The Utopia Experiment

  They all laughed—the humorless braying of young men who enjoyed violence when they were confident in their superior position.

  “Or what?” their leader said. “Are you are going to kill us?”

  “Probably.”

  More laughter, but the man who had spoken didn’t join in. He was a little older than the others and didn’t seem quite as stupid.

  “You’re going to get us killed with all this hand wringing,” Randi said, no longer bothering to play the role of frightened woman. “Crazy Eyes goes first. Their ringleader’s yours.”

  “Wait! We might be able—”

  But she didn’t wait. She reached behind her for the six-inch knife she’d brought in her checked luggage and with an underhand flick of her wrist sent it spinning through the air. Smith recognized that it was too late to stop this and launched himself forward.

  The speed of her action and dim light made it impossible to follow the weapon, forcing him to make a few quick assumptions. The chest was the easiest target but getting good penetration would be almost impossible at this range. No, Randi would take the riskier approach. She always did.

  Smith was already reaching for Crazy Eyes’s neck when the knife passed by and lodged there. Dead center, but her rotation was off a bit. Not so much that it didn’t penetrate a good inch into his windpipe, though.

  Shouts rose up around them, but he barely heard, concentrating on getting hold of the knife’s hilt before the others could process what was happening. Smith drove it in the remaining five inches before yanking it out and spinning, building enough momentum to ram it deep into the lead man’s stomach.

  Randi was already running toward the car in the intersection when Smith pulled the blade and followed. The young man wouldn’t die, which was a good thing, but really just an ancillary benefit. Stomach wounds were nasty and had a tendency to demoralize everyone around.

  Smith had made it only ten meters when the expected wailing started from the wounded man, but so did the pursuing footsteps. When he looked back, all three of the uninjured men were chasing at a full sprint. Apparently concern for one’s comrades wasn’t one of this group’s virtues.

  He ducked a wrench thrown by the man in the lead, but focused on the one who had stopped to dig a hand desperately into his jacket.

  “Gun!”

  Randi kept going, but crouched and began zigzagging as the first shot sounded. Smith did the same, daring another quick look back to confirm that they were holding the gap to their pursuers. Youth, adrenaline, and rage couldn’t quite overcome the disadvantage of too many cigarettes and heavy boots.

  Ahead, Smith could hear the sickly sound of a starter motor as the man who had been watching tried to get his engine to fire. Randi was pulling ahead and he said a silent prayer that she would just run past the car and into the darkness.

  As usual, though, his prayer was ignored. Another bullet passed by and Smith crouched lower as Randi ran full-speed into the side of the car, slamming an elbow into the driver’s-side window. It was old enough that safety glass hadn’t been an option and it shattered all over the man as he tried to jerk away.

  Smith collided with the rear quarter panel as Randi threw open the door and dragged the man onto the pavement.

  All three of their pursuers were almost on top of them and Smith tossed her the knife. She pulled the man to his feet and pressed the crimson blade up under his chin. Hopefully, they cared about him more than the friends they’d left bleeding on the pavement.

  The three skidded to a stop a couple meters away. The one with the gun tried to get a bead on Randi, who was hidden behind the bulky older man.

  “You have a knife,” one of them said. “We have a gun.”

  By way of response, Randi pressed harder with the weapon they were so unimpressed with, breaking the skin under the chin of the man she was holding.

  “Stop,” the man said, slurring a bit because he couldn’t move his jaw without being cut deeper. “If I’m dead, none of you gets paid.”

  At this point, it seemed unlikely that any of them were going to get paid anyway, but none of the remaining three was smart enough to realize it.

  “Get out of here,” Smith said.

  None moved.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “Run!”

  They finally did, heading back up the road, right past their fallen comrades, and into the gloom.

  Randi shoved the man behind the wheel and slid into the backseat while Smith ran to the other side and dropped into the passenger seat.

  “Drive,” Randi said and the man twisted the key. This time the engine caught.

  He looked terrified as they pulled onto the empty street and accelerated into darkness deep enough to resist his dirty headlights.

  “Where’d the money to pay those assholes come from?” Randi said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cut his finger off, Jon.”

  “No! I swear to you. I got a text asking me to do this. The money was wired from an offshore account.”

  “When did you get the text?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “How many hours.”

  “I don’t know. Four?”

  “Shit,” Randi said, pulling out her phone and dialing. It rang a few times but, to her obvious relief, was eventually picked up. Johannes’s tinny voice was clearly audible in the confines of the car.

  “Randi? Is everything all right?”

  “Are you still at the warehouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone knows we were there. They—”

  “Yes, I was afraid of that.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Konrad. He made an unauthorized phone call, but I don’t know to whom. When I questioned him about it, he tried to kill me. Can you imagine? After everything I’ve done for him? I’m afraid I had to shoot him.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” she said sarcastically.

  “And thank you for coming here and ending my life as I know it.”

