Hack:Moscow (7 page)

Someone’s banging on my room door. Waking up felt like a relief after being half asleep the whole night. Yet, it meant remembering. Memories rushed and laid siege to me.

I don’t want to see you
, Anton had said.
Everything will be fine
, Luka had promised.

When I stumbled to the bedroom door, I saw Old Nelya holding up my jacket with two gnarled fingers. “It keeps ringing,” she said cautiously.

My new ringtone was Elgar’s
Enigma Variation VII
. Its laughing music sounded cheerful, promising.
What is your heart’s delight?
the melody asked.

If I have one wish, I want things to go back to what it was before between the three of us.

“Hello?” I answered the phone.

“It’s done,” Luka said.

Anton isn’t there when I arrive.

“Now, it’s his turn to be late. Come in, come in,” Luka waves. There’s something delirious about him, a joy thrumming through every line of his body. He didn’t insist on the password today, a lapse I didn’t call out. He’d stayed over last night. The alcohol on his breath held a sweet, lingering scent. “I’ve got it,” he says when I walk in. “All that’s left is the exchange. I need to figure out a safe way to arrange that.” He pauses. “That’s none of your business. I promised you’d never see Boris again.”

Before I can say anything, his phone rings. “Anton.” He walks to the door and unlocks it. Anton pauses when he sees me—no nod, no smile, not even a flicker of acknowledgement of our discussion. So I play it cool too. Why not? Everything is as it should be. We are all together. “What do we have left to do?” he asks as he draws a cigarette from the back of his ear.

“Nothing.” Luka chuckles. “Thanks to the two of you, everything’s set. I got what I need.”

“That’s it? Did you see what was in the data repository? So what’s this Project Silence about?”

It’s a military virus, I know, but Luka waves his hand in a vague manner. “I don’t want to know. I don’t poke around where I don’t have to. It doesn’t matter, Anton. It’s done.” A slight pause. “You did well this time.”

Anton blinks at the praise, then shrugs. “Why are we here then?” He has one hand inside his jacket pocket. The other taps embers from his cigarette, as if the world’s his ashtray.

“Do you have to be somewhere else?” Luka bristles. “Bah, I’m not arguing today.” He pulls a Champagne bottle and cups from his olive-green bag. “Andrei, I know you like this. I saw how you drank last time.” His fingers work the twist-cap and,
pop!
He pours a cup for Anton and me. “To success,” Luka exclaims and my mood gushes like foam. So what if I don’t know enough about Luka? So what if Anton gets paid more? Everything worked out and I helped. I play a role. I’m part of a team. This is what I’m good at; it may be the only thing I’m good at, but it’s something. “To us,” Luka continues.

Us.

“Drink, Anton! Laugh. Be happy. The job’s done. I’ve got your money ready. What else do you want?” Luka says.

“What I want…” Anton says, with a cool smile as he raises his cup. The smoke from his cigarette coils around his hand like a translucent snake. “What I want…is to piss.” He tosses the half-full cup aside.

After he’s gone, Luka hands me an envelope. There’s an unusual formality in the way he holds it out to me with both hands. Inside the envelope, there was money. A lot of money. I’ve never seen so much before. Half of it is in rubles, the other half, in U.S. dollars. I look at him, eager to hear our next step, for him to share the plan.

“I treated you well, didn’t I?” he asks, and I nod, waiting for more.

When he doesn’t continue, I press him. “What’s next? After this, what’s next?”

He finishes his cigarette and pulls out his cigarette case.

“Luka?”

“This is difficult,” he says heavily. “I’m leaving Moscow once the exchange is done.”

I nod. Of course. It’s the smart thing to do. I don’t trust Boris as well. My thoughts run ahead, wondering what I’d be leaving behind when we go. Anna, Old Nelya—what will happen to them? “How long before we come back?” I ask. “Where are we going?”

He fumbles at the spark wheel, which keeps failing to catch.

“Luka?”

Again, the fire doesn’t take. He seems fixated on his lighter.

“What about—” I bit off the foolish word before I could utter it. Because I finally understand what he’s not saying. His heavy silence is a cheap confession: he’s leaving without me. There is no “us.”

He swears and throws away the lighter. “Andrei, you understand…it’s for the best.” He reaches for my hair and I knock his hand hard. I can see it now, how this was supposed to be our last job all along. Of course he’d take off with his wife. Why stay in this cursed city? What did he owe me? “It’s safer for you,” he adds lamely. “That money will last a long time. Go treat yourself. Or go somewhere.” Alone, he means. Without him.

