“Easier to decipher cuneiform,” said Crooks.
“Just read it,” said Mac.
“Yeah,” said Crooks assuredly as he read the text. “I’d buy it. Especially if it came from Tariq’s mouth.” He returned his attention to his monitor. “Look at this. I found something that nicely suits our purposes. Not too long. Impeccable audio quality.”
Crooks hit play. The video clip showed TNT, attired in his native garb, addressing a gathering of business owners at a store opening in Doha. “It will be our government’s policy,” said TNT, in his American-accented English, “to support all business owners and entrepreneurs with an initial interest-free loan of seventy-five thousand US dollars. Repayment is not required for a period of ten years. If, in that time, the business employs more than twenty persons, the loan will be forgiven in its entirety.”
Crooks hit Stop.
“Is that all you need?” asked Mac.
“More than an adequate sample size,” said Crooks. “First let me upload the audio sample. Next, I type in your little speech. Done.” He turned to face Mac. “It may take a minute to generate. These new AI chips are fast. All the same, it takes billions and billions of iterations to generate an accurate aural copy.”
The computer pinged. Crooks gave Mac a look. “Here we go.” He hit Play. Mac listened as the computer read aloud the lines Mac had written. It was him. It was TNT speaking.
“The program’s called Parrot,” said Crooks. “It used the speech we uploaded of TNT talking to the businessmen in Doha to clone his voice. Then it turned around and used the cloned voice to read the lines you’d written.”
“That’s scary as hell,” said Mac. “No way you can tell the clone from the real thing.”
“The future is now,” said Crooks. “We are who we choose to be ... or who we want others to think we are.”
“So once I’ve got the cops on the line,” said Mac, “I access the program and hit Play.”
“One more thing,” said Crooks.
“What’s that?”
“Pray.”
Crooks rolled his wheelchair across the room to an antique wooden dresser. He opened the bottom drawer and withdrew a compact item wrapped tightly in a blue-and-white cloth. “Last used May the twenty-eighth, the year of our Lord 1982. Goose Green Airfield. Las Malvinas Islands. ‘The Falklands’ for you and me.” He unfolded the cloth and handed Mac a pistol.
“What is this?”
“My old service weapon. Browning nine millimeter.” Crooks unfurled the cloth, and Mac saw that it was an Argentine flag. “Took this down myself from enemy HQ. Thought it was all over. Remember what I said about confidence. I’d forgotten to double-check that we’d cleared the building. One guy was left. Course, it had to be the Argentine Army’s version of Rambo. Shot him twice in the chest before I ran out of ammo. Before the SOB went down, he lobbed his last grenade at us ... me and my squad. Eight men. Not one of us wounded in three days of battle. I had no choice but to jump on it.”
Mac looked at the flag. There was blood on one corner. “You did the right thing.”
“Course I did,” said Crooks. “Else we’d all have been dead.” He tapped the arms of his chair. “For queen and country. Oh, and don’t worry about the gun. I take it out every so often, clean it, have a trip down memory lane. I swear that when I hold it, I can hear the gunfire, smell the smoke. Do you miss it, Mac? You know, the battlefield?”
“No,” said Mac. “I’ve had my share. But I miss the mission. It told me who I am.”
“Now you have a new one,” said Crooks.
“We have one,” said Mac.
Crooks smiled at the thought. “Mind, you can’t shoot anyone,” he said. “Murder. Mission or not.”
“What about self-defense?” asked Mac.
“You’re the one breaking and entering,” said Crooks.
“Guess we’ll have to play it by ear,” said Mac.
Crooks unwrapped a silk handkerchief and dumped nine bullets into Mac’s palm. “If you need any more, you’re screwed.”
Mac fed them into the magazine. It was harder than he remembered.
“By the way,” said Crooks. “What do you call this ... what we’re doing?”
