The Deep Fake

"Oh, no!" Kayla gasped. "You two have always been the perfect couple." She paused and squinted her eyes. "Why would you want to do that?"

Estelle shook her head sadly. "It's just that the spark has gone out of our marriage. I guess Peter and I have drifted apart, that's all."

Her sister peered at her shrewdly. "You're sure there isn't a spark coming from some other man, Estelle?"

"Of course not! How can you even suggest such a thing, Kayla?"

"All I'm saying is that the whole family likes Peter. He's absolutely devoted to you, and everyone can see that. Mom and Dad think the world of him. If you two split, everyone is going to take it pretty hard. And if there's something else going on with you, it's going to get pretty uncomfortable back home around the Thanksgiving table, know what I mean?"

"You're just being silly," Estelle huffed. "Anyway, I'm just thinking out loud and you're always a good one to help me work through things. But I just wanted to get your perspective -- I'm not about to do anything rash. So please don't say anything to anybody about all this, okay?"

Later that afternoon she drove to Mario Ignacio's house, which also served as his studio, for her weekly art lesson. When he opened the door, however, she rushed frantically into her lover's arms. The tall, dark-haired young man was startled by her passion, but responded quickly, embracing her and eagerly returning her kisses.

Insistently she walked him backward to the small sofa until he plopped down. Instead of coming with him, however, she slid to her knees on the floor and began clawing frantically at his belt and zipper. When she had succeeded, she pulled his jeans and briefs down, then attacked his rapidly growing cock with her lips and tongue. Sucking him into her mouth, she made slurping noises as she eagerly worshiped the object of her desire.

Mario dropped his hands to his sides and let his head loll back on the sofa, loving the sensations Estelle was generating. But before he could grow too excited, she scrambled to her feet, hiked up her skirt and straddled him. Grasping his fully engorged cock, the woman impatiently aligned him with her inflamed pussy and impaled herself.

Briefly Mario realized that she must have removed her panties before she arrived. But her frantic rocking and urgent entreaties quickly drove all other thoughts from his mind. He grasped her ass and used it to piston her up and down on him. Her whimpers and moans made it clear that she loved the rhythm he was setting.

There was no way the two of them could sustain that level of lust for long, and both quickly began building to their inevitable climax. Estelle hit hers first, gasping and crying out as she arched her back and stiffened. Seconds later, Mario followed, groaning and cursing as he drove his cock as deeply into his lover as possible before emptying himself into her.

The artist clutched his lover tightly to his chest as both tried to recover their breath. After a minute, he pushed her away enough to look at her with a quizzical expression. "Not that I didn't enjoy it, babe, but what brought that on?"

Estelle's satisfied expression vanished as she began to recount her conversation with her sister. "I don't want my family and friends to hate you -- to hate us -- when I split up with 'Saint Peter,'" she said mournfully. "If only there was some way to make him the bad guy in all this."

The artist looked off into the distance, contemplating the problem. Suddenly, a grin flashed across his lips. "Have you got a picture of Peter on your phone?" he asked.

"I'm sure I do -- why?"

"Send it to me and I'll show you."

When she sent it to him, he lifted her off of him, pulled up his pants and strode over to his computer. Estelle watched him working, admiring yet again his lean, muscular torso and his dark, curly hair.

After a while she let her attention drift to the prints of his art that Mario had hung on his walls. Her teacher-turned-lover specialized in near photo-realistic computer art. But what really made his work stand out was his subject matter: animals at play, mothers caring for their young, wildlife exploring their habitat. "Bambi on steroids," one critic had called it, and Estelle could understand why. Yet the elaborately detailed whimsy and sentimentality were irresistible as far as she was concerned, and she firmly believed Mario was a genius just waiting to be appreciated.

"Come here and have a look," he beckoned, interrupting her reverie. Curious, she went over to his side and stared expectantly at the monitor. He pressed a key and a video began to play.

The camera had been placed at the head of a bed on which a naked woman was lying. On top of her was a naked man, vigorously plunging his cock into the moaning woman. The man looked up into the camera and winked.

Mario paused the video at that spot. "What do you think of that?" he asked.

"I think it's disgusting!" Estelle snapped. "Why would anyone want to post something like that on the internet?"

