Hack:Moscow (6 page)

The next morning, I went to the warehouse early. Everything looked the same, but it was a new beginning. The first thing Anton did when he came in was to make a big show of looking at his watch, as if shocked I was early. Then, he studied the plaster below my jaw. “Shaving accident? I can see one, two, three strands of hair still.”

“We have to make it work,” I said.

Anton scratched his ear. “What do we have to get to work?”

“Everything,” I said firmly. “Luka’s job.”

“Oh, that.” He sounded disinterested. “Someone’s determined today.”

We spent the morning weaving the key logger and the blog website together. When Luka arrived, he wrote the bait email with the help of an online translation program. After it was done, he read it aloud. It was a fawning email to O’Brien’s wife, one which invited her to visit our blog.

“She’ll fall for it,” Anton said when Luka finished. “It’ll work.”

“What do you think, Andrei?” Luka’s voice was taut like a plumb line weighed by guilt.

“There’s nothing to think,” Anton said, “Bird watchers like serendipity. She’ll go for it. My key logger is perfect. It’s art. It’ll work.” Click any link on the website, any picture, and the key logger would install, lurking like a silent betrayal. He flicked through the pictures on the blog I created. “I hate birds,” he said. “They shit everywhere.”

“You hate everything,” Luka said, “so shut up. I’m talking to Andrei.”

“True.” Anton’s voice became icy. “Some things I hate more than others.”

As they spoke, I pictured the woman wandering in a forest, lured by birdsong and whisked into a net. Would her husband blame her if he finds out? Would he love her still? Grow up, Andrei, I told myself. You can’t afford to care for strangers. Luka depends on you now. His wife is at stake. He needs you.

“Well, Andrei?” Luka asked. A touch of impatience in his voice. A hint of a plea in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good, good.” Luka closed his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he clicked a button.

Send.

And we waited.

The bus is full of school children today. The teacher had led them onboard two stops after me, the group heading for an excursion. I’m on the way to meet Luka and Anton to discuss what to do. It’s been days, and we’re still waiting for Garret O’Brien’s wife to respond. We don’t know why she’s not responding. Anton said he had a Plan B, a worm he embedded into one of her club’s website’s host servers. “Assuming she logs on, it’d take a while to scrap together enough for me to customize something. Maybe a privilege escalation hack, or something. It’d depend.”

He doesn’t know Luka doesn’t have that time, and the latter won’t tell him. All he does is keep telling me not to worry.

In the front of the bus, the teacher looks harried. She keeps shouting: “Can everyone keep quiet!” Little children are terrors. Are grown-ups better? If so, maybe it’s because of the sense of guilt they develop.

I thought of last night. Before I slept, I peeped into the girl’s room. Her curtains were closed and she was napping. I’d enjoyed watching her sleep, her dim figure stirring occasionally under the duvet. It felt peaceful. Her breathing was even and calming. Soothing, like a lullaby.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself beside Anna’s bed. I stood close enough to touch her, to smell her golden hair, which spilled across the pillow. A piano stood in one corner, its cover scuffed. The pillow cover was pink—no, blue, like mine. I had stroked her hair as she slept. Even in repose, her lips smiled at me. Anna, Anna, Anna, I shook her, half-pleading, half-savage, uncertain what I wanted to do with her.

Then, I woke up for real. I’ve never had dreams like this before. I touched my underwear and my hand smelled of salt and sea. No matter how I cleaned myself, I felt dry. Dirty.

When I realized what had happened, I’d written to the girl I spied on. It was rash, but I needed to tell someone how I felt.
I’m sorry
, I typed. She wasn’t around to read my confession, writ in large font across her screen, but she would when she next logged on. After another moment’s thought, I deleted the spy program. No more temptation, Andrei! Do the right thing!

The sense of guilt-driven righteousness hadn’t lasted long. When I left my apartment, I saw Grigory seated on the stairwell steps, blocking me. He held a nail clipper, a thick, hairy foot crossed over his knee. A broom rested on his side. “You,” he barked. “Your eyes are swollen.” His were bloodshot with malice. He pointed his nail clipper at me, as if it were a mind-probe. “I know what it is.” His lips blubbered. “It’s Nelya’s clogs keeping you up. That dry-teated bitch.”

For a moment, I wanted to kill him. I imagined the broomstick thrust deep inside his piggish maw. So, I fled.

What is happening to me?

Around me, on the bus, the children chant doggerel, chaining random words together. One group is leaning over the seat rails, the children taking turns to smack each other’s hand. It’s a game with rules I can’t follow. One boy’s hand is red and puffy, yet he smiles as though he’s winning. The teacher stands up and begs, “Please, please keep quiet!” and no one heeds her. The children revel in innocent mischief, an innocence I struggle to remember.