  “Look, I’m going to send some people—”

  “No, you’ve already done quite enough. The first thing I did when I started this business was make preparations for my retirement. Good-bye, Randi. We won’t see each other again.”

  She severed the connection and leaned up between the seats. “Why does this son of a bitch still have ten fingers?”

  He began to protest in panicked, rapid-fire German again, but Smith tuned him out. The man’s age, dull eyes, and cheap suit suggested that he was nobody—a former low-level Stasi agent who used the endless supply of neo-Nazi idiots to make a buck. Whoever they were up against wasn’t stupid enough to reveal their identity to him.

  Smith’s foot bumped something under the seat and he pulled out a small bag stuffed with euros. He handed it back to Randi, who immediately started counting.

  “I’m a little insulted at the amount,” she said. “But it’s definitely enough to get us upgraded to first class with a little left over for a decent dinner in Frankfurt.”

  “That’s not your money!” the man sputtered, eyes widening enough to suggest that he’d already committed the funds to men who expected those kinds of commitments to be honored.

  Smith shrugged. “Then maybe you should try asking her to give it back.”

  41

  Near Salihorsk

  Belarus

  JAMES WHITFIELD STEPPED THROUGH the door already suspecting what he would find. He’d been to three of Dresner’s compounds in the past and found them to be virtually identical. This was no exception.

  The layout of the garden was familiar, though it was populated mostly with native plants that could survive the local climate. It was barely fifty degrees but the high walls kept out the breeze and the sun was directly overhead, beating down on him as he walked along a stone pathway.

  The governments of the world loved Dresner for spreading his wealth—setting up homes, research centers, and manufacturing plants in its every corner. And while t
here may have been some altruistic ancillary benefit, Whitfield had come to learn that Dresner’s primary motivator was paranoia.

  Not that this was particularly hard to understand after what the Nazis and Soviets had done to him and his family. While Whitfield’s career had provided more than a few glimpses into the dark side of human nature, Dresner had stared right into the abyss.

  So now he moved from one heavily secured compound to the next, never staying in one place long enough to be located, communicating remotely, and meeting almost no one face-to-face. Unfortunately for him, though, no matter how remote his hidden sanctuaries were, they couldn’t be fully separated from the world he so feared.

  Whitfield finally spotted Dresner near the center of the garden, staring into a small pond as though it held some kind of secret. If anything, his recent success seemed to have aged him even more. His shoulders were a little rounder and his face a little more slack than it had been before. Perhaps he wouldn’t live much longer—a situation that had both dangers and benefits.

  “Why the hell did you move against Smith and Russell?” Whitfield said angrily “I said I was handling it.”

  Dresner looked up slowly, examining him as he approached “But you didn’t, Major. You warned them. And then you tried to transfer them. Now they’ve appeared in Germany to go through my Stasi records.”

  Dresner always knew too much for his own good. Whitfield wasn’t so naive as to believe that the man wasn’t using his almost limitless resources to watch every potential threat. It was only when he tried to act that the situation became dangerous.

  “And was sending a group of criminal half-wits after them productive?”

  “It will appear to be nothing more than a failed mugging.”

  Whitfield didn’t respond immediately. He’d cleaned up most of the mess. All the men involved in the attack were now dead and Johannes Thalberg had himself burned his warehouse before disappearing. For now, the loose end that he represented would have to be tolerated. The man had undoubtedly been planning his escape for his entire career and would be unlikely to make waves that could end up drowning him.

  What was really worrying Whitfield was the glimpse of Christian Dresner he’d never seen before: a man who would hire neo-Nazis—the ideological progeny of the very people who had tortured his parents—to murder two people endangering his attempt to reshape the future. Many men throughout history had decided that their vision was important enough to justify any action. All had been absolutely certain that they were right. And all had turned out to be incredibly dangerous.

  Whitfield concentrated on keeping his voice calm. As unstable as Dresner was, his technology was exceeding all expectations as a weapons system and America’s continued control over it was essential. “Both Russell and Smith have proven over and over again to be very hard to kill. I’m also concerned that they have a power base beyond the military or CIA.”

  “Then it seems you need to redouble your efforts to get rid of not only them, but the people behind them.”

  Whitfield stiffened. “Careful, Christian. I don’t take orders from you. In fact, if it weren’t for me, your company would have collapsed years ago and you’d be tinkering in a basement in Leipzig. This is my sphere of influence. Back off.”

  Dresner stared down into the water again, looking past the reflection of the man in front of him. The good major’s confusion was understandable. He had the illusion that he was creating a military superpower that would last for centuries. Thus, he needed to take the long view—to examine the repercussions of every action.

  Dresner, on the other hand, had a much shorter horizon. Adoption of the Merge continued to be above projections, making his two-year horizon entirely realistic. But the continued presence of Smith and Russell had the potential to threaten even that short time frame.

  “If our relationship and the details of development become public, it isn’t just me and my company that are at stake, Major. Your involvement and the involvement of the Pentagon will almost certainly come to the surface. Something that, I think you agree, your country can’t afford.”