Mario didn't answer; instead he pressed a different key. Instantly Peter's face was superimposed over the face of the anonymous lover. Estelle gasped. "Oh my god, how did you do that?" Then she looked more closely. "This won't work, Mario -- it would never fool anyone. The face is too large for the body, the skin colors are different -- it's an obvious fake."

He nodded at her. "You're right -- it is obvious. But don't forget I did this in five minutes. If I can get some good video of Peter and find the right porn to work with, I can do something that will look absolutely real." He grinned. "What would your family and friends think of 'Saint Peter' if they saw him in such a compromising position?"

"They would freak out!" she said. "He'd never be allowed to show his face in my parents' house again."

The artist grinned. "Then I think we have a plan."

"I don't know," she hesitated. "If we do this, it could really mess up Peter's life. It seems a little over-the-top to me."

It was a struggle for him to hide his impatience. "If you really think so, babe, then I don't see any other way for you to divorce him and still keep your reputation intact." He sighed. "I know how important your family is to you. Maybe we should just call it off."

Her expression revealed her dismay. "No, no, Mario, that's not what I want. I couldn't live without you." She took a deep breath. "Alright, let's do it. He'll get over it."

******************

Present Day

"Can't you find somewhere else to leave your dirty clothes?" Estelle griped as she maneuvered around in their cramped bedroom.

"We wouldn't have to worry about that if we'd been able to move into your house like we planned," Mario shot back.

Her shoulders slumped. "I know, I know. I thought for sure I'd get the house in the divorce settlement after the judge saw the video, but he said it didn't matter."

He brightened. "Still, shouldn't you be getting the money from the sale of the place soon?"

She nodded. "The closing is this week, so I should get a check. But don't get your hopes too high -- it won't be as much as we expected. Not only do I have to split the proceeds with Peter, but I forgot about that loan we took out to do some improvements when we bought the place. Paying that off is going to cut into the profits even more."

Mario cursed silently. After the divorce he'd thought Estelle would be able to finance a major exhibition of his art that would get him the recognition he deserved. Now it looked like all she'd be able to afford would be to rent a tent. Why don't things ever go my way? he moaned to himself.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and when Estelle went to answer, she found a FedEx man on the porch. She signed for the cardboard envelope, then brought it to Mario. "It's addressed to you. Were you expecting something?" she asked.

"Not that I know of," he answered, and quickly ripped it open. Inside was a smaller envelope, this one made of what appeared to be parchment. It was addressed to "The Artist Mario Ignacio." Below it was marked "Personal and Confidential."

Curious, he took an X-ACTO knife and sliced through the flap. Inside was a sheet of stationery that also appeared to be parchment. In elaborate calligraphy, it was headed "Bapak Asmuni Bokarnoputra".

My Dear Mr. Ignacio,

I have admired your work for many years. Now I believe the time has finally come when the rest of the art world will recognize your most admirable talent. This affords a unique opportunity to the two of us for both artistic and financial reward.

Accordingly, I have dispatched my senior administrative assistant to meet with you. She is authorized to arrange terms for the purchase of the majority of your artwork for a mutually agreed upon sum I believe you will find most satisfactory. Miss Indah Pawironadi will confer with you at your earliest convenience to negotiate on my behalf. Be assured she has my full confidence.

I look forward to a most fruitful relationship.

The remarkable missive was signed with a looping script neither Mario or Estelle had ever seen before.

"What does it mean?" Estelle asked after Mario had he showed it to her.

His excitement was evident. "I hope it means that my ship has finally come in," he told her gleefully.

Then the smile faded from his face, to be replaced by a puzzled expression. "Who is this Bokarnoputra guy anyway?" He hurried over to his computer and did a search. Google told him the name was Indonesian, but there were no matches.

"This better not be somebody's idea of a joke," he growled. He picked up the envelope and the FedEx mailer. "But if it is, it's a pretty expensive one."

"If this Miss Whatever-her-name-is actually shows up," Estelle offered, "we'll find out."

They didn't have long to wait. The next morning Mario received a call from the Indonesian businessman's aide asking for an appointment. They settled on a time that afternoon, and when the hour arrived, Mario and Estelle were eagerly waiting at a window, watching to see who would arrive.

