Martin"s Secret
Chapter 3: New York

The walnut-finish elevator doors with marquetry panels preserved in marine-grade varnish opened to a plush private office and its sole passenger, a tall, lanky man in a dark suit, stepped into the opulent foyer. As the visitor approached Corporate Operations Manager Anthony Fererra’s solid mahogany desk, he could see Fifth Avenue to the east and Central Park was north a few blocks beneath the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass wall. Fererra gestured toward a plush, chesterfield-button chair and Luther Williams sat down, crossed his legs and tried to appear calm despite a gleam of sweat beading on his forehead.

Fererra, his forced grin barely masking condescension, greeted him. “Welcome to the lion’s den of Advanced Cybernetics and Robotics, Mr. Williams. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

“It’s good to finally meet you, sir.”

Fererra slid his fat fingers across the crown of his shiny scalp as a stoic gaze replaced his synthetic cordiality.

“Luther, as you know, this company produces artificial intelligence, or AI, which it installs in various products, predominately the instruments of war and espionage.”

“Yes, I’m aware that the company is the undisputed leader in the development and implementation of advanced cybernetic technologies,” said Luther.

“I’m sure that you are generally aware, however, you don’t have a specific awareness of how far the company has advanced the field of AI. We hold many secrets, secrets that could change the world for better or worse. Make no mistake; we’re literally decades ahead of our closest global competition.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the company’s reputation,” Luther again acknowledged.

“But do you know why we dominate the science of artificial intelligence?”

“That’s above my pay-grade, sir. I’m just an outside security contractor.”

Fererra’s bushy adjoining brows dropped and jagged furrows lined his forehead, lending the appearance of a paunchy Chicago mob boss. The solid-brass nameplate on his desk identifying him as the Operations manager for Advanced Cybernetics and Robotics reflected yellow against his face and turned the white of his eyes jaundice.

“Then I’ll tell you why,” he said with practiced indifference. Our operations are largely clandestine, top secret. It is the intended, forcefully executed avoidance of transparency that makes us different. Politicians, even those at the highest level, fear our knowledge and power. They understand that the genie must stay in the bottle, for everyone’s sake.”

“Of course, I help keep the lid on, it’s what I do,” said Luther.

“Exactly. Like Me, you help guard our secrecy, the secrets that enable the company to pay you very well” - Fererra’s five-thousand-dollar executive chair squeaked as he leaned forward - “and in return, we demand competence, discretion, and absolute loyalty.”

“I understand, Mr. Fererra,” replied Luther, fully anticipating a big, honking lecture.

Fererra studied the visitor’s face the way a fighter studies an opponent in the ring.

“Frankly, if you understood, Martin Harbach would no longer be a problem. But he’s still out there, so you obviously don’t fully understand, Luther.”

“If you’re talking’ about last night, it was a fluke. I implemented backup plans the moment I heard there was a glitch,” Luther shot back.

“We’re all human and subject to error, Luther. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Certainly,” responded Luther, immediately sensing a trap and regretting his clipped reply.

Fererra’s eyes narrowed and the trenches across his face grew wider and deeper.

“However, losing Martin Harbach is not a fluke; it is a catastrophic failure that represents a potentially disastrous breach of security for this organization,” said Fererra.

“I understand, and take full responsibility,” said Luther, hoping a compliant yet resolute tone might change the direction of the increasingly dicey exchange.

“Now see, that’s just what I mean,” snapped Fererra as he leaned back in his expensive, squeaky chair. “You haven’t taken responsibility. That’s why you’re here.”

“Point taken,” said Luther, who imagined Fererra didn’t have the chair fixed because he knew the squeaks distracted visitors almost as much as his oily, basket-ball-size face. And the trap slams shut, he thought.

“You see, I answer to people who hold me accountable, and in that same food chain, you’re accountable to me,” said Fererra. He rested his chin between a thumb and index finger with which he stroked a thick scar and leveled a sardonic glare.

“Martin is a special kind of loose cannon,” he added.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘special’”, asked Luther.

“He’s not only armed with a certain physical prowess and advanced martial-arts training, the AI installed in his head literally makes him one of the most dangerous people on the planet.”

“Pardon the candor, but isn’t that laying it on a bit thick” - Williams gestured with an open hand - “so he lives another day, what’s the difference?”

“Harbach is a clear and present danger to the company, to me, and frankly, to you,” warned Fererra. “What makes him a global threat remains highly classified information, but I can tell you he’s growing stronger every day. If you blink, he’ll take you down.”

“Take me down? I don’t think so,” smirked Luther.

A Star Trek-esque door that was part of the wall a moment before slid silently into its steel pocket frame and a tall bulky man with his head shaved wearing a shoulder-holstered Glock over his white shirt with rolled-up sleeves suddenly entered the room and stopped slightly behind Luther’s chair.

“Is this guy giving you a hard time, boss?”

“Who’s this, room service?” queried Luther.

“An exchange of names won’t be necessary - besides, he’s terribly unsociable. My friend is with internal security here at ACR, a regular company man.”

“Great, nameless here gets a gold watch if he’s still around in twenty years. So what?”

“So, I specifically invited him to our meeting to demonstrate how quickly Martin Harbach can become a clear and present danger to you.”

Luther started to reach into his coat but by then “nameless” was pressing the business end of a Glock against his temple.

“Keep jacking your jaws and you won’t be around in twenty seconds, puke bag” – the man moved to face Luther, and aimed the gun between his jittery eyes - “I’m gonna be really irritated if I have to clean up your mess, really irritated.”

Williams slowly lifted his arm and pushed the gun away with the back of his hand as his smirk morphed into a sneer.

“I lost one of my best men last night, so Martin Harbach was never going to get away.”

Fererra nodded at the man holding the gun. “That’ll be all for now, thank you.”

“Any time, boss.”

After his muscle disappeared into the wall, Fererra straightened his tie and stern-eyed Williams.

“I hope my colleague’s testy overture reminded you that Martin became your problem the moment you accepted the assignment,” said Fererra. “Now, I think this has been a productive meeting, don’t you agree?” he added glibly, raising his considerable bulk from his chair to end the meeting.

Luther stood and pulled his coat together. “I’ll keep you updated” - he shot a glance at an elaborately framed oil of Marlon Brando from The Godfather - “oh, tell Mr. Clean if he pulls another stunt like that I’ll take his gun away and feed it to him.”

“You can tell him if you have the misfortune of seeing him again,” Fererra shot back. His dark laugh jiggled his belly behind a silk shirt that bulged between buttons and he opened a gold-plated cigar box.

Luther started toward the elevator.

“One more thing,” said Fererra.

Luther stopped without turning. “What’s that?”

“The company has invested heavily in Martin. That’s why, above all else, he’s programmed to survive,” Fererra warned, huffing thick, blue smoke from his fat cigar.

“I’m CIA-trained in clandestine operations,” said Luther. “I’ve deployed in twenty global hot spots. I’m not worried about some glorified computer geek.”

“Just remember this,” said Fererra. “Up until now, Martin has played good defense, but if you want to live, don’t let go on offense” - Fererra toked the cigar and sat it in a thick, glass ashtray - “they’ll carry you off the field in a body bag.”

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