” His phone would of course have displayed the identity of the calling number.

“Enjoying freedom, Ben. And yes, I’m feeling fine. No, don’t talk, please listen. Can you get me a valid American passport and bring it to me here?”

“Yes, I guess so, even on New Year’s Eve, but —”

“That’s it. No buts and no questions. Hand me the passport and I’ll tell you everything that has happened. Enjoy the flight.” He hung up the phone, which rang loudly a moment later.

“That is Benicoff calling back,” Sven said.

“Then there is no point in answering it, is there? Did you notice that little bar, off to the right in the lobby, when we came in?”

“I did.”

“Will you join me there while I try my first Swedish beer? And don’t bother dressing for the occasion.”

“You have no intention of telling me what you are planning, do you?”

“I’ll reveal it all in the bar. Coming?”

“It will be my great pleasure to accompany you. I am rather looking forward to the experience.”

The elevator was empty, but an elderly Swede was in the lobby waiting for it when the door opened.

“Godafton,” Sven said as it stepped out.

“Godafton,” the man replied, moving aside. But his eyes opened wide and he turned to watch them walk by.

“Sweden is a very courteous country,” Sven said. “With a name like mine I thought it only right to do a little linguistic research when you told me our destination.”

The receptionist, like all receptionists worldwide, had seen everything and only smiled at them — as though three-eyed machines walked into the lobby every day.

“If you are going into the bar I will get someone to serve you.”

The uniformed barmaid was not as cool. She would not come out from behind the counter to take the order. If she spoke English she seemed to have forgotten every word of it when Brian asked for a beer.

“Min vän vill ha en öl,” Sven said. “ En svensk öl, tack.”

“Ja,…” she gasped and fled into the rear. She was under better control when she reappeared with a bottle and glass, but would not pass Sven. Instead went the long way out and around the next table to serve Brian, returned the same way.

“This is a very interesting experience,” Sven said. “Are you enjoying the beer?”

“Very much so.”

“Then you will tell me what you are planning?”

“Just what you see. I have based my plan of attack upon the fact that the military love secrecy, hate the spotlight. Toward the end of the last century, before the truth was revealed, the black budget in the United States concealed expenditures of over eighty billion dollars every year for things like the totally worthless Stealth bomber. It is obvious that General Schorcht was playing the same kind of game with me, in the name of national security, to keep me in prison, my existence secret. Well, now I have escaped. The world will soon know that I am here, know that you exist. We’re out of the closet and in the sunshine now. I’m not going to give away any details on AI construction — that’s a commercial secret that is in my own best interest to keep my mouth shut about. I’ll ask you not to go into any of those details as well.”

“Or it is back into the trunk?”

“Sven — you made a joke!”

“Thank you. I have been working to perfect the technique. At the risk of appearing maudlin I am forced to say that I owe my life, my very existence, to you. For this reason alone I would do nothing to harm you.”

“You have other reasons?”

“Many. I hope you won’t think I’m being anthropomorphic when I say that I like you. And consider you a close friend.”

“A feeling that I share.”

“Thank you. So speaking as a friend, aren’t you fearful about your personal safety? There were previous attempts on your life. And the. military… ?”

“Since the dissolution of the CIA I think that assassination is no longer an American weapon. As to the other lot — I’m going to blow the whistle on them. Tell the press everything I know about them. Let the enemy know that they got the wrong AI, that the improved AI is now the property of Megalobe and the United States government. They, whoever they are, can only get a share of the action now by buying shares in the company. The cat is out of the bag. Killing me now would be counterproductive. Kidnaping me — or you — would be more in the line of what has now become a case of industrial espionage. I am sure that the Swedish government would not take kindly to that. Particularly after I assure them that they will be head of the queue for AI purchase in return for their cooperation. Megalobe will go along with that in return for our safety. A firm can only make a profit by selling — and Sweden has got a lot of kroner.”

The first reporter arrived twenty minutes later; someone had obviously phoned in a tip. Even before he could turn on his recorder a video cameraman was behind him shooting the scene.