The lighter lies cracked on the floor, its fluid staining the concrete. That’s what happens to useless things; they’re tossed aside.

I don’t want to be safer, I want to be together, I want to be with you—I replace all those pathetic phrases with a lulling melody of zeroes, blanking out everything. I’m getting good at it; I’ve been practicing. “Ok,” I say. “Ok.”

“Andrei…” he trails off for there is nothing to say.

I snatch my bag from the floor. When I look up, Luka has turned from me. He’s heading towards his laptop. So be it.

My phone buzzes. It’s Anton.
Come to the restroom.

A loud train rushing through the industrial district rattles the area as I near the restroom. The hollow metal door creaks open when I knock. It wasn’t latched. I push it wide open and Anton’s not inside. From the window, I can see the train, a blurry rush of colorful containers, darting from left to right like a flattened rainbow. The plywood tacked over the window is gone.

“Anton?” I call out. No response.

“Anton?” I try again, then look at my phone. He messaged me barely a minute ago. Something is wrong. I walk towards the window, and see the board on the ground outside. The hole is more than big enough for a person to squeeze through. What game is this? Is Anton outside? A chime cuts through the fading roar of the train. This time, it’s an email with an attachment from Luka. No title, only a link, as if it was sent in a hurry. What is going on?

Then, I hear shouting. Had Anton sneaked around me?

My neck starts tingling when I recognize a reedy voice. Boris. And this isn’t some dream. I feel my breath quickening. Oh, no. Oh, no.

But I need to know.

I creep out from the restroom and crouch behind a pile of boxes. Luka is in the clearing, sitting on the floor, his back against a pillar. And I see Milo placing a boot on Luka’s thigh. “I can shoot his knees, Boris. He can still type that way,” I hear him say, and a familiar detachment slides in to keep my dread at bay. I steady myself against the floor and the hard chill of the concrete soaks into my palms, up my spine, lending me strength. In the distance, I see the door wide open. Anton had been the last one in, and he didn’t lock it. Then, I remember his warning last night. I feel a stabbing sensation in my chest, before I realize it’s my heartbeat.

“Easy, Milo. Luka’s a sensible person.” I see Boris moving into view, dragging a few cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat. “Your pal didn’t ask for much to tell us where you’re hiding. Whatever did you do to him to make him hate you so?”

There is no mystery here. Anton betrayed us.

“No comeback?” Boris’ voice is gleeful. “Let me do the talking then. Here’s the revised deal—”

“My wife?” Luka cut him off. “Is she still alive?”

“
Tchut, tchut.
What is this seller’s remorse? It’s unseemly. You turned her in to save your own skin back then. Now you want her back? The F.S.B. is not a pawnshop. You should have known that. See, Milo, how people deceive themselves? The moment you turned her in, Luka, she was gone. Poof. I can’t resurrect her, but I do appreciate how she motivated you.”

Is it true? Did he betray his wife? I don’t want to believe it.

Luka says nothing to defend himself. Why is the truth always silent? Because the lies have chained them all and thrown them deep into the Moskva river. The truth is dead here. I realize that now.

“Here’s the new deal: the program for you and the boy. As a show of good faith, Milo took care of your traitor. He came out to meet us just now. You should have seen his stupid face when Milo plugged him.” Boris tapped his forehead. “Never liked those half-breeds. Never know where they stand. How dare he betray my friend, eh? Let that be a lesson to all.”

“I suppose I should thank you then,” Luka says.

Part of me doesn’t believe what I’m hearing. This can’t be happening. Another part of me is thinking of possibilities, ways to help Luka. I know I can do it, because I have to—that’s the logic of desperation. I cast my eyes around for something, a plan, a tool.
Keep talking, Luka
, I scream with my heart,
I need more time.

“No need. All I want is the virus. Hand over your laptop, or whatever you kept it in. Then, we can all go for a drink, and talk about the other jobs we have for you and your sidekick.”

“Then what? I’ll get my wife back the next time?” Luka laughs. “You want the program? It’s not on my laptop. As for Andrei, he’s gone. I sent him away. Far away.”

He’s telling me to run. Oh, Luka!

“
Tchut, tchut,
a sad lie, that. One, two, three. I count three cups here. Moscow’s my playground. I have friends everywhere. I’ll find him. Last chance, Luka.”

“If my Masha’s gone, why should I care for my life?”

Boris leans in. “Because you’re an animal. There’s several millennia of self-preservation programmed into your genes. Unlike that boy, you’re not the self-sacrificial type. I know you. We’re alike.”