Promptly at the appointed time, a black Cadillac SUV pulled up to the curb and the uniformed driver hurried around to open the rear door. From behind the dark-tinted glass, out stepped a young woman who appeared to be East Asian in origin. Her black hair was swirled on top of her head and held in place by a black felt peci, or Sukarno hat. She was clad in an updated version of traditional Javanese clothing: a fitted jacket with a cutaway front over a long, patterned skirt that came down to her ankles. But the most striking thing about her was her face. She had high cheekbones and a clear, warm-brown complexion. "She looks like a model," Estelle said in an awed tone.

The woman walked confidently toward the front door, and Mario opened it before she could knock. She stared at him and her hand shot to her mouth. "It's you!" she said in a small voice. "It's really you."

Then she blushed. "Forgive me, Mr. Ignacio -- I've forgotten my manners. It's just that I've been a fan of your art for so long, and now to come face to face..."

When he invited her, she stepped into the studio and took a deep breath. "Allow me to begin again. I am Indah Pawironadi, the senior personal assistant to Bapak Asmuni Bokarnoputra. As you already know..." She glanced up at one of the prints on the wall and gasped. "Three Frogs at Play -- that's my personal favorite!" She hurried over to stare at the print raptly. After a long minute she seemed to recall where she was and turned to face the pair, who were watching her in bemusement. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "For me this is like walking into the Louvre and seeing the actual Mona Lisa."

Mario made modest sounds, but there was no mistaking how flattered he was. "Please come sit down. We're eager to hear about your employer's proposal." He turned to Estelle. "Why don't you bring in some tea?"

Their visitor turned and extended her hand to Estelle. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced."

"I'm Estelle Graves," she replied, shaking the long, delicate fingers. "I'm Mario's, um, companion." With that she went into the kitchen to get the tea they had made in advance.

When she returned, Estelle almost dropped the tea tray. The young woman was seated in an arm chair with her legs crossed, revealing a slit in her skirt that ran halfway up her thigh. Mario, Estelle saw, was staring quite openly at the display.

"Here you are, Miss, um, Pad-a-rada... I'm sorry, I don't know how to pronounce your name."

Mario shot her a hostile glance, though in truth he could not have pronounced the assistant's name either. But the young women laughed melodically. "Please, just call me Indah. Our Javanese names can be quite the mouthful for Westerners."

"But you certainly have no trouble with ours," Mario exclaimed. "Your English is perfect -- you sound like you've just flown in from London."

Indah bowed her head modestly. "Actually, I was educated in a British public school before going to uni at Cambridge. After so many years, English is my first language."

After chatting a while over tea, the young woman sat up straight and pulled her skirt to cover the leg that had been revealed. "If I may, I'd like to turn our conversation to the purpose of my visit. My employer, Bapak Bokarnoputra..." She paused. "In English you'd say 'Mr.' Bokarnoputra. That will be easier for all of us.

"In any case, Mr. Bokarnoputra has followed Mr. Ignacio's work..."

"Please, call me Mario," the artist interrupted.

Indah beamed and Estelle gritted her teeth.

"As I was saying, Mario, Mr. Bokarnoputra believes that the art world has reached a point where digital works such as yours deserve the same level of appreciation as older, traditional media. As you know, one of the barriers to such recognition has been the difficulty of valuation. Up to now, sales of digital art have been problematic due to their ease of reproduction. But with the introduction of NFTs, that problem has been solved, in rather spectacular fashion, I might add."

"What's an NFT?" Estelle interrupted.

"Forgive me for lapsing into jargon," Indah apologized. "NFT stands for 'Non-fungible Token.' NFTs are elaborate encoded data tags that prove that digital files like one of Mario's creations are unique. Using them, an artist can sell a work and the buyer can be certain he or she has the one and only original."

"Do people really buy art that way?"

Indah smiled indulgently. "Oh, yes. Take Beeple, for example."

"That sci-fi hack!" Mario spat.

"I quite agree," Indah said, "but not long ago he managed to auction off an NFT version of 5,000 of his images for over $69 million!"

"Oh my God!" Estelle gasped. "Do you think Mario could do something like that?"

