Walter Williams - Deep State

Richard looked at Helmuth.

“They’re using our tactics,” he said. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Yes,” Dagmar said. “We sent the meme out into the world, and now anyone can use it.” And then she studied the men putting down books on the ground, setting them in patterns that might be Arabic writing.

“I wonder if it’s Kronsteen,” she said.

Ismet looked up at her. Dagmar explained.

“We’ll know if it’s Kronsteen behind it,” Ismet said, “if there are a lot more demos like this in different parts of the world. Because then he’ll be trying to trivialize the whole process, show it’s just a game that people are playing.”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “If people are suddenly using these techniques to protest the appointment of a dogcatcher in Aswa-n, then it’s Kronsteen behind it.”

Kronsteen’s work was revealed later in the day, when Turkish television released an interview with an imam who had allegedly defected from the Tek Organization. He proclaimed that Riza Tek’s goal was to restore the caliphate and establish sharia law in Turkey and that Tek’s money was behind the rebellion.

“Now we’re a Scots rock star, Kurdish rebels, and religious zealots,” Dagmar said.

“We contain multitudes,” Richard said. Dagmar looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t reckoned him as the sort of person who would know Whitman.

She turned to Ismet. “Estragon,” she said, “can you write an editorial pointing out the insanity of all these competing claims?”

“The nationalists aren’t going to see contradictions in this,” Lloyd said. “They’re going to see conspiracy.”

“Well,” Dagmar said. “Then let’s give them one.”

They began the editing and uploading of the various videos. Ismet wrote an editorial denouncing the imam and pointed out that his own government said that the rebels were working for a Scotsman.

Lincoln had been away for most of the day. As evening came on, he arrived and called Dagmar into his office. He held out a sheet of paper.

“I’ve been on the phone with the team in the States working on the High Zap. Turns out they have a clue as to the team-or more likely the individual-who reverse-engineered the High Zap.”

“They recognized the way he codes?”

Lincoln looked disgusted. “They haven’t managed to decompile the Turkish version yet. Whatever algorithm the guy used was elaborate beyond description.” He looked at Dagmar. “He signed it after he compiled it-they must have let him compile it himself.” He looked skeptical. “Problematic from the security point of view.”

“Maybe they were in a hurry.”

“Anyway.” He opened his briefcase and took out a single sheet of paper. “He signed it with his handle, but we don’t know who the handle belongs to. He calls himself ‘Slash Berzerker.’ ”

He put the paper on the table and turned it so that Dagmar could read it.

“Slash Berzerker?” Dagmar said. “What is he, fourteen?” She looked at the paper and checked the spelling. “Fourteen,” she said, “and a bad speller?”

Lincoln only shrugged, then retrieved the paper.

“Are you going to burn that?” Dagmar asked.

“If you want me to.”

“I’ve never seen a spy burn an important paper before.”

Lincoln shrugged again. “Whatever lifts your luggage.”

He crumpled the paper, then looked around the room.

“I don’t have an ashtray,” he said.

She grinned. “You could swallow it.”

Lincoln put the crumped paper on top of his safe, rummaged in his desk for a disposable lighter, and then set fire to the paper. It burned into a gray ash, and the smell of burning began to fill the office. Lincoln batted at the air to disperse the smoke.

“The things I do for people,” he muttered. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Yeah.” Dagmar rose from her chair. “Because I know exactly how I’m going to find Mr. Berzerker.”

FROM: Hastur

Mad kung fu proxy for Turkey peoples.

82.215.28.123

Ports 39000-39013

Dagmar sat on her couch, gin and tonic in her hand. Her feet were raised on a pillow, her toes waving at her. She could feel little molecules of alcohol traveling through her body, each going about its happy business of unknitting a ravel’d sleave of care. Or two.

Her phone was pressed to her ear, and California was on the other end of the connection.

“All right,” Dagmar said. “You’ve got Murchison’s henchman, right?”

“Yes,” Calvin said. “Brickman. He’s going to steal Harry’s identity and commit enough fraud to get the police after Harry.”

“Okay,” Dagmar said. “I want you to give Brickman an online handle, okay?”

Calvin was bewildered.

“Why? He doesn’t need one.”

“Write this down,” Dagmar said. “His handle is going to be ‘Slash Berzerker.’ That’s Berzerker with a z.”

“Slash Berzerker?” The words were interrupted by little half breaths as Calvin bent to scrawl the name on a pad.

“You got that? Two words, Berzerker with a z.”

Dagmar heard the tinkling noise of Calvin putting down his pencil.

“Dagmar,” he said. “Brickman wouldn’t use a handle like Slash Berzerker. He’s a total professional; he’s been pirating identities for years. He wouldn’t use a noob-sounding name like that.”

“You can give him some kind of nostalgic reason for using it,” Dagmar said, “like maybe it was the handle he used when he was fourteen. But there has to be a reference to Slash Berzerker in Thursday’s update.” The gin had set her mind spinning; she began to expand on the idea.

“You could use a graphic of a computer login, say,” she said. “The username would be Slash Berzerker, but the password wouldn’t be visible. It would be hidden somewhere else, and when the players give the password they’ll get some new information.”

“About Brickman.”

“About anything. As long as there’s a reward for a job well done. Talk to Marcie and see if she can produce something like that on short notice.”

“I…” He hesitated. “Can you tell me why I’m doing this, Dagmar?”

“It’s a kind of co-production thing,” Dagmar said. “With the project I’m working on over here.”

“The project that I’m not supposed to know about, but which seems to be the Turkish revolution.”

“Yes,” Dagmar said. “That one.”

“I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, Dagmar,” Calvin said.

Dagmar took a sip of her drink. Dioxide bubbles tickled her nose.

“This time,” she said, “I think I do.”

She had no sooner hit End than “ ’Round Midnight” began to play. She thumbed Send.

“Briana,” she said.

“Turn on the BBC News right now.” Richard’s voice. Dagmar lunged for the remote.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Attila Gordon’s on the news again.”

She managed to catch the last few seconds of the report. Turned out that Ian Attila Gordon had traveled to Rome for a meeting with the Turkish prime minister and his government-in-exile. There was Attila, leather and blue chin and neck tattoo, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, talking about “coordinating actions,” whatever those might be.

“Remember,” Attila said to the camera, “the general strike takes place tomorrow. The polis might make yi open your bag, but they cannae make the customer traffic with yi.”

“My god,” Dagmar said, in something like awe. “My little boy’s grown up to be a sociopathic glory-seeking politician.”

“Next stop, Downing Street,” said Richard.

“Peace oot,” Dagmar said, and thumbed End.

She turned off the television, finished her gin and tonic, and lay half-reclined on the sofa as her knotted muscles began to relax. She contemplated making herself another drink and had about decided that was a good idea when there was a knock on her door.