The Turing Option

“Are you Dr. Bociort?”

“Patience, Mr. Delaney,” he said, then hung up.

Patience indeed! Well, he had little choice. The hotel it was. He returned to the car, reported to Sven, then fought his way through the slush and traffic in the direction of the station. It wasn’t easy, the one-way system was totally confusing, but in the end he put on the brake in front of Am Post. Trail’s end?

“It is very good to have mobility again,” Sven said after being reassembled. It rustled across the room, extruded the charging cord and plugged it into the outlet there. “I am sure you would be interested in the fact that we are being watched. The small lens in the lighting fixture is that of a video camera. It is transmitting its signal down a telephone line.”

“Where to?”

“I ca

“Then there is very little that we can do about it — other than follow instructions. Charge your battery — and I need recharging as well. I’ll get room service to bring something up. Because I’m not moving from here until the phone rings.”

It was a long wait. Sven had unplugged its charger and Brian had long since finished his sandwich and beer and put the tray out in the hall. He was dozing in the armchair when precisely at nine o’clock that evening the telephone bleeped: he grabbed it up.

“Yes?”

“Would you please leave the hotel now — with your friend. If you go through the bar you will be able to use the side exit. Then turn left and walk to the corner.”

“What do I do then—” There was a click and the dial tone.

“Get your coat and hat on, Sven. We’re going for a walk.”

They went down the stairs to the ground floor. Sven’s walk was perfect now and with its coat collar turned up, hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, the MI looked normal enough — from a distance. The small lobby was empty and they crossed it to the bar beyond. Happily it was dimly lit by small lamps on the tables. The barman was polishing a glass and did not look up when they crossed and went out the far door. The side street was deserted and illuminated only by widely spaced lights. They walked to the corner and a man stepped out of a dark doorway.

“Follow,” he said in a thick accent, making it sound more like volloh, and turned away. He moved quickly up the even more narrow street, then turned down an alley that led to a slippery stone stairway. They climbed this to reach another road at the top. There the man stopped, looking back down the steps. When he was satisfied that they were not being followed he walked out into the roadway and waved.

The headlights of a parked car came on. The car started forward and braked beside them. Their guide opened the back door and motioned them to enter. As soon as they were seated the big Mercedes moved swiftly away. As they passed under the streetlights Brian could see that the driver was a woman. Stocky and middle-aged — like the man sitting next to her.

“Where are we going?” Brian asked.

“No Ingliteh,” was all the answer he got.

“Vorbiti româneste?” Sven said.

The man turned to face them. “Nu se va vorbi deloc în româneste,” he said, snapping the words.

“What was that all about?” Brian asked.

“I asked him if he spoke Rumanian, using the formal of course. He answered, in that language, in the informal, that there would be no talking.”

“Well done.”

They left the town center and drove through the residential suburbs. This was a more exclusive part of town; the houses were large and expensive, each of them with its own fenced and wooded plot. They turned down the drive of one of these and into the open door of a garage. The garage door closed behind them and the lights came on.

Their guide opened a door leading into the house and waved them forward. Down a hallway into a large, book-lined room. A thin, white-haired man closed the book he was reading and climbed slowly to his feet.

“Mr. Delaney, welcome, welcome.”

“You are Dr. Bociort?”

“Yes, of course…” He was looking at Sven’s muffled figure with great attention. “And this — dare I say gentleman? — is the friend who uncovered my message?”

“Not quite. It was another associate of the same kind.”

“You say it? A machine, then?”

“Machine intelligence.”

“How wonderful. Do help yourself to some wine. I believe your associate’s name is Sven?”

“That is my name. This knowledge reveals the fact that it is your video camera in the hotel room.”

“I must be cautious at all times.”

“Dr. Bociort,” Brian broke in, “I have come a long way to meet you — and I have a number of urgent questions that need answering.”

“Patience, young man. When you reach my age you learn to do things slowly. Take your wine, make yourself comfortable — and I will tell you what you want to know. I can understand your haste. Dreadful things have happened to you—”

“Do you know who was responsible?”

“I am afraid that I don’t. Let me begin at the begi

He coughed and pointed to a carafe on the sideboard near the wine. “A glass of water, if you please. Thank you.” He drank some of the water, put the glass down on the table at his elbow.

“What happened next you undoubtedly know. I went to the state of Texas, where your files were made available to me. My instructions were clear — to develop a commercial product that could utilize your AI. You know that I succeeded in this because your AI found my coded message.”

“Why did you leave the message?” Brian said.

“I thought that was obvious. You have been done a great wrong. Beckworth thought at first mat you were dead, indeed he bragged about the crime, told me that many had been killed and that I was involved. He did that to ensure my silence. He said that no one would believe I hadn’t been part of the conspiracy from the begi

“Forced him? I don’t understand.”

There was no warmth in Bociort’s smile. “You would understand, young man, if you had lived through the Ceausescu years in my motherland. Since I was convinced from the very begi