“You know me, Boris, we’re similar, eh?” Luka laughs again. Every instinct screams at me to run—towards him, away from him, somewhere—but the resignation, that finality, in his laugh roots me. “If I’m a fool, then so are you.”

Time slows. Luka reaches inside his jacket; Boris seems to float in the air as he dives; Milo’s grin widens; I start running.

Someone fires just as I run inside the restroom, scrabbling through the window.

A gun fires again. Then, again.

I’m running. That’s all I can do, all I can think of. I need to run.

Breathless. Don’t run, walk. There’s a bus stop nearby. Nobody cares about people on the buses. As I walk, the towering whiteness of the Moscow Swissotel looms beside me. On top, a glass eye is balanced on claws, as if it could see all. Luka—is he dead?

He can’t be. Because he can’t be.

There were gunshots. Too many of them.

Tears roll down my cheek. Anton had betrayed us, yet he saved me with his text message. I fumble for my phone to see if there are more messages. The inbox icon throbs. Luka has sent me a link? What good did it do? How useless!

No, I’m the one who’s useless. I betrayed Luka too: I was the one who’d told Anton about Boris. Everything collapsed back to my mistake. I’m as damned as this city.

Be careful
, Luka’s voice reminds me.
Keep going, don’t stop.

Further out, a boat chugs down the Moskva river, sparks of camera flashes flaring along its deck. I imagine pressing a button: the boat sinks while the audience, high up in the hotel’s viewing gallery, laughs at the people drowning.

I catch the first bus I can. Onboard, there’s only one passenger, a blonde. I sit behind her. She’s on the phone and pays no heed to me.

Think, Andrei! Boris may look for me, but he doesn’t know where I live. I’m safe—for now.

Think, Andrei, think hard! What can I do?

I blanked out. In the window beside me, I see a helpless-looking boy pretending to be all grown up. Why did everything happen the way they did?

“Don’t blame me, it’s the traffic,” the woman speaks into her phone, and I dimly register what she says.

Lies. The road we’re on is wide open.

“I love you,” she says as she stifles a yawn.

More lies. Maybe it’s not me. It’s them. Everyone had lied.

The bus enters the Garden Ring Road, turning into a busy junction. In its middle, there’s the statue of Mayakovsky. Luka had lent me one of his books before. He told me the poet had praised life here, had claimed everything was the best it could be, but that didn’t stop him from killing himself a few years later. His statue stood in the square, a bronzed spirit, waiting patiently for this world to end.

Don’t be dramatic
, a cold wind flicked my ear, chiding me, teasing me.
Just kill them all and be done with,
it laughs.

I pulled out my laptop and opened Luka’s email. It led to a series of dead drops in the cloud we’d set up before, each link leading to the next to the next. Luka had spent a lot of time setting these up in case we got into trouble and needed to communicate anonymously. He had needed even more time convincing Anton and me to memorize the passwords. I secretly thought him paranoid. Anton openly mocked him. Now, only I was left.

I pieced together a dozen fragments of ASCII text into a long string. That was the key to the final cloud cache. I logged on, entered it, and something unexpected happened:
What’s 2+2?
, a last challenge popped out, as if Luka had sprung a last trick.

5
, I entered. I knew the correct answer from long ago, but only now, did I appreciate its lesson: in a world that didn’t make sense, Luka had felt free to make up whatever answer he wanted.

Inside the drive, I found a folder. Project Silence. Whatever Boris wanted was here. All I had to do was access it…and do what?

The bus jerked to a stop as a police motorcade throttled by. They weren’t coming for me. The three policemen on the motorcycles were waving furiously, parting the traffic.

As the bus idled, I thought everything through, bit by bit. Luka’s wife is dead. Luka is dead. Anton’s dead. I could reboot my laptop and delete everything. I could throw my phone away, wipe the cloud drives. I could cancel all the credentials we used, the logins that represented two people who’d pretended to be my family. I could sever everything that bound us and forget the memories. Of us. Together.

There was nothing I could have done to save them. Nothing.

A loud roaring made me look up. A black limousine sped down the road at breakneck speed.

“Stupid official on a joy ride.” The bus driver made a rude sign.

Nobody answered him. Nobody cares here.

I should delete whatever Luka stole. Or send it to Boris so he’d stop hunting me. There’s no reason to hold on to something so dangerous. Trade it. Bargain for my life back.

The cursor blinked, biding my decision.

Be careful. No good would come of opening the folder,
I imagined Luka telling me.

Then again, I didn’t feel like doing anything good. I’m done with that. I’m free to do whatever I want.

As the bus turns, I begin typing furiously.