By the time I got to the warehouse, Anton and Luka were already arguing.

“You think I’m holding out? Is that what this is about?” Luka thundered. “Is it?”

“I want to know who this customer is and how much he’s paying. That was our deal. You said you’ll share your contacts with me. When will that day come?”

I sat in my corner. As I watched them, I wondered whether anyone ever grew up.

“You think it’s easy to get work? Do you know how many hacker groups there are? Russians. Estonians. Romanians. Do you know how many there are in Ramnicu Valcea alone willing to work for peanuts? Or the Indonesian monkeys and the Ukrainian gear-heads? Or groups like Anonymous that meddle for free?”

“They’re less skilled.”

“If you’re better, go! Take your serf-bots and petty peep-cams! Go clone credit cards! Find your own secrets to sell! If you end up in prison, I’ll send you a postcard.”

I thought of the girl who lived inside my computer. She’d probably seen my apology by now. What would her reaction be? Shock? Suddenly, I’m not so sure I did the right thing. What seemed right, felt wrong now. Then, I thought of Anna’s father and the murderous instinct I felt. What had seemed wrong, seemed right now. What could I do to help her?

I curled up, my knees to my chest, boxing up the scream I felt.

“We have a right to know—”

“Right?” Derisive laughter exploded from Luka. “This is Russia, not a damned democracy, you punk. I’ve had it with your questions. Where are my answers? Why is your key logger not working? Is it defective? You half-breeds are the same. Useless mongrels.”

The warehouse suddenly felt like an echo chamber, Luka’s words ringing before they faded.

“What?” he asked aloud. “What?”

I knew he didn’t mean to insult Anton. Of course he didn’t. And Anton didn’t know the stress Luka was facing, what’s at stake. Suddenly, it was obvious how to make the two stop fighting. It’s simple. The lies had to stop.

Luka
, I felt like shouting,
tell Anton about Boris and your wife. Anton’s not stupid. Once he knows, we can work better.
I looked at their faces, taut with anger and mistrust. “Luka—”

“Shut up, Andrei!” they both said.

Silence. The kind of silence things teeter on. Then, the moment passed.

Regret wrestled with pride on Luka’s face. “I…” His mouth opened and closed. His hand fumbled, patting the insides of his jacket. He pulled out his cigarette case. He stuck a stick in his mouth before extending the case to Anton. It’s the first time he’s offered any to him. “Take,” he commanded. “It’s been a long week.”

Seconds pass before Anton stretched a hand forward. After he took a cigarette, Luka nodded curtly. “Start on that backup plan.”

Luka retreated like a tired boxer to corner of the warehouse, where the restroom was.

Anton lit the cigarette. Then, he looked at me and puffed on his fist. His fingers uncurled to show an unlit stick. He had palmed a second cigarette. “For later.” He tucked it behind his ear. It disappeared into his silver hair. He turned to stare at Luka’s back. I didn’t like the crystallized anger on his face so I made up my mind. I had to act. To protect us from each other.

“Anton, you need to know something.”

Two days left. Things were finally going our way. The woman had replied and the key logger had installed itself flawlessly. Now, we’re sifting through all the data. My talk with Anton had worked too. He had become more civil to Luka since, and it made the latter calmer. When Anton left early today, Luka didn’t complain.

“You can take off,” Luka said to me as he motioned at the parsing program running on his laptop. It’s an easy, but time-consuming task. “This doesn’t require you here.” He began eating his takeaway salad and waved for me to go. Since the key logger was successfully installed, he’s been eating nothing but salad. I suspected he’s trying to lose weight before he reunites with his wife.

“But I want to help,” I told him. I was hoping to ask his advice about Anna when we were alone. I felt like I should do something. “Maybe—”

“Go home. I want to do this. I need to do this for her. Alone.”

Outside the warehouse, the ZiL still rusted away. I wondered how many birthdays it had encountered and how many more it’d see. A black-headed pigeon standing on the bonnet raised one foot, cocking its head, as if puzzled. In her reply, O’Brien’s wife had gushed. She wanted to know if I took the photos, if I had sighted this bird, or that. She said she was eagerly waiting for my response, and it made me feel bad. Thinking of Luka and his wife made it all worthwhile though. There is meaning to what I do. There is purpose.