  “Getting rid of them isn’t as simple as—”

  “It is simple, Major! If you’re right and someone is pulling Smith and Russell’s strings, perhaps they’ll reveal themselves when the two of them are gone. But one way or another, their investigation has to stop.”

  Dresner took a deep breath and let his expression soften. “I understand that they’re both honorable and courageous people. And I understand that Smith will be difficult to replace in his capacity as the military’s director of development for the Merge. But we have to weigh what’s at stake for your country and the rest of the world against the lives of two people. How many American soldiers and indigenous civilians has my technology already saved? I suspect it’s more than two.”

  Whitfield didn’t respond immediately and Dresner was satisfied to wait.

  “Stay out of this, Christian. I told you that I’m taking care of it.”

  Dresner nodded. “And I’m watching.”

  42

  Outside of Washington, DC

  USA

  DAMN,” SMITH SAID, throwing the forty-five-year-old Naval Academy yearbook in the backseat with all the others.

  “Nothing?”

  Randi was piloting the car along the winding, tree-lined road at an unusually careful pace, her eyes flicking to the empty rearview mirror every few seconds.

  “Nada,” he said, snapping off the reading light next to the visor. “But then I’ve only been through the navy books. And he’s a lot older now. Maybe I wouldn’t recognize him.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t go to Annapolis.”

  It was certainly a possibility. The guy who was responsible for the condition of his Triumph reeked of military academy, but now Smith had to consider that his normally unfailing instinct for fellow soldiers might have abandoned him. Hopefully, Star was having better luck.

  “Home sweet home,” Randi said, pointing to a modern wood-sided house barely visible through the trees. She pulled into the gravel driveway and Smith stepped out, grabbing his duffel and pausing for a moment to admire the property. The setting sun was giving the tasteful landscaping a pleasant glow and glinting off spotless windows. It was hard to believe that, until recently, the house had been nothing but a pile of charred wood and ashes—an unfortunate consequence of an attempt on Randi’s life by a young Afghan assassin.

  “Quite a change from the old cabin.”

  “Fred gave me a blank check to rebuild. I think he feels guilty about putting me out for bait. I still feel that impact when I lift stuff.”

  She walked to the front door and opened a hidden panel, punching a lengthy code into the keypad beneath. It was a strangely elaborate security system given the setting. Not exactly a high crime area and there wasn’t another house in sight.

  The interior was even more impressive and Smith wandered through, admiring the workmanship and finally stopping to examine the custom kitchen cabinets. “Those would look good in my new place. What kind of wood is it?”

  “Dunno. I flew some guys in from Norway to do them.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hell yes. That body armor wasn’t as miraculous as Fred made it out to be. Did I mention that my goddamn back still hurts when I lift things? Now go put your stuff in the back bedroom. The one on the left.”

  He did as instructed, nearly throwing his well-traveled duffel on the bed before realizing that the linens probably cost more than he made in a week. Best not to give Randi the company credit card after getting her shot between the shoulder blades.

  Klein’s loss was their gain, though. After the Triumph episode and what had happened in Germany, this out-of-the-way cabin had seemed like a better idea than going to his place. It was the vacation home of one of Randi’s college roommates who let her crash there on the rare occasion she was in the States. Not that it would be impossible for someone to find, but at least they’d have to work harder th
an opening a phone book and looking under “S.”

  “I thought you said the woman who owns this place is pissed at you,” he said coming back out into the living room and selecting the more comfortable looking of the two sofas. “That she blames you for starting the fire that burned the place down?”

  “She is and she does. Apparently, there was a bunch of old photos and some toys her kids played with when they were babies here. People can be so sentimental. I mean this place is ten times nicer than the old one and she didn’t have to pay a dime for it. But do I get a thank-you? No. All I hear is how she’s all broken up because she lost a few headless Barbies.”

  He glanced down at the massive fossil of a prehistoric fish in the center of the stone coffee table. “Couldn’t get a T. rex?”

  “Back-ordered,” she said, handing him a glass of whiskey before dropping into the opposite sofa.

  He took a sip and leaned his head back into the cushion, registering something that his exhausted mind had missed when they’d entered. The place looked and smelled completely unlived in.

  “We don’t have permission to be here, do we?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Randi?”

  “Define permission.”

  “Christ,” he mumbled as he propped his feet on the arm of the sofa—being careful not to let his dirty loafers touch the leather. It felt good to lie down. Even in a stolen house.

  The cell phone in his pocket buzzed and the tone told him it was an encrypted text from Covert-One. He pulled it out and punched in his password. It was amazing how clunky and outdated the device felt compared with the Merge he’d left at home.

  “It’s from Star,” he said.

  There were no words, just a black-and-white picture of a young Naval Academy cadet with a familiar scar rising from the collar of his dress uniform. A second image had him digitally aged to around seventy.

  Even without Photoshop, there would have been no doubt. It was him.