Neal Stephenson - Reamde

The word must have meant “all clear” because the man in the dinner jacket now came up the steps. Right behind him was the T-shirted man who had fetched the roll of plastic from the back of the van. After looking around the place, paying special attention to the vacant unit, Ivanov said something to this man that caused him to turn around and go back downstairs.

Ivanov was blue-eyed but his hair was dark, made darker yet by some sort of pomade or oil that he had used to slick it back from his forehead, which was an impressive round dome. His complexion was pale but flushed by the chilly air outside. Over his dinner jacket he was wearing a black overcoat well tailored to his frame, which, to put it charitably, was stocky. But he moved well, and Zula got the idea that he could have given a good account of himself in a hockey brawl. Probably had done so, many times, when younger, and prided himself on it. He paid considerably more notice to Peter and Zula than Sokolov had done. Wallace he almost ignored, as if keeping the speakerphone off the floor had been the most useful thing that the Scotsman could possibly achieve today. He sized Peter up and shook his hand. Over Zula, he made a bit of a fuss, because he was that kind of guy. It didn’t matter why he was here, what sort of business he had come to transact. Women just had to be treated in an altogether different way from men; the presence of a single woman in the room changed everything. He kissed her hand. He apologized for the trouble. He exclaimed over her beauty. He insisted that she make herself comfortable. He inquired, several times, whether the temperature in the room was not too chilly for a “beautiful African” and whether he might send one of his minions out to fetch her some hot coffee. All of this with meaningful glances at Peter, whose manners came off quite poorly by comparison.

The man in the T-shirt came up the stairs with the box of contractor plastic on his shoulder. Behind him was the other one who had been loitering on the street, carrying a staple gun. When they reached the top of the steps, they looked at Ivanov, who gestured with his head toward the door that led to the adjoining apartment. They went into it and closed the door behind them. Sokolov watched curiously.

Finally they were all sitting down together: Wallace, Peter, and Zula on the sofa, facing Ivanov, who was in the largest chair. Behind Ivanov was Sokolov, who sometimes stood with hands clasped behind his back and at other times paced quietly around the loft, gazing out the windows.

“I am confused,” Ivanov said, “as to why you send email complaining of car breakdown in southern part of B.C. when car works fine and is actually in warehouse of Peter, in Seattle—a man I have not had pleasure to meet before.”

Wallace tried and failed to speak, cleared his throat, tried again: “I lied to you, sir, because I knew that I would not be able to deliver the credit card numbers at the time promised. I could see that they would be a few hours late. I hoped that you would not mind a short delay.”

Ivanov pulled his sleeves back to reveal, and to examine, the largest wristwatch Zula had ever seen. “How many is ‘few’? Sometimes I have trouble with English.”

“The delay has turned out to be longer than I had expected.”

“What is nature of delay? Has Peter fucked us?”

Peter flinched.

“I apologize for language,” Ivanov said to Zula.

For a while, only a few muffled noises had been heard from the empty apartment next door, but now they heard the whoosh of plastic sheeting being pulled off the huge roll, followed by the sporadic thud/click of the staple gun, which came distinctly through the wall. This posed a distraction to Peter and Zula, which Ivanov noticed and misinterpreted. “Makink little kholes,” he said. “Not big kholes. Easy to fix. With a little—” He said a word in Russian, then looked to Sokolov. Sokolov, a bit distracted—maybe taken aback—by what was going on in the other room, missed the cue. Ivanov then looked to the giant potato-like man who was standing near the gun safe and asked him a question. This fellow was deeply apologetic that he was unable to help. But he did shout something downstairs to the smoker who was posted in the bay, who called back: “Spackle!”

“Spackle,” Ivanov repeated, and spread his hands, palms up, as if requesting forgiveness.

“It has nothing to do with Peter. Actually Peter has been working diligently to help me overcome the problem,” Wallace said.

“So Peter has not fucked us.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“You? Have you fucked me, Wallace?”

“This is not that kind of problem.”

“Oh really? What kind of problem is it?”

“A technical problem.”

“Ah, so you have drove your car to warehouse of Mr. Technical Genius, here, to get tech support .”

“Yes.”

“And he has given it?”

“Yes. And Zula as well.”

Ivanov blushed. “Yes, forgive me, of course, I do injustice.”

Silence, except for the whoosh-rustle-clunk of the plastic and the staple gun.

“And?” Ivanov asked, raising his eyebrows. “Still is problem?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Something is wrong with file?” This with a dark look at Peter.

“The file was fine.”

“ Was fine?”

“Now it’s been rendered inaccessible.”

“You did not make backup?”

“I was quite careful to make a backup, sir, but it too has been rendered inaccessible.”

“What is this word ‘inaccessible’? You have lost computer?”

“No, both it and the backup drive are under my control, but the data were encrypted.”

“You forgot key?”

“I never had it.”

Ivanov laughed. “I am not computer specialist, but… how can you never have key to file you encrypted?”

“I did not encrypt it.”

“Peter? Peter encrypted it?”

“No!” Peter exclaimed.

“Zula encrypted it?”

“No,” said Peter and Wallace in unison.

“She cannot speak for herself?”

“I did not encrypt it, Mr. Ivanov,” Zula said, earning her an appreciative nod, as if she had just stuck her landing at the Olympics.

“Is missink person? Someone not here who encrypted both file and backup?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Ivanov’s face crinkled up and he laughed. “Ah, here is good part! Finally we come to part where bullshit starts. Makes me feel needed.”

The door to the adjoining space opened and the two men came out, carrying the roll of plastic, considerably depleted. Through the open door Zula could see that the entire apartment had been lined in plastic. One sheet had been unrolled on the floor and folded up the walls, and then other sheets had been draped over that to cover the walls and even the ceiling. The two men walked wordlessly through the room and went downstairs into the bay.

“In a manner of speaking!” Ivanov slapped his thigh. “What fine expression.” The smile went away, and he fixed his gaze on Wallace. “Wallace?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How many people have touched your laptop this day?”

“One, sir. Only I.”

“How many have touched backup drive in nice expensive safe?”

“One.”

“Then khoo— in a manner of speaking —khoo encrypted file?”

“We don’t know. But we can get the key—” Wallace was trying to talk over Ivanov now. “With these people’s help we can get the key—”

Ivanov had put both of his hands to his temples and was staring at the floor between his feet.

One of the plastic staplers came back up the stairs carrying a cordless drill, a blowtorch, a roll of duct tape, and a length of piano wire. He went into the plasticked apartment and closed the door behind him.