I ducked through a hole in the car park’s fence and saw a soggy copy of
Pravda
—the Truth—steeped in a puddle. What would Luka’s wife read about this world when she comes out? Front page: will she feel pride at new Russia: more oil, more power, more everything? International News: American drones were dropping bombs in yet another Middle-Eastern country to threaten everyone who disagreed with their cowboy peace. Sports: Would she be able to figure out which oligarch owned which soccer club? Local: A polar bear at Moscow zoo was wounded with a Dragunov sniper rifle. It’s the second time someone has tried to kill it in five years. Our soldiers may be mad, everyone online joked, but you can’t doubt their tenacity. Politics: Protestors were marching at the Red Square again. Last month, I saw them, a small elderly group waving Soviet flags. A wiry old man passed me a leaflet. His one cataracted eye was cloudy and turned inwards, pining for the past. Mine is fixed on the future. When will Luka introduce his wife to me? Those were her scribbles in the books he lent me, I was certain. Her handwriting felt cozy, like a campfire. It’s a fantasy, maybe—but why shouldn’t it come true?

On the far end of the car park, I noticed a silver-haired man kneeling beside a patchwork dog. When Anton saw me, he flung a rock that bounced down a corridor of containers and the mutt streaked after it. Anton stood up and dusted his hands when I approached. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

I wasn’t expecting this.

“He won’t find us here,” Anton said. We had walked from the car park until we were halfway across the Novospassky Bridge. “Andrei, tell me something: why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” I asked, trying to keep my mood from souring. His stern manner, the inquisition in his voice, dismissed everything I’d done.

His eyes narrowed. “Working for Luka. Why?”

“I don’t want to hear this,” I said, straining to keep my anger from my voice. What right did he have to ask me? “What’s it to you?” My voice wobbled as something ugly inside squirmed. It feasted on doubt, and I didn’t need Anton to feed it. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going.”

He grabbed my hand and jerked me back. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I snatched my hand back. “Let go.”

“This isn’t a normal life.”

Normal? An aged couple strolled by us as his question struck me. A normal life? The scab on my neck had crusted over. The scar, white and ugly, remained. Normal? What is normal? Family? Friends? The questions multiplied, asking more questions. Below the shadow of the bridge, I noticed a man paddling a boat, his girlfriend seated near the prow. I blinked and they disappeared. Was that normal? Did they really exist or had I imagined them? Maybe the river swallowed them. The Moskva’s edges curved around the banks like a mother’s embrace. Mother? Father? What do I have? Only whatever I can get, working alongside Luka and Anton. And now, the latter was poking holes into my life. Why?

“Andrei, think for yourself. You have to…”

“I don’t have to do anything. Leave me alone.”

Anton looked away. “My brother used to say that too. Shut up, Anton, shut up! He was your age when...” Pain cracked the sentence, made him fragile. For a moment, I saw through my fog of anger, as if his pain, mingled with mine, burned, lighting up parts of his shaded past. That story he told me before: the boy killed in the football attack—it was his brother, it had to be. “…when he…” he tried again. I didn’t feel pity. Instead, I felt my anger double, and double again. Not for myself; for his sake. Moscow—this city takes something precious from everyone. And the damn river kept flowing, on and on, nonchalantly. Are we cursed here? “This isn’t about me, Andrei,” Anton said. “Luka cannot be trusted.”

“He told me that too,” I stifled my anger, to convince Anton. “He’s not like you think. He told me not to trust anyone, including him. He’s alright, he really is, Anton. We have to—”

“You’re wrong, Andrei,” he spoke over me, his expression hard again. “It’s reverse psychology. Did he also tell you that he pays you more? Do you know what he told me? ‘Andrei’s a kid. Don’t tell him I’m paying you more. It’ll hurt his feelings.’ That’s Luka. Why do you think he hired a boy like you to work for him?”

“Don’t treat me like some kid. I’m not. I don’t need your concern or pity.”

“He’s exploiting you. The only person he cares about is himself.”

Past the overhead lamps flanking the bridge, the blue and gold spires of the Novospassky Monastery disappeared behind a fog. I saw the old couple on the far end of the bridge, holding hands. They reminded me of Luka and his wife. Anton’s wrong. Luka cares for others, and he cares for me. Even when he pulled the gun on me, it was because he was angry with himself.

“You can have a different life. Don’t do work anymore. Don’t come in tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“This isn’t for people like you.”

“Why?” A trolley trundled by, holding steady in its lane, ignoring us.

“Why what? It’s for your own good. Trust me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m telling you not to!” He slapped the bridge railing and the metal rang, reverberating down the bridge’s span. “Stay home tomorrow, Andrei. I don’t want to see you there. I don’t want to see you again in that shitty place.”

His expression became threatening. Suddenly, his hand knived towards me.

“Don’t tell Luka about this.” He flicked my ear with his finger.