"That is exactly why I am here today. Mr. Bokarnoputra would like to acquire all of Mario's works for a comparable price."

The artist and his lover visibly stiffened, stunned at such an idea. Finally, Mario found his voice. "What do you mean by 'a comparable price'?"

The young woman's face grew serious. "Mr. Beeple's auction price equated to approximately $13,800 per work. Mr. Bokarnoputra would like to exceed that by a small margin -- let's say an even $14,000 per work. He believes the higher price per work will attract great publicity and increase the value of his acquisitions."

Mario's head was swimming. "But I must have some 350 completed works. That would be..."

"Let's round off and say $5 million in total," Indah said calmly. "Does that sound fair to you, Mario?"

He and Estelle looked at each other. "Where do I sign?" he said.

She smiled demurely. "As you suggest, we will have to reduce our agreement to a contract, and there will be other procedures we'll need to conduct first. But, assuming there are no unexpected delays, I believe it should be possible to finalize everything within a few days. That is Mr. Bokarnoputra's desire."

It was all Mario could do to restrain himself from whooping like a child on Christmas morning, but Estelle seemed a bit more restrained. "Excuse me, Indah, but can you tell us something about your employer? We've searched for him on the internet and found nothing."

Mario shot Estelle a dirty look, but Indah was unfazed. "I'm delighted to hear that. It means that our efforts to keep Mr. Bokarnoputra out of the news and off the Internet have been successful.

"You see," she went on, "Mr. Bokarnoputra is a multi-billionaire, one of the richest men in Indonesia. When he was a young boy, he had the misfortune of witnessing the murder of the parents of his closest friend. Thieves had heard tales of the family's wealth and killed both the father and mother in the process of the robbery. From this terrible incident, Mr. Bokarnoputra learned the wisdom of avoiding publicity at all costs. He prefers to operate behind the scenes, as it were, hidden from the public eye."

With that, she rose and bowed to the two of them. "I am delighted that you are in agreement with the terms my employer has proposed. I intend to report the success of our meeting to Mr. Bokarnoputra when I speak with him tonight. Hopefully, we will be able to make final arrangements tomorrow or the next day at the latest."

When the car and driver had taken the young women away, Mario turned to Estelle in a fury. "What are you trying to do: ruin my chance for success? Why would you question Indah and her boss like that?"

The blonde woman crossed her arms and stood her ground. "It all sounds a little suspicious to me. A billionaire we've never heard of wants to buy your art work with NFTs or something like that, and he sends some mysterious floozy who flatters you and simpers over your art to make the deal. That sure raises questions in my mind."

Mario cocked his head and looked carefully at her. "You're jealous," he declared. "You see any attractive woman as a threat." He threw up his hands. "What did you want: for her to look like an old crone? Who cares how she looks if she can pay $5 million for my art?"

Estelle backed down. "It's not that I'm jealous, honey, I just want good things for you and me. This all sounds too good to be true, and I don't want you to get hurt."

He hid his frustration and took her in his arms. "Be positive, babe. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us. We have to seize it while we can."

******************

By the time our afternoon session had ended, Zahira and I had reluctantly agreed to Priya's proposal. But we insisted that we pull the plug at the first sign of trouble. To keep an eye on the situation, we also insisted on setting up a command post where we'd be on call if help was needed. Both Zahira and I took several days off from work to be available. Zahira pointed out that it would be better to eliminate any chance of Estelle or Mario spotting me, so she and I took up a nervous watch at her home. There really wasn't anything for us to do, but we both wanted to be on standby just in case.

Ever the engineer, Zahira drew up a Gantt chart of all the tasks needed for Operation DeepFake. For her part, Priya sketched out an outline of talking points, even jotting down specific lines and phrases so she could memorize them.

When everything was taped to the wall of Zahira's den, I shook my head in disbelief. "You'd think we were planning the D-Day invasion," I scoffed.

For the opening act, I was over at Zahira's house before Priya and Mitch left for a last run-through. Once they were off, Zahira and I wandered into her kitchen to get another cup of coffee. While we drank, I looked at my friend and shook my head. "I hope you don't mind my camping out over here. I know there isn't much for me to do, but I've been so nervous I don't think I could get any work done."