26
Central Marrakech
Morocco
GERHARD EICHMANN MOVED nervously through his home, retrieving a leaf from the ancient fountain in his entryway and checking for anything out of place.
He’d restored the derelict riad almost twenty years ago, combining it with two others and leaving most of the rooms open to three interior courtyards. There were no windows to the outside, creating a surprisingly profound sense of privacy and security in a city choked with shops, hawkers, and tourists.
He’d sent Hafeza to visit her family in the mountains and it was the first time in years that she hadn’t been there to take care of him. Despite the fact that he’d been in Morocco almost as long as she’d been alive, he was still helpless—with only a rudimentary grasp of French, no Arabic, and a tendency to get lost in the maze of alleyways that tangled the city.
Eichmann pushed through a set of intricately carved wooden doors to confirm that the two chairs he’d set up next to the pool were still shaded and that the ice packed around the champagne hadn’t melted. All was in order. Just as it had been the first three times he’d checked.
The thick stone walls still radiated the cold of the night before, but did nothing to keep the perspiration from beading on his forehead as he polished a smudge off the copper facade disguising a much more modern—and secure—door beyond. Where was the key? Had Hafeza moved it when she was cleaning? Would his guest want to enter?
Eichmann took a deep, calming breath. No. There would be no reason. The computers inside were all idle now. They had completed the initial analysis of almost a quarter century of data with no surprises. Further parsing of the information would undoubtedly yield unseen and fascinating details, but would in no way change the overarching conclusion. The questions posed so long ago had been completely and finally answered.
The bell rang and he rushed to the door, heart pounding as he reached for the massive metal ring centered in it. How long had it been since they’d been face-to-face? Before the fame. Before the billions. Could it be thirty years?
Eichmann pulled the heavy door open and found Christian Dresner standing on the other side. His smile seemed to carry a deep sadness and his skin was looser and more mottled than the television and Internet suggested. Behind him stood two athletic men with earpieces and dark jackets despite the heat. They gave him a brief, suspicious glance before going back to scanning the rooftops and people passing the quiet spur that his door opened onto.
To his surprise, Dresner took a step forward and embraced him. “Gerd. My good friend,” he said in the language of their lost youth. “My only friend.”
The guards seemed content to stay outside. Eichmann pushed the door closed as Dresner looked around at the carefully preserved architecture. “I remember when you told me you were moving here. I have to admit that I didn’t understand it until now. This is truly magnificent, Gerd.”
Eichmann nodded self-consciously and led Dresner to the poolside chairs. As his guest sat, Eichmann fumbled with the champagne cork, conscious of Dresner watching him with an enigmatic, barely perceptible smile playing at his lips.
“It’s hard to express how good it is to see you, Gerd. I can’t believe it’s been so long. Sometimes I look back on my life and wonder where I lost control of it. How it could have passed so quickly.”
“I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Eichmann said, finally getting the cork out and pouring.
“It’s not your fault. A good scientist can only follow where the facts lead. I take it your analysis is complete?
“The initial pass. But it’s a lifetime’s worth of data. There is so much to learn.”
“Not the things we wanted to learn, though. And not things that can ever be released to the public.”
Eichmann averted his eyes and gave a short, obedient nod. The chiding was gentle but clearly intended. He’d hoped to publish a few properly veiled tidbits in minor psychology journals but, deep down, he’d known it would never be allowed. Anonymity was a small price to pay for the life he’d been allowed to lead. Everything—his quarter-century study, the house he lived in, the food on his table—came from Dresner.
While the academic community would never share in his discoveries, it was enough that he had made them. It was enough to know the truth, even if that truth would die with him.
He finally sat, if a bit stiffly, and held a thumb drive out to Dresner. “My detailed conclusions. And the Afghanistan video. Though I don’t know if any of it matters anymore. If it was worth you coming all this way.”
Dresner slid the drive into his shirt pocket without bothering to look at it. “That’s not why I came. I’m here because, in many ways, my life is coming to a close. There will be no more breakthroughs. No more discoveries. I’ve done what I can with the time I was given.”
Eichmann opened his mouth to protest, but fell silent when his friend held up a hand. “I find myself mired in the past more and more, Gerd. I suppose it’s the inevitable nostalgia of old age. I think a great deal about our youth and the dreams we had. I’m here because you’re the only person who understands…”
“You’ve succeeded beyond almost anyone in history, Christian. Sometimes the dreams of young men are just that. Dreams.”
“Grand ones, though, eh, Gerd?”
“You underestimate the contribution you’ve made. LayerCake’s feedback loop is a powerful behavioral tool—the ability to immediately determine lies, to see how our actions affect the way other people view us. And that’s only the beginning. How can anyone—even you—imagine what will be built on your platform? What it could mean for the world?”
Dresner took a sip of champagne and squinted into the reflection coming off the pool. “I told myself that same thing for years. But now I’ve come to understand that it’s a naive view. My work is no different from anyone else’s. Powerful men will find a way to twist it into something that serves their purposes.”
“But the Internet can’t be controlled. There—”
“It can be controlled, Gerd. Everything can. How long will the freedom of information last if it becomes inconvenient to the wrong people?”
“It will be a constant battle,” Eichmann agreed. “But not different from the one we’ve been fighting for millennia. Some people will try to spread the truth and others, lies.”
“Eventually the liars and destroyers always win.”
Eichmann didn’t respond and his old friend seemed content to sip at his drink for a time. It was strange to have him there. The years they’d spent together when they were young didn’t seem real anymore. It was hard to associate what he’d become with the much more human figure he’d been in his youth.
“My father was religious for much of his life,” Dresner said when he finally spoke again. “Even the concentration camp and the Soviets couldn’t take that from him. Slowly, though, he began to question how it could be that we were made in the image of God. Eventually, he came to believe that we were just another of God’s animals—no greater or more favored than any other.”
He tapped the thumb drive in his pocket. “But it took you to show me that even this was a fantasy.”
“You’re reading to much into my conclusions, Christian. It would be arrogance to think that my work has allowed either of us to see into the mind of God.”
“The mind of God,” Dresner repeated quietly. “I’ve wasted more than a billion dollars trying to find some spark in us that would prove—or even just suggest—his existence. No, we’re nothing more than computers made of meat. And not even well-designed ones at that—ones haphazardly slapped together over millions of years to deal with random environmental changes.”
“But ones capable of great…and terrible things.”
Dresner shook his head. “Even the most virtuous brain functions are just an illusion created to help our species survive. We don’t love our children because of nobility or God. We love them because people who felt compelled to care for their offspring spread their genes more effectively. The illusion of fear makes us avoid dangerous situations. Greed keeps our bellies full. Violence and hate allow us to protect what is ours. Nothing we see or feel is anything more than millions of neurons fabricating a universe that doesn’t exist.”
Eichmann wasn’t sure how to respond. While it was true that Dresner’s conclusions were much more drastic than his own, it was also true that he was probably right. Giving up entirely on the idea of reality—accepting that everything was just a chimera created by selective pressures—was a step into a very dark and very lonely abyss. What was certain, though, was that humans were creatures much more of instinct than of culture and education.
People were born who they are and little could be done about it. Intelligence, personality, and behavior were largely programmed into every individual at birth.
“And the experiments at the North Korean facility have confirmed your beliefs?” Eichmann said, probing. He’d been indirectly involved in designing the general controls for some of the work done there, but was largely in the dark as to what that work was. Perhaps now he could finally get his old friend to speak of it.
“There are no more questions to answer,” Dresner responded, his gaze turning distant. “The facility is being dismantled.”