Neal Stephenson - Reamde

But the notion that it might be coming soon brought to the front of his mind a thing that of late he had been pondering, typically while staring out the windows of private jets at the landscape passing beneath him. His religious beliefs were completely undefined. But whether it was the case that his spirit would live on after his body or die with it, he had the nagging sense that, at his age (and especially in his current circumstances), he really ought to be growing more spiritual. For he was certainly closer to being dead than to having been born. Instead of which he was only becoming more connected to the world. He could not even imagine what it would mean to be a whole and conscious being without the smell of cedar in his nostrils. Seeing the color red. Tasting the first swallow of a pint of bitter. Feeling an old pair of jeans as he drew them up over his thighs. Staring out the window of an airplane at forests and fields and mountains. With all of that gone, how could one be alive, conscious, sentient, in any way that was worth a crap?

It was the sort of rumination that on any other day would soon have been cut short by the arrival of an email or a text message, but as he hiked up the valley of the Blue Fork at the head of a column of sweating and muttering jihadists, none of whom especially wanted to talk to him, he had plenty of leisure to consider it. Which seemed to be getting him absolutely nowhere. But he did try to enjoy the smell of the cedars and the blue of the sky while he still had the equipment to do it with.

OLIVIA PROCEEDED WITHOUT incident to a freeway on-ramp. They drove north through a sparse industrial zone that led into the southern outskirts of downtown Seattle. There they joined with I-5, the main north-south freeway, which they took all the way through the city. Half an hour later, after they had passed through another belt of suburbs and entered another, smaller city, she flicked on her turn signal and exited onto an east-going highway of lesser importance that proceeded across an endless series of tidal sloughs on long straight causeways. A range of mountains erupted from the flatlands directly ahead of them. Once it had gotten up onto slightly higher and drier land, the highway diverted south and began to wind to and fro, as if unnerved by the colossal barrier stretched across its path, but after a while it got funneled into a broad valley, clotted with small communities. The valley became narrower, the air colder, the towns smaller, the trees taller, and then it was clear that they were ascending into a mountain pass.

Both of them relaxed. There was no particular reason for this. No reason why, in today’s world, they were safer, more anonymous on a winding highway in the mountains than they were on a freeway in the heart of a major city. But some atavistic part of their brains told them that they had effected some kind of escape. Gotten away with something.

“I don’t fancy your friends,” Olivia said. It was the first thing either one of them had said since Sokolov had climbed into the SUV in front of Igor’s house.

Sokolov ignored it. “How did you know where I was?”

“As long as we’re asking nervous questions, I’ve got one: Did you, or anyone else in that house, happen to say anything out loud when I showed up? Like, ‘Holy shit, that looks like the MI6 agent Olivia?’”

“Of course I did not say such things.”

“Of course not. But the others? Anything such as ‘Who is that Chinese chick in the black SUV?’”

“Nothing; I made this gesture,” Sokolov assured her, showing her the finger-across lips move and the upward glance.

“Well, that might help. A little.”

“Again. How did you know where I was?”

“This morning I was in the Vancouver airport, on my way to Prince George to go looking for Abdallah Jones, when I was made aware that your friend’s house had been placed under surveillance.”

“Because stupid idiot went to apartment of Peter and was seen on video camera.”

“Exactly. And then I was made aware that someone named Sokolov had just made a surprise visit.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. I felt a bit responsible.”

He turned his head to look at her; she kept her eyes dutifully on the road. “How responsible?” he asked.

“The video files were encrypted, you see. No one could open them. Then, because of some things I did this morning, the encryption key was found.”

“Found where?”

“In Peter’s wallet.”

“Peter is dead though?”

“Yes, Peter is dead. Turns out Ivanov shot him in Xiamen. Then Jones shot Ivanov and ran off with Zula.”

“So where is wallet of Peter?”

“Csongor took it to Manila.”

“Csongor is in Manila!?”

“As of a few hours ago, yes, he should be. Along with Yuxia and Marlon.”

“Who is Marlon?”

“The hacker who created the virus.”

A bit of silent driving, now, as Sokolov took all of this in.

“Anyway,” Olivia continued, when Sokolov’s body language suggested he was ready to hear more, “I sort of got everyone talking to one another. Dodge supplied the video file—”

“Dodge?”

“Richard Forthrast.”

“Rich uncle of Zula.”

“I hadn’t pegged you for a T’Rain fan.”

“I read about her in newspapers, magazines, this morning at bookstore. I am not surprised that a man of this type would have obtained video file. So. He supplied file, Csongor supplied key…”

“And then lots of cops and spies were looking at video of Igor stealing that.” Olivia gave her head a little toss, indicating the rifle case in the backseat. “Why did you bring it, by the way?”

“I shoot moose. We have barbecue.”

“I would love to have a moose barbecue with you. But we should probably be figuring out our next move.”

“Our? We are together? Partners?” Sokolov’s tone was rough and skeptical.

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

Her phone went off. She answered it and spent the next couple of minutes getting an earful from someone on the other end of the line. “All right,” she finally said, “I’ll check in with you when I’m north of the border.” She hung up and handed the device to Sokolov. “Could you destroy that for me?”

“With pleasure.” Sokolov began by figuring out how to eject the battery. In case it had some residual power source, he then laid it out on the dashboard, drew out his Makarov, verified that it was in a safe condition, and raised its butt like a hammer.

“Belay that,” Olivia said. “I need to send one last message.”

Sokolov set the Makarov down on the floor between his feet and slid the battery back into its socket.

Olivia was navigating an especially curvy part of the mountain pass, so she talked Sokolov through the process of getting the phone turned on and navigating its menus. “In ‘Recent Calls,’ you should see one, early this morning, to someone named Seamus.”

“Yes, I have it,” he said after a few moments.

“If you would be so good as to send a text to that number. ‘Blown and going dark.’ Something like that.”

Sokolov looked at her incredulously.

“ Exactly like that,” she corrected herself.

Sokolov spent a few moments thumbing it out and sending it. Then he removed the battery again, placed the device on the dashboard, and picked up the Makarov. He looked at her.

“Go for it.”

The butt of the Makarov came down on the black plastic puck, producing a nice splintering noise. Sokolov hit it a few more times and then began to sift through the resultant debris, looking for anything that might possibly be still alive. “Someone mad at you?”

“My boss in London,” Olivia said, sounding a little tense. “People are talking.”