Neal Stephenson - Reamde

“So it’s not the case,” Zula said, “that the Troll just downloaded the CALKULATOR source files from a server somewhere and then incorporated them into REAMDE.”

Peter was nodding, and a smile was on his lips. Zula continued: “REAMDE and CALKULATOR were made by the same people.”

“Or at least people who know each other, who privately exchange files with each other.”

“So the obvious question then becomes—”

“What do we know about the creators of CALKULATOR?” Peter said. “Well, it was a far more devastating virus than REAMDE because it infected anyone who used Outlook—whereas REAMDE is endemic to hard-core T’Rain users. For about a week, it was the virus du jour, it made quite a sensation, and there was a big law enforcement effort devoted to tracking down its creators. They weren’t nearly as clever about hiding their tracks as the Troll has been, and so it was eventually traced to a group in Manila.”

“Hmm. That’s a twist.”

“Yeah, we’re focusing on Xiamen and suddenly we get this clue in Manila. But here’s the thing. A couple members of the Manila group were caught and prosecuted. But everyone knows that most of those involved were never identified, never caught. And then the other thing is that a lot of Filipinos are ethnic Chinese and still have family ties to China.”

“So maybe the Troll is a Chinese hacker living in Xiamen,” Zula said, “but he’s got family ties in Manila…”

“…and that’s how the source code ended up here and got recycled into REAMDE.”

Zula had been keeping an eye on the safe house as this conversation had proceeded. Csongor was closeted in an office with today’s notes, doing some data entry work on his laptop. Sokolov was in the conference room being debriefed by Ivanov. Two of the security consultants were sleeping, two were playing Xbox, and two were on duty. But all the Russians who were awake were casting occasional glances in their direction. Keeping an eye on the hackers, wondering what they were talking about. Perhaps guessing from their body language and the expressions on their faces that they were focused on the problem at hand and making some progress.

And that, as she kept having to remind herself, was the only thing that mattered. Not catching the Troll. But making Ivanov believe that they were making progress toward catching the Troll, stringing him along, long enough for them to think their way out of this.

Long enough for Zula to do so, anyway. Because she didn’t get any vibe at all from Peter that he was interested in leaving. He had become too fascinated by the Troll hunt.

He believed that if they caught the Troll, Ivanov would be nice to them.

And maybe he was right. Maybe this was how Ivanov recruited.

Or maybe making them think so was how he kept people docile until it was time to kill them.

“What’s next?” she asked. “What do we do with this information?”

“One of my thoughts was, we have a jet at our disposal, we could shoot down to Manila and try to find some of the CALKULATOR crew, ask them questions.”

When Zula considered the meanings of those verbs “find” and “ask,” all she could think of was Wallace and the 6 mil polyethylene sheeting. Was that what Peter had in mind? Or did he really think that the hackers in Manila would voluntarily rat out their blood relatives in Xiamen? Zula didn’t want to ask that hard question of Peter because she was afraid of what she might learn about the man she’d been sleeping with. “To Ivanov that’s going to feel like a wild-goose chase,” she pointed out. “He prefers the direct approach.”

This was meant as kind of a joke, but Peter nodded soberly. “We might also look for a Filipino expat community in Xiamen. In Seattle they have their own grocery stores and hair salons. Maybe it’s the same here.”

Zula, who unlike Peter had actually seen Xiamen, was pretty sure that this was hopeless. But she stifled the urge to say as much. “Have you reported this to Ivanov?”

“I’ve been feeding him little updates.”

Zula tried to ignore the way he’d phrased this. “He knows about the possible Manila connection?”

“Not yet.”

“If we can turn it into an excuse for more pavement pounding,” Zula suggested, “it might help us.”

“Help you how?”

“Help us, ” she repeated.

She realized that she kind of wanted to kill him. She was sure that the feeling would pass. But she was also sure that it would come back. “Do whatever you want with the information,” she said, and walked away.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Ivanov asked him.

Sokolov was flummoxed. Ivanov accusing him, Sokolov, of being insane. So unexpected. He could not think of anything to say.

He had been telling the story of the day. At first he had merely summarized, which was generally what superiors wanted their subordinates to do for them, but Ivanov had insisted on hearing everything in great detail. And so, after suffering quite a few interruptions, Sokolov had settled into a much more detailed storytelling style, and Ivanov had listened carefully all the way through the account of the “shopping” expedition, tipping the concierge, and walking home along the waterfront.

It would not be the first time Sokolov had been tongue lashed by the boss, so he just stood there at attention and waited for it.

Ivanov laughed. “I do not care,” he said, “what the fucking buildings are made of. Whether the walls can, or cannot, be penetrated by number 4 buckshot. About the options for escaping the building in the event of a tactical retreat. What the fuck are you thinking, Sokolov? Are you thinking that this is the Siege of Grozny? This is not the Siege of Grozny! It is very simple. Find the Troll. Go to where he lives. Enter his apartment. Take him out of there and bring him to me.”

Sokolov had nothing to say.

“Did I hire the wrong guy?”

“That is possible, sir,” Sokolov said. “Those guys you found in Seattle—the ones who did Wallace—they are more the type for this kind of job.”

“Well, those guys in Seattle ARE NOT HERE!” Ivanov said, crescendoing, during that sentence, from a mild conversational tone to a shout that could detonate stored ammunition. “Instead, I have YOU! And your extremely expensive guys out there!”

Sokolov might have pointed out that he and his expensive guys were security consultants and that Ivanov had lately been asking them to do some pretty weird things. But he didn’t see how it would improve Ivanov’s mood.

“Another thing,” Ivanov continued, “what the fuck was the point of coming back along the waterfront? Are you under the impression that the Troll lives in a ferry terminal?”

“Reconnoitering the ground,” Sokolov said. “Getting to know the field of operations.”

Ivanov was nonplussed. “The ground—the field of operations—is where the Troll lives. And he doesn’t live in a ferry terminal.”

Sokolov said nothing.

“I don’t get it, Sokolov. Explain your thinking to me.”

“Tactical maneuver in this city is going to be nearly impossible,” Sokolov said. He nodded at a window. “Just look at it. All the space is taken up. But the water is a different story. It’s crowded, yes. But it’s the only option we’ve got if we need to—”

“To what, Sokolov?”

“To fall back. Improvise. Move creatively.”

There was now a silence of perhaps thirty seconds as Ivanov marshaled every resource of energy and strength at his disposal to control his rage.

Sokolov wasn’t the least bit worried about what would happen when Ivanov lost that struggle and blew his stack. He was much more worried about what was going on in the boss’s circulatory system in the meantime. For during all their comings and goings today, he had managed to spend a few minutes on some hotel lobby Internet terminals, and he had confirmed that Ivanov was on two varieties of blood pressure medication.